MY NAME IS AMY. ~ Part Five
By C.A.B.
(Fiction. MF/F, Warning: adult themes. non-consensual, sex. violence, torture)
I slowly danced the head of the vibrator all along the sides of her clit hood and watched her involuntary contractions, moving it away just as she inched closer to climax. The woman moans and bucks. I see humiliation in her face, suffering so close to release. Steve pulls me away and shows her a digital camera, he then begins to take pictures, the flash capturing her in her most exposed position. Close-ups, full body, her face... many portraits of her face in agonized detail. He mocks her at the end with a big thumbs-up. She closes her eyes and weeps in shame.
"Okay, Ms. B, she obviously has no love of paparazzi. Time to cheer her up." said Steve. He cranks the table closed and locks it. Then he begins to unbuckle her, everything but her wrists and ankles. I stand there, perplexed.
"That's it? Is it over? We're letting her go? I mean..."
Steve smiles under his mask, "No. But for this next round we're going to stretch her out a bit." He hands me a heavy, metal crank handle. I didn't know what it was at the time, "Go. Up to the front there. Underneath."
I did so. The table had more surprises. It was then that I noticed her wrist cuffs were attached to cables. And they were run to what looked like a winch on the underside of the table.
"Go ahead. The handle fits on the side." Steve says, then turns on his mic, "Are you ready to talk? Are you ready to tell us everything we want to know?"
The woman sadly nods. Thinks twice, and then tries to scream her willingness to comply. Steve looms over her, "We're not ready to hear your confession yet." Off goes the mic. The woman's eyes grow twice as large as she panics anew. It must have been deafening in her headphones.
Steve assists me at the head of the table, "See. Hope is dashed again. She thought she was being released. What we are going to do is pull her really taught. Then we're going to tickle her. She will be too tight to move much and it makes her feel very vulnerable," he chuckles some, "Because she is. When I say, start turning the crank, nice and slow, let her hear each ratchet. Slow. I'll say when to stop."
He turns the mic on. "We are going to rack you nice and tight now," He motions to me to begin cranking, "If you are lucky, that sexy body of yours will be two inches taller when we're done. By the way... did I ask you if you were ticklish?"
The woman begins to buck and pull, but with each turn, her arms are pulled tighter to her head, and her ankles come together under the tension. Clink. Clink. Clink. She becomes a living line of tan, tender flesh.
"Okay, enough, Ms. B." Steve joins me by her head, "Now, you take one side and I'll do the other, mirror what I do. We start on her arms and work down to the pits. Tickle by scrabbling like this, but don't linger in any one place too long, move it around. Even if you find a place that is really effective, don't be tempted to stay there too long or it will become desensitized. Besides, it's not always the obvious places that are ticklish, sometimes there are little surprises."
We start and the woman strains the cables as she begins to laugh explosively through her gag. I feel a new wave of hot moisture between my legs as I watch her suffer under my dancing fingers. Each part of her produces different laughter and agony. Her armpits were great fun; exposed and taught, I imagined she worked out because she was yanking violently to pull her arms down, anything to protect the sensitive skin. But she could do nothing. It was true torture in every sense of the word.
Following Steve's tutelage and example, I learned about the ribs and belly, the areas just below the belt-line, the neck, ears, and, oddly, the breasts and belly button. She laughed uncontrollably and her breathing was torment in itself being forced through her nostrils. Steve would taunt her through the mic periodically, telling her "You can't stop us," and "We're going to tickle you to death," things of that nature. I loved it.
"I want to try that. I want to tease her with the mic." I said.
"No. Not this session. I appreciate your eagerness, though. Okay, ready, this is how you tickle legs, knees, and ass. Steve instructed on lightness technique, pinching, scraping, knuckling and other methods of tickling that I never imagined. Our guest was pink and red with uncontrollable laughter. "You like it, don't you? You want us to tickle you all night?" Steve teased into her headphones, "There's no where to escape. You can't get away."
He looks at me, "Let's see if her feet are ticklish." I moved quickly to undo the little side buckle on one of her shoes but Steve stayed my hand, "No. Not so quickly. With these shoes you can tease and tickle by wiggling in from the sides, see?" The woman exploded with giggles and I thought the gag tape would pop off, but it held. She was pleading for mercy, the words were mangled but I could tell. I wanted masturbate right there and then. But Steve urged me to do my job.
Her strappy heels were designer Italian leather, very expensive, and I was jealous. Her tan, silky feet and french nails were perfection. Pedicured weekly I assumed. I thought about asking for her shoes but thought better of it, her feet were bigger than mine, "I wish I could afford heels like these..."
"After tonight, you will." Steve said matter-of-factly, "Keep exploring and teasing around and in between her shoes and skin, it's maddening." He was right, between fits of giggles the woman would enrage and groan all types of threats at me. So... I used both hands and teased and tickled her between the straps. Domination.
