Insert visual above of 4 gimps in a red room.
A pulse.
Then another.
Sam felt it before he heard it …
… A low, steady thud against his ribs like a muffled drum.
His tongue was thick, tasting of copper and something chemical.
When his eyelids peeled open the world was crimson and blurred, every edge swimming …
“… Mnn ? …”
The first movement told him everything: his arms wouldn’t drop, his wrists wouldn’t bend …
Something tight and unyielding pressed into his skin …
He tried his legs - one kick, another - but his ankles were caught in wooden‑edged stocks, his feet angled apart just enough to feel exposed.
A wooden X braced his back, rough against the fabric of his black t‑shirt.
His breathing was fast and shallow now.
Huff, huff, huff, huff! …
No cries, no shouts - just a rising tremor that made his shoulders shake.
His eyes darted left, then right, every flicker of vision fed the panic blooming in his chest.
This was no ordinary room …
Red lights glowed from concealed strips above, shadows fell long and sharp over rows of objects lining the walls; chains and cuffs hung like exhibits, leather harnesses, polished steel hooks, whips of all different shapes and sizes, dildos, butt plugs, vibrators in every colour …
The room was silent except for his own breathing - until the lock turned …
A slow, deliberate sound: metal inside metal, a bolt sliding free - the door opposite creaked open a few inches, spilling a blade of cool white light across the red floor.
A figure filled the doorway.
Head to toe in black leather, gloved hands hanging at its sides, face sealed behind a smooth, featureless mask.
It didn’t speak, it didn’t rush, it just stood there, framed in the doorway, a silhouette that swallowed the light behind it.
Sam’s pulse thundered in his ears, his fingers curled helplessly against the restraints.
The figure stepped inside and shut the door with a soft click …
… The room seemed to get smaller.
Sam’s mouth opened, but nothing came out at first.
His throat felt raw, as though the air itself scraped against it.
How did I get here? he tried to say, but the words never left.
The moments before waking were a blank - no sound, no touch, no memory, just darkness.
He blinked hard, eyes stinging - the figure was still there, still watching - he wanted to demand answers - who are you? what do you want? - but what left his lips instead was a cracked, pitiful whisper.
“Please … Let me go …?”
It didn’t sound like him.
It sounded small, like it belonged to someone else entirely.
The figure tilted its head, a slow, deliberate motion, then it moved.
One step, then another, boots soft against the red floor.
Sam shrank back against the wooden X though there was nowhere to go, his breath coming in ragged pants.
On a metal desk nearby lay an assortment of items arranged with surgical neatness.
The figure’s gloved hand chose a pair of scissors - long, black, the kind barbers use.
They glinted once in the red light before disappearing into the shadow of its grip.
Sam whimpered, his whole body folded inward, “Jesus! No … Don’t hurt me …!”
The scissors made a soft, decisive snip.
Not into flesh, but fabric.
Snip!
A single cut at the hem of his t‑shirt.
Then another.
Snip!
In one swift movement the figure gripped both edges and tore, the sound of splitting cotton loud in the charged silence.
Rrrrrrrrrip!
The shirt peeled open and fell away, leaving Sam’s chest bare to the cool air, skin prickling.
“—Mnn!—”
He gasped at the shock of it - his mind raced - what is this? what are they going to do? - but no answer came.
He could only feel the room around him tighten, the lights flicker, the silent figure looming closer.
Sam’s arms strained uselessly against the cuffs.
His exposed skin felt vulnerable under the red glow, his ribs rising and falling too fast …
Without a word, The Gimp placed the scissors back down and then raised one gloved hand, extending a single index finger.
Slowly, lustfully, it reached forward and drew a lazy circle around Sam’s right nipple.
Not painful, but wrong, uninvited, intimate in the most clinical, degrading way.
Sam’s entire body twisted as if recoiling from a flame.
“What … What are you doing!—”, he croaked, voice trembling with disbelief.
He tried to pull away, but there was no give in the restraints …
The circling continued, maddening in its draw - Sam twisted against the cuffs, breath stuttering, his neck pressing back into the wood - there was nowhere to go! The touch moved to the other side now, tracing a mirrored path across his chest with the same mechanical patience …
It wasn’t just fear, it was humiliation - a helplessness so complete it burned through him like a fever - his breath caught in his throat as his skin responded instinctively, involuntarily, his own body betraying him with every heartbeat.
