tarr2k1
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Dec 30, 2002
- Messages
- 257
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This Year’s Model
Dusty licked her lips and looked around the waiting room. She'd seen a lot of them, and this one was about a six on the rating scale - not bad, but not really standing out as waiting rooms went. She'd come to know those number and expressions by heart now; she found it hard not to apply them in all aspects of her life these days.
She glanced at the wall clock; it was already five minutes past her scheduled time, which was bad. Odds were good somebody had warranted those extra five minutes, which meant they were already looking strongly at someone else. Dusty just hoped she could convince them she was better. Unfortunately, there wasn't much to add that they didn't already have. It was a modeling gig, and they had her face shot and her portfolio that included the rest of her assets. The camera would do all the talking for the job, so the pictures really said all there was to say.
Then her name was called, and she quickly got up and walked into the room. Three men with stacks of papers and folders waited; they looked her over with the expression of men who did nothing but look at the female body all day, every day... which was a look Dusty could never quite get used to. With looks like hers, she was used to gawks and such, that she was just a sexual object. This, however, always took it further. She truly was a piece of meat to them, to be examined and critiqued solely on the basis of flesh, and what was worse was that it was clinical, sterile. She was treated no differently than if she were a cadaver. But it was part of what came with the territory. Modeling could open the door to acting, and with tens of thousands of girls trying to grab the few chairs when the music stops, she needed every edge.
They asked Dusty a few general questions; she answered them. Then they turned and talked amongst themselves as if she wasn't there, leaving her standing in the middle of the room. She'd had better interviews - this was a three: not really what we're looking for, maybe if you make some changes you can call us back.
Finally, one of them stood up. "Ms. Blair," he said. "Could you come with me please?" Dusty followed, and the two walked out the back room and into an empty hallway. "I'm sorry if this seemed rude," he said. "It's been a long day."
"I can imagine," Dusty said, because there was no point in antagonizing him.
"Look, let me get down to the, ahem, big issue. Hilden isn't just looking for a one shot, they want someone to be their face, so to speak. This is a very important position, see, because if you don't reflect the image they want, this campaign's going to fall apart."
"I understand," she said.
"Good. That's the issue." He cleared his throat again. "Let me be blunt, so that you know I take this seriously. You are exactly what we're looking for." Dusty's stomach tightened; she knew there was a "but" looming like King Kong on the other side of that compliment. "But you look to be about six pounds over what we were looking for."
Dusty was used to this; in the modeling world, they tended to look for small thin pale girls, like they were auditioning elves or something. Dusty was thin, but she was also well curved, so that tended to confound the mix. "I can take that off in a few days," she said truthfully; she'd done it many times.
"Uh, no," the man said. "See, we need this for the long haul, Ms. Balir. Just going on one of those starvation diets isn't going to cut it. What we'd need from you is to maintain that for a long while to come."
Dusty wasn't sure what to say. "So, what's this about then?"
"Look, we have a way of making this work," he said. "But it won't be exactly above board-"
"I'm not sleeping with anyone," Dusty said flatly. She'd drawn that line some time ago and was proud of herself that no matter how desperate, she'd never crossed it.
The man laughed. "Not that. We have a drug that in combination with subliminal suggestion can help you make the minor changes needed to do this for the long haul. The problem is, it's still not FDA approved. If you took it, you'd be participating in untested treatment." Dusty didn't much like the sound of that. "However, it's just a legal technicality. I've had several girls use it already with phenomenal results." He rattled off some names, and what surprised Dusty was that she knew them all. They were in magazines and on billboards and the sides of buses... Of course, he could be feeding her a line, but worse came to worse, the stuff wouldn't work, and she really needed this kind of exposure. It was worth the risk for that leg-up.
"Tell me more," Dusty said. And he did.
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Mr. Benton -the man who'd taken her aside at the interview- supplied her with a bottle of pills and a CD she was supposed to listen to fifteen minutes after she'd taken the pills. She was given the usual instructions: not when you're going to be driving, operating heavy machinery, piloting Air Force One, launching the Space Shuttle, just try to curl up in a corner and cover yourself with a blanket kind of nonsense. Dusty did as she was told, however, because she wanted this gig. She took the pills and listened to the CD as instructed - it was kind of nice, actually. The music sounded soft and rocking, and there was the sound of waves on the seashore, and the pills made her a little light-headed. She rather enjoyed the experience, and after a few days she noticed she did feel a little lighter and a bit more positive. As far as diets went, this was the best she'd ever had. She didn't have the slightest cravings either... forget the modeling business, they could sell this stuff and make a fortune!
Another funny thing, but she also felt a little less stressed out. To make ends meet, she'd taken a waitress job at a topless bar. Thankfully she herself didn't have to bare anything, but she did have to wear a rather degrading outfit on duty, and drunken horny idiots would sometimes grope her, making the whole experience a tiny vision of hell on Earth. But after a couple days of the drug she found she was able to push through without the strain, that she could just accept what came with the territory. Maybe it was just knowing that she had a good shot at this job that she could better suck it up. It was the idea that she'd be waiting tables and having her ass grabbed for the rest of her life that made this hard sometimes; a little ray of hope was probably just what the doctor ordered.
It was at around four in the afternoon that the phone rang. Dusty picked it up without thinking. "Hello?"
"Slave sleep," said the voice on the other end. Under most circumstances Dusty would have chewed out whoever it was for wasting her time with this crank call nonsense, but she didn't. She didn’t because, for some inexplicable reason, she lost consciousness.
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Someone snapped their fingers, and Dusty was awake. Reality hit her all at once, leaving her overwhelmed, so that all the snippets took time to coalesce into a picture of the situation, but eventually it all filled in. For starters she was standing with arms outstretched and legs spread open, locked at the wrists and ankles to limit movement. She had been fitted with a ballgag to apparently stop her from screaming for help - though she wasn't sure any could hear who'd care. There was already plenty of ruckus from the crowd that was gathered there, who applauded as Dusty had come to.
It was bizarre. She was completely naked and inside a small wire cage, barely larger than she herself was. And around the room, there was signs of... of a party? Yes, in fact, many of the gathered crowd had drinks or some dainty item to munch on. What the hell had happened, and what was going on?!
Then the one who'd snapped his fingers turned to the crowd and spoke, and that's when something new had hit Dusty, because when he spoke, his voice was distorted, like the people on television who are speaking about government conspiracies or something. And when she looked at people, they had no real recognizable face. It was hard to think about; it wasn't that they didn't have a face, it was just that when she looked at them, it seemed so immediately forgettable that she couldn't hold any of it in her head.
"Remember,” the rumbling voice said to the crowd, "she's new at this, so let's not go too hard on her tonight. Just a little hard will be fine." And the crowd laughed, a bass and distorted tone, like a cadre of demons at a newly arrived soul.
Suddenly that comparison seemed very apt. Most of the party got back to business, but five people broke off from the crowd and came up to her. It was then that she noticed that there was an umbrella stand with various items in it, mostly long peacock feathers. The five gathered around the cage and reached the long plumes through the bars-
And Dusty shivered as she felt the touch. The feathers were being played over her bare skin, and it tickled! Really tickled! She instantly began chuckling into the gag as one was drawn up the hollows of each of her armpits, and chained like this, it was impossible to move to avoid it. What were they doing?! But there was no way to speculate because she felt the feathers sliding right back down again, then back until... until she couldn't contain her laughter any more than the ballgag could.
That wasn't all there was to it either. Someone was circling one of her full breasts with their plume, slowly teasing all around one and then all around the other. The feather would then wriggle back and forth across the front, then go back to its strange orbit. Dusty didn't even know she was ticklish there, but a few minutes of that stroking had convinced her it wasn't her imagination. Similarly, she felt a feather circling around her cheeks and exploring the length of her crack. Between the two of them she was dancing in place trying to resist, wiggling her behind and bouncing her breasts. The crowd laughed their demonic laughs and continued, the fifth person applying the feather on her shaking body with the same horrible tickling effect.
This had to be a dream, Dusty thought. This kind of thing just doesn't happen. I must be projecting or whatever the psychologists call it. Except, if she was dreaming, it wouldn't explain how it felt so real. She felt chilled, and the pressure of the manacles as they held her seemed too solid a thing. And the tickling... she had never imagined she could be this ticklish, but as the feathers stroked her skin it was all she could do not to scream into the gag, she was laughing so hard. It was hard to believe that she could dream this ticklish agony and not wake herself up in the process.
Time passed, and the tickling didn't stop, not exactly. People left her alone after a while, but as each left another came up and took their place, finding a spot on Dusty's helpless body and tickling away. The feathers were bad, but occasional something worse would show up. One of the faceless women brought a long-handled back-scratcher and began applying it to her thighs. Dusty would shake and squirm to escape, but that just left her open to other attacks. A couple of others had also found those long pointers use in presentations with the little rubber ends on them. They were taking turns coming from the left and the right, catching Dusty in the ribs so that each arch left her prone to the other’s attack.
