Marquis De Sade
1st Level Blue Feather
- Joined
- Nov 21, 2007
- Messages
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Her new workout routine was as follows:
Monday - Upper body. Focus on shoulders, arms and back.
Tuesday – Cardio.
Wednesday - Lower body. Focus on thighs, glutes.
Thursday – Yoga/Rest.
Friday - Core. Focus on stomach.
Saturday – Martial Arts.
Sunday - Weapons Training. Focus on Archery and hand-to-hand stage combat.
Every other day would be an abs/core workout.
Every other week, her Friday Core workouts would be replaced with Total Body Sculpting.
Free Bird played on the radio. This was all just to get into character.
Sitting on the passenger seat next to her, its pages flapping, flapping about in the wind was a script.
Typed across the cover it says: “BLADE: TRINITY”
In the top right hand corner above the title, scribbled in black Magic Marker it reads: “Jessica Biel”
Underneath that, same handwriting, it says: “Role of Abigail Whistler”
On the phone with her agent, over the sound of wind and Free Bird, she says, “This is going to require a lot of work.”
Not in Texas, her agent says, “You mean the script?”
She says, “The script is ridiculous. I meant the workout.”
Her agent says, “Think of the body you’ll have.”
She raises an eyebrow playfully. “What’s wrong with my body right now?”
Her agent laughs. “Considering you have websites dedicated to entirely separate parts of your anatomy, nothing.”
She says, “Wanna know a secret?”
Her agent swivels from side to side in her seat, a view of Los Angeles smog outside her window, and says nothing.
Ahead of her, behind her, in every direction are just horizons of Texas back road nothing.
Right above her, it’s just nothing but blue.
She says, “I’ve already started. It’s insane. Shit I’ve never even heard of before.”
She rattles off a list:
Dive-Bomber Push-Ups
Wide Flys
Toe-Roll Isolation Lunge
Banana Roll
She asks, “What the hell’s a Sphynx-to-Plange Push-Up anyways?”
Her agent says, “I thought you said you already started.”
She answers, “Just the basics.” She glances down at her own midriff and says, “The basics for right now are enough. They’re paying off.”
Looking down at herself again she says, “Seriously, you could literally wash a shirt on my abs right now.”
Her agent says, protecting one of her most prized products, “Don’t hurt yourself. Wait for your trainer. You have a whole year before pre-production on Blade even starts. Wait until you wrap Texas Chainsaw.”
She says, “Relax. It’s not like I’ve never worked out before. Have you seen what they’re going to put me in for Texas? Tied-off tank top? The jeans are like a whole size too small. The Blade workout is helping. I might as well look the part, right?”
Her agent says, “Hot Damsel in Distress?”
She says nothing.
Her agent, still grinning, she says again, “Hot Damsel in Distress?”
Jessica says, “Shit.”
And snaps her cell phone shut.
Lynyrd Skynyrd is still on but now so are the flashing police lightbars behind her.
Jessica relaxes her right foot a little, easing the wooden sole of her cowboy boot off the pedal and slowing her second-hand van.
Her booted foot switches from the gas pedal to the brake and both cars come to a slow stop.
The stretch of open road where both cars are right now, it’s no wonder people once swore up and down that the world was flat.
In her rearview mirror, through the dust cloud from her wheels, Jessica sees exactly what you would expect to see step out of a police car with its lights still going off.
A pair of highway patrol police boots scrunch gravel as they walk over.
Jessica turns Free Bird down as a sheriff shape steps through the cloud of kicked-up dirt road blanketed between both vehicles and stops by her driver’s side window.
Underneath the shadowed shape of its sheriff hat, where the mouth might be, a voice deep as a resting engine says, “Do you have any idea how fast you was going?”
To the rest of us, this sounds like, “Do you hayv any ideah how fayst you wuz goin’?”
Jessica squints up from her driver’s seat. She takes her best guess at where the sheriff’s face might be and shakes her head.
The sheriff shape growls, “You got ID?”
Jessica reaches for her back pack in the backseat and the sheriff, he all of a sudden flips out yelling, “GET YOUR HANDS UP WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!!”
Except it all sounds a lot like, “Git-yer-haynds-up-wur-ah-cun-see-um!” And he steps backwards, fast, hand at his hip. His fingers twitching.
Jessica bolts upright in her seat. Pulse quickening, she says, “Please, just relax. You asked me for ID so I’m getting my driver’s license, so just chill, okay?”
And right now, this all just seems like something out of a really bad horror movie.
The sheriff spits tobacco, growls at her, “Are you giving me lip girl?”
Except it sounds like, “Are-you-given-me-lip-gurl?”
Then there’s just the sound of hazard lights.
Jessica cocks her head and shouts, “Oh my God! It’s you! It’s you!” And she bursts out laughing, clapping her hands.
She says, “You’re out here too?”
He says, “Say what?”
She says, “R. Lee! You’re playing the Sheriff! I’m Jessica. I’m playing Erin!”
Sheriff says, “I ain’t so sure I quite follow what you’re going on about there Miss Jessica or Erin. But does it look like to you I’m playing?”
She says, “You’re playing Sheriff Hoyt!”
He says, fingers still twitching, “I’m playing what now?”
Character development she says. She tries to explain. This is all just to get into character.
She says, “Texas Chainsaw. Four months left until we start shooting so I just thought I’d come out here, check Texas out, get into the character a little. I even asked wardrobe if I could get Erin’s outfit and they gave me everything – the tight tank top, the jeans. I’ve even got the real boots on.”
The sheriff lets out a long smoker’s breath through his nose. He leans back through her window and looks down at her boots. “Is that so?”
Jessica nods, grinning. She says, “They even let me borrow the van for while I’m out here.”
The Sheriff half smiles, says, “So, you’re name’s Erin or Jessica?”
“Well I’m not THAT much of a Method Actor. You can call me Jessica. No problem with that R. Lee.”
