The facility on the outer island is a windowless concrete building, with a long, narrow corridor inside. On one side of the corridor is a solid concrete wall, in which three custom-shaped openings are cut at equal intervals, each contoured to fit the wearer’s waist as if tailor made, precisely locking around their sides. From the waist down, the thighs, knees, and calves are embedded into the opposite side of the wall, leaving only the buttocks and feet exposed on the corridor side.
The three are fixed side by side, with about half a meter between their buttocks. From the left side of the corridor, the order is: Satou Shizuka, Konoe Hideko, Imagawa Aiko.
They are completely naked. Their bodies are bent into a Z shape inside the wall — thighs pressed close to the abdomen, knees raised high almost touching the collarbone, yet deliberately left with a slight gap to keep the muscles constantly tense. From the knees down, the legs are folded, soles facing upward. Each ankle and calf is encircled by a metal control cuff lined with thick medical grade rubber padding, preventing abrasion while rendering every feeble struggle futile.
From the corridor, what is visible on the wall are three rounded buttocks and, a little above them, three pairs of upturned feet. Between each pair of feet, a roughly ten inch CCTV monitor is embedded.
The screens are on, showing live close up footage of their faces, captured by miniature cameras installed in the recesses of the wall.
In the footage, their hair is styled as usual: Satou’s mid length black hair is tied up in a neat, practical bun; Konoe’s long hair is combed smoothly and tucked behind her ears, revealing a clear forehead; Imagawa’s dark brown hair is coiled into a large bun on top of her head, without a strand out of place. They even have their familiar glasses on.
Their faces show deep exhaustion. Dark circles mark the area under their eyes, their gazes somewhat vacant, their lips dry and slightly parted. Occasionally, a faint, hoarse sigh escapes from behind the wall. Yet even so, they remain attractive middle aged women — their facial features still defined, and under the overhead light, their skin retains the distinctive quality of mature femininity.
Occasionally, a member of the organization walks past at the far end of the corridor. Footsteps echo on the concrete floor. No one speaks. Only the low drone of the ventilation system carries the mingled smell of disinfectant and salty sea air, circulating slowly.
About twenty centimeters above their feet, hanging on the wall, is a filthy rag scrawled with the words “LEGAL ADVISORY TEAM” in crooked black letters — a crude, contemptuous graffito.
However, because their heads and faces are completely embedded into the opposite side of the wall, none of them can see the rag from their current position. But what makes it crueler than invisibility is this: before they were locked into place, the organization lined the three of them against the wall and made them watch as the words were written, then slowly hoisted the rag up. They witnessed the ink bleed into the coarse fabric, saw the scrap of cloth tied to a rope and raised to a high point on the wall — a place they would never be able to see again.
Now, they can only rely on memory to imagine that rag still hanging above them. Every fiber is soaked with mockery: a “legal advisory team” composed of a former public prosecutor, a former Minister of Justice, and a former judge, now unable to control even their own bodies, reduced to offering their naked buttocks and feet to any member of the organization who walks past. This is a humiliation deeper than any physical restraint — they know the label they have been given, yet they can never lay eyes on it again. Out of sight, but the shame is everywhere.
Even harder to endure is the tickling that strikes without warning. Sometimes it is the soles of their feet — as if invisible bristles gently trace between their toes, making the arches involuntarily curl. Sometimes it is the edges of their buttocks — a faint, intermittent breath of air brushes across, like a sigh, or like a malicious fingertip. There is no rhythm to these stimuli; they appear at completely unpredictable moments, last for a few seconds or minutes, then vanish. They cannot struggle, evade, or even voice a protest. Their bodies merely react passively — muscles tighten, toes clench and grasp, buttocks twitch slightly, then go slack again in a gasp.