And that was how the evening went. Dusty stayed trapped in her position, tickled all the while through the bars of her cage while everyone around laughed and enjoyed themselves. Also, during the events of the evening a few more girls were brought in in robes. They quickly removed them though and allowed themselves to be locked up in various positions. Soon they too were being tickled, directly with fingers and far more helpless than Dusty was. They were ungagged, and their laughs filled the room; they were clearly as ticklish as Dusty was. But no matter how much they were tickled, they never once asked for mercy; Dusty wanted to beg to be left alone, but the gag prevented it. She also seemed to be the center of attention for the evening; while the others were getting very furious tickling, everyone seemed to want to have a taste of Dusty even though it was much harder.
And then one of the men with the unseeable face came up, chuckling the deep laugh as he approached. Dusty could just stand there in the cage, trembling in fear of more of the tickling. But he said something she couldn't quite make out and snapped his fingers, and she fell unconscious.
And woke up in bed. She got up and looked about, but there was no sign of anyone, no sign that any of those events had been anything more than bizarre dreams. Dusty sat on the edge of the bed. They had to be, she thought. It didn't make any sense otherwise. She reflected on the experience. It had felt very real when they tickled her, but still, the fact that everything was so distorted certainly did make a dream seem likely. But there was the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach that just wouldn't go away, that deep down she wasn't convinced. It's absurd! she finally thought. Who would do that to me, just snatch me up and do that and then put me back without another thought? Surely it would've been simpler to just keep her and avoid leaving a witness to report her abduction. No, it was just a very vivid dream, Dusty. And the more she thought about it, the little worry started to go away.
Dusty wasn't smart, but she'd spoken with some of the other girls before who were, talking about all kinds of crazy things like herbs and reflexology and stuff like that, and she'd heard about how dreams like that could be a sign of anxiety, that the symbols are there to help the mind make sense of it. Of course, the cage with her being gawked at was probably her fear of landing this big job. She'd be everywhere -which was what she wanted- but that can still be a little off-putting like the dream had shown. Yes, all of it made sense now, and she got up and faced the day without another thought on the subject.
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Two days after the strange dream -which, thankfully, didn't happen again- Dusty got a call from Mr. Benton. Unfortunately, it wasn't the news she was hoping for. "Don't take this the wrong way," he told her quickly. "It wasn't you; the company just decided not to follow this ad campaign after all. You didn't get beat out by anyone, because if it hadn't been for this, you'd be in."
"Thanks," Dusty said, and despite how awful she felt, that did help. She never got any reassurances, just a pat and the head and sending her on her way like another cow in the herd.
"Listen," Mr. Benton went on, "how's that stuff working for you? Any help?"
"Yes," Dusty said. She'd lost eight pounds and it hadn't been hard at all. She had a feeling they'd probably stay off, too. Plus she was pleased to see it hadn't come from the places where it was nice to be curved, so she looked pretty good in her own opinion.
"That's great. We don't have this contract any more, but we are always looking for top models, and I think we could find a lot of work for you. You have an agent?"
"No," Dusty said. She'd been too small time to find one.
"If things work out, we can help you find one; they make life easier for everyone, trust me. You keep using that stuff I gave you and I'll be sure to contact you if it comes, and I mean that."
"Thanks, Mr. Benton," Dusty said. As she hung up the phone she tried to look on the bright side. True she didn't have this job, so she was still stuck waiting tables, but if he really did follow through then there could be a way out. So Dusty popped another of the pills and put the CD on and listened to the beautiful sounds, her mind's eye filled with visions of success.
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Around four, Dusty was finishing getting ready for her shift down at the bar when the phone rang. In her hustle, she grabbed it as she ran by, not thinking twice. "Hello?"
"Slave sleep."
And the next thing Dusty knew, someone snapped their fingers in front of her. She looked about in shock, and they were all there again, the faceless chuckling horde, and she was again locked in a cage. Different this time - the manacles bound her wrists together and held them straight up, and she was kneeling on a raised platform with a cushion, ankles secured to stop her from climbing off it. The gag was in place, but she still tried to plead with them. Please don't tickle! Please, I'm very ticklish, and I can't stand it! No! They were approaching the stand, and she whimpered, knowing there was nothing she could do to stop them.
In addition to the long peacock feathers, Dusty noticed there was a small vase of short fluffy white feathers; many were gravitating towards those. Dusty watched with subdued terror as they walked past the cage, knowing where they were headed. Seconds later she felt the first feather on the sole of her right foot, and immediately began struggling to escape her bonds, but they didn't budge, and all it prompted was more of the sinister laughter from the crowd. Before long it was hopeless anyway; more feathers were being applied, and she was soon laughing too much to have any real strength. Those little white feathers were horrible, with long grueling strokes and little rapid back-and-forth ones competing for which could leave her a squealing mess first. It seemed to be a photo finish, because Dusty jerked and yelped at every single new feathery touch without any exception for style. She was an equal opportunity ticklee, as it were.
Of course, there was more to all of this than that. A man had selected one of the long peacock feathers and stood right in front of her. Even while she squirmed her eyes never left the slowly approaching feather as it came in low through the bars. It touched her left inner thigh and even with all the tickling she shivered as he slowly drew it up until reaching her womanhood, where he began deftly using the flared teal head with what could only have been a practiced hand, because Dusty soon found herself trying very hard to go bow-legged in order to escape. After a little while he ran down her right inner thigh, then back up again to tease her some more.
And there were always the others, looking for prime Dusty real estate. Some were feathering her behind, some her breasts, some her armpits, and some the backs of her legs. One nasty person had found an effective way to use the hardened tip of the long peacock feathers to enter her navel and scratch about, leaving Dusty shrieking into her ball gag so hard she thought it might fly out of her mouth.
As last time, the evening wore on and on with people drifting to and from her as if she were just a part of the evenings entertainment - which it seemed she was. More girls were brought in like last time as well, though not with the same treatment, and certainly not as tormented as she was. When they laughed, it seemed to be just as much from genuine enjoyment as it was from the effects of fingers and feathers. Dusty could only laugh with despair; she was just too ticklish for this treatment... in fact, she seemed even more ticklish than she'd been the last time! She was soon teary-eyed and crimson from the effects, yet the crowd just laughed to themselves and continued teasing her without the slightest hint of mercy.
And then, the faceless man returned, and snapped his fingers, and she was in bed. Another dream? Dusty shook her head... that seemed too real to be a dream... she could practically still feel the feathers on her body and-
She stopped in mid-thought; there was a blinking on her phone indicating she had a voicemail message. But she always checked before bed, and she was a light sleeper, so how could she have missed it? Then she played it, and terror gripped her. It was her boss at the club, chewing her out for not coming to her shift, and telling her that if it happened again she'd get fired. That wasn't the terrifying part; it was that this proved that she had really been gone all that time, that she didn't just dream it. It was likely that what had happened had been real.
Okay, she thought, get a grip Dusty. Think! Just because you missed work and don't remember what you did doesn't mean that you were kidnapped, tickle-tortured, and then returned, right? I mean, where's the sense in that? Why keep bringing me back just to pick me up again? But no matter what she told herself, she knew that it all had felt real... too real to be a dream. This confirmed her fear that someone out there was using her as a toy... and she had no idea where to even start to deal with that. She sat on the edge of the bed and wondered how you report this kind of thing to the police. She had no physical evidence, and she couldn't remotely begin to describe the people who were there
Uncertain of what to do, Dusty got up, showered, and faced the day. Looking like this didn't just happen, it took a lot of work, so she did all her exercises, including her stretching, and had a nice breakfast. Thanks to the tape and the drugs, she'd gotten used to foregoing some of her indulgences and savored her kiwi and juice. By the time all that was done the events of the previous evening seemed like ancient history, and without further thought she popped her pill and listened to the relaxing music.
Except... it was different. She felt her mind drifting, and she was unable to stop herself, like she really had been drugged. And in the fog of her mind, she heard her own voice, laughing and squealing. A cloudy image appeared of her being tickled, and she was begging and pleading. But the shocking thing was that those begs and pleas were for more. The more she was being tickled, the more she loved it.
"It's so much fun when you just let it happen,” she said to herself. “It's so exciting and arousing and oh God I just can't get enough!" And to hear her talk, Dusty could actually believe it. The squirming her seemed in complete ecstasy, and wished she could feel that good. Life had all around been rather disappointing, with the world of modeling filled with so many girls willing to screw their way ahead of the pack, leaving Dusty to do crap work just to survive. There was something to be said for being that happy when life seems to be just day-to-day survival, and nothing else. She was trapped in a cage already, she'd just never really noticed before.
When the CD ended Dusty just laid there, lost in thought. Maybe she was wrong; maybe last night didn't really happen, she just imagined it. She missed work because she lapsed into some kind of... of whatever happened to people who'd just become too stressed out and depressed to think.
Time passed as she went about her daily routine before getting ready for work. And then the phone rang, and she froze. It rang again. She was worried... what if it wasn't all in her head? If she answered, then they'd tickle her again... and she couldn't go through that again.
It rang a third time.