The Sheriff says calmly, “Well okay then, Miss Jessica Erin. Why don’t you put your hands up where I can see them.”
Jessica just grins. “Oh you’re good.”
The same grin splashed all across her face she says, “You’re going all Brando on me now huh?”
The Sheriff says again, “Put your hands up, where I, can see them. I ain’t asking you Miss.”
Jessica giggles. “Are we going over lines right now R? Because I don’t remember this being in the script.”
Sheriff spits. He says, shouting this time: “PUT YOUR HANDS UP WHERE I CAN FUCKIN’ SEE THEM MISS!”
The way things look, you can drive in any direction – up down or back from where you came from or wherever it is you’re going and you might just fall right clean off the edge of the earth.
Right now, again, there’s no sound except the blink, blink, blinking of a run down prop van’s hazard lights.
Looking all around, it’s just a whole lot of Texas empty.
Jessica’s face sharpens. “This isn’t funny anymore.”
Sheriff swears at God and lunges toward her, reaching inside through her driver’s window and grabs a hold of her wrists.
Jessica shouts, pulling at her arms with the sheriff yelling, “Are you revisiting arrest?!”
Jessica stops, panicked.
Blink, blink, blink.
The sheriff lets go of her wrists. Gives her a look. He moves over to the back of her van, slides open the door and half sits in one of the passenger seats right behind her.
Underneath his sheriff hat, he growls, “Hands.”
It comes out, “Haynds.”
Jessica grits her perfectly straightened teeth – slowly raising her arms upwards and behind her head and gasping as she feels a pair of steel handcuffs being tightly fastened around each of her pretty wrists.
Both her perfectly manicured hands now securely locked to the two thin steel stems of the headrest above and behind her so she can’t pull her arms down in front of her again.
Jessica curses under her heated breath, crimson faced now and visibly fuming at having to be restrained like this, “I’m having you fired.”
Her tank-topped chest gets bigger and smaller as she huffs and puffs.
She says, her teeth still grinding, “You’re taking this Method Acting thing WAY too seriously.”
Sheriff grunts, gets out of the back, steps over to her driver’s door again and opens it.
He looks at her, looking her up and down from beneath his sheriff hat how any man who had Jessica Biel in handcuffs would.
The Sheriff says, half smiling at her, “Feisty one, aren’t you?”
It comes out, “Fahsty won arn’cha?”
Jessica just glares at him, fidgeting in her seat. Her long slender and Pilates finely sculpted arms stretched back behind her head, her elbows framing the expression on her face like an angry still photograph.
The Sheriff smirks at her.
He says, “Now. Legs.” And he steps forward, reaching to scoop up both of Jessica’s tightly blue-jeaned and booted legs.
Jessica squeals, more out of outrage than fear and begins to kick and fight – yelling out, “You’ve already got me in cuffs!!”
Sheriff, he just grins. He takes each desperate kick and leg lunge like any man who’s already made up his mind about what was going to take place would and says, smirking, “I got me two more pairs little lady.”
In every direction there really is just nothing much.
Listen close and it’s just the sound of the end of Free Bird turned down low and some curse words. Maybe what a fight would sound like.
Then all of sudden, there’s laughing.
High pitched.
Squealing.
Maybe even snorting.
Then real laughter. Pit of her stomach kind of laughter and whatever Jessica Biel losing all control of herself might sound like.
Bash-the-back-of-her-head-against-the-headrest-of-her-van-as-hard-as-she-can-to-make-it-more-bearable kind of laughter.
Maybe what Jessica Biel would sound like if you had her arms cuffed all the way up behind her head and you reached over and ever-so-very-gently tickled her uncovered armpits.
Her tank top so tight it pulls her sleeves up, exposes the soft skin of her underarms.
Maybe what all this screaming and hollering is about is what it might sound like if you just reached over and you wriggled just the tips of your fingers against her shown-off pale skin.
Maybe even reached down and squeezed her ribs. Hard.
Then tickled.
Then squeezed.
Then tickled.
Her tank top so tight, the Texas day so Texas hot, just maybe she’s a little wet from it all and you can actually see just where all of her soft spots are because her tank top’s soaked in sweat.
The hollows of her torso. Her ribs. Underneath her breasts. Reaching in deep, maybe you can even try and get at her belly button.
Maybe, just maybe with her arms stretched and handcuffed up behind her there would be nothing she could do to protect herself but squeal and cry and shake her pretty head from side to side and try and bury her face in her arms and violently buck up and down and every other way in her driver’s seat and kick and pummel the steering wheel with her legs so much that you had to climb right into the van and sit on her thighs so she couldn’t move much and she’d have to just sit there taking it until you decided when enough was enough and she’d either pass out or wet herself from laughing so much and so hard and you didn’t want either one of those things to happen and so you finally pulled away and Jessica, poor thing, she was in so much hysterics that she didn’t even realize you were done and she just sat there in her seat still going all crazy for a good long few seconds until she realized, finally, that you weren’t even sitting on her or tickling her underarms or her ribs or her stomach or her breasts anymore and you were just standing there outside her van in all the Texas back road dust just watching her with a big smile plastered all over your face.
The sheriff smiles, “Gonna gimme them long beautiful legs of yours now girl?”
How it comes out from the lips under his sheriff hat, it really isn’t a question at all.
Jessica sits still locked in her handcuffs, steaming with visible fury in her driver’s seat. Her giant tank-topped chest heaving away from her and collapsing back towards her quivering body just as fast as she can take in each huge necessary breath.
Jessica scowls at him.
She squeezes her eyes closed. She grinds her perfect teeth and lets out a deep growl of effort from her gut as she angrily yanks at her chained wrists above and behind her before finally giving up and slowly lifting both of her long legs up in front of her.
Jessica watches as the sheriff bear-hugs her shins with one arm and she doesn’t feel it just yet, but he pinches the little metal zipper of her left boot and begins to pull.
Jessica, still mad as hell, she machine-guns: “Is that some fucked up police tactic to get me under control? Tickling me?”