Sam’s nipples were now erect.
The Gimp turned away as Sam’s cheeks boiled pink.
“Stop it! Leave me alone!—” he cried.
From the desk came a faint metallic rattle.
Sam watched, dread rising, as the figure returned holding something small but wicked in its grip - two metal clips linked by a thin, gleaming chain.
“—No—”, Sam breathed, panic flashing in his eyes, “Please, don’t, this isn’t right!—”
But the figure was already reaching forward - calm, exact, surgical.
The clips pressed into place, one after the other.
There was a pinch, a tug, a sudden weight that made Sam gasp aloud.
“—Mnn!—”
It wasn’t pain that overtook him - it was the shame; the awful, exposed absurdity of being adorned like this, displayed, controlled.
The Gimp stepped back to admire its work.
The chain between Sam’s chest swayed with every huff, catching the red light in little flashes.
He craned his neck to try to follow the figure’s movements, but The Gimp had drifted out of view …
All he could hear now was the soft, deliberate shift of boots on the floor.
“Where are you …” Sam whispered to himself, voice quiet and frayed.
The wooden X felt like it was tilting beneath him, his heart thumped against his ribs so hard it almost hurt.
Then … Hands.
Gloved, cold against the heat of his skin.
They appeared suddenly at his sides, one on each flank, fingers flexing once, twice, like a predator testing its claws.
Sam jolted, “What—?”
The fingers began to move - Not scratching, not clawing - just a series of precise, fluttering motions …
Circles, drags, little taps - A sensation his brain couldn’t place at first.
It wasn’t playful, It wasn’t gentle.
It was deliberate.
A strangled noise tore from his throat.
“—GRAH!—”
His torso twisted, straining against the cuffs, his breath breaking into uneven, desperate bursts.
He wriggled as far as the stocks allowed, muscles shifting under his torn shirt, the fabric half‑sliding from one shoulder …
“No, no, stop!—”, his words dissolved into sharp gasps.
The Gimp didn’t answer, the movements stayed maddeningly steady, fingertips exploring his sides with inhuman patience.
Not hard enough to bruise, but relentless enough to make his nerves scream.
Sam’s laughter, when it came, wasn’t joyous, instead it was panicked, “—GRAH! Grahah! Ahah? Ahah! Ah, AH, ah!—”, short, involuntary bursts he couldn’t hold back, every exhale betraying him, “—Grahah! Grrr, grr! Sss, stop!—”
Each minute the hands crept higher …
Tracing ribs, finding soft spots, the anticipation alone was torture - he could feel where they were going next, the slow inevitability of it, but he couldn’t stop it - his arms were fixed above him, his sides exposed, his underarms vulnerable.
He twisted, eyes wide, breathless now, “Please … Please don’t!—”
The hands edged closer to his armpits.
Sam’s breath sat snug at the back of his throat, his whole body locked tight, eyes staring at the ceiling, trying to brace for something he couldn’t quite name …
Then came the first contact.
Not a grab, not a scratch, just the faintest graze - leather fingertips barely brushing the edges of his underarms; a hover, a nudge, a phantom tapping like static electricity …
Almost nothing at all, but it was enough …
Sam erupted, his body catapulted forward against the restraints, every muscle tightening at once …
A sound tore out of him - part laugh, part scream - as if his lungs couldn’t decide which to do first, “—GRAAHAAAA, AAAAAAAAAAAH!—” he twisted violently, trying to wrench himself free, teeth clenching, eyes squeezing shut, “Stop! OI! Please, no no no!—”, the words came out in broken bursts, tripping over gasps and strangled giggles, his voice was higher now, unrecognisable even to him, “—Wait wait wait!—”
The Gimp stayed silent, its hands moved with infuriating dedication, still light, still teasing, as though exploring an invisible map only it could see …
Sam tried everything, twisting, jerking, even snapping at the air like he might bite if he could reach - snap! snap! snap! - but there was nothing to reach, his arms were locked above his head, his torso stretched helplessly against the wooden X, his tattered shirt still clinging to one shoulder.