But it could be a job, or work canceling, or her mother was in the hospital, or a thousand other things. That's what voice mail was for, so she could screen her calls and not have-
Apparently, heedless of what the brain was up to, the hand had already made up its mind. Before the fourth ring was complete she'd picked up the phone and put it to her ear. "Slave sleep," the voice said.
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Fingers snapped before her eyes, and Dusty came to in a panic. She was restrained again, nude, of course, but this time there was no cage. She couldn't see too well in her position, but she'd seen the other girls similarly bound before and knew what had happened. She was on some kind of strange wooden contraption, almost like a Salvador Dali couch. Her legs had been put into a sitting position, with her ankles bound to the side, but the rest of her had been laid back onto the bench, or whatever it was. It was warped, so her back arched and her head was lying downhill, with her arms stretched even further along and bound at the wrists. She was gagged, again, and she immediately began pleading into it for them to leave her alone. From the expressions on their distorted faces, the gag had little to do with her pleas going unanswered.
They approached, in smaller numbers than before at least, but still ready to tickle her out of her wits. Dusty trembled as she saw their wriggling fingers, knowing this would be far more intense than anything before, and it was all she could do not to weep right then and there. She looked up into the face of the woman at the head of the bench, giving her a look of pleading desperation. The demonic chuckle was the only reply, and two hands slowly descended towards her helpless armpits. Dusty shook her head and begged incoherently, but the nails reached her, and she was quickly left in a state of frantic ticklish laughter. It only intensified; someone was running their nails down her ribs and back up again, and with her back arched like this it was grueling with even those light touches. She screwed her eyes shut and tried to fight, but the persistent scratching all over her pits seemed to knock down any mental wall she erected. The long, wicked nails just kept at her, hard enough to torment, but not so much to actually hurt, just leaving her feeling like she was tickled out of her mind.
Dusty's eyes flashed open. Whoever was working her ribs had stopped playing and gotten down to business, digging their fingers in and wriggling them. Dusty screamed into the gag, and kept screaming as each jab by ten wiggling fingers came into her bare ribcage. She was in trouble; this had barely started and she'd already been overwhelmed. She couldn't take another night of this, she'd go mad! Couldn't they see she couldn't stand this much tickling?! No one could!
The demon-like partygoers kept at it, and Dusty was soon crimson with laughter, and she couldn't see with all the tears in the way. Not that it mattered, as she could hardly force her eyes to open; the sight of those hands and the evil grins were too much to bear... much like the tickling, actually. Eventually the pair stopped, however, and a new pair approached. There was little time for Dusty to catch her breath before she was laughing again. One had started on her poor knees, squeezing them with an expert’s touch. Then he or she - Dusty couldn't see from this angle, even if she wasn’t blinded by tears - started squeezing firmly on a trip up her thighs. They stopped at her pelvis, and began scratching around her hips, causing her to dance in place.
While this was going on, another person began lightly scratching around her nipples. It wasn't intense, thankfully, but that didn't make it tickle any less, and Dusty tried to shake them away. The light fluttering was maddening in its own way, and seemed to make the other touches that much worse, as if they were a point to measure by - this is bad, then that must be worse.
After a while they too departed, and someone came over. He - Dusty actually "recognized' him as the one that always snapped his fingers for her, though he was still impossible to actually see properly - reached out and rested his hand on her belly. In this position her stomach was completely taut, and she immediately felt goosebumps on her back. He stood like that for a moment, then he began sliding his hand around her tummy a little, not tickling, just lightly rubbing her belly. Then he stopped and put a single digit on her belly, and Dusty held her breath. She felt it swing this way and that, then slowly slide across her skin in anticipation...
And then the nails hit, and Dusty exploded. They seemed to be massaging her abs, and the deep wriggling was sending her into hysterics. It was the worst of the night; he was doing more than any of the other pairs were able to do together. She lost control of her bladder, she shrieked into the gag, she wrenched at her bonds, she was literally out of control now, functioning purely on instincts, which said she had to escape this horrible tummy tickling! Anything else, gnaw her arms off, so long as she could get away! But bound and helpless, she could only laugh as the poor, helpless tummy was tickled unrelentingly until she started to see spots. As if he could somehow sense her feelings, he stopped, then took up a hanky and wiped her eyes for her. His smile seemed less wicked for a moment, then he went on his way.
Of course, he was all too soon replaced by others. The party went on and Dusty was tickled more than she'd ever been in her life, probably more than anyone ever had, she thought in the few moments of rational thought until eventually, hours later, the man returned and snapped his fingers, and she was back in bed. And she laid there, curled up in a fetal position, whimpering.
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Dusty tried filling out a police report, but there was no way to really prove that anything had happened. The officer wasn't unkind, but he said it sounded more like a psychological problem than a kidnapping. He asked if she was taking any kinds of drugs... and she admitted to the weight loss pill. It didn't matter, she figured, she just wanted this to stop.
Fortunately, the officer didn't seem to have a problem with it. "As long as it's not using controlled substances,” he said, "you can take it all you want. FDA doesn't need to regulate any product that doesn't actually make a claim of medical benefits, and weight loss ain't one of them. You won't get in any trouble for that. Still, you may want to stop taking them, just to see if it's having a side effect. You never know... that's why there's an FDA in the first place."
Dusty went home. There was a message, of course. She'd been fired. That was the injury after the insult - making her a tickle-slave was bad enough, but now it was ruining her life. She'd better throw the pills-
The phone rang. Dusty stared at it like it might pull a knife on her. It rang again, and she backed away from it slowly. But her instincts were telling her that she had to answer it. There were so many other things it could be- No! She couldn't! They might catch her again! It's just a phone! But they could get me and tickle me! I...
She snatched up the phone, and waited, silent as an empty library.
"Hello?"
Dusty felt relief wash through her. "Mr. Benton," she said. "What a relief."
The voice on the other end laughed. "Afraid I was a bill collector?"
"Heh, well, you know us models."
"I do. Listen, I thought I'd let you know that I've got a client worked out for you, if you're still interested in working with us."
"Really?!" Dusty said without bothering to hold her excitement back. "What are we looking at?"
"A full contract for at least a year," Mr. Benton said. "Regular sessions, good money. I don't want to get your hopes up, but if you can impress them at this interview, then this could be your big break."
"Whatever it takes," Dusty said firmly. ""Is there anything I should do?"
"Just look your best," Mr. Benton said. "You still taking those pills I gave you?"
Dusty felt like she was on the expressway to success, then turned the corner and saw someone had built a brick wall across it. "The pills?"
"Yes, you should still have enough left for at least two weeks."
"Yes," Dusty said, trying to keep the nervousness out of her voice. "But I was thinking, I mean, I took the weight off... do I really need to keep taking them?"
Mr. Benton was quiet. "Dusty, it's up to you. But honestly, this is the kind of opportunity you get once in a lifetime, if that. I'm not telling you what to do, I'm just telling you what the situation is. If you don't land this one... I'm sorry, there's no way for this not to sound like a threat. I'm just trying to get you to understand that you need every possible edge. Trust me, I see it every day. I don't want to say you have to take them, because that's not how I operate. But I do want you to make an informed decision."
Dusty swallowed, then nodded, even though he obviously couldn't see her. "I'll knock 'em dead, Mr. Benton. Do I need an agent?"
"Actually, if you go through us, you won't need one. We'll be operating on your behalf for the finder's fee, so it's in our best interest to get you a good deal. We take on a number of girls; if this works, we'd love to have you."
"That sounds great," Dusty said. "I won't let you down, Mr. Benton."
"I'm sure of it," he said. "Good luck, and I'll see you in two day; one o’clock sharp. My assistant will get you the details."
Dusty stared at the bottle after it was over. Two days, she thought. My life is falling apart, but this could finally take care of everything. She was so close, she didn't think she could live with herself if it fell apart.
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Dusty closed her eyes and laid back, listening to the music and the waves. It was so relaxing, so... she felt her head going fuzzy, but didn't mind. After a while, she started to giggle. She could feel little tiny feathery touches all over her body, each giving her a little tickle. But she found as the seconds passed that she adored it... it was like being tickled by joy. Time ceased to exist for her, all there was was the light fluffy tickling of her entire body, and as it went on she decided that if there was a heaven, then this was what it must be like.
The CD ended, and Dusty found herself back in her apartment, and her mood quickly slipped into a kind of funk. That had been so fun, she thought. I wish-
I wish they'd call me again, she thought.
Half an hour later, they did.
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Dusty's eyes opened as the fingers snapped before her. She was back in the room, of course, this time seated on a wooden bench. Her arms had been secured up over her head, and her feet were fitted in a pair of stocks. All around her, the crowd of unreadable faces grinned at her, because she was in the perfect position to tickle all over.
This was the same reason that Dusty was grinning.
People closed in around her... although only a few, like usual, so as not to overwhelm her. She started giggling as she felt someone ever so lightly scratching in her underarms. It made her shiver and squirm, yet it was absolutely delightful for her. She started chuckling as the scratching became a bit more firm, but she still was enjoying this. They had the perfect touch, so that with each stroke she felt a little more giddy and aroused.