Sheriff just smiles and says, “Worked didn’t it?” And the sheriff, he makes a show of this whole removing her boot thing.
This slow, slow, zipper pulling. This zipper being pulled, down, down her long, beautiful skin-tight blue-jeaned cowboy booted leg.
Jessica, she notices now and tries for a few seconds to pull her legs away before being stopped by the look he gives her.
And no matter what anyone tells you, the Texas sun right above her really did shine a little brighter as her leather boot came off.
Sheriff smiles, breathing in deep. His one hand all over exploring the jeaned backs of her shins and grinning as he pinched the other zipper.
Jessica watches, still breathing heavy as she flexes her one socked foot and watches her other boot being slowly, slowly unzippered and pulled away.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, the way he kept eyeing her legs, she might’ve been thinking about all of the many websites dedicated to just her different body parts.
Jessica whines now, pulling at her legs again as her right boot slides off, shouting, “PERVERT!! WHY’RE YOU TAKING MY BOOTS OFF?!”
Her boots land in a pile behind the sheriff, sending another, smaller cloud of road dust up in the air and he stands there, same expression on his face as anyone who had Jessica Biel in handcuffs and had just stripped her boots off and was now holding onto those long blue-jeaned legs would have.
Jessica cocks her head to the side, giving him a look of her own. She says, half snarling, “Does that make you happy Sheriff? Putting me in cuffs so I can’t get away, tickling me until I’m too weak to put up a fight so you can take my boots off? You gotta thing for boots?”
Sheriff grins. What comes out sounds like, “Ur ‘bout ta fahynd out what ahm into Miss Jeyssica Erin.”
He says, teeth still showing, “I ain’t even dun yet.” He says, “Hell, I ain’t even gut started yet.”
And Jessica’s beautiful eyes burn holes into the top of his sheriff hat as he looks down, studying his own personal show of pulling each cotton sock off of each of her beautifully shaped feet.
This all happens like it would if you hit Slow Motion on a remote control. The same jagged-moment-to-moment movements, some blurry, some crystal clear because of how you’d forget to take in air when your lungs called for it.
Slowly pulling each sock off – you’d maybe pinch the cotton edges of the soft cotton rim of each sock and...
...pull...
...gently...
..slowly...
Standing where you are right now, looking down at them, you’d first see just a little bit more of her perfectly shaped ankles.
You wouldn’t see them, probably not from where you’re standing, but your fingertips would be sending panicked electrical signals skyrocketing up your spine and upward to your central nervous system. The left side of your brain malfunctioning as to how the bottoms, backs and sides of any woman’s naked heels could possibly feel this soft and round and warm.
Then the smooth, smooth tops of each size 9 foot.
Without even thinking, just on instinct alone, you clasp her ankles and slide your hands up her jeaned leg. Sliding your hands up, up as far as you can and making her breathe faster and squirm about in her seat as she feels you feel her long, beautiful legs up from her ankles to just below her knees. Then you slide your hands back down again, down, down, purposely catching the edges of her socks as you start to pull them off a little faster. Your fingers making contact with the soles of her warm bare feet and making her freeze.
Listen close, and even then, it’s so slight, you probably wouldn’t hear Jessica gasp as she feels what it feels like to have her arches tickled so gently.
Your fingertips, just the tips, slowly brushing the soft, rounded balls of her expensively pedicured bare feet as her socks come off.
The tips slowly grazing four lines across the bottoms of her completely exposed soles.
The backs and bottoms of the soft rounded pads of all her painted toes.
Free Bird was over.
The sweat from her tousled hair drenches her reddened face. Her heaving white tank-topped upper body soaked and sticking to her.
Jessica’s mouth is open, her lower row of teeth showing. She half bites her lower lip, half gasps little gasps of excitement before she catches on to what it must sound like she just finished having.
Her embarrassment shows. Her composure floods back into the expression on her face and she sits back upright in her seat. She cocks her dripping brunette head to one side and says with her eyes ablaze, “Well then.”
The Sheriff’s cracked lips pull into a grin. He says, “Well then.” And quickly snaps one steel handcuff from his second pair around her left ankle. He pulls her legs up, loops the short chain around the steering wheel and snaps the second cuff around her right ankle. This fastens both of Jessica’s naked ankles and legs to the steering wheel in front of her, stretching and straightening her legs out.
Jessica’s breathing gets heavier as she watches him pull her jeans as far up her legs as he can get them. Exposing her shins.
The Sheriff takes his third and final pair and locks them around both of her legs just below her knees. He says, smiling at her, “Just so’s you don’t go hurting yourself.”
Jessica, still recovering, she looks confused for a second but catches the Sheriff staring at her bare soles. His fingers twitching again but this time, they’re nowhere near his gun.
Jessica makes a quiet crying sound, fidgeting in her seat and shaking her head. “Nonononononononononopleaseno. Don’t, don’t, don’t...please don’t. Pleeeeeeeeeeeease.”
Jessica suddenly catches her breath. She rises a few inches clean off of her driver’s seat. Holding the air in her swelling lungs, she’s explosively silent. Her face reddening. The veins in her forehead and her neck begin to show. Bulging. Pulsing. Her large tank topped chest expanded upwards to its limit and remaining still.
Jessica’s face contorts. Her teeth grinding. Her eyes squeeze, squeeze, squeezing closed harder and tighter. Her shackled hands ball up into tight fists above and behind her. Her muscles tense. Her rock hard abs rock hard.
Her paralyzed body then finally starts to quiver and tremble. First its slight. Then faster and faster. The driver’s seat creaking under the pressure of her fighting to maintain her composure. Her being-tickled bare feet in front of her flexed and stiffened as far backwards as they can possibly go. The color drained from her soles.
Then her feet curl. Hard. Then she flexes them backwards again as the Sheriff runs the tips of his fingers up, down, up, down the uncovered and unprotected bottoms of her bared soles.