Steve then drags the two stools from the control room and sets them on either side at the foot of the table, "Go ahead, Ms. B, have a seat and get comfortable, we're going to take our time here. His mic went on, "I see your feet are ticklish. You should have told us. As punishment, were going to torture your feet a very long time. You might feel like dying, but I assure you... you won't." Steve smiles at me through his mask, "Now we remove these very slowly, let her die a thousand deaths of anticipation."
We sat on the stools, each on one side. She tried but could not move to stop it, so tight was she pulled. I set to unbuckling the little side strap slowly and teasingly. Then we slipped off those expensive shoes and Steve motioned to cast them aside flippantly. She strained to watch, helpless. Her feet were definitely pedicured, not a callous or roughness to be found, just what looked like a mile of narrow, snowy soft skin on a high arch. Her toes were like a high fashion model's, long and lean, but plump and pink underneath. I don't have a foot fetish, but there is something erotic about a woman's second or third most sensitive flesh just hanging there, exposed and helpless. Shit, more of this kind of fun and I may develop a foot fetish.
Her feet wiggled like mad at first but then as I began to tickle they went limp with her laughter, as if she had resigned to suffer. That was hot. Steve taught me how ticklish the heels and the tops of the feet are. How to exploit under and between each toe. How to trace the arches sharply. He also showed me the base psychological response when a foot is grabbed and tickled. And, conversely, the psychology of the dangling foot when tickled.
All the while the woman rocked a little from side to side as she convulsed with laughter. Steve would tease her verbally throughout, asking if she wanted it to stop. There was no stopping. We must have sat there for 40 minutes of on and off again foot tickling. We switched sides and just when I thought this woman could physically laugh no more, Steve pushed me to torture her longer. I was so horny, I thought I would cum. Then, out of nowhere, Steve looks at me and says, "I'm going to keep tickling her feet... but you need to suck my cock while I do it."
It took me a moment to process what he just said, and I watched myself kneel down without question and unzip him, releasing his engorgement. Without a word I pulled him into my mouth and worked my tongue as the woman screamed with pitiful laughter. I found myself rubbing my jeans on Steve's leg as I sucked him to climax, swallowing greedily like a some deranged meth *****. I came hard as I did. It was dirty, disgusting, surreal... and I loved it.
Needless to say, the night went by like a dream state from there. The woman spilled her information like a squealing piglet. Steve confirmed everything silently from his laptop, and in the wink of a few internet minutes, the numbers got smaller on her accounts and bigger somewhere in the electronic ether.
Oddly, Steve went up and thanked her sincerely ( a parting insult), and then warned her of the consequences if she ever spoke of this night. The woman pleaded to agree and begged for "no more torture!". Steve then looked at me, "The boys will be here in half an hour to scurry her to some remote parking lot. You need practice, see how many times you can force her to cum in that time." He's so business about it. I obey. I cranked open the table and tortured her clit mercilessly with the vibe. She's a squirter, I'll tell you that.
So, that was just my first time. After "the boys" carted Ms. Rich Bitch away, and it was just Steve and I... I became a little nervous. I was unsure if the noob was, in reality, expendable. But why would they go through all this trouble just to pop me and pick my pockets? Steve was pleasant and frank, and gave me a bonus of five thousand dollars right then and there, saying, "You go get yourself a hot little pair of Italian shoes... better than hers. You deserve it." And then he escorted me to my car and shut the door for me. I watched as he lazily walked back to the bay, but then he lurched and spun with his finger in the air. He trotted over and knocked for me to roll down the window. I did. I swallowed hard.
"Almost forgot. Next Friday night. Be here at eight. So much to do," he smiled, "Oh, I almost forgot..." he hands me a CD mailer, "drop this in a mailbox somewhere. Don't go to a post office."
"Is this...?"
"It's her night, recorded. What she heard in her headphones and digital pictures. When she gets it, she'll freak. Kind of like insurance. If she can get a copy, anyone can. Capishe?"
I nodded and he and waved me off. When I finally got home, I went right to my bed and masturbated over and over, the whole night playing over and over in my head.
So that's it. If you stop to think about it, it really wasn't as bizarre or complicated as you first might think. I still go to school (better grades now, and my loans are paid off.) My sex life with by boyfriend is still vanilla (but he'd die if he knew what I was thinking while we fuck). I got a new car, nothing too flashy. And needless to say I drive it with some snappy new italian leather heels. Pedicures once a week, mind you.
Best of all, about every two weeks, I get paid a shit load of untraceable cash to torture beautiful women that probably... no, definitely, deserve it. And that gets this girl off.
My name is Amy, and I'm a professional torturer. So... what are you doing this weekend?