Two people, a man and a woman, approached her feet. She ground her teeth together as she saw them take up the quills and examine her predicament. The feathers approached slowly, wiggling as they did, so that Dusty was trembling in anticipation of the touch that would come. Then feather met sole, and she began laughing and struggling. The feathers slid up and down her soles as each person held her foot fast, stretching it out to stop her from escaping. Dusty laughed and shook her head, which was taken as a sign by the person tickling her armpits to up the intensity again. Dusty was laughing hard now, her eyes tearing over even as one of the feathers was reversed to apply the stiff shaft along her instep. She was laughing so hard she thought the ballgag might fracture. Not to be outdone, the other feather was dropped, and some probing fingers scratched along the base of her toes. Dusty passed the point of resistance then, with all three ticklers giving her a powerful session; she just didn't have strength to even sit up, merely hanging there while the restraints held her up.
As always happened, the group eventually drifted away and others came to have their turns. The woman behind her was pinching all up and down Dusty's flanks, but the others went straight to her feet again. Feathers and fingers met soles and Dusty was roaring and shivering under the tickle assault. The woman behind her started digging her index fingers in Dusty's sides and twisting them, causing her to jump with each prod. The people at her feet, though, were stroking and scratching so well that this was mostly just a distraction from the real tickling. Her feet seemed one huge ticklish nerve as they explored every last little corner of them.
The night wore on, and Dusty was subjected to hour after hour of intense tickling. The difference, however, was that even though it was maddeningly effective, even though it was without mercy, it also thrilled her to feel their ticking strokes. Nothing about them was any different, she could tell. The only thing that changed was her; she'd come to like this. No, she'd come to love this! They tickled her pits, flanks, ribs, breasts, thighs, and of course her feet - that was the one constant for the evening. As time went on, rather than her usual wish to plead for mercy, she wanted to plead with them to bring more people over. There was plenty of room for them all to gang up on her and hit more of her ticklish spots all at once, if they'd only try. But they didn't, they kept it the same, intense, but not overwhelming, as they always had. And Dusty started to see that their looks and laughs weren't demonic, they just seemed that way through the mental haze. They didn't tickle her like an object, but like she was a cherished part of their celebration. There was a kind of love in their strokes that said this was all for fun, hers and theirs. And for the first time, when the night came to end, she was actually disappointed to see it come.
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Morning came, and Dusty got up and faced the day like a woman recharged. She did her morning exercises and stretches with renewed vigor, the knowledge that tomorrow might be her big break pushing her like the most hard-lined personal trainer ever. After that she went through a number of skin treatments to make sure she looked her best. She went over all her features with a fine-tooth comb, then again with an even more fine-toothed one than before. Dusty was determined to look so stunning that even gay men would hit on her.
And then, after all of that was complete, Dusty popped her pill and listened to the CD. Just like before, she seemed carried off to some happy land where little fluffy teddy bears tickled her silly. She didn't know if it was the pill or the CD or both or neither, but whatever it was, she wished she could spend forever getting tickled like that.
The phone rang, and Dusty bolted to answer it. In answer to her hopes, the words "Slave sleep" were said, and she quite happily lost consciousness.
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Once again the fingers snapped and Dusty returned to consciousness. As usual she'd been stripped and gagged, although this time she was lying on a padded version of a rack. The man who'd snapped his fingers turned to the big wheel and grabbed the handles, and Dusty trembled in anticipation. He turned, and the slack on the manacles was slowly taken up, until finally she was stretched out to total immobility. She couldn't have been happier.
The crowd approached, surrounding her this time. They all had feathers, and each reached towards her sensitive skin and began stroking them across her flesh. It wasn't anywhere near as intense as usual, but with the sheer number of them Dusty found herself screwing her eyes shut as she laughed into the gag. Feathers teased her underarms and ribs and sides and tummy and thighs and feet, oh yes, the feet. She couldn't believe how much the little feathers could do to those, and she was straining despite herself to pull her legs up and escape their endless strokes. The crowd kept it up all over her body, though there was no malice there... it seemed more adoration than anything else, and Dusty could only love it right back.
After half an hour a bell rang, and the feathers were put away and the crowd left, save for one. He immediately began tickling her ribs with his hands, and she was laughing for all she was worth in an instant. There was nothing subtle now; she could tell he was tickling her as much as he possibly could, and she soon turned breathless with laughter as his fingers dug in all over her ribs, working in between or squeezing on the rib itself. She soon felt her body slick with sweat and tears stung her eyes, but still he kept it up, tickle-torturing her more than any person ever had.
After ten minutes, the bell rang, and he stopped and left with a nod of thanks to her. A woman came up and she began tickling Dusty's tummy. Like the man before her, it was clear that she wasn't holding back, she scratched all over the trembling belly while Dusty howled into her gag, then began digging her fingers into the tight muscles. She stuck a finger in her navel and wriggled about, causing Dusty to shriek and struggle. It was overwhelming, and she fought hard to escape, laughing desperately.
The bell rang again, and the woman thanked Dusty and departed. Another came, and began scratching at her armpits. There was no teasing, he went straight at it, using all ten fingers for all he was worth, and Dusty was soon totally sapped of strength, unable to do anything but laugh and laugh as the torture of her underarms continued. Eventually the bell rang and he departed, and a woman arrived and tickled all over her poor feet again. Dusty whooped and tried to kick her away, but there was no room to budge even a little, so the woman tickled all up and down her soles. The bell rang and she left, and another woman came and tickled all over her hips and thighs while Dusty danced on the table. The bell rang, and the next tickled her flanks until she had the hiccups.
This continued as the hours wore on, each coming to her one by one to see how hard they could push her. And Dusty laughed and squealed and struggled and cried and squirmed, but most of all she laid there in a state of total bliss. Despite how much it could overwhelm her, despite how much she'd fight to escape, she wanted more and more, until she was positively hot with desire.
Eventually the man who had turned the wheel took his turn, and Dusty could feel in his strokes that he relished her. And when he was done he dried her eyes and turned to the crowd that had tickled her, and they all applauded her. And she felt so good, like the homecoming queen in a juvenile sort of way. And then the man snapped his fingers, and she was home again. And she couldn't help but think it was the best night of her life.
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The following morning Dusty awoke and felt better than she could ever remember. Her excitement about the afternoon interview made her feel like it was Christmas and prom all rolled into one. She got there early and, even if she did say so herself, looked gorgeous. The looks from other people on the street sure seemed to support that.
When Dusty arrived, Mr. Benton was waiting, a warm smile on his face. "Ready?" he asked. Dusty nodded, trying to cover over her nervousness with confidence. He started leading the way towards the elevator. "This is a big chance for you," he said. "I hope you realize that."
"I do," she assured him.
"Good, because you may feel a little overwhelmed."
"Why? Who is it?"
"Just... be ready."
The door opened, and Dusty's jaw dropped open. Beyond the elevator was the expansive party room where she'd been during all those sessions. And in it was a crowd of people. They weren't distorted; she could see them clearly, every single one... and she recognized many. Big names in fashion, or cosmetics, or advertisements. It was a Who's Who of the elite. And when they saw Dusty, they all applauded her. It felt surreal, and Mr. Benton had to take her hand and lead her out of the elevator.
"Dusty," Mr. Benton said, "I realize this must be a shock to you, but we've had our eye on you for some time. We realize that the auditioning process might not have been what you're used to, but our little club isn't exactly conventional either." There was a general chuckling of agreement.
"What's happening?" Dusty final asked. "I thought this was about a job."
"It is, in a sense," Mr. Benton said. "But it's much more. You see, we have these little... get-togethers, and we like when our girls provide the entertainment. It's all in good fun... nobody gets mistreated or has to perform any sexual service, as it were, that they don't want to. It gives us a unique chance to unwind."
Dusty felt her head swimming. "This is... this is the job? To be tickled?"
"No, no," Mr. Benton said. "Your job is to be a part of our little club. Sometimes the girls enjoy the party, sometimes the girls are the entertainment, but it's all in good fun."
"And there's so much more to it than that," said a woman up front, and it turned out to be Maureen Hilden herself. "There are all kinds of shoots that we want our girls in. Your face is our face, and we take good care of you."
"Sometimes we take trips and want some friendly companionship," said Paul Muntz, Publisher of the most renowned swimsuit catalog there was. "A chance to see the world on the company dime, and all that's asked of you is to look good."
"There's many opportunities," Mr. Benton said, "and they can all be yours, Dusty. That contract isn't for a year, it's for as long as you want. We're opening the door for you... success, exposure, money, fun, and let's not forget tickling, are all waiting for you, if you want it."
Dusty looked from face to face, scarcely able to believe it. She should hate them... taking her against her will, tickling her without her consent... and yet, despite that, she couldn't deny how much she'd come to love it. All this and tickling too was more than she could have dreamed of having, and really, just the thought of being before them, exposed and helpless before their waiting fingers, brought a smile to her face.
