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Agenda II
By Marauder
read Hidden Agenda I first ! -->
http://www.ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?threadid=93
Rain still beating the streets, obscuring buildings, wa****ng the smog
out of the air and reaching the ground no longer clear and refre****ng,
but sludgy and acidic. The streetlights almost hidden behind the
driving sheets of water from an angry, purulent sky. The birds-eye
view of the town showing only the monuments of commerce seemingly
drowned in the torrential downpour, yet there, on the roof -FOCUS- a
lone figure, lying down, holding something, something long, something
gleaming darkly, wetly, -FOCUS- a sniper rifle. The figure lies
motionlessly, appearing not so much dead as part of the roof. Only the
muzzle is projecting over the rim. The figure seems shapeless, wrapped
with a poncho in gray and black camouflage, the bulkiness beneath the
garment evidencing body armor, the head and face obscured by a tight
mask, only the eyes are free... -FOCUS- Hawk-like, green-gray eyes,
merciless eyes. Narrowed now, the perfect sniper eyes. Lying, waiting,
patiently, ever ready for the kill, it seems. The eyes ****ne coldly,
right one staring through the scope, left one resting. Seldom
blinking. A lone raindrop hangs from one set of long leashes. The
figure seems not to notice.
Doctor Craig was busy overseeing the new instructions from his
superiors, a thick folder on the future expectations they had,
considering his facility. His intercom beeped three times, startling
him once again. He pushed the receiver button a little too quickly,
betraying his nervousness. "Craig." The tinny voice from the intercom
had lost none of its mechanical smugness. "Doctor Craig, you have a
visitor." Craig barked at it - "Details !" "Your visitor has
identified himself as Morpheus." Craig tensed up considerably.
"Morpheus" was the code name of his superior's most prominent Sleeper
amongst the leading FBI personal. If he came to him, to visit him in
the facility of all places, the news had to be very im****tant indeed.
He looked back to the folder on his desk and suppressed the need to
hit something. When things start to go downhill, he thought, they tend
to pick up speed along the way. He took a few deep breaths. "Send him
in."
The door buzzed open, and "Morpheus" entered. A tall man, middle aged,
clad in an expensive business suit, gray, full hair cut to fit the
latest wall-street fa****on, a hard face, lines making him look older
than he was, dark shades hiding his eyes. A thin-lipped, brutal mouth.
No man to be trifled with. Craig waved him towards the visitors chair
and sat down himself, once "Morpheus" had taken the seat with a
pained, short gasp. Craig knew that he had been injured in the field.
He looked at his visitor with barely suppressed anxiety. "Mr.
Morpheus. What an honor to have you here," Craig started, but
"Morpheus" raised a hand to cut him off. "Doctor Craig, we have no
time for idle introductory chit-chat," the man said in a measured
voice that merely hinted at his own nervousness. "Your people have
crossed a line. I thought we were clear that every extraction of
experimental human material was to be cleared with us first."
Craig wanted to say something, but "Morpheus" cut him off again. "Now
you've really managed to get the **** flying, and it's well on it's
way towards the biggest goddamn fan I've ever seen. One of your latest
extractions has directed a whole damn lot of undue attention to
this... operation of yours. Way to go, good job." Craig managed to get
some words in at this point, and his voice was as nervous as his face
was pale by now. "What are you talking about ? Our associates have
taken care to wipe all traces - besides, they only acquire targets
that have little or no traceable ties..." "Shut up, Craig. This is
serious. The current situation you are in is way, way beyond FUBAR,
and if you're going down, you're going to take a lot of people with
you. We can't risk that. We need to do something."
Craig sat back, opened a drawer of his desk, took out a bottle filled
with pills, shook out two into his palm, and swallowed them dry. He
coughed twice, then drew a couple of deep breaths, closing his eyes.
"Morpheus" continued, unimpressed by his actions. "Your people have
extracted two specimens that were under observation from our own
agents. Not only that, but the agents watching those two happen to be
partners. Now they're both on your trail. And one of them is the last
person you ever wanted to sniff at your butt."