On the monitor screens, they burst into uncontrollable laughter. The sound is muffled by the wall into ragged breaths, but the contortion of facial muscles, the pulling at the corners of their mouths, the tears forced from their eyes — all are faithfully captured by the high definition cameras. Sometimes Hideko is the first to break down, her thin rimmed glasses sliding slightly with the tremor of her shoulders. Sometimes SShizuka clenches her teeth, but a suppressed snicker escapes from her nose. Sometimes Aiko’s entire face crumples, her mouth stretching open in a soundless grimace that could be crying or laughing. The organization’s people standing in the corridor cannot hear the laughter, but they can see three pairs of bare toes helplessly curling, spreading, and curling again in the air.
But this is only the warm up.
Those depraved criminals then use special grasping hooks to pry open their vaginas and anal clefts. The metal tips are covered with thin rubber — cold, but inflicting no wounds. They force the most hidden folds apart, exposing them to the cold air of the corridor and to the occasional passing gaze. Every inch of skin that should never have been seen now has no protection left. They cannot close their legs, cannot twist their hips away. They can only endure as the hooks strip away the last remnants of their dignity. This is a humiliation far more complete than tickling or laughter — in this primal exposure, they are forced to realize that they are no longer human beings, but merely marked, displayed flesh, to be toyed with at will.
Then, without distinction between soles, vaginas, or anuses, they begin to stimulate relentlessly. They target the most sensitive areas, with the sole purpose of making the women moan and convulse with hysterical laughter. Metal tools wrapped in thin rubber — sometimes a rotating brush head, sometimes a vibrating probe, sometimes just a cold, precise jet of air — move back and forth across their arches, clitorises, and anal openings. No rhythm, no pause, no mercy. Each contact precisely detonates a cluster of nerve endings, forcing their buttocks to twitch and spasm against the wall openings, their bare toes to spread and curl wildly.
On the monitors, laughter and moans blend together until they become indistinguishable. Their glasses fog with sweat; their hair, though still styled, is soaked with tears and convulsive perspiration. Those in the corridor cannot see the faces behind the wall, but they can hear the muffled, broken screams and gasps through the concrete. The air is thick with disinfectant, the saltiness of sea water, and a certain secret, humid smell. This is the final step in reducing the body to a mere object — not to cause injury, but to make them, in their own uncontrollable responses, completely forget who they once were.
Tickle and sexual pleasure — alternately or simultaneously — assault their brains. The tickling on their soles forces out uncontrollable laughter, while stimulation of their clitorises and anuses makes them twitch, moan, and even grow involuntarily wet. Two entirely different sensations intertwine into a net from which there is no escape. There is no violent pain here, yet the erosion goes deeper than any brutality. The organization does not rush to kill them, nor even to make them faint. On the contrary, each round of stimulation is carefully calibrated to maintain the threshold of “about to break, but not yet broken.”
What they want is for these women, through endless, protracted sensory torment, to thoroughly regret and repent their own actions. To regret why they pushed for those anti organization laws, why they led prosecution teams to trace those money trails, why they sent organization operatives to prison. The organization does not seek a coerced confession. It seeks a penitence that grows from the very marrow of their bones — voluntary, even grateful. When tickling and sexual sensation simultaneously burn their brains, when every breath is accompanied by an uncontrollable moan or gasp of laughter, they will begin to doubt the very justice they once believed in. That is the organization’s true victory — not the destruction of their bodies, but the destruction of their convictions.
In the years to come, Satou Shizuka, Konoe Hideko, and Imagawa Aiko are planned to be permanently kept inside the organization as “tickling slaves.” They will no longer be former public prosecutors, former ministers of justice, or former judges. They will become designations 76, 58, 67 three breathing, trembling, sound making pieces of flesh assets.
The organization plans to conduct their daily “training” with scientifically precise rhythm: progressive enhancement of plantar sensitivity, sustained development of the mammary gland and nipple nerve plexuses, recalibration of tactile thresholds around the anus and vulva. Drugs and physical stimulation will be used alternately, making their skin ever more ticklish. A single light touch will trigger convulsive, hysterical laughter, as if jolted by electricity. The lips that once eloquently debated in the Diet will eventually produce only vague gasps and broken laughter. The fingers that once signed arrest warrants will be able only to curl weakly against their restraints.