And then it was over before Sam realised it had even begun …
One moment The Gimp’s fingers were ghosting under his arms, sending his nerves into open revolt; the next they were gone, leaving only the echo of sensation and his own haggard breathing.
His chest lifted and dropped, the chain between the nipple clips rising and falling with every desperate gasp.
He sagged against the wooden X, “Please … Please don’t do that again,” he whispered, his voice thin and hoarse, “Just … Let me out … Please…”
The Gimp moved, its boots whispering against the floor as it circled behind him.
Sam felt the tug before he saw it: a gloved hand curling around the delicate chain at his chest and giving it a subtle, deliberate pull - not enough to injure, but enough to make his whole body jolt at the reminder of what had been done to him, of who was in charge …
His breath caught on a sob, “—Stop!—” he whispered, louder now, almost a plea, “Please … Why are you doing this?…”
No answer.
The figure came around again, slow as a tide.
When it reappeared in his field of view it was crouching, its masked head level with Sam’s waist.
A gloved hand went to his left trainer, fingers sliding over the laces.
Sam’s panic sharpened instantly.
He tugged at his bonds as if he might rip them from the wood, “No—don’t—” his voice cracked, rising to a near‑shout, “Please don’t touch my feet! Please, let me go! Please!—”
His words tumbled out in a rush, one tripping over the other, raw and frantic - he tried to kick but the stocks held his ankles fast - he twisted, looking down at the black leather mask bending over his shoe, “Please … I’ll do anything! Just … Don’t…”
The Gimp didn’t speak, didn’t even look up - it just worked slowly at the laces, each pull of the gloved fingers deliberate, patient, like someone unwrapping a gift they’d been waiting for.
Sam’s heart slammed against his ribs, his breathing was a fast, shallow flutter, his pleas dissolving into broken whimpers - the studio around him felt huge and close all at once, the red light pulsing like an open wound.
The trainer came off with a soft, final thud.
The sound echoed obscenely loud in the red‑lit room when The Gimp let it fall to the floor.
Sam flinched at the noise as though it had been a gunshot.
His now‑socked foot flexed and curled instinctively, his toes digging into the fabric, trying to find some kind of defence that didn’t exist.
He tried to pull his foot back but the stocks held him immobile - The Gimp crouched there, silent, one gloved finger hovering just above the pale arch of his socked sole.
Sam’s whole body reacted before the touch even came - his foot flexed, his leg muscles tensing hard, his hands balling into fists above his head, “—Mnn!—”, he stared down in panic at that finger, whispering, “Please… Don’t! …” as if the words could build a wall between them.
The finger didn’t even land - it just hovered, traced little circles in the air, a ghost of a touch that sent tremors racing up Sam’s trapped leg - his breath became a rapid, uneven pant, every nerve screaming at him to get away.
Then The Gimp stood and moved back, boots squeaking softly against the concrete floor.
Sam sagged against the wooden X again, gasping, eyes darting to follow, only to see the figure at its desk again.
Metal rattled, a drawer slid open - when The Gimp turned back, it held something small and viciously ordinary: a hairbrush.
Black handle, stiff bristles catching the red light …
Sam’s stomach dropped. “No, please!—”, his voice was already breaking, panic crowding out everything else, “Please don’t, please …”
The Gimp returned slowly, no hurry, no words.
It crouched again at Sam’s foot, the brush in one gloved hand.
Sam’s heartbeat pounded in his ears.
Padum, padum, padum, padum …
Then, the first stroke …
Insert visual of 4 Sam Holland edit in a red room.
The bristles dragged firmly across the sole of his sock, a rough, scrubbing sweep at the base of his heel …
Sam kicked fiercely against the stocks with a strangled cry, laughter bursting out of him in uncontrollable shouts, “—NOAHA! NOAAHAHA! NOAAHAHA! OI, OI! AHAHAHA! AHAHAHAHA! AHAHAHAAH! STOAHAHAHP! STOAHAHAH! STOAHAHAHA!—”, his foot jerked and twisted, toes curling tight, but the brush followed, up and down, side to side, slow at first, then faster, each pass breaking his control a little more - his hands stretched and opened uselessly above his head, “—Stop! Please! PLEASE! PLEASESTOP!—” he gasped, the words tumbling out between spasms of frantic laughter, “—YOU’RE KILLING ME, MATE!—”
The brush quickened.