Craig had composed himself again. He looked at his visitor. "So what
do we do ?" "Nothing. Officially. Nothing of what we're going to do
will be on any of our records. What's going to happen will be merely a
series of misunderstandings and accidents. Get it ?" Craig nodded. "So
what's the problem, and how can we solve it ?" "Morpheus" looked at
him through his dark gl*****. "The two agents will be traced and their
positions re****ted to you. You have associates that will take care of
them. We're talking wetwork here. Make it look like a gang-bang or
something." Craig nodded. "Sounds easy enough." Suddenly, "Morpheus"
jumped up and reached over the desk, grabbing Craig by the collar and
pulling him forward with a hard tug. "You don't understand the scale
of this !" he screamed. "One of the agents is a good man, but a
complete dork. But that other one -" He shook Craig for emphasis,
"Agent Tenegra is one of the most successful agents we ever had !
She's straight from the Sniper squad ! Out psychologists attested her
homicidal tendencies, and her IQ is off the scale ! We'd have fired
her, if her record hadn't been so goddamn clean !" He let go of Craig,
who had lost his gl***** and flopped back into his chair, clutching
his chest. "Morpheus" sat down again, trying to calm down. He
continued, "And don't even think of grabbing her for your own little
experiments. I don't care what our superiors have to say about this
whole twisted scheme of yours, I know you enjoy torturing those girls.
This isn't your private garden of delights, though ! The whole damn
plan could fail if your little torture chamber is exposed to the
public !"
Craig had caught himself again and replaced his gl*****. He smiled
crookedly. "Don't pretend to know what the plan is. I'm merely doing
my part. As are you. You have no more knowledge of the true faces
behind all this than I do." "Morpheus" fumed, but kept it hidden
behind a calm exterior. "And I don't care to know it either. Still,
this whole tickle torture business is plain stupid. What the hell do
you expect from this ? You're just catering your own little fetish."
Craig shook his head. "Though it's none of your business, it wasn't me
who decided that we should research tickling here. If it had been left
to me, I'd have chosen other measures of disciplining those girls." He
shrugged. "But our superiors were clear on this subject, and thus,
tickling it is." He got up and cocked his head. "If that will be
all ?" His visitor got up and, with another wince, made for the door.
On his way out, he turned one more time. "We'll give you the
information on the two agents. You take them out. Clear ?" Craig
nodded. "Clear. Good bye."
Once "Morpheus" had left, he sat back down. His eyes wandered back to
the folder on his desk. He realized that the results his superiors
requested from the facility demanded proof beyond broken street-punks
and homeless girls gone insane. He needed to present them with a true
case of a headstrong woman who had been turned by their methods. And
this agent - He would have to wait for her file, but it looked like he
would be able to kill two flies with a single swat here. Maybe this
day would prove to be the turn that got his business safely off the
downward slope. Still, he was interested to find out which two of his
latest acquisitions had been the ones that had set the hounds on his
tails. He decided to go and have a look at them - maybe he'd be able
to find it out for himself.
And besides, he thought with a small grin, he could do with a little
diversion. While it was true that he had been more of a "standard",
run of the mill sadist when he had started in the employ of his
superiors and opened the facility, tickling had started to intrigue
him. The way those girls writhed and screamed under light touches...
Something about it turned him on immensely. "Maybe tickling's a sort
of rub-off fetish," he thought to himself. With a laugh, he went out
into the halls of the facility, towards the current stations of his
latest prisoners, eager to see their ticklish bodies and hear their
desperate laughter...
On a rain-beaten rooftop, a shadowy figure appeared from the elevator
shaft in the middle of the stained concrete expanse and slowly,
quietly, stalked toward another shadow at the roof's edge, a prone,
slim shadow that all but melted into the obscure, gray wetness. The
stalking shadow closed in, inching along, something in one hand. Just
as it came within three feet of the other shadow, the prone figure
suddenly whipped around, almost to fast for the eye to follow, and the
upright shadow stared into the large-bore muzzle of the sniper rifle.
For a second, none of them moved. Then, both laughed quietly, the
upright one with a few short guffaws, the prone one with a low, dry
chuckle. It got up, and it became clear that it was really a woman,
small and sinewy, in camouflaged fatigues. The other one was taller,
square shouldered, masculine, also clad in combat camouflage, and the
object in his hand was a paper bag. Soaked now, of course. He grinned.
"Nice ears, Kim." The women shrugged and returned the grin - on her
face, it looked predatory. "Thanks, but my tits are even better." Both
laughed again. Kim cocked her head towards the elevator. "Want to go ?
