Terrifying Tickle Slavery Journal (CNC)

This journal excerpt is inspired by CNC tickle torture, slavery and lifestyle play sessions with past slaves. All consensual. All dark and depraved.

She is the most exquisite doll. I’ve never encountered a girl so terrifyingly ticklish. It amuses me when people in our niche “community”describe what they feel is considered intense, or determine someone is ticklish when they only giggle and blush like a schoolgirl. No. That’s not “ticklish”. When tickling is “cute”, I’ve lost all interest. Give me terror. Give me the edge of insanity.

When I wiggle my nails in taunt at her when she wakes up bound in the morning… Still covered in piss, sweat and weepy tears from the night before… Her eyes roll back. Her body tenses and breath hitches in the back of her throat. Like the wind has been knocked out of her. “Good morning ticklish girl.” My voice in a low whisper. Menacing. Calculating. Determined. That’s when she screams. A guttural scream that nearly tears her throat apart. From somewhere deep. A sound you didn’t know could emerge from such a thin, dainty, beautiful angel. I adore her screams bright and early in the morning. A symphony of rare delights. That’s when the begging begins. Real, traumatized begging. I smile at her as she tries desperately to negotiate with me, to appease some part of me, to win some mercy. Begs me to beat her, electrocute her, waterboard her… anything but tickling. Tickling is her kryptonite. She loathes it, fears it, more than anything in this world. One slow drag of my nail down her oiled armpit and she’s not laughing. No no. She’s thrashing like I’m trying to murder her. She’s angry, vengeful, seething. That’s in minute one. One can only imagine what she becomes after a full day of torturous delights. I’m hungry often. My appetite is insatiable.

She has some deep trauma from it. I believe an uncle tickled her very cruelly when she was a child. It helps explain why she would consent to such a diabolical act. Her wires are all twisted like mine. I’ve had her locked in my room in the cabin for a week. She doesn’t know who she is anymore. I ask her her name, and she can only moan. Regressed. Possessed. Like I have single handedly assembled a legion of demons to molest and violate every inch of her ticklish cunt body. To dismantle her mind only to build it back up again as I see fit. To mold her to my will. Somewhere inside her beautiful head, she finds some solace from our depravity. But you could never see it if you searched her face. All I see is brokenness. Damage. Unhealable wounds.

I own her now. All of her. Mine. Every ticklish sweaty morsel. Every tight hole. Every thought and wish and hope. Manipulated and weaved together like a tapestry designed to drive her into madness. She is not worried about the afterlife when there is so much hell manifested on earth.

I’ve built a special compartment below my seat on my truck. Her smelly ticklish feet come up through holes on either side of the seat, while she is trapped, mummified and gagged. Laying uncomfortable in an enclosed space, built for my amusement. I’m taking her on a road trip across the U.S. I can’t be away from her for too long. I dig between her pretty toes and whistle along to tunes on the radio as she screams herself mute. Any piss just trickles down her legs and onto the highway like a putrid oil leak. She cannot escape me bc and at this point she couldn’t if she tried. She’s attached, bound to me. Clinging at my leg. Heart stolen by the man of her worst nightmares.