What had started as a steady scrubbing now became something far more violent - relentless, chaotic, a storm of bristles dragging hard and fast across the sole of Sam’s socked foot …
The rasping sound grew sharper, more frantic, as if The Gimp had abandoned patience entirely.
Sam screamed.
“—AAAAGAAAGAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!—”
It was filled with helplessness, overstimulation, uncertainty and fury - his laughter had collapsed into breathless cries, wild and cracking at the edges, “—AGHAAAH! AHAHAHA? AGAHAHAHAAA! AAAAAGGGAHAHA? AAHAHAHAA!—”, his body thrashed within its bonds, foot twisting violently in the stocks, trying to escape the brutal rhythm of the brush, “GET OFF ME!—”, he roared, almost incoherent, “—You bloody freak! You, stop it! Grrr! I SWEAR TO GRR, GOD!—” hs voice broke again, falling into strangled laughter and coughing gasps.
The bristles kept going …
He felt the sock thin under the pressure, threads pulled - a sharp, splitting sound followed, and then - it tore …
A rough tear straight through the arch - the bristles caught on bare skin.
“No, NO!” Sam shouted, eyes wide with fresh horror, “Don’t, NOT MY, don’t you!—”
But The Gimp was already peeling the shredded sock away - one clean pull, the cotton came free and dropped to the floor like discarded wrapping paper - Sam’s now bare foot was left exposed - pale, twitching, long toes flexing in the open air, sweat catching the red light across the smooth skin.
The hairbrush hovered as Sam grew furious.
“You’re a perv,” he spat, rage blooming behind his fear, “You’re SICK, you’re a fucking perv—”
—He didn’t get to finish.
The Gimp reached for a coil of thin black string on the desk beside him.
Silent, methodical, he took Sam’s now-bare foot in his gloved hands, working with a kind of clinical efficiency.
Sam tried to yank his foot away, but the stocks didn’t budge - within seconds, he felt his toes being pulled back, one by one, the string looped tightly around them, knotting them in place, drawn back to the upper edge of the stock.
“Oh, seriously - please, don’t do that, don’t—”
—But his voice was fading into trembling disbelief, the sensation of being so exposed, so restrained - the feeling of his own body being opened up like a display - it was unbearable …
The string bit into Sam’s toes as the knots were tightened one last time - he winced and hissed, feeling his foot locked even more securely to the stock - he could hardly think anymore, every breath a jagged gulp of hot air.
Then the door opened …
The sound cut through the room like a blade - Sam’s head snapped up.
A second figure stepped in - identical mask, identical leather, moving with the same slow deliberation …
Another Gimp.
His stomach turned cold, “Another perv?—” he whispered, his voice fraying into disbelief, “—Great …” he had started to get cocky, he shrank back as far as the restraints allowed, his chest heaving.
Gimp No. 1 crouched at his other foot, fingers working at the laces of his right trainer with infuriating calm.
The pace was slow, deliberate, as though each movement had been rehearsed.
Sam felt his pulse hammer in his temples - his sock peeled away next, his other foot left bare and vulnerable, toes flexing helplessly before being caught and lashed back by string, one by one, to the upper edge of the stock.
He was breathing too fast now, “No … Stop, stop, stop …” he murmured, eyes darting between the two masked figures.
Gimp No. 2 had taken up the scissors.
The faint metallic sound as they opened and closed was like a clock counting down.
In a series of precise cuts, the second Gimp began snipping at seams and fabric.
Jeans split, threads popped, cold air rushed against skin that had been hidden seconds earlier.
Sam’s underwear went next, cut and peeled away with the same measured patience.
“No… Please …” his voice cracked, “Don’t do this! …”
Piece by piece, his clothing fell away until he felt utterly stripped - not just of fabric but of any sense of protection.
The chain on his chest swayed with each desperate breath, his nipples now pink and raw.
Then, without a word, Gimp No. 1 reached for a dark bottle on the desk.
The cap came off with a soft pop.
A thick, oily lotion spilled onto its gloved palm.
Sam flinched back instinctively, “Wait—OI!—” he gasped.