It's useless here. I got all the data I need, and I don't think I want
to snuff anyone yet." The man flinched, but nodded. "Okay, let's get
our ***** into the dry." She raised an eyebrow. "No wet T-****rt
contest ? Oh well, I'd win anyway." And she led the way, pointedly
ignoring the man's discomfort. She called back with an amused voice,
"Coming, Rick ?" He followed her.
A short while later, they sat in a warm hotel room at a table, looking
at a mess of printouts and photos on it. They had changed into black
jogging pants and equally black T-****rts, and Rick had trouble keeping
his eyes on the table. Kim had occupied his wet dreams since they had
been assigned as partners, and she knew that, too. Strange - her
athletic, boyish body wasn't the type he usually preferred, and
neither was her cynical outlook in life, but something about her had
struck home in his libido. Maybe it was the way she moved. She had an
almost insectoid way of moving. No move was wasted. She radiated
danger. And he knew that danger was a massive ***ual incentive.
She looked up and caught his eyes, just as they were resting on her
small, pert breasts that pushed slightly against the tight ****rt. "I
don't think my tits are the object of this observation," she remarked
with a raised eyebrow, and grinned at him, showing way too many teeth.
He had never seen her smiling, she always grinned as if she was about
to go for the throat, he mused while he took his eyes off her breasts
with a twinge of shame and guilt. She slapped him on the shoulder,
still grinning. "But I understand that I'm a lot more fascinating to
you than those pictures. Still, it would be nice if you'd either pay
attention to our objective, or stop staring at me and get some more
coffee." He nodded, smiled and got up hurriedly to fetch more coffee.
Kim had a certain rep within his department. She had been playing bait
in a rape case once, and when the suspect had tried to subdue her in a
lonely spot in the park, the Bureau had reacted too slow. The
reinforcement agents had arrived much too late, ten minutes after the
assault, and her radio had been disengaged when she'd been jumped.
Yet, when the other agents found her, she had been sitting on a bench,
peeling an apple with her assailant's knife,
and the suspect had been lying behind a few bushes. The morticians had
been counting the slashes in his body for almost two hours. It had
been ruled a case of self-defense, but after that case, no-one in the
department had tried to put any moves on agent Kim Tenegra.
Rick Baxter returned with two steaming cups filled with Kim's
trademark Brew of Death - Coffin Varnish didn't begin to describe the
stuff she called coffee. She took one of the cups and took a deep
drag. Rick pulled a face. He only sipped at his cup, and the vileness
of the goo made all his hairs stand on end. Kim sighed. "Ah, I needed
that." She looked into the cup and grinned again. "Coffee. The great
equalizer. It unites the poor and the rich, the good and the bad, it
happens to kings and beggars..." Rick interrupted her. "That's death
you're talking about." She re-directed her grin from the tar-like
insides of her cup to his face. "Death or my coffee - who'd know the
difference ?"
After the laughs, he sat back down and looked at the table. "Alright.
Your suspect was captured by the cops and vanished. Mine disappeared
from the streets. Where's the connection ?" Kim pointed at a few
photos. "The vans. They gave it all away." Rick looked at the
pictures. "They got the same plates." "Yes." She pointed at a
printout. "Registered on a certain George Griffin. Now I'd like to
know what the good George wants with those vans." Rick nodded. "Maybe
move from one graveyard to another." Kim pointed at another printout.
"Exactly. George Griffin died five years ago. And then one of my
informers told me that he saw a lot of black vans going through his
street. They blundered." "Yeah." Both looked at a map of the city.
"And you say you saw enough at that office building ?" She nodded. "A
lot of people going in and out of it. I recognized most of them. This
is where they have some sort of gathering place." "Sure it ain't
employees ?" Kim shook her head. "Too many. No registry in the offices
or the building's domestic staff. Another blunder." She pointed at a
group of tacked-together printout with staff listings. "These people
go in, stay for a while, some for days, then come out again. I watched
the ****ing building for a whole week, and there's a pattern there.
They ain't staying in the building, either. I got into it one night
and had a look..."
Rick sighed. "Illegal, Kim." "Who gives a ****, Rick. Anyway, they
weren't in there. Now, this sounds like conspiracy theory paranoia
hard at work, but I say secret passage." "Bull." "No. Only
explanation, Watson. Rule out the impossible and such." Rick stared at
the floor plans of the building. "Damnit. What now ?" "I say we get
reinforcements and move. I want my suspect back. I was after the ****
for almost two years, on and off. She ain't getting away through some
sort of underground railroad here." Rick grumbled, but he had to
agree. As little solid evidence as they had, he wasn't about to let
his suspect get away like this, either. She was still his only lead to
the terrorist organization he was investigating, and her disappearance
had severed all leads he had. He squared shoulders and jaw. Yes, he'd
get her. No way he'd give up and leave her to laugh at him from her
hiding place...