The organization is in no hurry to destroy their bodies. Quite the opposite — each round of stimulation will be precisely kept within the limit of “no permanent damage,” because they are renewable, reusable, high value consumables. Their suffering and loss of control will be regularly recorded and sold on the dark web to select clients at high prices. Their flesh may be rented out to senior members of the organization as a “stress relief tool.” They may even be used to intimidate other opponents who have not yet submitted — “See? This is what happens to those who oppose us.”
Years later, they will no longer remember who they once were. The conditioned reflexes of tickling and sexual pleasure will replace all autonomous will. When someone approaches, they will instinctively tremble, contract, and even arch their bodies on their own — not out of obedience, but out of a preemptive despair over the response they know is coming. What the organization seeks is not their “submission,” but the state where that submission has been carved so deep into their spines that it can never be peeled away.
This is the organization’s envisioned final outcome for the “Legal Advisory Team.” Not death. Something slower than death, silent, and endlessly running — the penance of their own flesh.
Inside the organization’s facility, at the end of a corridor, a monitoring room.
Two men stood in front of three side by side screens. On each screen, a woman was laughing uncontrollably, tears and sweat mingling on her face.
The shorter, stockier man on the left took a sip of his coffee and spoke in the same tone one might use to evaluate frozen meat at a supermarket. “Sure, they’re all getting on in years… but still, they’re pretty rare beauties. Look at this one — former Minister of Justice, and her skin is still this fine. Next to her, that prosecutor — her breasts are unbelievable. And the judge over there, her legs have a really nice shape.”
The taller, leaner man kept his hands in the pockets of his white coat, his eyes fixed on the twitching toes in the footage. He didn’t touch his coffee. “And on top of that, they’re ticklish and sensitive — plus they come with those titles… not bad merchandise at all. The clients on the dark web love this kind: respectable faces that still cry and laugh at the same time.”
On the screen, Imagawa Aiko’s laughter suddenly spiked into a short shriek, then dropped back to broken gasps. The stocky man smirked. “Came again? What number is that today?”
“Lost count,” the lean man said. “But their thresholds are already lowering. Three more months of training, and just a puff of air will make them collapse.”
The stocky man put down his coffee cup and let his voice go cold. “Make them understand: they have to become tickling slaves, and only being tickled to death will atone for their crimes. Don’t give them any hope.”
The lean man finally turned his head, a slight curl at the corner of his mouth. “Afraid they’ll kill themselves?”
“They don’t even have the strength to kill themselves anymore.” The stocky man pointed at the screen. “Look at their fingers — can’t even make a fist. But… between despair and hope, they’d still choose hope. What we need to do is delete that option altogether.”
Silence fell over the monitoring room for a few seconds. On the screen, Satō Shizuka’s glasses had slid down to the tip of her nose. She blew weakly upward, trying to clear the fog from the lenses, but only managed a muffled laugh.
The lean man turned back to the screens, his tone as flat as if he were reading an experiment log. “Alright, here’s the plan. After each day’s training, play them recordings of their families — the daughter saying ‘Mom, I miss you,’ then cut it off immediately. And then play their old speeches. ‘I will protect this nation with the law.’ Alternate them. Over and over.”
“Let them realize,” the stocky man took over, “that the past won’t come back, and the future will never arrive. The only thing they have left is this very present — this ticklish, laughing, crying piece of flesh.”
The screens never went dark. The laughter never stopped. The door of the monitoring room closed, leaving the corridor with nothing but the smell of disinfectant and the low drone of the ventilation system.