The oil came in a sudden cold splash, spreading across his chest and shoulders before running down in slick rivulets.
More followed, poured and smoothed over his arms, legs, back.
It was too much - slippery, suffocating, seeping into every crease of his skin - cough! cough! cough! - he spluttered and coughed as some ran over his collarbone and down his throat, the scent sharp and medicinal.
The two figures worked in silence, coating him like a painter working on a statue - it wasn’t gentle, it wasn’t affectionate, it was a preparation - ritualistic, impersonal - that left Sam gasping, trembling and utterly exposed, the slick sheen of the lotion turning his naked skin into a mirror under the red light.
He could barely lift his head now, “Why …” he whispered hoarsely, “… What have I done? …”
The Gimps didn’t answer.
They knelt at either foot.
Ten fingers descended on each sole in unison, starting low - brushing, then pressing, then scrubbing across the heel.
The sensation was instant, explosive - Sam’s spine arched against the wooden X, a guttural roar ripping from his throat like a bomb going off in his chest, “—STOP TICKLING MEEEEEEEEEEEE!—”
They were the only words - no coherent pleas after, just ragged, broken howling - laughter so intense it stuttered, crashed, rebounded, until it barely sounded human …
“—AGAHAAAAAHAHAHAAAAAHAHHAA SSSSSTTAAHHAAHAHAHA I CAAAANAAAAAA, CAAAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAA AAAAHAHHAAA PLEAAAHAHAHAHA SSTAAAAHHHAHAHAHAHA!—”
His hands clenched into fists, his body thrashed in place, but nothing gave - the fingers kept moving, nimble and deliberate, scouring his heels before creeping upward, attacking the delicate arches next.
That’s when the hysteria truly began …
The arches were different - sharp, unforgiving, every scribble sent a fresh shockwave up his legs, through his lungs, into his skull - his mouth fell open wide, laughter pouring out in wrecked waves, breathless, unstoppable - he tried to shout, to form words, to beg - but the sounds caught in his throat, swallowed by his own uncontrollable laughter.
His face was turning red, then crimson, then deep, flushed purple - tears streamed down his cheeks, his chest could barely contain the energy created from having his feet tickled like this - eery time he tried to inhale, more fingers danced across his soles, robbing him of oxygen and replacing it with laughter …
Then came the toes …
The fingers crawled up, reaching the stretched bases of his toes - that thin, hypersensitive ridge just above the ball of his foot - and Sam’s mind shattered, hs body jerked so hard the chains on his chest rattled.
“—MMPH—ST‑STOHOHOH—NOHOHO—PLEAAHAHAHAHAHAA I CAN’T TAHAHAHAHAHA NOAAHAHAHAHAH AAA STOAAHAHAHAHAHA WHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA—!”, his voice tore, what came out next was just choking gasps, high, shaking, wordless …
He couldn't think, couldn't scream, couldn't plead - he could only laugh - a thunderous, involuntary surrender erupting from a body pushed beyond its limits …
Sam barely registered the sound of the door opening again - his world had shrunk to ten fingers on each foot, dragging, scratching, scrubbing along his arches, across the balls of his feet, around his tied-back toes - he didn’t laugh anymore, he howled, high and broken, nothing but noise erupting from a mouth stretched wide with agony …
“—AAAAGHAHAHAHAAAAHHAHHASSTAAHAHAHAHPLEEAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA!—”
He couldn’t think.
“—ICANTBREAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHASTOAAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAWHAHAHAHAAAAAAAY!—”
He couldn’t breathe.
“—STOAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHHAHA NOAAAHAHAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAAAHAHAAA!—”
He couldn’t beg.
His vision blurred at the edges, red light flickering like a pulse behind his eyelids, tears dropped from his chin, the muscles in his legs and stomach trembled violently, spasming under the weight of the sensory overload, sweat clung to him, mixing with the slick lotion coating his chest, his feet, his sides …
“NO MORE! NO NO NO, PLEASE!—”, his words spiralled into nonsense, half-laughter, half-prayer, “I’LL TELL YOU ANYTHING, JUST STOP, I’LL, I’LL PAY! I’LL, WHAT DO YOU WANT!—”
The door clicked shut.