Marauder
04-18-2001, 11:33 PM
Of course, his suspect wasn't laughing at him. She was laughing,
alright, but her mirth wasn't directed at anything specific, neither
had it been for those last terrible weeks. She was sitting in a sturdy
wooden chair, tied securely to it with leather straps, her arms tied
to a chain running to a pulley in the ceiling with a pair of padded
handcuffs. The chain was pulled taut, and her arms were pointing
straight up. She was clad only in a flimsy green hospital gown, but
its sides had been ripped open, exposing a thin ribcage that was
further accentuated by her pulled-up arms. This arrangement led to her
sides and underarms being extremely vulnerable, of course, but then,
that was the point. Two male apprentices in their blue turtleneck
sweaters and black jeans were seated on comfortable chairs at both
sides of the bound girl, both busying themselves with a massive study
of tickle torture.
They fingered her smoothly shaven underarms with sometimes gentle,
sometimes deep caresses, scribbling their fingers inside the warm
hollows, while counting her ribs with the other hand. The face of
their victim was disfigured by forced laughter, but they paid no heed
to her obvious agony. Instead, they joked amongst themselves. They
were here to learn about tickle torture, and this woman was a great
research subject. Once in a while, one of them would let one hand
wander down her side, onto her thighs, tickling the bare inside with
rapid scratches, renewing her howls, then continuing to her knee and
squeezing there, forcing shrill giggles and shrieks out of her. They
looked at her bare feet with amusement. They had been strapped to the
chair's legs at the ankles, but were otherwise free to move. And move
they did - they squirmed, they flexed, the toes groped at nothing,
clenching and unclenching... And underneath her feet, the floor had
been lined with a multitude of brushes pointing upwards. Her flexing
soles moved over these brushes, and so she effectively tickled her own
sensitive soles and toes. A lovely arrangement.
They joked at her expense some more while never slowing down the
torturous tickling they put her through. "I really don't see why you
don't just keep those feet of yours still," one of them said into her
ear, almost hidden by the straining, thin arm cradling her head and
the m***** of sweat-soaked brown hair. "You're only making it worse
for yourself." The response, of course, was only more laughter. "I'll
tell you what," the other apprentice said. "If you want us to stop
this, you just need to whistle Dixie. Can you do that ?" He tickled
her armpit with even more flouri****ng sweeps of his fingers, and both
men laughed at her attempts to purse her lips. She didn't stand a
chance.
"Well, if you don't want it to stop, we're happy to oblige ! We'll
just keep it up, and we'll tickle you heeeere..." -fingers scrambling
madly in her ticklish armpits- "...and heeeere..." -poking up and down
the ribs- "...and, of course, heeere...." -once more the hands left
her ribs and tickled her thighs on the insides, and she bucked and
screamed desperately- "...and those kneeees..."
The door opened and Craig entered the cell. The screams and laughter
of all those other ticklish women here in the Practice Center filled
the air, until he shut the door once more. The two apprentices made as
if to get up, but he only waved them to remain seated. "Go on, go on,"
he grinned. "I knew I forgot something. Didn't I want to move this
specimen to another department some days ago ?" The two apprentices
dug in with renewed vigor, both eager to show their improved knowledge
of tickling to the boss of the facility. Craig nodded. "I'll make sure
to mark it down this time. Anyway, did she say anything during her
stay here ?" The two young men at her sides laughed. "Sure she did,
every time we stop the treatment. Would you like to hear it, Doctor ?"
Craig nodded again. "Yes. " The two men stopped their manipulations of
the bound woman's ticklish skin, but her laughter continued for a
couple more minutes afterwards, while residual sensations continued to
cruise around her body. Her feet were also still wiggling across the
brushes' tickling bristles, continuing her torture, until she gathered
enough willpower to force herself to keep her flailing feet still, so
that the tickling was replaced by the irritating feel of brushes
resting against the hot, sensitive skin of her soles. Then she managed
to slow down to a weak giggling, and she looked around the cell with
terrified eyes, streaked with tear tracks.