"Where do I sign?"
Dusty licked her lips and looked around the waiting room. She'd seen a lot of them, and this one was about a six on the rating scale - not bad, but not really standing out as waiting rooms went. She'd come to know those number and expressions by heart now; she found it hard not to apply them in all aspects of her life these days.
She glanced at the wall clock; it was already five minutes past her scheduled time, which was bad. Odds were good somebody had warranted those extra five minutes, which meant they were already looking strongly at someone else. Dusty just hoped she could convince them she was better. Unfortunately, there wasn't much to add that they didn't already have. It was a modeling gig, and they had her face shot and her portfolio that included the rest of her assets. The camera would do all the talking for the job, so the pictures really said all there was to say.
Then her name was called, and she quickly got up and walked into the room. Three men with stacks of papers and folders waited; they looked her over with the expression of men who did nothing but look at the female body all day, every day... which was a look Dusty could never quite get used to. With looks like hers, she was used to gawks and such, that she was just a sexual object. This, however, always took it further. She truly was a piece of meat to them, to be examined and critiqued solely on the basis of flesh, and what was worse was that it was clinical, sterile. She was treated no differently than if she were a cadaver. But it was part of what came with the territory. Modeling could open the door to acting, and with tens of thousands of girls trying to grab the few chairs when the music stops, she needed every edge.
They asked Dusty a few general questions; she answered them. Then they turned and talked amongst themselves as if she wasn't there, leaving her standing in the middle of the room. She'd had better interviews - this was a three: not really what we're looking for, maybe if you make some changes you can call us back.
Finally, one of them stood up. "Ms. Blair," he said. "Could you come with me please?" Dusty followed, and the two walked out the back room and into an empty hallway. "I'm sorry if this seemed rude," he said. "It's been a long day."
"I can imagine," Dusty said, because there was no point in antagonizing him.
"Look, let me get down to the, ahem, big issue. Hilden isn't just looking for a one shot, they want someone to be their face, so to speak. This is a very important position, see, because if you don't reflect the image they want, this campaign's going to fall apart."
"I understand," she said.
"Good. That's the issue." He cleared his throat again. "Let me be blunt, so that you know I take this seriously. You are exactly what we're looking for." Dusty's stomach tightened; she knew there was a "but" looming like King Kong on the other side of that compliment. "But you look to be about six pounds over what we were looking for."
Dusty was used to this; in the modeling world, they tended to look for small thin pale girls, like they were auditioning elves or something. Dusty was thin, but she was also well curved, so that tended to confound the mix. "I can take that off in a few days," she said truthfully; she'd done it many times.
"Uh, no," the man said. "See, we need this for the long haul, Ms. Balir. Just going on one of those starvation diets isn't going to cut it. What we'd need from you is to maintain that for a long while to come."
Dusty wasn't sure what to say. "So, what's this about then?"
"Look, we have a way of making this work," he said. "But it won't be exactly above board-"
"I'm not sleeping with anyone," Dusty said flatly. She'd drawn that line some time ago and was proud of herself that no matter how desperate, she'd never crossed it.
The man laughed. "Not that. We have a drug that in combination with subliminal suggestion can help you make the minor changes needed to do this for the long haul. The problem is, it's still not FDA approved. If you took it, you'd be participating in untested treatment." Dusty didn't much like the sound of that. "However, it's just a legal technicality. I've had several girls use it already with phenomenal results." He rattled off some names, and what surprised Dusty was that she knew them all. They were in magazines and on billboards and the sides of buses... Of course, he could be feeding her a line, but worse came to worse, the stuff wouldn't work, and she really needed this kind of exposure. It was worth the risk for that leg-up.
"Tell me more," Dusty said. And he did.
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Mr. Benton -the man who'd taken her aside at the interview- supplied her with a bottle of pills and a CD she was supposed to listen to fifteen minutes after she'd taken the pills. She was given the usual instructions: not when you're going to be driving, operating heavy machinery, piloting Air Force One, launching the Space Shuttle, just try to curl up in a corner and cover yourself with a blanket kind of nonsense. Dusty did as she was told, however, because she wanted this gig. She took the pills and listened to the CD as instructed - it was kind of nice, actually. The music sounded soft and rocking, and there was the sound of waves on the seashore, and the pills made her a little light-headed. She rather enjoyed the experience, and after a few days she noticed she did feel a little lighter and a bit more positive. As far as diets went, this was the best she'd ever had. She didn't have the slightest cravings either... forget the modeling business, they could sell this stuff and make a fortune!
Another funny thing, but she also felt a little less stressed out. To make ends meet, she'd taken a waitress job at a topless bar. Thankfully she herself didn't have to bare anything, but she did have to wear a rather degrading outfit on duty, and drunken horny idiots would sometimes grope her, making the whole experience a tiny vision of hell on Earth. But after a couple days of the drug she found she was able to push through without the strain, that she could just accept what came with the territory. Maybe it was just knowing that she had a good shot at this job that she could better suck it up. It was the idea that she'd be waiting tables and having her ass grabbed for the rest of her life that made this hard sometimes; a little ray of hope was probably just what the doctor ordered.
It was at around four in the afternoon that the phone rang. Dusty picked it up without thinking. "Hello?"
"Slave sleep," said the voice on the other end. Under most circumstances Dusty would have chewed out whoever it was for wasting her time with this crank call nonsense, but she didn't. She didn’t because, for some inexplicable reason, she lost consciousness.
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Someone snapped their fingers, and Dusty was awake. Reality hit her all at once, leaving her overwhelmed, so that all the snippets took time to coalesce into a picture of the situation, but eventually it all filled in. For starters she was standing with arms outstretched and legs spread open, locked at the wrists and ankles to limit movement. She had been fitted with a ballgag to apparently stop her from screaming for help - though she wasn't sure any could hear who'd care. There was already plenty of ruckus from the crowd that was gathered there, who applauded as Dusty had come to.
It was bizarre. She was completely naked and inside a small wire cage, barely larger than she herself was. And around the room, there was signs of... of a party? Yes, in fact, many of the gathered crowd had drinks or some dainty item to munch on. What the hell had happened, and what was going on?!
Then the one who'd snapped his fingers turned to the crowd and spoke, and that's when something new had hit Dusty, because when he spoke, his voice was distorted, like the people on television who are speaking about government conspiracies or something. And when she looked at people, they had no real recognizable face. It was hard to think about; it wasn't that they didn't have a face, it was just that when she looked at them, it seemed so immediately forgettable that she couldn't hold any of it in her head.
"Remember,” the rumbling voice said to the crowd, "she's new at this, so let's not go too hard on her tonight. Just a little hard will be fine." And the crowd laughed, a bass and distorted tone, like a cadre of demons at a newly arrived soul.
Suddenly that comparison seemed very apt. Most of the party got back to business, but five people broke off from the crowd and came up to her. It was then that she noticed that there was an umbrella stand with various items in it, mostly long peacock feathers. The five gathered around the cage and reached the long plumes through the bars-
And Dusty shivered as she felt the touch. The feathers were being played over her bare skin, and it tickled! Really tickled! She instantly began chuckling into the gag as one was drawn up the hollows of each of her armpits, and chained like this, it was impossible to move to avoid it. What were they doing?! But there was no way to speculate because she felt the feathers sliding right back down again, then back until... until she couldn't contain her laughter any more than the ballgag could.
That wasn't all there was to it either. Someone was circling one of her full breasts with their plume, slowly teasing all around one and then all around the other. The feather would then wriggle back and forth across the front, then go back to its strange orbit. Dusty didn't even know she was ticklish there, but a few minutes of that stroking had convinced her it wasn't her imagination. Similarly, she felt a feather circling around her cheeks and exploring the length of her crack. Between the two of them she was dancing in place trying to resist, wiggling her behind and bouncing her breasts. The crowd laughed their demonic laughs and continued, the fifth person applying the feather on her shaking body with the same horrible tickling effect.
This had to be a dream, Dusty thought. This kind of thing just doesn't happen. I must be projecting or whatever the psychologists call it. Except, if she was dreaming, it wouldn't explain how it felt so real. She felt chilled, and the pressure of the manacles as they held her seemed too solid a thing. And the tickling... she had never imagined she could be this ticklish, but as the feathers stroked her skin it was all she could do not to scream into the gag, she was laughing so hard. It was hard to believe that she could dream this ticklish agony and not wake herself up in the process.
Time passed, and the tickling didn't stop, not exactly. People left her alone after a while, but as each left another came up and took their place, finding a spot on Dusty's helpless body and tickling away. The feathers were bad, but occasional something worse would show up. One of the faceless women brought a long-handled back-scratcher and began applying it to her thighs. Dusty would shake and squirm to escape, but that just left her open to other attacks. A couple of others had also found those long pointers use in presentations with the little rubber ends on them. They were taking turns coming from the left and the right, catching Dusty in the ribs so that each arch left her prone to the other’s attack.