外岛上的设施是一栋没有窗户的混凝土建筑，内部有一条狭长的走廊。走廊一侧是一堵实心混凝土墙，墙上等距地切割出三个定制形状的开口，每个开口都如同量身定制般贴合穿着者的腰部，精准地环绕住身体两侧。从腰部以下，大腿、膝盖和小腿都嵌入墙体的另一侧，只有臀部和脚部暴露在走廊一侧。<br>三人并排站着，臀部之间大约相隔半米。从走廊左侧开始，顺序依次为：佐藤静香、近卫秀子、今川爱子。<br>他们一丝不挂。他们的身体在墙内呈Z字形弯曲——大腿紧贴腹部，膝盖高高抬起几乎触及锁骨，但故意留出一丝缝隙，使肌肉始终处于紧张状态。膝盖以下，双腿折叠，脚底朝上。每个脚踝和小腿都被金属控制带束缚，内衬厚厚的医用级橡胶垫，既防止磨损，又使任何微弱的挣扎都徒劳无功。<br>从走廊上可以看到墙上有三个圆润的臀部，臀部上方不远处是三对翘起的脚。每对脚之间都嵌入了一个大约十英寸的监控摄像头。<br>屏幕亮着，显示着墙壁凹槽内安装的微型摄像头拍摄的他们面部的实时特写画面。<br>视频中，她们的发型和往常一样：佐藤的中长黑发扎成一个整齐利落的发髻；近卫的长发梳理顺滑，别在耳后，露出干净的额头；今川的深棕色头发盘成一个高高的发髻，一丝不苟。 他们甚至还戴着那副熟悉的眼镜。<br>她们的脸上满是疲惫。黑眼圈笼罩着她们的双眼，眼神空洞，嘴唇干裂微张。偶尔，墙后会传来一声轻微而沙哑的叹息。即便如此，她们依然是颇具魅力的中年女性——五官依旧轮廓分明，在头顶灯光的映照下，肌肤散发着成熟女性特有的柔美光泽。<br>偶尔，会有组织成员从走廊尽头走过。脚步声在水泥地上回荡。无人交谈。只有通风系统低沉的嗡嗡声，带着消毒水和咸咸的海风混合的气味，缓缓循环。<br>在他们脚上方约 20 厘米处，墙上挂着一块肮脏的破布，上面用歪斜的黑色字母潦草地写着“法律顾问团队”——这是一幅粗俗、轻蔑的涂鸦。<br>然而，由于他们的头和脸完全嵌在墙的另一侧，他们从现在的位置根本看不到那块破布。但比隐形更残酷的是：在他们被固定住之前，组织让他们三人并排靠墙站着，看着文字被写上去，然后慢慢地把破布吊了起来。他们亲眼目睹墨水渗入粗糙的布料，看到那块破布被绳子绑着，吊到墙上的高处——一个他们再也看不到的地方。<br>如今，他们只能依靠记忆来想象那块破布仍然悬挂在他们头顶。每一根纤维都浸透着嘲讽：一个由前检察官、前司法部长和前法官组成的“法律顾问团队”，如今连自己的身体都无法控制，沦落到向任何路过的组织成员献上自己赤裸的臀部和双脚。 这是一种比任何肉体束缚都更深的羞辱——他们知道自己被贴上了什么标签，却再也无法直视它。眼不见，羞耻却无处不在。<br>更难忍受的是毫无预兆的痒感。有时是脚底——仿佛有无形的细毛轻轻拂过脚趾间，令足弓不由自主地蜷缩起来。有时是臀部边缘——一阵轻柔的、断断续续的微风拂过，如同叹息，又像是恶意的指尖。这些刺激毫无规律可循；它们出现的时间完全无法预料，持续几秒或几分钟，然后消失无踪。他们无法挣扎，无法躲避，甚至无法发出抗议。他们的身体只能被动地做出反应——肌肉紧绷，脚趾蜷缩抓挠，臀部微微抽搐，然后又在一声喘息中放松下来。<br>监控屏幕上，她们爆发出无法抑制的笑声。声音被墙壁隔开，变成断断续续的喘息，但面部肌肉的扭曲、嘴角的抽搐、眼中涌出的泪水——所有这些都被高清摄像头忠实地捕捉了下来。有时，秀子是第一个笑出声的，她那细框眼镜随着颤抖的肩膀微微滑落。