One of the apprentices merely wiggled his fingers at her, and at once
she renewed her bucking and laughing, squeezing her eyes shut in
horror... "She's conditioned, it seems," Craig said with an amused
glance. The apprentices only smiled. When the woman felt no fingers
caressing her hypersensitive skin to throw her into another fit of
forced laughter, she opened her eyes again, reluctantly, still
giggling. Craig motioned for the two apprentices to leave, and they
did so, however regretful. Craig crouched down in front of her bound
form, sitting on his heels, his hands folded between his knees, right
above her feet and just a fraction of an inch away from her knees. He
felt the warmth she radiated. When he looked up, he met her eyes.
"...please... (giggle) ...please, no more..." she said in a small,
hoarse voice. He gave her a stern look. "Would you like me to get
those two men back in here and resume the tickling ?" he asked. She
shook her head in blind panic and spurted out, "NO ! NO ! PLEASE !
I'll do ANYTHING ! Please, no more ! Please !" He nodded. "Then you
will need to learn that you will not speak unless spoken to. Is that
clear ?" She nodded, started to say that she understood, but stopped
herself and resumed nodding even more rapidly. The sides of her head
rubbed against her trapped arms.
Craig looked pleased. "Good. Now, I want to ask you a few questions. I
want you to answer me truthfully and clearly. Clear ?" She nodded
again, not daring to say a word out of fear. "What does the FBI mean
to you ?" Her eyes opened wide. "Is this what this is all about ? Some
kind of interrogation ?!?" She realized her mistake to late. Craig's
hands shot out towards her sides as he got up and bent towards her,
and then his fingers were all over her vulnerable ribcage in a flurry
of motions. "NO NO NOHOOHOHOHOHO PLEEEHEHEHEHEHZE
HAAAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAH !!! AAAHAHAAHHAHAAHHAA !!!!!" Ignoring her
pleas, he continued to knead her ribs with gentle but steady motions,
enjoying the feel of the hot skin stretched so firmly above the
delicate bones, the writhing body, the desperate face... "Elize, you
will answer truthfully and clearly. If I want you to editorialize,
I'll say so. Clear ?" "CLEEEHEHEHER YEEEHEHEHEHES PLEEEHEHEH EEEK !!!!
EEEEK ! EEK ! EEEEK !!! HEEHEHEHEHEEEK !!! AAAHAHAHAHAHAAAA !!!
CLEEEHEHEEHR PLEEEHEHESE I GOOHOHOHOT EEEHEHEHEET !!!" He continued
the tickling for two long minutes, listening gleefully to her
assurances that she understood and her pleas for mercy, then sat back
down on his heels. Her feet had tickled themselves as before, and as
always it took her a long time to control herself enough that talking
became possible. When it took too long, Craig helped her by grabbing
hold of her feet, causing her to scream in terror, but instead of the
tickling onslaught she expected, he kept the feet still long enough
for her to compose herself. She looked at him, pleadingly. "Please...
please... the FBI... they hunted me, that's why I went out onto the
streets... to hide..." Craig raised an eyebrow. "What did they want
from you ?" Elize sobbed. "They... they suspect me to be... in contact
with a group of terrorists..." "And are you ?" "Yes... yes...
please..." Craig looked at her with a sudden flash of insight. "You're
not just in contact, are you ?" She was crying now, broken. Her
fragile body shook, and her small face was a mask of self-hatred.
"No... I made the bombs... I created them... I'm good at that...
That's all I'm good for..." "Which terrorist group ? The name." She
sobbed some more, and Craig rested a threatening hand on her left
knee, ready for another onslaught. Her eyes flew open in terror. "The
New Dawn ! They call themselves The New Dawn ! PLEASE !!!" "Good.
Thank you." Craig gave her knee a playful squeeze as he got up. "Who
could resist ?", he thought to himself as she shrieked. Then he opened
the door. "Gentlemen, she's all yours again. Make sure to pay her all
the attention she is due."
Elize looked after him in terror. "NO ! PLEASE !!! NOT AGAIN !!!
Please, I told you ****ING EVERYTHING !!! PLEASE !!!" Craig left,
walking down the halls filled with laughter, and the door closed
behind him, cutting off the woman's screams. He smiled to himself.
Time for the others.
Kim Tenegra watched as Rick Baxter talked on the phone. A secure line
to HQ. She didn't need to actually hear the conversation - his
responses and the look on his face told her all she needed to know.