And that was how the evening went. Dusty stayed trapped in her position, tickled all the while through the bars of her cage while everyone around laughed and enjoyed themselves. Also, during the events of the evening a few more girls were brought in in robes. They quickly removed them though and allowed themselves to be locked up in various positions. Soon they too were being tickled, directly with fingers and far more helpless than Dusty was. They were ungagged, and their laughs filled the room; they were clearly as ticklish as Dusty was. But no matter how much they were tickled, they never once asked for mercy; Dusty wanted to beg to be left alone, but the gag prevented it. She also seemed to be the center of attention for the evening; while the others were getting very furious tickling, everyone seemed to want to have a taste of Dusty even though it was much harder.
And then one of the men with the unseeable face came up, chuckling the deep laugh as he approached. Dusty could just stand there in the cage, trembling in fear of more of the tickling. But he said something she couldn't quite make out and snapped his fingers, and she fell unconscious.
And woke up in bed. She got up and looked about, but there was no sign of anyone, no sign that any of those events had been anything more than bizarre dreams. Dusty sat on the edge of the bed. They had to be, she thought. It didn't make any sense otherwise. She reflected on the experience. It had felt very real when they tickled her, but still, the fact that everything was so distorted certainly did make a dream seem likely. But there was the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach that just wouldn't go away, that deep down she wasn't convinced. It's absurd! she finally thought. Who would do that to me, just snatch me up and do that and then put me back without another thought? Surely it would've been simpler to just keep her and avoid leaving a witness to report her abduction. No, it was just a very vivid dream, Dusty. And the more she thought about it, the little worry started to go away.
Dusty wasn't smart, but she'd spoken with some of the other girls before who were, talking about all kinds of crazy things like herbs and reflexology and stuff like that, and she'd heard about how dreams like that could be a sign of anxiety, that the symbols are there to help the mind make sense of it. Of course, the cage with her being gawked at was probably her fear of landing this big job. She'd be everywhere -which was what she wanted- but that can still be a little off-putting like the dream had shown. Yes, all of it made sense now, and she got up and faced the day without another thought on the subject.
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Two days after the strange dream -which, thankfully, didn't happen again- Dusty got a call from Mr. Benton. Unfortunately, it wasn't the news she was hoping for. "Don't take this the wrong way," he told her quickly. "It wasn't you; the company just decided not to follow this ad campaign after all. You didn't get beat out by anyone, because if it hadn't been for this, you'd be in."
"Thanks," Dusty said, and despite how awful she felt, that did help. She never got any reassurances, just a pat and the head and sending her on her way like another cow in the herd.
"Listen," Mr. Benton went on, "how's that stuff working for you? Any help?"
"Yes," Dusty said. She'd lost eight pounds and it hadn't been hard at all. She had a feeling they'd probably stay off, too. Plus she was pleased to see it hadn't come from the places where it was nice to be curved, so she looked pretty good in her own opinion.
"That's great. We don't have this contract any more, but we are always looking for top models, and I think we could find a lot of work for you. You have an agent?"
"No," Dusty said. She'd been too small time to find one.
"If things work out, we can help you find one; they make life easier for everyone, trust me. You keep using that stuff I gave you and I'll be sure to contact you if it comes, and I mean that."
"Thanks, Mr. Benton," Dusty said. As she hung up the phone she tried to look on the bright side. True she didn't have this job, so she was still stuck waiting tables, but if he really did follow through then there could be a way out. So Dusty popped another of the pills and put the CD on and listened to the beautiful sounds, her mind's eye filled with visions of success.
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Around four, Dusty was finishing getting ready for her shift down at the bar when the phone rang. In her hustle, she grabbed it as she ran by, not thinking twice. "Hello?"
"Slave sleep."
And the next thing Dusty knew, someone snapped their fingers in front of her. She looked about in shock, and they were all there again, the faceless chuckling horde, and she was again locked in a cage. Different this time - the manacles bound her wrists together and held them straight up, and she was kneeling on a raised platform with a cushion, ankles secured to stop her from climbing off it. The gag was in place, but she still tried to plead with them. Please don't tickle! Please, I'm very ticklish, and I can't stand it! No! They were approaching the stand, and she whimpered, knowing there was nothing she could do to stop them.
In addition to the long peacock feathers, Dusty noticed there was a small vase of short fluffy white feathers; many were gravitating towards those. Dusty watched with subdued terror as they walked past the cage, knowing where they were headed. Seconds later she felt the first feather on the sole of her right foot, and immediately began struggling to escape her bonds, but they didn't budge, and all it prompted was more of the sinister laughter from the crowd. Before long it was hopeless anyway; more feathers were being applied, and she was soon laughing too much to have any real strength. Those little white feathers were horrible, with long grueling strokes and little rapid back-and-forth ones competing for which could leave her a squealing mess first. It seemed to be a photo finish, because Dusty jerked and yelped at every single new feathery touch without any exception for style. She was an equal opportunity ticklee, as it were.
Of course, there was more to all of this than that. A man had selected one of the long peacock feathers and stood right in front of her. Even while she squirmed her eyes never left the slowly approaching feather as it came in low through the bars. It touched her left inner thigh and even with all the tickling she shivered as he slowly drew it up until reaching her womanhood, where he began deftly using the flared teal head with what could only have been a practiced hand, because Dusty soon found herself trying very hard to go bow-legged in order to escape. After a little while he ran down her right inner thigh, then back up again to tease her some more.
And there were always the others, looking for prime Dusty real estate. Some were feathering her behind, some her breasts, some her armpits, and some the backs of her legs. One nasty person had found an effective way to use the hardened tip of the long peacock feathers to enter her navel and scratch about, leaving Dusty shrieking into her ball gag so hard she thought it might fly out of her mouth.
As last time, the evening wore on and on with people drifting to and from her as if she were just a part of the evenings entertainment - which it seemed she was. More girls were brought in like last time as well, though not with the same treatment, and certainly not as tormented as she was. When they laughed, it seemed to be just as much from genuine enjoyment as it was from the effects of fingers and feathers. Dusty could only laugh with despair; she was just too ticklish for this treatment... in fact, she seemed even more ticklish than she'd been the last time! She was soon teary-eyed and crimson from the effects, yet the crowd just laughed to themselves and continued teasing her without the slightest hint of mercy.
And then, the faceless man returned, and snapped his fingers, and she was in bed. Another dream? Dusty shook her head... that seemed too real to be a dream... she could practically still feel the feathers on her body and-
She stopped in mid-thought; there was a blinking on her phone indicating she had a voicemail message. But she always checked before bed, and she was a light sleeper, so how could she have missed it? Then she played it, and terror gripped her. It was her boss at the club, chewing her out for not coming to her shift, and telling her that if it happened again she'd get fired. That wasn't the terrifying part; it was that this proved that she had really been gone all that time, that she didn't just dream it. It was likely that what had happened had been real.
Okay, she thought, get a grip Dusty. Think! Just because you missed work and don't remember what you did doesn't mean that you were kidnapped, tickle-tortured, and then returned, right? I mean, where's the sense in that? Why keep bringing me back just to pick me up again? But no matter what she told herself, she knew that it all had felt real... too real to be a dream. This confirmed her fear that someone out there was using her as a toy... and she had no idea where to even start to deal with that. She sat on the edge of the bed and wondered how you report this kind of thing to the police. She had no physical evidence, and she couldn't remotely begin to describe the people who were there
Uncertain of what to do, Dusty got up, showered, and faced the day. Looking like this didn't just happen, it took a lot of work, so she did all her exercises, including her stretching, and had a nice breakfast. Thanks to the tape and the drugs, she'd gotten used to foregoing some of her indulgences and savored her kiwi and juice. By the time all that was done the events of the previous evening seemed like ancient history, and without further thought she popped her pill and listened to the relaxing music.
Except... it was different. She felt her mind drifting, and she was unable to stop herself, like she really had been drugged. And in the fog of her mind, she heard her own voice, laughing and squealing. A cloudy image appeared of her being tickled, and she was begging and pleading. But the shocking thing was that those begs and pleas were for more. The more she was being tickled, the more she loved it.
"It's so much fun when you just let it happen,” she said to herself. “It's so exciting and arousing and oh God I just can't get enough!" And to hear her talk, Dusty could actually believe it. The squirming her seemed in complete ecstasy, and wished she could feel that good. Life had all around been rather disappointing, with the world of modeling filled with so many girls willing to screw their way ahead of the pack, leaving Dusty to do crap work just to survive. There was something to be said for being that happy when life seems to be just day-to-day survival, and nothing else. She was trapped in a cage already, she'd just never really noticed before.
When the CD ended Dusty just laid there, lost in thought. Maybe she was wrong; maybe last night didn't really happen, she just imagined it. She missed work because she lapsed into some kind of... of whatever happened to people who'd just become too stressed out and depressed to think.
Time passed as she went about her daily routine before getting ready for work. And then the phone rang, and she froze. It rang again. She was worried... what if it wasn't all in her head? If she answered, then they'd tickle her again... and she couldn't go through that again.
It rang a third time.