有时，静香咬紧牙关，但鼻孔里还是会逸出一声压抑的轻笑。有时，爱子的整张脸都扭曲了，嘴巴张得老大，露出一个无声的怪异表情，像是在哭，又像是在笑。站在走廊里的组织成员听不到笑声，但他们可以看到三双光着的脚趾在空中无力地蜷缩、张开，然后再蜷缩。<br>但这只是热身而已。<br>这些堕落的罪犯随后使用特制的抓钩撬开她们的阴道和肛门。 金属钩头外覆一层薄薄的橡胶——冰冷刺骨，却不会造成任何伤害。它们强行撑开最隐蔽的褶皱，让肌肤暴露在走廊的冷空气和偶尔路过的目光之下。每一寸本不该示人的肌肤，如今都失去了保护。她们无法并拢双腿，也无法扭动臀部。她们只能默默忍受，任由钩子剥去她们最后的尊严。这是一种远比挠痒或嘲笑更加彻底的羞辱——在这种原始的暴露中，她们被迫意识到，自己不再是人，而仅仅是被标记、被展示的肉体，任人随意玩弄。<br>然后，他们不分青红皂白地刺激她们的脚底、阴道和肛门。他们瞄准最敏感的部位，唯一的目的就是让她们呻吟、痉挛，歇斯底里地大笑。包裹着薄橡胶的金属工具——有时是旋转的刷头，有时是振动的探针，有时只是一股冰冷而精准的气流——在她们的足弓、阴蒂和肛门口来回移动。没有节奏，没有停顿，没有怜悯。每一次接触都精准地刺激着一簇神经末梢，迫使她们的臀部紧贴着阴道壁抽搐痉挛，赤裸的脚趾疯狂地张开和蜷缩。<br>监视器上，笑声和呻吟混杂在一起，最终难以分辨。他们的眼镜蒙上了一层汗雾；头发虽然仍保持着造型，却已被泪水和痉挛的汗水浸透。走廊里的人看不到墙后的面孔，但能透过水泥墙听到压抑破碎的尖叫和喘息。空气中弥漫着消毒水的气味、海水的咸味，以及某种隐秘潮湿的气息。这是将身体简化为纯粹物体的最后一步——并非为了造成伤害，而是为了让他们在无法控制的反应中，彻底忘记自己曾经是谁。
<br>搔痒和性快感——交替或同时——冲击着他们的大脑。搔痒脚底让他们忍不住大笑，而刺激阴蒂和肛门则让他们抽搐、呻吟，甚至不由自主地湿润。两种截然不同的感觉交织成一张无法逃脱的网。这里没有剧烈的疼痛，但这种侵蚀却比任何残暴都更加深刻。组织并不急于杀死他们，甚至不是为了让他们昏厥。相反，每一轮刺激都经过精心控制，以维持“即将崩溃，但尚未崩溃”的临界点。<br>他们想要的是，通过无休止、漫长的感官折磨，让这些女性彻底悔恨自己的所作所为。悔恨她们为何推动反组织法，为何带领检方追踪资金流向，为何将组织成员送进监狱。该组织并不寻求强迫认罪，而是寻求发自内心的忏悔——自愿的，甚至是感激的忏悔。当搔痒和性刺激同时灼烧她们的大脑，当每一次呼吸都伴随着无法控制的呻吟或喘息般的笑声时，她们就会开始怀疑自己曾经信仰的正义。这才是该组织真正的胜利——不是摧毁她们的身体，而是摧毁她们的信念。<br>在未来的几年里，佐藤静香、近卫秀子和今川爱子将被永久囚禁在组织内部，成为“挠痒奴隶”。她们将不再是前检察官、前司法大臣或前法官，而是编号为76、58、67的三个会呼吸、会颤抖、会发出声音的血肉之躯。<br>该组织计划以科学精确的节奏进行日常“训练”：逐步增强足底感觉，持续发育乳腺和乳头神经丛，重新校准肛门和外阴周围的触觉阈值。 药物和物理刺激将交替使用，使他们的皮肤变得越来越敏感。轻轻一触，便会引发痉挛性的歇斯底里大笑，如同触电一般。曾经在国会雄辩滔滔的嘴唇，最终只能发出含糊不清的喘息和断断续续的笑声。