She bent down to tighten the laces on her size five combat boot while
he finished spitting the last sentences into the receiver. When she
straightened up, she made sure to stretch back, her arms over her
head, chest pu****ng outwards. Little things like this always got his
jaw to drop, and that was a blast to behold. She snickered while he
recovered from both the conversation and his realization that his
boxers were suddenly way too tight. "Well ?" she asked with an arched
eyebrow. She scratched the back of her head through the short stubble
of her crew cut.
He swallowed, his larynx bobbing. "They want more evidence," he
uttered. "Well..." she said, turning towards the table and the plans
and photos scattered on it, "We can't give them any more without going
in there and getting it from the source, and without a warrant it's
useless if we get it. Am I the only one who thinks that this whole
thing reeks of a cover-up ?" He nodded. "My thought exactly." She
turned towards the door. "Let's go anyway. We can always just go in
and fake an Agent Down call. Or something like that." He shook his
head. "Won't work. Not after we called them. They're going to throw us
out of the Bureau and bang our heads against the door on the way." She
grinned again. "I got a hard head. I'm gonna go anyway, see if I can't
find some evidence that they can't simply sweep under the carpet.
After all, I'm the best." Rick grimaced and went over to the window.
Looking out, he watched the rain-beaten street... All those people
hurrying from shelter to shelter... The city looked especially bleak
tonight.
He turned his head and said, "We can't do it. Best thing would be to
just quit and look for another assignment." She stared at him. "I'm
not giving up." "Kim, we don't stand a chance. You don't understand
what we're up against here. You're always so eager, you think you can
outrun them all. And it's lovely to see you running." She grinned.
"Thanks." "But you can't outrun them. These people are ruthless. If
they don't want us to find out something about them, they'll make sure
we don't. The leading bunch, top of the crop, they won't be
intimidated by you. They probably got something to do with this escape
business. They tell us to stop investigating - we stop investigating.
What do you want to do ? Disobey your bosses ?" Kim grinned even
wider. "I'm my own boss." "No, Kim. You work for the goddamn FBI. You
can't just decide to do what you think is right, or you might end up
left on the roadside." Kim turned around to face him fully. "You know
damn well that I can take care of myself. I pulled stuff like this off
in the past. Cost me a few promotions, but got the job done.
Remember ?" "Yes, but this is a direct order you want to disobey."
"What are they going to do ? Kill me ?" Rick started to reply, but in
this instant, his chest exploded in a shower of blood.
The crack of the bullet seemed to take forever to follow up. While the
glass of the window showered to the ground, Rick stared down at
himself, trying to deny himself the knowledge of his death, then he
collapsed, slowly, crumpling to the ground, folding over, his
surprised face coming to rest in a rapidly spreading pool of his own
blood. At the same instant, the door flew open. Kim whipped around,
her face cold, and reached for the sniper rifle on one of the chairs,
when taser darts slammed into her chest, and the last thing she saw
were the ski-masked faces of three people in black suits forcing their
way through the door.
Craig was smiling happily while amusing himself with the pair of bare
soles trapped in front of him, when his beeper sounded. Momentarily
distracted, he stopped the constant tickling he had been putting the
feet through for more than thirty minutes, and looked at the display
of the little electronic dictator. "Oh well," he thought, "Back to the
office." He looked back at the small pink soles that quivered in their
bonds, and the plaques besides them. Sole storage had received a
redesign after a new apprentice had pointed out a few possible
improvements. Now the compartments were more personalized.
Besides the bare feet pointing out, toes securely bound by small
clamps, each coffin-like compartment now displayed a ****trait picture
of its unfortunate occupant, most smiling from the pictures as if
nothing was wrong, and also a chart of the soles, pointing out the
most effective techniques and especially receptive spots. Craig looked
from the soles to the picture and back. Twyla Connors looked back at
him from the picture, sneering with mock amusement from underneath her
green hair, while her soles twitched in the aftermath of the tickle
torture she had just received all over the most ticklish spots on her
hypersensitive soles. A red bar framed her picture, marking her as one
of the few with a ticklishness rating of one hundred. Craig was pretty
sure that the sneer, which had been captured on the picture during her
observation prior to her acquisition, had been thoroughly wiped from
her face by now. He pressed the button that caused the mechanical
tickling machines to resume their torturous treatment of her soft
soles, and stood back from her casket. The four arms, all s****ting a
variety of small, vibrating brushes, went to work at once, going
straight for the hot spots on her soles, located in the arches and
just under the toes.
