aww whats the matter? I thought you said you liked it...

I feel like an underrated use of a captive is to do... nothing with them. Taking their freedom and not doing anything with it besides wasting their lifespan. Even better if they were someone socially useful. Like imagine kidnapping a biomedical chemist reseqrching Alzheimer's drugs right after she graduates with her PhD and then just stuffing her away to stare at a wall for the rest of her life and think about the life she had. Nothing sexual, just deliberate waste.

Imagine the flex with other kidnappers.

We go out somewhere nice for dinner, knowing I’m a ler and you’re a lee. Some ground rules are set about our imminent session. A time limit and safe word are agreed to, you give me your hard limit spots, and it’s acknowledged to keep things safe, sane, and consensual.

Back at my place, I take your coat and purse, then tell you my tickle stuff is through the second door to the right. You open inside and see stairs leading down to the basement. At the bottom of the steps is a well lit room with padded walls. You strip your clothes off, and get on the table. I get the restraints around your wrists and ankles that spread you out spread eagle and then another leather strap around your waist, knees, and neck to keep you totally immobile.

Then you see the recording equipment in the back of the room, including the camera that’s filming. While telling me that you didn’t agree to that, I turn off the time we agreed to and then start turn king your hard limits immediately. You begin screaming your safe word off rip. I grin and laugh and don’t stop.

Hope you like having your nipples pinched, feathers to circle the areola so very sloooooowwwwwwwwllllllllly and then sucking on your hard tit. Making fun of you for how much you’re screaming and trying to move, but your cunt is soaked. Stupid tickle sluts like you are asking for it. I tell you that while dragging a feather up and down and up and down your clit. Not even five feet tall, didn’t tell your friends where you were going, and you go to have a tickle session as a lee with a guy you just met? You were begging for this to happen. Maybe not begging as hard as you are right now though.

Your thighs getting squeezed with one hand while my other reaches up to rakes down your armpit and then spider all the way down your ribs and to your side. Holding your head still and blowing into your ears, making sure you feel as invaded and small as possible. You get a break for me to grab something for the side of the room. Chest heaving, tears rolling down your cheeks, you see me rolling a cart over. On it are toothbrushes, flossers, hair brushes, feathers, and a gigantic tub of coconut oil.

You while and sob while I tie your toes back. I try to feel bad for you but I just…can’t. You’re too ticklish. Too pathetic. I think god might’ve created you to be a tickle toy. I don’t think you’re supposed to be loved or appreciated or wanted for anything that doesn’t involve torturing you.

You feel the oil being spread across your feet. Every inch is lathered up, including between your toes. I hover my hand over all of the tools, thinking about which one to use while you totally fall apart behind me. I select two large hair brushes with thick, unforgiving bristles. I take a seat by your feet and get comfy.

I let you know that this is your life for the next 15 or 20 hours. I’m going to remove the gag to give you water, caffeine, and anything else to help you stay awake. Don’t bother screaming, the room is sound proofed. You’re never seeing the Sun ever again. The only people who are ever going to see you again are me…and all the fans you’re going to make on the deep web, where I’ll be posting the videos of your torture to. Fuck you, tickle slut. This is your life now

- ⚡️

#yourtickletoymustanswer #fuck this ran longer than I though

More below the cut cause maybe this got to me a totally normal amount 🤭

It's crazy to think that it's fully possible for another human being to restrain you and torture you no matter what you do. No matter how careful you are, no matter how moral or upright, no matter how closely you mind your P's and Q's, it is STILL possible for you to end up legitimately trapped. It is unfairness in the strictest sense, but it doesn't matter. Only sheer force matters, and yours wasn't enough to defend yourself. It's not enough to escape those stocks. Another human being wanted to torture you without your ability to defend yourself and the only thing you can do about it is have a full-body panic attack.

Consider the physiological reality of a gag reflex. The back of the mouth or soft palate is touched. The throat closes to prevent swallowing, while the larynx pushes upwards to expel any hazards. The abdomen contracts and the stomach spasms. Eyes water, saliva production ramps up. You can learn this in any textbook. But there's so much more you won't learn — a Platonic-Christian hatred of the body has always poisoned the integrity of our researchers.

They never mention how the cunt tightens up around whatever is inside it, or how much wetter it gets after they’ve been brought to the edge of throwing up once or twice. They don't talk about how tightly the asshole clenches, holds, grips you, how it won't let you move for a few moments if you gag them hard enough. There aren't academic papers dedicated to how good the throat feels when it wants your cock or your fingers out of it, on how sweet the thrill is of knowing your prey's neck and back muscles aren't strong enough to overcome the pressure from your hand on the back of their head.

They never mention how the entire body tries to get away at first, but if you overpower your victim, if you keep them where they are and keep fucking their throat with your fingers, they eventually just stop moving. They give in. They still gag and choke and cry, but their body learns escape is impossible. They go limp like a little bunny, playing dead.