曾经签署逮捕令的手指，如今只能无力地蜷缩着，挣扎着想要摆脱束缚。<br>该组织并不急于摧毁他们的身体。恰恰相反——每一轮刺激都会被精确控制在“不造成永久性损伤”的范围内，因为他们的身体是可再生、可重复使用、高价值的消耗品。他们的痛苦和失控状态会被定期记录下来，并在暗网上以高价出售给特定的客户。他们的肉体可能会被租借给组织的高级成员作为“减压工具”。他们甚至可能被用来恐吓其他尚未屈服的反对者——“看到了吗？这就是反对我们的下场。”<br>多年以后，他们将不再记得自己曾经是谁。对痒和性快感的条件反射将取代所有自主意志。当有人靠近时，他们会本能地颤抖、收缩，甚至不由自主地弓起身体——并非出于服从，而是出于对即将到来的反应的预先绝望。该组织追求的并非他们的“臣服”，而是将这种臣服深深地刻入他们的脊梁骨，使其永远无法剥离。<br>这是该组织设想的“法律顾问团队”的最终结局。不是死亡。而是比死亡更缓慢、更无声、更永无止境的折磨——他们肉体的苦修。<br>在组织设施内，走廊尽头，有一间监控室。
<br>两名男子站在三块并排的屏幕前。每块屏幕上，都显示着一名女子止不住地大笑，泪水和汗水在她脸上交织。<br>左边那个身材矮壮的男人喝了一口咖啡，用一种在超市里评价冷冻肉的语气说道：“没错，她们年纪都大了……不过，她们依然美艳动人。瞧这位——前司法部长，皮肤还这么好。她旁边那位检察官——她的胸部真是令人难以置信。还有那边那位法官，她的腿型也很漂亮。”<br>那个身材高挑精瘦的男人双手插在白大褂口袋里，目光紧紧盯着视频里微微抽搐的脚趾。他一口咖啡都没喝。“而且，它们还很怕痒，很敏感——再加上它们还有这些头衔……这可真是不错的商品。暗网上的客户就喜欢这种：面容端庄，却又能同时哭笑不得。”<br>屏幕上，今川爱子的笑声突然变成一声短促的尖叫，然后又恢复成断断续续的喘息。矮壮的男人嘴角勾起一丝冷笑。“又来了？今天第几位了？”<br> “数不清了，”瘦削的男人说。“但他们的极限已经在降低了。再训练三个月，哪怕只是一口气就能让他们倒下。”<br>矮壮的男人放下咖啡杯，声音变得冰冷。“让他们明白：他们必须成为挠痒奴隶，只有被挠痒痒挠死才能赎清他们的罪行。别给他们任何希望。”<br>瘦削的男人终于转过头来，嘴角微微勾起一丝笑意。“怕他们自杀吗？”<br> “他们连自杀的力气都没有了。”那个身材矮壮的男人指着屏幕说，“看看他们的手指——连握拳都做不到。” 但是……在绝望和希望之间，他们仍然会选择希望。我们需要做的就是彻底消除这种可能性。<br>监控室里一片寂静，持续了几秒钟。屏幕上，佐藤静香的眼镜滑落到鼻尖。她轻轻地向上吹了口气，想拂去镜片上的雾气，却只发出了一声闷笑。<br>瘦削的男人转过身，面向屏幕，语气平淡得仿佛在念实验记录。“好了，计划是这样的。每天训练结束后，播放他们家人的录音——女儿说‘妈妈，我想你’，然后立刻切断。接着播放他们以前的演讲稿。‘我将用法律保护这个国家。’交替播放。一遍又一遍。”<br> “让他们明白，”矮壮的男人接过话茬，“过去不会重来，未来也不会到来。他们唯一拥有的，只有眼前的这片肉体——这块怕痒、会笑、会哭的肉体。”<br>屏幕始终亮着，笑声也从未停止。监控室的门关上了，走廊里只剩下消毒水的味道和通风系统低沉的嗡嗡声。

Base +2, yuwei20120801ab +1, RTX233 +6