Craig looked around and once more enjoyed the picture of hundreds of
soles undergoing their daily routine of tickling. He grinned at the
thought of all those trapped women in the compartments, never knowing
what came next, while the arms switched tools, sometimes stopping the
torture for a few hours, then resuming it without compassion. He
turned and left, the sound of all those tools scratching soft soles
the only noise behind him.
Back in his office, he picked up the phone and called the number his
beeper displayed. "Doctor Craig here." He listened. "Very good !" His
face split in a mean smile. "Have her brought to one of the test
chambers at once !" Another short while of listening. "Good work. Now,
remember, she has been killed along with her partner in the pipe-bomb
blast, right ? Yes, the New Dawn terrorist group. I got certain
information that the man was hunting them. They put them out of
business. Make sure that all ends are tied." He put the phone down and
relaxed in his chair. "It'll be interesting to see just how receptive
this FBI agent is to our special treatments," he mused. But while he
waited, there was something that he could do to pass the time until
the testing phase of their newest inmate was finished. He never
watched the tests of new arrivals - he preferred to be surprised by
the results.
He turned to his intercom. "Query - Where is Maria Miller located ?"
The intercom buzzed, then answered smugly, "Miller, Maria. In holding
cell fifteen. Scheduled treatments - None." Craig grinned. "Put
holding Cell fifteen on screen." The painting on the wall moved aside
to reveal the screen, which flickered to life to show the captured
goth girl curled up on the bed, shaking with silent sobs. Craig
grinned. This would be fun.
Maria was hugging her knees, lying on her cot, her mind aflame with
terror. She had been tortured by those monsters seemingly forever, and
she couldn't stand another round. She knew that she'd go insane if
they ever tied her up again, from the knowledge of what would come
alone, and then the tickling would start AGAIN... she sobbed in
desperation. The crackling of a speaker activating caused her to
scream. "Maria Miller. Get up." She screamed and buried her head
between her knees. "NOOOOOO !!!!" The metallic voice continued. "Maria
Miller. Get up now, or you will suffer the consequences." Sobbing,
Maria slowly unfolded her cramped-up body and stood up from her cot,
her whole body shaking in terror. "Please..." she whispered. "Look at
the screen in the corner of your cell, Maria Miller."
She obliged, her eyes wide. The screen was black, but suddenly came to
life. When she saw what it displayed, she started crying harder still,
her body heaving... The sound was cut, but she could clearly make out
herself, lying on that goddamn rack, and four people working her over,
all over, tickling her body, tickling and tickling... She shut her
eyes and let out a wail of terror. The voice sounded again, sounding
amused, even through the metallic distortions. "This is a recording of
your treatment three days ago. Look closely. Observe." She shook her
head... "PLEASE !!! PLEASE !!!" "Maria Miller, you will look at the
screen, or we will have to take drastic measures." Maria opened her
eyes again, tears flowing down her pale cheeks, sobbing freely, lips
quivering. The picture cut to a close-up of a pair of soles, held
immobile by cruel hands around the backs of the toes, while four
ballpoint pens were idly doodling designs on the flushed skin. She let
out a shriek - watching this made her soles flash in hot remembrance
of the tortures they had suffered... Those were her soles, she knew it
at once. This had been done to HER. This could be done to her all over
again. She whimpered in horror.
"Maria Miller, keep watching the screen. This is a recording of your
treatment four days ago." Another cut, now the screen showed her hung
by her wrists, while two men in laboratory whites were busy tickling
her armpits and sides with a detached, professional look on their
faces, and her bound form on the screen was screaming, laughing,
squirming... She squirmed along in her cell, and clutched her sides in
terror, as if still feeling the fingers, those horrible fingers ALL
OVER HER... she collapsed in a heap on the floor, screaming,
screaming... "Maria Miller, get up. GET UP !" She shook her head,
curled up into a protective fetal ball again, starting to rock back
and forth on the floor, still screaming in nameless anguish. "Get up,
or you will be tickled in ways that make everything that has happened
to you yet look like a mere irritation. And this time, we will tickle
you for days without any pause, until you go insane. Do you want
that ?" "NOOOOOO !!!! PLEASE !!! PLEEEEEEEEEASE !!!" "THEN GET UP !"
the voice barked. Maria got up, her face wild, her long black hair
disheveled. Raw fear raged in her eyes.