Jessica groans. Long, deep. The walls of her willpower beginning to visibly crack.
He starts at the bottoms of both of her perfectly rounded and smooth bare heels. His fingertips scuttling gently all over her smooth stretched backwards skin and working their way up to her deep arches. The skin smoother and softer and much more tender here than any other part of either beautifully, flawlessly shaped 9 inch long foot. The Sheriff turns both his hands upwards. Palms up. Fingertips almost inverted towards the ceiling of the van now as he gently scratches at the base of the balls of her feet. Right where her arches become almost completely rounded and lead into the base of where her toes bloom from. The Sheriff is gentle. Takes his time. Tickling. Tickling the balls of both of her beautiful feet and enjoying her reaction.
Any second now...
And...
Jessica lets it all out at once. Her eyes still closed, she lets loose a half maddened wailing banshee shriek from the pit of her stomach. Her jaws opened as wide as they can. The sound of her hysterical laughter blanketing out across the Texas back road horizon further than you can see.
Jessica almost hyperventilates immediately from trying to hold back earlier so much. She bucks and twists in her driver’s seat. Bouncing up and down. The rusted bolts rattling as they’re pulled from the floor. The springs scream as Jessica helplessly rears and thrashes about in her seat as much and as hard and as wildly as she can.
She buries her face deep in her arms. Her right arm. Then her left arm. Her uncontrollable fits and bursts of laughter first muffled and then spill right out of her. She points her toes. She flexes her sensitive tickle tortured feet backwards and forwards. She cries out in between all her maddened hysterics for mercy.
The glint in the Sheriff’s eyes, all he’s really focused on right now are the two most perfect examples of Intelligent Design shackled down to the steering wheel right in front of him.
These beautiful bare feet with their beautiful, natural curves. Each foot naturally staying in a slight flexed backward position when she relaxed to show off her deep arches. The smooth flesh of her insteps and the round balls and bottoms of each foot.
The smooth curves of the outsides and insides of her feet.
The way the bottoms of her heels were as smooth and round as ripened apples.
His right hand holds the toes of her right foot back. Bending them back hard to stretch out and fully expose her arch. Then his fingertips drag this time, a little harder than before. Dragging up and down all across the tender parts of her insteps and leaving pink trail marks across her warm skin.
Her left bare little foot wildly kicks about. Her left foot desperately slapping at the Sheriff’s fingers and hands attacking her other one. Her warm, soft sole making quiet, wet clapping sounds drowned out by her screeching. Her made-for-sucking toes curling around his fingers as she tries to pry his hands away from her right set of toes.
The Sheriff, he just continues. Then switches feet. Grabs a hold of her left foot, pulls it back and starts all over again.
Jessica throws her head back, shuts her eyes and roars with laughter. Her wonderful body twisting from side to side. Both her legs violently convulsing as she pulls and desperately yanks at her shackled ankles. Her cuffed legs wrenching at the steering wheel.
The Sheriff switches feet again and it’s the same reaction but she’s low on fight. His one finger following the contour of the outside of her right foot and tracing a line from the side of her little toe, down the side of her arch and curves upwards at her heel so he can work his way back up again but this time on the outside of the inside of her foot.
Jessica powerfully bellows and shouts for mercy. Her manic laughter cannon-blasting from her worn out lungs.
The Sheriff tickles the tops of her feet. Squeezes the balls of her feet so her toes splay out and tickles between each of her toes and sends her into long, drawn out howls of laughter.
He suddenly changes tactics and squeezes her thighs. Jessica roars all over again. Her legs buck powerfully with each gut-wrenching groan of having to put up with this. The sweat utterly soaking her tank top and splashing from her hair all over the windshield.
Jessica, the poor thing, she tries forming words as the Sheriff tickles the backs of her calves and squeezes her muscles. The word, “Stop”. The word, “Please”. The word, “No”. But it all just comes out sounding like another language.
The Sheriff pauses. Lets her catch her breath again.
Jessica is a wreck. She slumps in her seat. Her soaked head lifting and falling again as she wheezes for precious air. She sniffs. Half sobbing and half still giggling like something in her mind had been broken. Her spirit considerably and visibly weakened.
Her body still quivering as if, despite all the Texas sunshine, she was cold.
The Sheriff steps a few steps back from her van, looking from direction to direction.
The stretch of open road where both cars are right now, it’s no wonder people once swore up and down that the world was flat.
Nothing but the sound of gasping, wheezing and bubbly giggling.
The Sheriff steps forward again. He gently lifts Jessica’s lowered head up with a finger underneath her chin. Sweat floods down her face, tears dribbling down her flushed cheeks and run down his finger, staining the sleeve of his uniform.
The Sheriff cocks his head, saying. “I think you and me, we need to go someplace other than here.”
He says, “Which, really, when you think about it, is pretty much nowhere.”
Jessica’s lips pucker. She tries again to say words but, nothing comes out of her but air.
The Sheriff jangles keys from his belt and Jessica collapses in a heap as her ankles, legs and wrists are all unlocked.
Too weak to put up a fight, her lungs too worn to work up enough breath to say anything, she’s slung uselessly over the Sheriff’s shoulder.
His Sheriff boots scrunch Texas back road gravel as he carries her back towards his highway patrol car and unfolds her into the backseat.
The door slams shut. The locks lock. The Sheriff turns the ignition key and his wheels kick up a fresh dirt cloud behind him as he continues in the direction both of them were headed.
Jessica lifts her head, still weak, her lungs still wheezing. She says, “Where are we going?”
The Sheriff smiles into his mirror. He says, “Like I told you before. I ain’t even got started yet Miss.”
He reaches down, hits PLAY on his dashboard and Free Bird comes on. He grins, says, “Well look at that, something we have in common.” He says, and the way it all comes out, it sounds like, “Hell ah lyke Skynyrd.”
Then Jessica’s blinks, blinks, blinks her eyes before slumping sideways in the backseat and passing out.