Footsteps approached, slow and precise …
And then a third Gimp appeared - identical to the others, masked, silent, faceless - Sam saw him only in flashes, in the blur between breaths, but something in him broke even further.
“No - PLEASE - what are you DOING!—", he sobbed.
The third Gimp stepped behind him.
It slid gloved fingers into the hollows of Sam’s exposed, stretched armpits.
Sam threw himself forward as if struck by lightning.
The scream that came out of him was unfiltered hysteria, a sound so loud and broken it scraped raw against the inside of his throat, “—NOOOOOAAAAAAAAHHH!—”, The Gimp’s fingers didn’t dig - they danced, soft and fluttering, right in the sensitive dips beneath his arms …
All three sets of hands now moved in perfect rhythm …
Two at his bare, toe-tied soles, one set in his underarms.
Sam’s laughter came in a guttural flood, like it was being ripped out of him, his whole body spasmed, twisting wildly against the wooden X, his head snapped side to side, hair drenched in sweat, his legs kicked uselessly, his back arched, and his lungs fought to keep up.
“—STAAAAHAHAHAHHAAAPPP I, I’M BAHAHAHAEHEHE, BEAHAHAHA, STOAAHHHAHAHA, PLE, I CAN’T BRE, BRE!—”
He couldn’t even tell what he was saying anymore - apologies, threats, prayers, curses? - it all bled together in a flood of noise and desperation - his face was deep purple now, veins standing out in his neck - he gasped through the laughter, drool beginning to slide from the corner of his mouth - the chain on his chest clattered wildly, nipples tugged with every violent jerk of his body …
And then …
The shame hit …
His body, overwhelmed and ignored, betrayed him in the worst possible way - in the midst of the chaos, a warmth spread across his groin - his thighs tensed as he realised what was happening - what he couldn’t stop from happening.
His eyes filled again - but now with tears of humiliation …
He had pissed himself.
“... No! …” he whispered, through a mouth full of laughter and grief, “... No, no no no!…”
Still, the fingers moved.
Still, the red lights pulsed.
And Sam Holland - once untouched, once unbothered - was reduced to nothing more than a slick, sobbing, shrieking wreck.
Insert visual below of a ball gag on a desk.
Time passed, though Sam had no way of knowing how long.
The room was silent now - no laughter, no screaming - just the soft sound of leather shifting and breath rattling in his chest.
His body slumped forward slightly against the wooden X, every muscle twitching in the aftermath.
His chest rose and fell in uneven gasps.
The chain between his nipples swayed softly.
He sat in his own urine.
The warmth had turned cold now, soaking into his bare inner thighs.
His cheeks burned.
His body was covered in oil and sweat, his bare feet stretched out, toes still lashed back, raw and tingling from the onslaught.
He was broken, and The Gimps weren’t done.
One of the Gimps approached slowly - Sam didn’t even flinch, he had no energy left.
Soft leather fingers slipped around his face, and a thick blindfold was wrapped over his eyes.
The red world vanished, darkness took its place.
Sam jerked instinctively, panicked, breath catching, “N, no, please don’t—”, but the second Gimp was already behind him, pulling his jaw forward and forcing a rubber ball into his mouth …
The gag buckled tight at the back of his head, “—Mnpph!—”, the pressure was instant - silencing, stretching, smothering.
Now blind, now gagged.
All he could do was feel.
He jolted when he heard movement, the distinct clatter of tools being chosen from the desk - he tried to brace, tried to prepare.
He couldn’t.
The first touch came to his underarms, once again
A heavy, rumbling vibration that sank into his flesh - not fingers now, but something mechanical - a massage head, pressed deep beneath each arm where the muscles were soft, slick, and tender from lotion - the vibration rattled through his ribs, into his lungs - he screamed, but the gag swallowed it whole, muffling his sob into a garbled, wet whimper, “—MNNPPHHH!—”
Then came the second device.
A different vibration - sharper, more precise - buzzing directly against his stomach; it moved with precision, circling the grooves and dips of his abdomen, then digging into the center - his navel.
An unbearable, maddening sensation like a drill made of electric bees swarmed into his bellybutton - Sam thrashed violently, screaming behind the gag, his blindfolded head tossing side to side, “—MPHHHNPPPHHHH MNPPPHHHH!—”
And then …
… Feathers.