"Look at the screen." She obliged. She saw herself in a set of stocks,
her feet extended towards... "NOOOO !!! PLEASE !!! NOT THAT !!!" She
watched the goats licking, and her body threatened to collapse all
over again... Her toes cringed at the remembrance... The goats had
licked her feet, and it had felt like... like... She screamed again.
"Maria Miller, you will watch the screen very closely. In about an
hour, you will be taken from your cell, and one of the treatments you
can see on the screen will be resumed." She wailed in dreadful
anguish. "But," the voice continued, "You will have a say in what kind
of tickling you will have to endure. We will ask you about your
preferences. And you can name the tickle torture of your choosing. So
watch closely, and try to remember exactly how each treatment felt.
You will have only one op****tunity to choose." Maria despaired...
"No... please..." she sobbed. "Please.. you can't... please, no, not
that..." "Choose wisely, Maria Miller. The tickle treatment of your
choice will be continued for a whole sixteen hours. So make sure you
name one you can bear for that amount of time."
Maria stumbled back from the screen. "No - No - No - NO !!!" "Yes.
Indeed. But to make you more comfortable during the period of
choosing, I will read you something - A letter from your parents." The
sound of a throat clearing. "Dear Maria, I hope you are well. Daddy
and I are so proud that our daughter helps the matter of national
security, even though we miss you very much. I hope that you'll
forgive us for sending you off, but it's for your own good. We hope
that you'll see it the same way..." The voice paused. "Are you paying
attention to the screen, Maria Miller ?" it asked sardonically over
the din of screams...
Craig sat back in his chair, watching the young goth girl tearing at
her hair; then he resumed reading the letter. This was a great day, he
thought. He couldn't wait until the agent had been tested - It would
be a great feeling to break her spirit. He watched the screen while he
read on. The girl was going crazy. Good. This messing with her mind
was almost as entertaining as was the actual tickling. He'd make sure
to join in the tickle torture anyway. Her skin was so very
sensitive... It would be a shame to leave it to untrained hands to
torture her.
Kim awoke and found herself in a strange contraption. Machines all
around her. She lifted her head. She was alone in a mechanically
furnished room... All those arms... The arms started moving. With
alarm, she realized that she was ****d, and the arms were equipped
with instruments that could only be designed for one thing... "**** !"
she screamed, and then she lost coherence.
Outside, the two guards looked at the screens in awe. "Man." "Yeah."
The stylized, rotating, green female figure on one of the displays
turned white. "Oh, man." "Holy ****." One of them reached out to touch
the button for the voice feed. Immediately, mind-numbing screams
filled the small room, and both men almost scrambled over one another
to turn it off again. They stared at the screens some more. "The Doc's
going to love this..." "No ****, Sherlock." They watched some more
long minutes. A few red lights started blinking. "Oh **** ! Turn the
sole probes down ! We're losing her !" The other one hurriedly turned
some dials until the red lights winked off. "Look at the ****ing
STRAIN she puts on the bonds !" the first one whispered. "**** !"
They looked on. "Oh man, good thing we got her. We'll need to
recalculate the whole damn scale." "Yeah." "Loads of work." "Needs to
be done anyway. I've heard of cases like her, but this is the first
time I actually saw one." "Yeah." They turned some more dials. "Watch
out for the blood pressure, it's going through the roof." "I got it."
"I always thought that this level of sensitivity was a legend." "No,
it's real, but rare." They looked at the screens, at the close-ups of
brushes traversing a pair of small, soft, twitching soles, the probes
in the underarms, circling the smooth skin with precision, the metal,
rubber-clad hands kneading the ribs... and the madly fluctuating
curves of their subject's physical read-outs.
"Turn down the resolution on the sensitivity display. It can't really
be all in the white." "Okay." A dial was turned slowly, but the
stylized, rotating female figure on one of the screens stayed a solid
white. "****." "Yeah." "We need to call the Doc. He'll think we're
pulling his leg when he gets those results." "Hmm. But he'll find out
the truth once he gets his hands on her." "Yeah." More red lights
started blinking. "Man, and that's just her belly !" "I know. Turn it
down." They watched. The screens flickered. The buzz of the computers
was all that could be heard. Their eyes were wide with disbelief.
"****." "Yeah."
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