But it could be a job, or work canceling, or her mother was in the hospital, or a thousand other things. That's what voice mail was for, so she could screen her calls and not have-
Apparently, heedless of what the brain was up to, the hand had already made up its mind. Before the fourth ring was complete she'd picked up the phone and put it to her ear. "Slave sleep," the voice said.
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Fingers snapped before her eyes, and Dusty came to in a panic. She was restrained again, nude, of course, but this time there was no cage. She couldn't see too well in her position, but she'd seen the other girls similarly bound before and knew what had happened. She was on some kind of strange wooden contraption, almost like a Salvador Dali couch. Her legs had been put into a sitting position, with her ankles bound to the side, but the rest of her had been laid back onto the bench, or whatever it was. It was warped, so her back arched and her head was lying downhill, with her arms stretched even further along and bound at the wrists. She was gagged, again, and she immediately began pleading into it for them to leave her alone. From the expressions on their distorted faces, the gag had little to do with her pleas going unanswered.
They approached, in smaller numbers than before at least, but still ready to tickle her out of her wits. Dusty trembled as she saw their wriggling fingers, knowing this would be far more intense than anything before, and it was all she could do not to weep right then and there. She looked up into the face of the woman at the head of the bench, giving her a look of pleading desperation. The demonic chuckle was the only reply, and two hands slowly descended towards her helpless armpits. Dusty shook her head and begged incoherently, but the nails reached her, and she was quickly left in a state of frantic ticklish laughter. It only intensified; someone was running their nails down her ribs and back up again, and with her back arched like this it was grueling with even those light touches. She screwed her eyes shut and tried to fight, but the persistent scratching all over her pits seemed to knock down any mental wall she erected. The long, wicked nails just kept at her, hard enough to torment, but not so much to actually hurt, just leaving her feeling like she was tickled out of her mind.
Dusty's eyes flashed open. Whoever was working her ribs had stopped playing and gotten down to business, digging their fingers in and wriggling them. Dusty screamed into the gag, and kept screaming as each jab by ten wiggling fingers came into her bare ribcage. She was in trouble; this had barely started and she'd already been overwhelmed. She couldn't take another night of this, she'd go mad! Couldn't they see she couldn't stand this much tickling?! No one could!
The demon-like partygoers kept at it, and Dusty was soon crimson with laughter, and she couldn't see with all the tears in the way. Not that it mattered, as she could hardly force her eyes to open; the sight of those hands and the evil grins were too much to bear... much like the tickling, actually. Eventually the pair stopped, however, and a new pair approached. There was little time for Dusty to catch her breath before she was laughing again. One had started on her poor knees, squeezing them with an expert’s touch. Then he or she - Dusty couldn't see from this angle, even if she wasn’t blinded by tears - started squeezing firmly on a trip up her thighs. They stopped at her pelvis, and began scratching around her hips, causing her to dance in place.
While this was going on, another person began lightly scratching around her nipples. It wasn't intense, thankfully, but that didn't make it tickle any less, and Dusty tried to shake them away. The light fluttering was maddening in its own way, and seemed to make the other touches that much worse, as if they were a point to measure by - this is bad, then that must be worse.
After a while they too departed, and someone came over. He - Dusty actually "recognized' him as the one that always snapped his fingers for her, though he was still impossible to actually see properly - reached out and rested his hand on her belly. In this position her stomach was completely taut, and she immediately felt goosebumps on her back. He stood like that for a moment, then he began sliding his hand around her tummy a little, not tickling, just lightly rubbing her belly. Then he stopped and put a single digit on her belly, and Dusty held her breath. She felt it swing this way and that, then slowly slide across her skin in anticipation...
And then the nails hit, and Dusty exploded. They seemed to be massaging her abs, and the deep wriggling was sending her into hysterics. It was the worst of the night; he was doing more than any of the other pairs were able to do together. She lost control of her bladder, she shrieked into the gag, she wrenched at her bonds, she was literally out of control now, functioning purely on instincts, which said she had to escape this horrible tummy tickling! Anything else, gnaw her arms off, so long as she could get away! But bound and helpless, she could only laugh as the poor, helpless tummy was tickled unrelentingly until she started to see spots. As if he could somehow sense her feelings, he stopped, then took up a hanky and wiped her eyes for her. His smile seemed less wicked for a moment, then he went on his way.
Of course, he was all too soon replaced by others. The party went on and Dusty was tickled more than she'd ever been in her life, probably more than anyone ever had, she thought in the few moments of rational thought until eventually, hours later, the man returned and snapped his fingers, and she was back in bed. And she laid there, curled up in a fetal position, whimpering.
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Dusty tried filling out a police report, but there was no way to really prove that anything had happened. The officer wasn't unkind, but he said it sounded more like a psychological problem than a kidnapping. He asked if she was taking any kinds of drugs... and she admitted to the weight loss pill. It didn't matter, she figured, she just wanted this to stop.
Fortunately, the officer didn't seem to have a problem with it. "As long as it's not using controlled substances,” he said, "you can take it all you want. FDA doesn't need to regulate any product that doesn't actually make a claim of medical benefits, and weight loss ain't one of them. You won't get in any trouble for that. Still, you may want to stop taking them, just to see if it's having a side effect. You never know... that's why there's an FDA in the first place."
Dusty went home. There was a message, of course. She'd been fired. That was the injury after the insult - making her a tickle-slave was bad enough, but now it was ruining her life. She'd better throw the pills-
The phone rang. Dusty stared at it like it might pull a knife on her. It rang again, and she backed away from it slowly. But her instincts were telling her that she had to answer it. There were so many other things it could be- No! She couldn't! They might catch her again! It's just a phone! But they could get me and tickle me! I...
She snatched up the phone, and waited, silent as an empty library.
"Hello?"
Dusty felt relief wash through her. "Mr. Benton," she said. "What a relief."
The voice on the other end laughed. "Afraid I was a bill collector?"
"Heh, well, you know us models."
"I do. Listen, I thought I'd let you know that I've got a client worked out for you, if you're still interested in working with us."
"Really?!" Dusty said without bothering to hold her excitement back. "What are we looking at?"
"A full contract for at least a year," Mr. Benton said. "Regular sessions, good money. I don't want to get your hopes up, but if you can impress them at this interview, then this could be your big break."
"Whatever it takes," Dusty said firmly. ""Is there anything I should do?"
"Just look your best," Mr. Benton said. "You still taking those pills I gave you?"
Dusty felt like she was on the expressway to success, then turned the corner and saw someone had built a brick wall across it. "The pills?"
"Yes, you should still have enough left for at least two weeks."
"Yes," Dusty said, trying to keep the nervousness out of her voice. "But I was thinking, I mean, I took the weight off... do I really need to keep taking them?"
Mr. Benton was quiet. "Dusty, it's up to you. But honestly, this is the kind of opportunity you get once in a lifetime, if that. I'm not telling you what to do, I'm just telling you what the situation is. If you don't land this one... I'm sorry, there's no way for this not to sound like a threat. I'm just trying to get you to understand that you need every possible edge. Trust me, I see it every day. I don't want to say you have to take them, because that's not how I operate. But I do want you to make an informed decision."
Dusty swallowed, then nodded, even though he obviously couldn't see her. "I'll knock 'em dead, Mr. Benton. Do I need an agent?"
"Actually, if you go through us, you won't need one. We'll be operating on your behalf for the finder's fee, so it's in our best interest to get you a good deal. We take on a number of girls; if this works, we'd love to have you."
"That sounds great," Dusty said. "I won't let you down, Mr. Benton."
"I'm sure of it," he said. "Good luck, and I'll see you in two day; one o’clock sharp. My assistant will get you the details."
Dusty stared at the bottle after it was over. Two days, she thought. My life is falling apart, but this could finally take care of everything. She was so close, she didn't think she could live with herself if it fell apart.
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Dusty closed her eyes and laid back, listening to the music and the waves. It was so relaxing, so... she felt her head going fuzzy, but didn't mind. After a while, she started to giggle. She could feel little tiny feathery touches all over her body, each giving her a little tickle. But she found as the seconds passed that she adored it... it was like being tickled by joy. Time ceased to exist for her, all there was was the light fluffy tickling of her entire body, and as it went on she decided that if there was a heaven, then this was what it must be like.
The CD ended, and Dusty found herself back in her apartment, and her mood quickly slipped into a kind of funk. That had been so fun, she thought. I wish-
I wish they'd call me again, she thought.
Half an hour later, they did.
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Dusty's eyes opened as the fingers snapped before her. She was back in the room, of course, this time seated on a wooden bench. Her arms had been secured up over her head, and her feet were fitted in a pair of stocks. All around her, the crowd of unreadable faces grinned at her, because she was in the perfect position to tickle all over.
This was the same reason that Dusty was grinning.
People closed in around her... although only a few, like usual, so as not to overwhelm her. She started giggling as she felt someone ever so lightly scratching in her underarms. It made her shiver and squirm, yet it was absolutely delightful for her. She started chuckling as the scratching became a bit more firm, but she still was enjoying this. They had the perfect touch, so that with each stroke she felt a little more giddy and aroused.