~ C.A.B.
By C.A.B.
(Fiction. MF/F, Warning: adult themes. non-consensual, sex. violence, torture)
I slowly danced the head of the vibrator all along the sides of her clit hood and watched her involuntary contractions, moving it away just as she inched closer to climax. The woman moans and bucks. I see humiliation in her face, suffering so close to release. Steve pulls me away and shows her a digital camera, he then begins to take pictures, the flash capturing her in her most exposed position. Close-ups, full body, her face... many portraits of her face in agonized detail. He mocks her at the end with a big thumbs-up. She closes her eyes and weeps in shame.
"Okay, Ms. B, she obviously has no love of paparazzi. Time to cheer her up." said Steve. He cranks the table closed and locks it. Then he begins to unbuckle her, everything but her wrists and ankles. I stand there, perplexed.
"That's it? Is it over? We're letting her go? I mean..."
Steve smiles under his mask, "No. But for this next round we're going to stretch her out a bit." He hands me a heavy, metal crank handle. I didn't know what it was at the time, "Go. Up to the front there. Underneath."
I did so. The table had more surprises. It was then that I noticed her wrist cuffs were attached to cables. And they were run to what looked like a winch on the underside of the table.
"Go ahead. The handle fits on the side." Steve says, then turns on his mic, "Are you ready to talk? Are you ready to tell us everything we want to know?"
The woman sadly nods. Thinks twice, and then tries to scream her willingness to comply. Steve looms over her, "We're not ready to hear your confession yet." Off goes the mic. The woman's eyes grow twice as large as she panics anew. It must have been deafening in her headphones.
Steve assists me at the head of the table, "See. Hope is dashed again. She thought she was being released. What we are going to do is pull her really taught. Then we're going to tickle her. She will be too tight to move much and it makes her feel very vulnerable," he chuckles some, "Because she is. When I say, start turning the crank, nice and slow, let her hear each ratchet. Slow. I'll say when to stop."
He turns the mic on. "We are going to rack you nice and tight now," He motions to me to begin cranking, "If you are lucky, that sexy body of yours will be two inches taller when we're done. By the way... did I ask you if you were ticklish?"
The woman begins to buck and pull, but with each turn, her arms are pulled tighter to her head, and her ankles come together under the tension. Clink. Clink. Clink. She becomes a living line of tan, tender flesh.
"Okay, enough, Ms. B." Steve joins me by her head, "Now, you take one side and I'll do the other, mirror what I do. We start on her arms and work down to the pits. Tickle by scrabbling like this, but don't linger in any one place too long, move it around. Even if you find a place that is really effective, don't be tempted to stay there too long or it will become desensitized. Besides, it's not always the obvious places that are ticklish, sometimes there are little surprises."
We start and the woman strains the cables as she begins to laugh explosively through her gag. I feel a new wave of hot moisture between my legs as I watch her suffer under my dancing fingers. Each part of her produces different laughter and agony. Her armpits were great fun; exposed and taught, I imagined she worked out because she was yanking violently to pull her arms down, anything to protect the sensitive skin. But she could do nothing. It was true torture in every sense of the word.
Following Steve's tutelage and example, I learned about the ribs and belly, the areas just below the belt-line, the neck, ears, and, oddly, the breasts and belly button. She laughed uncontrollably and her breathing was torment in itself being forced through her nostrils. Steve would taunt her through the mic periodically, telling her "You can't stop us," and "We're going to tickle you to death," things of that nature. I loved it.
"I want to try that. I want to tease her with the mic." I said.
"No. Not this session. I appreciate your eagerness, though. Okay, ready, this is how you tickle legs, knees, and ass. Steve instructed on lightness technique, pinching, scraping, knuckling and other methods of tickling that I never imagined. Our guest was pink and red with uncontrollable laughter. "You like it, don't you? You want us to tickle you all night?" Steve teased into her headphones, "There's no where to escape. You can't get away."
He looks at me, "Let's see if her feet are ticklish." I moved quickly to undo the little side buckle on one of her shoes but Steve stayed my hand, "No. Not so quickly. With these shoes you can tease and tickle by wiggling in from the sides, see?" The woman exploded with giggles and I thought the gag tape would pop off, but it held. She was pleading for mercy, the words were mangled but I could tell. I wanted masturbate right there and then. But Steve urged me to do my job.
Her strappy heels were designer Italian leather, very expensive, and I was jealous. Her tan, silky feet and french nails were perfection. Pedicured weekly I assumed. I thought about asking for her shoes but thought better of it, her feet were bigger than mine, "I wish I could afford heels like these..."
"After tonight, you will." Steve said matter-of-factly, "Keep exploring and teasing around and in between her shoes and skin, it's maddening." He was right, between fits of giggles the woman would enrage and groan all types of threats at me. So... I used both hands and teased and tickled her between the straps. Domination.