Monday - Upper body. Focus on shoulders, arms and back.
Tuesday – Cardio.
Wednesday - Lower body. Focus on thighs, glutes.
Thursday – Yoga/Rest.
Friday - Core. Focus on stomach.
Saturday – Martial Arts.
Sunday - Weapons Training. Focus on Archery and hand-to-hand stage combat.
Every other day would be an abs/core workout.
Every other week, her Friday Core workouts would be replaced with Total Body Sculpting.
Free Bird played on the radio. This was all just to get into character.
Sitting on the passenger seat next to her, its pages flapping, flapping about in the wind was a script.
Typed across the cover it says: “BLADE: TRINITY”
In the top right hand corner above the title, scribbled in black Magic Marker it reads: “Jessica Biel”
Underneath that, same handwriting, it says: “Role of Abigail Whistler”
On the phone with her agent, over the sound of wind and Free Bird, she says, “This is going to require a lot of work.”
Not in Texas, her agent says, “You mean the script?”
She says, “The script is ridiculous. I meant the workout.”
Her agent says, “Think of the body you’ll have.”
She raises an eyebrow playfully. “What’s wrong with my body right now?”
Her agent laughs. “Considering you have websites dedicated to entirely separate parts of your anatomy, nothing.”
She says, “Wanna know a secret?”
Her agent swivels from side to side in her seat, a view of Los Angeles smog outside her window, and says nothing.
Ahead of her, behind her, in every direction are just horizons of Texas back road nothing.
Right above her, it’s just nothing but blue.
She says, “I’ve already started. It’s insane. Shit I’ve never even heard of before.”
She rattles off a list:
Dive-Bomber Push-Ups
Wide Flys
Toe-Roll Isolation Lunge
Banana Roll
She asks, “What the hell’s a Sphynx-to-Plange Push-Up anyways?”
Her agent says, “I thought you said you already started.”
She answers, “Just the basics.” She glances down at her own midriff and says, “The basics for right now are enough. They’re paying off.”
Looking down at herself again she says, “Seriously, you could literally wash a shirt on my abs right now.”
Her agent says, protecting one of her most prized products, “Don’t hurt yourself. Wait for your trainer. You have a whole year before pre-production on Blade even starts. Wait until you wrap Texas Chainsaw.”
She says, “Relax. It’s not like I’ve never worked out before. Have you seen what they’re going to put me in for Texas? Tied-off tank top? The jeans are like a whole size too small. The Blade workout is helping. I might as well look the part, right?”
Her agent says, “Hot Damsel in Distress?”
She says nothing.
Her agent, still grinning, she says again, “Hot Damsel in Distress?”
Jessica says, “Shit.”
And snaps her cell phone shut.
Lynyrd Skynyrd is still on but now so are the flashing police lightbars behind her.
Jessica relaxes her right foot a little, easing the wooden sole of her cowboy boot off the pedal and slowing her second-hand van.
Her booted foot switches from the gas pedal to the brake and both cars come to a slow stop.
The stretch of open road where both cars are right now, it’s no wonder people once swore up and down that the world was flat.
In her rearview mirror, through the dust cloud from her wheels, Jessica sees exactly what you would expect to see step out of a police car with its lights still going off.
A pair of highway patrol police boots scrunch gravel as they walk over.
Jessica turns Free Bird down as a sheriff shape steps through the cloud of kicked-up dirt road blanketed between both vehicles and stops by her driver’s side window.
Underneath the shadowed shape of its sheriff hat, where the mouth might be, a voice deep as a resting engine says, “Do you have any idea how fast you was going?”
To the rest of us, this sounds like, “Do you hayv any ideah how fayst you wuz goin’?”
Jessica squints up from her driver’s seat. She takes her best guess at where the sheriff’s face might be and shakes her head.
The sheriff shape growls, “You got ID?”
Jessica reaches for her back pack in the backseat and the sheriff, he all of a sudden flips out yelling, “GET YOUR HANDS UP WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!!”
Except it all sounds a lot like, “Git-yer-haynds-up-wur-ah-cun-see-um!” And he steps backwards, fast, hand at his hip. His fingers twitching.
Jessica bolts upright in her seat. Pulse quickening, she says, “Please, just relax. You asked me for ID so I’m getting my driver’s license, so just chill, okay?”
And right now, this all just seems like something out of a really bad horror movie.
The sheriff spits tobacco, growls at her, “Are you giving me lip girl?”
Except it sounds like, “Are-you-given-me-lip-gurl?”
Then there’s just the sound of hazard lights.
Jessica cocks her head and shouts, “Oh my God! It’s you! It’s you!” And she bursts out laughing, clapping her hands.
She says, “You’re out here too?”
He says, “Say what?”
She says, “R. Lee! You’re playing the Sheriff! I’m Jessica. I’m playing Erin!”
Sheriff says, “I ain’t so sure I quite follow what you’re going on about there Miss Jessica or Erin. But does it look like to you I’m playing?”
She says, “You’re playing Sheriff Hoyt!”
He says, fingers still twitching, “I’m playing what now?”
Character development she says. She tries to explain. This is all just to get into character.
She says, “Texas Chainsaw. Four months left until we start shooting so I just thought I’d come out here, check Texas out, get into the character a little. I even asked wardrobe if I could get Erin’s outfit and they gave me everything – the tight tank top, the jeans. I’ve even got the real boots on.”
The sheriff lets out a long smoker’s breath through his nose. He leans back through her window and looks down at her boots. “Is that so?”
Jessica nods, grinning. She says, “They even let me borrow the van for while I’m out here.”
The Sheriff half smiles, says, “So, you’re name’s Erin or Jessica?”
“Well I’m not THAT much of a Method Actor. You can call me Jessica. No problem with that R. Lee.”
The Sheriff says calmly, “Well okay then, Miss Jessica Erin. Why don’t you put your hands up where I can see them.”
Jessica just grins. “Oh you’re good.”