Two people, a man and a woman, approached her feet. She ground her teeth together as she saw them take up the quills and examine her predicament. The feathers approached slowly, wiggling as they did, so that Dusty was trembling in anticipation of the touch that would come. Then feather met sole, and she began laughing and struggling. The feathers slid up and down her soles as each person held her foot fast, stretching it out to stop her from escaping. Dusty laughed and shook her head, which was taken as a sign by the person tickling her armpits to up the intensity again. Dusty was laughing hard now, her eyes tearing over even as one of the feathers was reversed to apply the stiff shaft along her instep. She was laughing so hard she thought the ballgag might fracture. Not to be outdone, the other feather was dropped, and some probing fingers scratched along the base of her toes. Dusty passed the point of resistance then, with all three ticklers giving her a powerful session; she just didn't have strength to even sit up, merely hanging there while the restraints held her up.
As always happened, the group eventually drifted away and others came to have their turns. The woman behind her was pinching all up and down Dusty's flanks, but the others went straight to her feet again. Feathers and fingers met soles and Dusty was roaring and shivering under the tickle assault. The woman behind her started digging her index fingers in Dusty's sides and twisting them, causing her to jump with each prod. The people at her feet, though, were stroking and scratching so well that this was mostly just a distraction from the real tickling. Her feet seemed one huge ticklish nerve as they explored every last little corner of them.
The night wore on, and Dusty was subjected to hour after hour of intense tickling. The difference, however, was that even though it was maddeningly effective, even though it was without mercy, it also thrilled her to feel their ticking strokes. Nothing about them was any different, she could tell. The only thing that changed was her; she'd come to like this. No, she'd come to love this! They tickled her pits, flanks, ribs, breasts, thighs, and of course her feet - that was the one constant for the evening. As time went on, rather than her usual wish to plead for mercy, she wanted to plead with them to bring more people over. There was plenty of room for them all to gang up on her and hit more of her ticklish spots all at once, if they'd only try. But they didn't, they kept it the same, intense, but not overwhelming, as they always had. And Dusty started to see that their looks and laughs weren't demonic, they just seemed that way through the mental haze. They didn't tickle her like an object, but like she was a cherished part of their celebration. There was a kind of love in their strokes that said this was all for fun, hers and theirs. And for the first time, when the night came to end, she was actually disappointed to see it come.
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Morning came, and Dusty got up and faced the day like a woman recharged. She did her morning exercises and stretches with renewed vigor, the knowledge that tomorrow might be her big break pushing her like the most hard-lined personal trainer ever. After that she went through a number of skin treatments to make sure she looked her best. She went over all her features with a fine-tooth comb, then again with an even more fine-toothed one than before. Dusty was determined to look so stunning that even gay men would hit on her.
And then, after all of that was complete, Dusty popped her pill and listened to the CD. Just like before, she seemed carried off to some happy land where little fluffy teddy bears tickled her silly. She didn't know if it was the pill or the CD or both or neither, but whatever it was, she wished she could spend forever getting tickled like that.
The phone rang, and Dusty bolted to answer it. In answer to her hopes, the words "Slave sleep" were said, and she quite happily lost consciousness.
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Once again the fingers snapped and Dusty returned to consciousness. As usual she'd been stripped and gagged, although this time she was lying on a padded version of a rack. The man who'd snapped his fingers turned to the big wheel and grabbed the handles, and Dusty trembled in anticipation. He turned, and the slack on the manacles was slowly taken up, until finally she was stretched out to total immobility. She couldn't have been happier.
The crowd approached, surrounding her this time. They all had feathers, and each reached towards her sensitive skin and began stroking them across her flesh. It wasn't anywhere near as intense as usual, but with the sheer number of them Dusty found herself screwing her eyes shut as she laughed into the gag. Feathers teased her underarms and ribs and sides and tummy and thighs and feet, oh yes, the feet. She couldn't believe how much the little feathers could do to those, and she was straining despite herself to pull her legs up and escape their endless strokes. The crowd kept it up all over her body, though there was no malice there... it seemed more adoration than anything else, and Dusty could only love it right back.
After half an hour a bell rang, and the feathers were put away and the crowd left, save for one. He immediately began tickling her ribs with his hands, and she was laughing for all she was worth in an instant. There was nothing subtle now; she could tell he was tickling her as much as he possibly could, and she soon turned breathless with laughter as his fingers dug in all over her ribs, working in between or squeezing on the rib itself. She soon felt her body slick with sweat and tears stung her eyes, but still he kept it up, tickle-torturing her more than any person ever had.
After ten minutes, the bell rang, and he stopped and left with a nod of thanks to her. A woman came up and she began tickling Dusty's tummy. Like the man before her, it was clear that she wasn't holding back, she scratched all over the trembling belly while Dusty howled into her gag, then began digging her fingers into the tight muscles. She stuck a finger in her navel and wriggled about, causing Dusty to shriek and struggle. It was overwhelming, and she fought hard to escape, laughing desperately.
The bell rang again, and the woman thanked Dusty and departed. Another came, and began scratching at her armpits. There was no teasing, he went straight at it, using all ten fingers for all he was worth, and Dusty was soon totally sapped of strength, unable to do anything but laugh and laugh as the torture of her underarms continued. Eventually the bell rang and he departed, and a woman arrived and tickled all over her poor feet again. Dusty whooped and tried to kick her away, but there was no room to budge even a little, so the woman tickled all up and down her soles. The bell rang and she left, and another woman came and tickled all over her hips and thighs while Dusty danced on the table. The bell rang, and the next tickled her flanks until she had the hiccups.
This continued as the hours wore on, each coming to her one by one to see how hard they could push her. And Dusty laughed and squealed and struggled and cried and squirmed, but most of all she laid there in a state of total bliss. Despite how much it could overwhelm her, despite how much she'd fight to escape, she wanted more and more, until she was positively hot with desire.
Eventually the man who had turned the wheel took his turn, and Dusty could feel in his strokes that he relished her. And when he was done he dried her eyes and turned to the crowd that had tickled her, and they all applauded her. And she felt so good, like the homecoming queen in a juvenile sort of way. And then the man snapped his fingers, and she was home again. And she couldn't help but think it was the best night of her life.
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The following morning Dusty awoke and felt better than she could ever remember. Her excitement about the afternoon interview made her feel like it was Christmas and prom all rolled into one. She got there early and, even if she did say so herself, looked gorgeous. The looks from other people on the street sure seemed to support that.
When Dusty arrived, Mr. Benton was waiting, a warm smile on his face. "Ready?" he asked. Dusty nodded, trying to cover over her nervousness with confidence. He started leading the way towards the elevator. "This is a big chance for you," he said. "I hope you realize that."
"I do," she assured him.
"Good, because you may feel a little overwhelmed."
"Why? Who is it?"
"Just... be ready."
The door opened, and Dusty's jaw dropped open. Beyond the elevator was the expansive party room where she'd been during all those sessions. And in it was a crowd of people. They weren't distorted; she could see them clearly, every single one... and she recognized many. Big names in fashion, or cosmetics, or advertisements. It was a Who's Who of the elite. And when they saw Dusty, they all applauded her. It felt surreal, and Mr. Benton had to take her hand and lead her out of the elevator.
"Dusty," Mr. Benton said, "I realize this must be a shock to you, but we've had our eye on you for some time. We realize that the auditioning process might not have been what you're used to, but our little club isn't exactly conventional either." There was a general chuckling of agreement.
"What's happening?" Dusty final asked. "I thought this was about a job."
"It is, in a sense," Mr. Benton said. "But it's much more. You see, we have these little... get-togethers, and we like when our girls provide the entertainment. It's all in good fun... nobody gets mistreated or has to perform any sexual service, as it were, that they don't want to. It gives us a unique chance to unwind."
Dusty felt her head swimming. "This is... this is the job? To be tickled?"
"No, no," Mr. Benton said. "Your job is to be a part of our little club. Sometimes the girls enjoy the party, sometimes the girls are the entertainment, but it's all in good fun."
"And there's so much more to it than that," said a woman up front, and it turned out to be Maureen Hilden herself. "There are all kinds of shoots that we want our girls in. Your face is our face, and we take good care of you."
"Sometimes we take trips and want some friendly companionship," said Paul Muntz, Publisher of the most renowned swimsuit catalog there was. "A chance to see the world on the company dime, and all that's asked of you is to look good."
"There's many opportunities," Mr. Benton said, "and they can all be yours, Dusty. That contract isn't for a year, it's for as long as you want. We're opening the door for you... success, exposure, money, fun, and let's not forget tickling, are all waiting for you, if you want it."
Dusty looked from face to face, scarcely able to believe it. She should hate them... taking her against her will, tickling her without her consent... and yet, despite that, she couldn't deny how much she'd come to love it. All this and tickling too was more than she could have dreamed of having, and really, just the thought of being before them, exposed and helpless before their waiting fingers, brought a smile to her face.
"Where do I sign?"