Steve then drags the two stools from the control room and sets them on either side at the foot of the table, "Go ahead, Ms. B, have a seat and get comfortable, we're going to take our time here. His mic went on, "I see your feet are ticklish. You should have told us. As punishment, were going to torture your feet a very long time. You might feel like dying, but I assure you... you won't." Steve smiles at me through his mask, "Now we remove these very slowly, let her die a thousand deaths of anticipation."
We sat on the stools, each on one side. She tried but could not move to stop it, so tight was she pulled. I set to unbuckling the little side strap slowly and teasingly. Then we slipped off those expensive shoes and Steve motioned to cast them aside flippantly. She strained to watch, helpless. Her feet were definitely pedicured, not a callous or roughness to be found, just what looked like a mile of narrow, snowy soft skin on a high arch. Her toes were like a high fashion model's, long and lean, but plump and pink underneath. I don't have a foot fetish, but there is something erotic about a woman's second or third most sensitive flesh just hanging there, exposed and helpless. Shit, more of this kind of fun and I may develop a foot fetish.
Her feet wiggled like mad at first but then as I began to tickle they went limp with her laughter, as if she had resigned to suffer. That was hot. Steve taught me how ticklish the heels and the tops of the feet are. How to exploit under and between each toe. How to trace the arches sharply. He also showed me the base psychological response when a foot is grabbed and tickled. And, conversely, the psychology of the dangling foot when tickled.
All the while the woman rocked a little from side to side as she convulsed with laughter. Steve would tease her verbally throughout, asking if she wanted it to stop. There was no stopping. We must have sat there for 40 minutes of on and off again foot tickling. We switched sides and just when I thought this woman could physically laugh no more, Steve pushed me to torture her longer. I was so horny, I thought I would cum. Then, out of nowhere, Steve looks at me and says, "I'm going to keep tickling her feet... but you need to suck my cock while I do it."
It took me a moment to process what he just said, and I watched myself kneel down without question and unzip him, releasing his engorgement. Without a word I pulled him into my mouth and worked my tongue as the woman screamed with pitiful laughter. I found myself rubbing my jeans on Steve's leg as I sucked him to climax, swallowing greedily like a some deranged meth *****. I came hard as I did. It was dirty, disgusting, surreal... and I loved it.
Needless to say, the night went by like a dream state from there. The woman spilled her information like a squealing piglet. Steve confirmed everything silently from his laptop, and in the wink of a few internet minutes, the numbers got smaller on her accounts and bigger somewhere in the electronic ether.
Oddly, Steve went up and thanked her sincerely ( a parting insult), and then warned her of the consequences if she ever spoke of this night. The woman pleaded to agree and begged for "no more torture!". Steve then looked at me, "The boys will be here in half an hour to scurry her to some remote parking lot. You need practice, see how many times you can force her to cum in that time." He's so business about it. I obey. I cranked open the table and tortured her clit mercilessly with the vibe. She's a squirter, I'll tell you that.
So, that was just my first time. After "the boys" carted Ms. Rich Bitch away, and it was just Steve and I... I became a little nervous. I was unsure if the noob was, in reality, expendable. But why would they go through all this trouble just to pop me and pick my pockets? Steve was pleasant and frank, and gave me a bonus of five thousand dollars right then and there, saying, "You go get yourself a hot little pair of Italian shoes... better than hers. You deserve it." And then he escorted me to my car and shut the door for me. I watched as he lazily walked back to the bay, but then he lurched and spun with his finger in the air. He trotted over and knocked for me to roll down the window. I did. I swallowed hard.
"Almost forgot. Next Friday night. Be here at eight. So much to do," he smiled, "Oh, I almost forgot..." he hands me a CD mailer, "drop this in a mailbox somewhere. Don't go to a post office."
"Is this...?"
"It's her night, recorded. What she heard in her headphones and digital pictures. When she gets it, she'll freak. Kind of like insurance. If she can get a copy, anyone can. Capishe?"
I nodded and he and waved me off. When I finally got home, I went right to my bed and masturbated over and over, the whole night playing over and over in my head.
So that's it. If you stop to think about it, it really wasn't as bizarre or complicated as you first might think. I still go to school (better grades now, and my loans are paid off.) My sex life with by boyfriend is still vanilla (but he'd die if he knew what I was thinking while we fuck). I got a new car, nothing too flashy. And needless to say I drive it with some snappy new italian leather heels. Pedicures once a week, mind you.
Best of all, about every two weeks, I get paid a shit load of untraceable cash to torture beautiful women that probably... no, definitely, deserve it. And that gets this girl off.
My name is Amy, and I'm a professional torturer. So... what are you doing this weekend?
~ C.A.B.