So gentle they barely registered, yet cruel in contrast - brushing lightly across his chest, over the swell of his pecs, across the ridges of his sternum - they teased at his collarbones, then danced down, back and forth, maddening and soft.
The combination broke him.
Overstimulation from the machines, torturous lightness from the feathers, no sight, no voice, no control.
His entire body was a storm, drool streamed from the gag, his face was beetroot now, slick with sweat and tears, his vision was gone beneath the blindfold, his voice was barely a voice at all - just animal, helpless, gagged noise.
Somewhere inside the chaos, he became aware of something new ..
A hand - gloved - resting on the side of his face.
Then a zipper.
Slow, loud in his ear.
The vibration never stopped, neither did the feathers, neither did the screaming.
“—MMNNNPPHHH MNNPPHHHNMMMPPH MNNNPPM MNN MNPPPHHH!—”
But now there was a voice …
“Do you want to know why we brought you here, Sam?”
It was smooth, cool, male, british, too calm for the context.
Sam nodded wildly, thrashing in the restraints.
The tools didn’t let up for a second - and neither did his laughter - it came in gurgled floods, gag-smashed and wet, pouring out of him in frantic, shattered bursts.
“—MMNNNPPHHH MNNPPHHHNMMMPPH MNNNPPM MNN MNPPPHHH!—”
“Do you know what this is?” The voice asked, almost softly.
The gag loosened slightly - not removed, but pulled forward just enough that his jaw had a moment of freedom - the ball still pressed against Sam’s lips, his mouth soaking wet, but he could just barely speak …
Between two convulsions of laughter, he gasped the only words he could find:
“—You’re … Tickling me!—”
The voice chuckled.
“And you want to know why.”
Before Sam could speak again, the ball was shoved back in, tight - the gag locked.
His scream was instant.
“—MMPPHHHHH!—”
The voice leaned closer, a whisper in his ear, completely at odds with the chaos erupting in Sam’s body.
“We had to know.”
The massagers dug deeper into his underarms, the toothbrush rattled faster in his navel, the feathers fluttered harder across his chest, now dancing across his nipples, collarbone, under his jawline - Sam was writhing, screaming behind the gag, head shaking wildly, tears pouring beneath the blindfold.
“If you were like him.”
The voice didn’t raise … It didn’t need to.
“Your brother, Tom.”
Sam let out a gagged, wheezing noise - a desperate protest, but the tickling drowned it.
“We watched every game. Every scream. Every last laugh in The Dome.”
A finger tapped gently on Sam’s chest, right on the chain still hanging between the clips.
“But we wondered … What about the brother?”
The toothbrush pressed in a little harder - Sam screamed into the gag, drool spilled freely now.
“What about Sam?”
Sam tried to shake his head, but he couldn’t - his body was lost - taken - a vessel of noise and spasms.
The voice whispered again, lips close to his ear.
“And it turns out … You’re just as ticklish.”
The tools didn’t stop, not for a second - Sam was sobbing now, gagged, blindfolded, oil-drenched and broken open.
“Maybe even the exact same amount.”
He screamed into the gag - raw, furious, desperate, but he had no words anymore, just laughter, just shame.
“Do you know what we’re going to do to you now, Sam?”
A pause.
“We’re going to tickle you … Until you pass out.”
And with that, the tools surged.
The massagers roared, the toothbrush spun, the feathers attacked.
And Sam, already barely holding on, was sent hurtling deeper into the darkness of his own uncontrollable, unending laughter, drool spilling steadily from the corners of his mouth …
It wasn’t just a little drool. It was a torrent - ropes of spit running down his chin, dripping onto his chest, staining the oil already glistening there, pooling at his collarbones before sliding in streaks across his ribs - the blindfold over his eyes was soaked through, damp with sweat and tears, clinging to his skin - he could smell it: leather, salt, the faint tang of metal.
And still they tickled him.
The massagers in his underarms throbbed like engines, buzzing against his flesh till he thought his mind would collapse into itself, yhe electric toothbrush drilled at his stomach, circling his navel with maddening intensity, the feathers fluttered across his nipples, their softness somehow worse than the machines.