The same grin splashed all across her face she says, “You’re going all Brando on me now huh?”
The Sheriff says again, “Put your hands up, where I, can see them. I ain’t asking you Miss.”
Jessica giggles. “Are we going over lines right now R? Because I don’t remember this being in the script.”
Sheriff spits. He says, shouting this time: “PUT YOUR HANDS UP WHERE I CAN FUCKIN’ SEE THEM MISS!”
The way things look, you can drive in any direction – up down or back from where you came from or wherever it is you’re going and you might just fall right clean off the edge of the earth.
Right now, again, there’s no sound except the blink, blink, blinking of a run down prop van’s hazard lights.
Looking all around, it’s just a whole lot of Texas empty.
Jessica’s face sharpens. “This isn’t funny anymore.”
Sheriff swears at God and lunges toward her, reaching inside through her driver’s window and grabs a hold of her wrists.
Jessica shouts, pulling at her arms with the sheriff yelling, “Are you revisiting arrest?!”
Jessica stops, panicked.
Blink, blink, blink.
The sheriff lets go of her wrists. Gives her a look. He moves over to the back of her van, slides open the door and half sits in one of the passenger seats right behind her.
Underneath his sheriff hat, he growls, “Hands.”
It comes out, “Haynds.”
Jessica grits her perfectly straightened teeth – slowly raising her arms upwards and behind her head and gasping as she feels a pair of steel handcuffs being tightly fastened around each of her pretty wrists.
Both her perfectly manicured hands now securely locked to the two thin steel stems of the headrest above and behind her so she can’t pull her arms down in front of her again.
Jessica curses under her heated breath, crimson faced now and visibly fuming at having to be restrained like this, “I’m having you fired.”
Her tank-topped chest gets bigger and smaller as she huffs and puffs.
She says, her teeth still grinding, “You’re taking this Method Acting thing WAY too seriously.”
Sheriff grunts, gets out of the back, steps over to her driver’s door again and opens it.
He looks at her, looking her up and down from beneath his sheriff hat how any man who had Jessica Biel in handcuffs would.
The Sheriff says, half smiling at her, “Feisty one, aren’t you?”
It comes out, “Fahsty won arn’cha?”
Jessica just glares at him, fidgeting in her seat. Her long slender and Pilates finely sculpted arms stretched back behind her head, her elbows framing the expression on her face like an angry still photograph.
The Sheriff smirks at her.
He says, “Now. Legs.” And he steps forward, reaching to scoop up both of Jessica’s tightly blue-jeaned and booted legs.
Jessica squeals, more out of outrage than fear and begins to kick and fight – yelling out, “You’ve already got me in cuffs!!”
Sheriff, he just grins. He takes each desperate kick and leg lunge like any man who’s already made up his mind about what was going to take place would and says, smirking, “I got me two more pairs little lady.”
In every direction there really is just nothing much.
Listen close and it’s just the sound of the end of Free Bird turned down low and some curse words. Maybe what a fight would sound like.
Then all of sudden, there’s laughing.
High pitched.
Squealing.
Maybe even snorting.
Then real laughter. Pit of her stomach kind of laughter and whatever Jessica Biel losing all control of herself might sound like.
Bash-the-back-of-her-head-against-the-headrest-of-her-van-as-hard-as-she-can-to-make-it-more-bearable kind of laughter.
Maybe what Jessica Biel would sound like if you had her arms cuffed all the way up behind her head and you reached over and ever-so-very-gently tickled her uncovered armpits.
Her tank top so tight it pulls her sleeves up, exposes the soft skin of her underarms.
Maybe what all this screaming and hollering is about is what it might sound like if you just reached over and you wriggled just the tips of your fingers against her shown-off pale skin.
Maybe even reached down and squeezed her ribs. Hard.
Then tickled.
Then squeezed.
Then tickled.
Her tank top so tight, the Texas day so Texas hot, just maybe she’s a little wet from it all and you can actually see just where all of her soft spots are because her tank top’s soaked in sweat.
The hollows of her torso. Her ribs. Underneath her breasts. Reaching in deep, maybe you can even try and get at her belly button.
Maybe, just maybe with her arms stretched and handcuffed up behind her there would be nothing she could do to protect herself but squeal and cry and shake her pretty head from side to side and try and bury her face in her arms and violently buck up and down and every other way in her driver’s seat and kick and pummel the steering wheel with her legs so much that you had to climb right into the van and sit on her thighs so she couldn’t move much and she’d have to just sit there taking it until you decided when enough was enough and she’d either pass out or wet herself from laughing so much and so hard and you didn’t want either one of those things to happen and so you finally pulled away and Jessica, poor thing, she was in so much hysterics that she didn’t even realize you were done and she just sat there in her seat still going all crazy for a good long few seconds until she realized, finally, that you weren’t even sitting on her or tickling her underarms or her ribs or her stomach or her breasts anymore and you were just standing there outside her van in all the Texas back road dust just watching her with a big smile plastered all over your face.
The sheriff smiles, “Gonna gimme them long beautiful legs of yours now girl?”
How it comes out from the lips under his sheriff hat, it really isn’t a question at all.
Jessica sits still locked in her handcuffs, steaming with visible fury in her driver’s seat. Her giant tank-topped chest heaving away from her and collapsing back towards her quivering body just as fast as she can take in each huge necessary breath.
Jessica scowls at him.
She squeezes her eyes closed. She grinds her perfect teeth and lets out a deep growl of effort from her gut as she angrily yanks at her chained wrists above and behind her before finally giving up and slowly lifting both of her long legs up in front of her.
Jessica watches as the sheriff bear-hugs her shins with one arm and she doesn’t feel it just yet, but he pinches the little metal zipper of her left boot and begins to pull.
Jessica, still mad as hell, she machine-guns: “Is that some fucked up police tactic to get me under control? Tickling me?”
Sheriff just smiles and says, “Worked didn’t it?” And the sheriff, he makes a show of this whole removing her boot thing.
