Tickly
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Chapter 1 Part 9
🕑 Added 2025-03-06 15:00:13 +0000 UTC(Lily's POV)
The scientist smirked slightly—just enough to be noticeable but not enough to be called out on it. "The decision has been made," she announced and grabbed a remote control from one of her pocket of the suit and pressed a button.
A monitor descended from the ceiling. My stomach twisted as I saw what appeared on it—our final decisions, displayed in cold, bold text:
Lily – nylon
Anne – barefeet
Maya – socks
Matt – nylon
Dave – barefeet
Ryan - socks
I felt my throat tighten. So, this was it. Set in stone.
My eyes lingered on my own name first. Nylon. I already knew it, but seeing it written there made it feel worse. There was no denying it now. My feet, wrapped in thin sheer fabric, extra sensitive to everything. Just the thought made my toes curl involuntarily. I should have fought harder.
Anne—barefoot. She had made that choice quickly. I wasn’t sure if it was confidence or just desperation to avoid the nylons, but I envied her decisiveness. Barefoot was bad, but at least it wouldn’t make everything worse like these nylons would.
Maya—socks. Smart move. I couldn't even be too mad at her... She was the first to take advantage of the situation, and now, she had at least some protection. She played it right, but stil annoying.
Matt—nylon. At least, I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t sure whether that made me feel better or worse. Knowing someone else was in the same situation didn’t change the fact that it was awful. Also, he probably never wore nylons… this will be interesting for him, that’s for sure.
Dave—barefoot. He realized fast enough that nylons were the worst option. Maybe he figured if Anne could handle it, he could too. Or maybe he just panicked and went with what seemed like the lesser evil.
Ryan—socks. Of course. The first one to selfishly snatch up the safer option and ended our chance to vote democratically. He didn’t hesitate, and now he was in the best position possible. Lucky bastard.
I let out a slow breath, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. This was really happening.
The scientist glanced at us, her eyes scanning our reactions. Then, she handed out the socks and nylons accordingly. I swallowed hard as she placed the sheer nylons in my hands. The fabric was thin and delicate between my fingers, but I knew exactly what it meant. Slowly, I sat down and rolled them over my feet, the material hugging every inch of my skin. They felt smooth, snug, too comfortable, as if tricking me into thinking everything would be fine.
I watched as Matt rolled the nylons over his feet, he probably never wore nylons before. Well, it’s a great first time for sure… Maya and Ryan didn’t hesitate to put on the white ankle socks. Lucky bastards.
Once everyone had put on their assigned footwear—or lack thereof—she said, “And now, please follow me.” with an annoying confidence in her voice.
With that, we had no choice but to move forward. We walked deeper into the experiment lab, the air getting cooler, the silence between us growing heavier. My heartbeat pounded in my ears as we stepped into what looked like the real experiment room.
Six sleek, white metal tables stood before us, evenly spaced in a sterile, clinical layout. The legs of the tables were even screwed into the ground. Each table had a sleep-sack-like covering on top—tight, confining, waiting. Straps and restraints lined the sides, meant to hold a person in place. But what drew everyone’s attention were the futuristic foot stocks at the end of each table—metallic, advanced-looking, soft-padded... like something designed specifically to trap feet perfectly in place.
I stopped dead in my tracks, my breath catching in my throat. Oh, no.
Above each table, a large monitor hung from the ceiling. Right now, the screens were black, but I already dreaded what they would eventually display. I didn’t need to guess.
"This... this is insane," Maya whispered beside me, her voice barely audible.
"No kidding," Dave muttered, running a hand through his hair. "What the hell did we just agree to?"
I wanted to say something reassuring, but the words wouldn’t come. My stomach twisted as I stared at the setup. We were actually going to be strapped to these tables. Our feet locked into those stocks. Tickled.
The scientist stopped beside the nearest table, turning to face us. "Let me tell you how the experiment will look like," she said, her voice calm and professional, as if she were giving a routine presentation. "Each of you will be restrained on one of these tables, secured inside the sleep-sack-like containment. Your heads and feet will be the only parts exposed. The restraints will ensure minimal movement. Your feet will be locked into the stocks at the end of each table."
My body stiffened.
"Additionally, you will be gagged and blindfolded," she continued, as if she hadn’t just said something horrifying. "The tickling will be done by machines designed to stimulate your feet through various conditions—whether you are wearing socks, nylons, or are barefoot."
My breath hitched at machines. No chance of mercy. No stopping. Just relentless, calculated tickling.
"The monitors above your heads will display real-time data," the scientist went on, gesturing toward the screens. "They will track the following information:”
Name
Age
Foot Size
Most Ticklish Spot
Current Tickling Level (1 to 10)
Intensity Level (1 to 10, could be different for each participant)
Tools Applied
Remaining Time (8 hours at the start)
Additional Details
I swallowed hard. Eight hours.
My knees felt weak. My mind raced. What had I done? What had we all done?
I turned to the others, but they looked just as pale and horrified as I felt.
The worst part? We signed up for this. Willingly.