He screamed behind the gag, but it came out as a muffled, gargled noise - laughter, crying, choking, all at once - his head rolled on his neck, spittle flying from his lips, nipple chain rattling faintly as his chest convulsed - the little metal links attached to his clips trembled with every gasp, their delicate jingling cutting through the roar of his heartbeat.
Then he heard it: footsteps - more boots on the floor!
A fifth presence.
He couldn’t see, he couldn’t speak, he could only hear and feel.
Something cold pressed against his bare foot - a familiar bristle … The hairbrush.
He thrashed before it even moved, his toes curled as far as the string allowed, his arch flexing hard, his whole leg trembling in anticipation - the brush made a single, testing stroke across his sole.
Sam bucked.
A muffled scream-laugh tore from his gag, his foot jerking helplessly - his blindfold darkened with new tears, his drool poured faster now, dripping off his chin in strands, staining the chain that swung against his chest.
The brush began to work in earnest, not slow now - fast, scrubbing circles across his bare, slick sole, up and down, heel to ball, over and over, Sam writhed like a man possessed, his back arching, his lungs fighting for air - his feet were more sensitive than anywhere else, and the brush knew it, or the person wielding it did …
Then it found that spot.
The tender curve of the ball of his foot - where the skin was softest, where every nerve seemed to converge - the bristles dug in and dragged across it with merciless precision.
Sam detonated.
His whole body lurched, his head snapped back, the gagged noise that came out of him was beyond laughter - it was a strangled, hysterical wail, muffled but still thunderous, echoing off the red walls - his legs shook violently, his hands clenched and unclenched above his head, the chain between his nipples rattled wildly with each convulsion, the metal links ringing like a tiny bell in the chaos.
He was gone, mentally, physically, gone.
There were no pleas left, no thoughts, just sensation, just drool cascading down his chin, soaking his chest, mixing with oil and sweat, his blindfold heavy and wet, his body convulsing as five silent figures worked him like an instrument, every tool and touch perfectly tuned to destroy him.
Time lost all meaning. Sam’s world shrank to oil, leather, bristles and vibration. The blindfold was a wet weight pressing against his eyes; the gag a rubber wedge choking off every sound. Drool poured from his mouth in ropes, slicking his chest, dripping onto the floor. Every tool and touch worked at him like an instrument being played too hard — massagers pounding his underarms, toothbrush rattling his stomach, feathers sweeping his chest, the hairbrush tearing mercilessly across the balls of his feet.
He had stopped thinking. He had stopped pleading. He had stopped being Sam.
He was just a body convulsing, gagged laughter broken into sobs and choking coughs, drool and sweat and tears blending into a single salty sheen. The little chain on his chest jingled faintly with every convulsion. His blindfold clung to his skin, heavy and damp, until he couldn’t tell if it was darkness or if his eyes had simply shut.
It went on.
And on.
And on.
Somewhere past the half‑hour mark, his screams began to die. His thrashing slowed. His muscles trembled without strength. The gag muffled a final strangled whimper as his head sagged forward. Then his knees buckled and the world tipped sideways into black.
Insert pitch black visual.
When he woke, there was silence.
No feathers. No bristles. No buzzing. Just a low hum from the lights above and the echo of his own heartbeat in his ears. The blindfold was gone. The gag was gone. His arms were free, resting against the cold floor.
He blinked hard, eyes stinging. He was naked, sprawled on the studio’s red‑stained concrete. The wooden X stood behind him, empty now, straps dangling. The room smelled of oil and sweat but felt abandoned, the oppressive heat replaced by still, stale air.
The door stood ajar.
Sam rolled onto his side, coughing, his throat raw. His hands shook as he pushed himself upright. His own reflection stared back at him from a dark metal panel across the room — pale, slick, trembling. He saw the marks on his wrists. The string‑burns on his toes. The smear of drool down his chest.
On the floor in front of him lay a single piece of paper. He picked it up with trembling fingers.
we are watching you.
the gimps xxx
The handwriting was neat, almost casual.
He stared at it for a long time, the silence of the studio pressing against his ears. His pulse thudded. His stomach turned cold. The open door gaped like a wound.
They were gone. But the message remained.
And Sam realised, with a hollow, nauseating certainty, that he wasn’t free at all.