This slow, slow, zipper pulling. This zipper being pulled, down, down her long, beautiful skin-tight blue-jeaned cowboy booted leg.
Jessica, she notices now and tries for a few seconds to pull her legs away before being stopped by the look he gives her.
And no matter what anyone tells you, the Texas sun right above her really did shine a little brighter as her leather boot came off.
Sheriff smiles, breathing in deep. His one hand all over exploring the jeaned backs of her shins and grinning as he pinched the other zipper.
Jessica watches, still breathing heavy as she flexes her one socked foot and watches her other boot being slowly, slowly unzippered and pulled away.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, the way he kept eyeing her legs, she might’ve been thinking about all of the many websites dedicated to just her different body parts.
Jessica whines now, pulling at her legs again as her right boot slides off, shouting, “PERVERT!! WHY’RE YOU TAKING MY BOOTS OFF?!”
Her boots land in a pile behind the sheriff, sending another, smaller cloud of road dust up in the air and he stands there, same expression on his face as anyone who had Jessica Biel in handcuffs and had just stripped her boots off and was now holding onto those long blue-jeaned legs would have.
Jessica cocks her head to the side, giving him a look of her own. She says, half snarling, “Does that make you happy Sheriff? Putting me in cuffs so I can’t get away, tickling me until I’m too weak to put up a fight so you can take my boots off? You gotta thing for boots?”
Sheriff grins. What comes out sounds like, “Ur ‘bout ta fahynd out what ahm into Miss Jeyssica Erin.”
He says, teeth still showing, “I ain’t even dun yet.” He says, “Hell, I ain’t even gut started yet.”
And Jessica’s beautiful eyes burn holes into the top of his sheriff hat as he looks down, studying his own personal show of pulling each cotton sock off of each of her beautifully shaped feet.
This all happens like it would if you hit Slow Motion on a remote control. The same jagged-moment-to-moment movements, some blurry, some crystal clear because of how you’d forget to take in air when your lungs called for it.
Slowly pulling each sock off – you’d maybe pinch the cotton edges of the soft cotton rim of each sock and...
...pull...
...gently...
..slowly...
Standing where you are right now, looking down at them, you’d first see just a little bit more of her perfectly shaped ankles.
You wouldn’t see them, probably not from where you’re standing, but your fingertips would be sending panicked electrical signals skyrocketing up your spine and upward to your central nervous system. The left side of your brain malfunctioning as to how the bottoms, backs and sides of any woman’s naked heels could possibly feel this soft and round and warm.
Then the smooth, smooth tops of each size 9 foot.
Without even thinking, just on instinct alone, you clasp her ankles and slide your hands up her jeaned leg. Sliding your hands up, up as far as you can and making her breathe faster and squirm about in her seat as she feels you feel her long, beautiful legs up from her ankles to just below her knees. Then you slide your hands back down again, down, down, purposely catching the edges of her socks as you start to pull them off a little faster. Your fingers making contact with the soles of her warm bare feet and making her freeze.
Listen close, and even then, it’s so slight, you probably wouldn’t hear Jessica gasp as she feels what it feels like to have her arches tickled so gently.
Your fingertips, just the tips, slowly brushing the soft, rounded balls of her expensively pedicured bare feet as her socks come off.
The tips slowly grazing four lines across the bottoms of her completely exposed soles.
The backs and bottoms of the soft rounded pads of all her painted toes.
Free Bird was over.
The sweat from her tousled hair drenches her reddened face. Her heaving white tank-topped upper body soaked and sticking to her.
Jessica’s mouth is open, her lower row of teeth showing. She half bites her lower lip, half gasps little gasps of excitement before she catches on to what it must sound like she just finished having.
Her embarrassment shows. Her composure floods back into the expression on her face and she sits back upright in her seat. She cocks her dripping brunette head to one side and says with her eyes ablaze, “Well then.”
The Sheriff’s cracked lips pull into a grin. He says, “Well then.” And quickly snaps one steel handcuff from his second pair around her left ankle. He pulls her legs up, loops the short chain around the steering wheel and snaps the second cuff around her right ankle. This fastens both of Jessica’s naked ankles and legs to the steering wheel in front of her, stretching and straightening her legs out.
Jessica’s breathing gets heavier as she watches him pull her jeans as far up her legs as he can get them. Exposing her shins.
The Sheriff takes his third and final pair and locks them around both of her legs just below her knees. He says, smiling at her, “Just so’s you don’t go hurting yourself.”
Jessica, still recovering, she looks confused for a second but catches the Sheriff staring at her bare soles. His fingers twitching again but this time, they’re nowhere near his gun.
Jessica makes a quiet crying sound, fidgeting in her seat and shaking her head. “Nonononononononononopleaseno. Don’t, don’t, don’t...please don’t. Pleeeeeeeeeeeease.”
Jessica suddenly catches her breath. She rises a few inches clean off of her driver’s seat. Holding the air in her swelling lungs, she’s explosively silent. Her face reddening. The veins in her forehead and her neck begin to show. Bulging. Pulsing. Her large tank topped chest expanded upwards to its limit and remaining still.
Jessica’s face contorts. Her teeth grinding. Her eyes squeeze, squeeze, squeezing closed harder and tighter. Her shackled hands ball up into tight fists above and behind her. Her muscles tense. Her rock hard abs rock hard.
Her paralyzed body then finally starts to quiver and tremble. First its slight. Then faster and faster. The driver’s seat creaking under the pressure of her fighting to maintain her composure. Her being-tickled bare feet in front of her flexed and stiffened as far backwards as they can possibly go. The color drained from her soles.
Then her feet curl. Hard. Then she flexes them backwards again as the Sheriff runs the tips of his fingers up, down, up, down the uncovered and unprotected bottoms of her bared soles.
Jessica groans. Long, deep. The walls of her willpower beginning to visibly crack.