Whenever a "masochist" brags to me that they have a weak or non-existent gag reflex, I lose interest. A true masochist understands that what is needed isn't easy compliance, nor even willing submission, but a total subordination of interests, the subsumption of one body under the will of another. My promise: if your gag reflex is weak, I will deliberately make it stronger.

Mmmmhhh!!

"Is it too tight? Yea I tied it extra tight, i want to see the outline of your faceless face."

Mmmmmrrrffff!!

"It's hot and stuffy in there. Yea I made sure to design the hood that way."

Mffffsssmmmmm!!

"It's scaring you? Well but you said you liked scary didn't you?"

MMMRRRRGGGHHH!!!

It has been nearly a year since my tickle cunt’s abduction. She came here as larvae, metamorphosing in a cocoon. So unaware of what she could become through having her nerves so intricately targeted, toyed with and molested.

She is very close to realizing her true form.

Trauma is really not the right word for what she surmounts daily. It doesn’t bear the weight. The new levels of evolution unlocked with keys found deep in her ticklish tendons. She weeps so often that I have begun to collect her tears in small bottles. Offerings. She is more animal than girl now. When I enter the room she can’t decide between the terrified grunts of one who lives for the twisted satiation of another… or the screams of a lamb at the slaughter. I can’t choose which I enjoy more.

I live to see how far she can pushed down the rabbit hole. She has already pleaded for death or the ability to end herself. She has passed out and vomited, and lost her ability to speak and form thought or word, more than times I can count. She sleeps in the fetal position and sucks her thumb as comfort. I’m going to tell her if I catching sucking her thumb again, it’ll be time for another red room marathon. 3 days with very little sleep, water, food. Complete darkness with music loud enough to bust eardrums. An assault to all senses, as I weave black destruction through every ticklish… private place. Though… I suppose those spots haven’t been private for a long time now. They are mine. If she shows one lick of defiance, I’ll have a friend swap in when I need sleep. She still doesn’t understand after all this time, what I’m capable of. What I want out of this. It’s only her misery.

This morning we named her toes together. A little anniversary present for 365 days as my little plaything. We played “this little piggy went to market” as she went on crying like she always does… such a little pitiful baby. It’s only “tickling”after all. Her reactions to each toe being nibbled, sucked and explored helped determine the names. Screamy, Weepy, Kicker, Peepee and Thrashy. The names explain themselves really.

He wants someone to be afraid of him, only to be tormented by the silliest form of torture. He has the space in his basement, all the equipment and bondage he would need to keep a 20 something hostage and pliant. Scrolling through Tumblr he sees all the blogs of the tiny young women, each with different attributes and preferences to tickling. But there's one. She's incredibly shy, scared of saying anything, she can't even say the word tickle. That's his victim, the lucky chosen one.

He goes to bed and dreams of her every night leading up to deadline day. Dreams of taping her mouth shut and cuffing her to a table, cuffs over her wrists, biceps, waist, knees and feet. Tying her impossibly tight, no room to squirm or even contemplate escaping. He visualizes the way he can poke, prod, massage and violate her most dreaded spots. He thinks about he could tease between her thighs with a soft makeup brush. Letting it drag up and down her clit, causing the most sinful noises mixed with her wails.

Most importantly he thinks about her feet, covering every inch with oil until they're soaked from in between her toes to her ankles. They pulsate, drenched in a substance that will cause her even more suffering. Taking a hairbrush and scrubbing up and down, from side to side relentlessly. Ignoring all of her pleas to stop, the begs for a break, even the whimpers to at least swap foot.

Her voice falls on deaf ears as he only answers to his desires. The brush swirls around in circles, the bristles digging in to the ball of her foot as she erupts, desperate croaky laughter is all that remains. Tears stain her face and her making is long past saving, she sniffles, thinking this couldn't get any worse.

Impossibly, it does. As the door swings open and in enters his friends. They're all around his age, starving for the taste of what it feels like to torture the sort of women they see on the internet, usually behind paywalls and at their disposal. This is now at their discretion, they are in control.

She tries for a deep breath of air, begging to let oxygen hit her lungs. Only to be met with a pair of hands, one in each armpit, with two fingers scratching in the very centre. So irritatingly sensitive, she thrashes her head from side to side, the only part of her that can move.

Men enter single file into the dungeon, finding their way to whatever spots they'd like. Two hairbrushes harshly scrubbing over her toes, another guy sucking on the right one. It's unbearable and it's nightmare fuel, She wonders how she can ever move past this once it ends, will it ever end? Is the rest of her life just destined to only know torture?

Tongues swirl around her toes as well as fingers scratching around on all the sensitive spots on her torso. Her tummy heaving desperately, each spot expertly torment. She loses all control of herself, pissing on the table, over her thighs and it stops. Briefly it stops, the torture stills.