He starts at the bottoms of both of her perfectly rounded and smooth bare heels. His fingertips scuttling gently all over her smooth stretched backwards skin and working their way up to her deep arches. The skin smoother and softer and much more tender here than any other part of either beautifully, flawlessly shaped 9 inch long foot. The Sheriff turns both his hands upwards. Palms up. Fingertips almost inverted towards the ceiling of the van now as he gently scratches at the base of the balls of her feet. Right where her arches become almost completely rounded and lead into the base of where her toes bloom from. The Sheriff is gentle. Takes his time. Tickling. Tickling the balls of both of her beautiful feet and enjoying her reaction.
Any second now...
And...
Jessica lets it all out at once. Her eyes still closed, she lets loose a half maddened wailing banshee shriek from the pit of her stomach. Her jaws opened as wide as they can. The sound of her hysterical laughter blanketing out across the Texas back road horizon further than you can see.
Jessica almost hyperventilates immediately from trying to hold back earlier so much. She bucks and twists in her driver’s seat. Bouncing up and down. The rusted bolts rattling as they’re pulled from the floor. The springs scream as Jessica helplessly rears and thrashes about in her seat as much and as hard and as wildly as she can.
She buries her face deep in her arms. Her right arm. Then her left arm. Her uncontrollable fits and bursts of laughter first muffled and then spill right out of her. She points her toes. She flexes her sensitive tickle tortured feet backwards and forwards. She cries out in between all her maddened hysterics for mercy.
The glint in the Sheriff’s eyes, all he’s really focused on right now are the two most perfect examples of Intelligent Design shackled down to the steering wheel right in front of him.
These beautiful bare feet with their beautiful, natural curves. Each foot naturally staying in a slight flexed backward position when she relaxed to show off her deep arches. The smooth flesh of her insteps and the round balls and bottoms of each foot.
The smooth curves of the outsides and insides of her feet.
The way the bottoms of her heels were as smooth and round as ripened apples.
His right hand holds the toes of her right foot back. Bending them back hard to stretch out and fully expose her arch. Then his fingertips drag this time, a little harder than before. Dragging up and down all across the tender parts of her insteps and leaving pink trail marks across her warm skin.
Her left bare little foot wildly kicks about. Her left foot desperately slapping at the Sheriff’s fingers and hands attacking her other one. Her warm, soft sole making quiet, wet clapping sounds drowned out by her screeching. Her made-for-sucking toes curling around his fingers as she tries to pry his hands away from her right set of toes.
The Sheriff, he just continues. Then switches feet. Grabs a hold of her left foot, pulls it back and starts all over again.
Jessica throws her head back, shuts her eyes and roars with laughter. Her wonderful body twisting from side to side. Both her legs violently convulsing as she pulls and desperately yanks at her shackled ankles. Her cuffed legs wrenching at the steering wheel.
The Sheriff switches feet again and it’s the same reaction but she’s low on fight. His one finger following the contour of the outside of her right foot and tracing a line from the side of her little toe, down the side of her arch and curves upwards at her heel so he can work his way back up again but this time on the outside of the inside of her foot.
Jessica powerfully bellows and shouts for mercy. Her manic laughter cannon-blasting from her worn out lungs.
The Sheriff tickles the tops of her feet. Squeezes the balls of her feet so her toes splay out and tickles between each of her toes and sends her into long, drawn out howls of laughter.
He suddenly changes tactics and squeezes her thighs. Jessica roars all over again. Her legs buck powerfully with each gut-wrenching groan of having to put up with this. The sweat utterly soaking her tank top and splashing from her hair all over the windshield.
Jessica, the poor thing, she tries forming words as the Sheriff tickles the backs of her calves and squeezes her muscles. The word, “Stop”. The word, “Please”. The word, “No”. But it all just comes out sounding like another language.
The Sheriff pauses. Lets her catch her breath again.
Jessica is a wreck. She slumps in her seat. Her soaked head lifting and falling again as she wheezes for precious air. She sniffs. Half sobbing and half still giggling like something in her mind had been broken. Her spirit considerably and visibly weakened.
Her body still quivering as if, despite all the Texas sunshine, she was cold.
The Sheriff steps a few steps back from her van, looking from direction to direction.
The stretch of open road where both cars are right now, it’s no wonder people once swore up and down that the world was flat.
Nothing but the sound of gasping, wheezing and bubbly giggling.
The Sheriff steps forward again. He gently lifts Jessica’s lowered head up with a finger underneath her chin. Sweat floods down her face, tears dribbling down her flushed cheeks and run down his finger, staining the sleeve of his uniform.
The Sheriff cocks his head, saying. “I think you and me, we need to go someplace other than here.”
He says, “Which, really, when you think about it, is pretty much nowhere.”
Jessica’s lips pucker. She tries again to say words but, nothing comes out of her but air.
The Sheriff jangles keys from his belt and Jessica collapses in a heap as her ankles, legs and wrists are all unlocked.
Too weak to put up a fight, her lungs too worn to work up enough breath to say anything, she’s slung uselessly over the Sheriff’s shoulder.
His Sheriff boots scrunch Texas back road gravel as he carries her back towards his highway patrol car and unfolds her into the backseat.
The door slams shut. The locks lock. The Sheriff turns the ignition key and his wheels kick up a fresh dirt cloud behind him as he continues in the direction both of them were headed.
Jessica lifts her head, still weak, her lungs still wheezing. She says, “Where are we going?”
The Sheriff smiles into his mirror. He says, “Like I told you before. I ain’t even got started yet Miss.”
He reaches down, hits PLAY on his dashboard and Free Bird comes on. He grins, says, “Well look at that, something we have in common.” He says, and the way it all comes out, it sounds like, “Hell ah lyke Skynyrd.”
Then Jessica’s blinks, blinks, blinks her eyes before slumping sideways in the backseat and passing out.
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and in a unique "voice," which is greatly appreciated and highly refreshing.
;
it's also extremely refreshing (!!)
)
