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Worse Than Deportation

GarreleFeet

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<center><b><font face="Garamond" color="#218712"><font size=+1>Worse Than Deportation</font>
GarreléFeet</center><hr size=10 width=75% noshade>
Steam poured out of the oven door. Maria had to step back and wait for it to clear away. Once it had, she pulled out the garlic bread she'd been preparing all day. It was a good feeling, knowing that she could create something. Her husband would be home soon, and he would be tired and hungry. Javier Martinez worked extremely vigorously to support Maria and himself. Maria did all she could to help him relax once the work was done. The garlic bread would greatly complement the rest of the meal that Maria was going to make.

"¡La Migra!" Maria heard someone cry. "¡La Migra! ¡La Migra! ¡Corre para tu viva!" Somebody was shouting that Immigration was coming. Normally, Maria would have gathered everything of value to her and run, but this was the fifth time this week this had happened. Four times before, it had simply been a bratty teenager trying to scare the illegals of Farifax. She could not believe that people were actually running out there. Well, she would not let her cooking for Javier be interrupted by another false alarm.

Wait . . . he didn't look familiar. In fact, he wasn't Hispanic at all! He was Caucasian with a white uniform. Nine others like him followed. Jesus Christ . . . it <i><u>was</u></i> Immigration! Plates hit the floor and shattered as Maria scrambled about, collecting portraits and some emergency money. If she left the window shades opened, she would be discovered; if she closed them, the motion would attract attention. She was doomed. She darted for the back door, but it was kicked open as she came close. Before she had a chance to get to the front door, it was barged into also. There was nowhere left to run. The Immigration officers handcuffed her and brought her to a large van.

<marquee direction=right behavior=alternate>****************</marquee>
"Lord, hear my prayer: let me return home. Lord, hear my prayer: let me return home," Maria repeatedly muttered as the van drove. "Lord, hear my prayer: let me return home."

"Out, filth!" a man called and opened the van's door. Maria, shivering with fear, stepped out and was pulled up to a large building. This must have been the deportation center. Cold, cruel, steel doors dragged open. A few scores of captured illegals were pushed and shoved inside. Several were crying; others were shouting violently with obscene phrases and words. Everyone was being lined up at the center of the warehouse. This did not seem like deportation. Deportation normally entailed being crammed into a jet and being sent straight back to their respective countries.

A man stepped out of a dark doorway carrying a clipboard. His face was hard, cold, and stern. He could have killed with a glare. Black hair, a rugged chin, and beady eyed all made the already-miserable captives even more fearful. "If you slugs had been caught yesterday, you'd already be on a plane to the shit-holes you came from. However, a new policy comes into action as of today. Instead of doing what we should, we're going to put you through a short rehabilitation program. Afterwards, you'll be allowed to gather your things from home before being sent off. Personally, I think, this is stupid, but I don't make the rules. There are sufficient rooms to occupy all of you at once, so we only have to waste twenty-four hours. You filthy illegals are going to learn to obey our laws." People were both relieved and frightened at the same time. "You men, begin your work. Make 'em never want to come back."

Another man stepped forward, this one, of African-American heritage. "Men, I don't care about documentation or strict procedure. Do what you've been told, and make sure that every one of them gets what's coming. Any questions?" Silence. "Then go to work." Scores of Immigration officers began to take the illegals in every direction. Maria was taken up two floors of a staircase and down a dark hallway.

"¿Que vas a hacer?" Maria asked.

"You might not be for long, but you're still in America. We speak English."

Maria thought for a moment. "What . . . are you going to do?"

"You just wait and find out." The man opened a door. When Maria saw the inside of it, she nearly screamed. The room was entirely empty except for one evil-looking mechanism in the center. It looked like a chair at a dentist's office, only it had several-dozen metal cuffs, leather straps, and colored wires. The wires all ran to a large, humming, steel box on the back of the chair, out of which protruded a single wire that led to a single button. Maria had not known what the word 'rehabilitation' had meant. Did it mean, 'torture?' An officer shoved her inside. Maria prayed silently.

"Clothes," one officer said. Without warning, the three officers began to rapidly tear her clothing off until she was down to only undergarments. Were they going to ravage her? It would not be alltogether surprising. It was times like these when Maria cursed her appeal. She stood at 5'4" with sleek, jet-black hair that gently fell to her waist. Being Hispanic, she had somewhat orangish skin that drove several males (and females) insane. She had sharp, jade-green eyes that glistened in the light and glowed in darkness. Soft, red lips and a slender physique completed her beautiful image.

She was roughly shoved and stumbled back into the seat. Immediately, the three officers began to secure her. There were cuffs for her wrists, ankles, and big toes; straps for her forearms, waist, and thighs; and odd wires touching to everything. The phrase 'couldn't move' is greatly tossed around, but this was the real deal. She could but wiggle her fingers. All other movement was restricted by something. She was immobile, naked, attractive, and wired to a machine. She had good reason to be fearful.

"This rehabilitation program lasts for exactly twenty-four hours. If, at any time, you fall unconscious during the program, we will administer an electric shock. I highly suggest that you don't pretend to go under." The one who was speaking situated himself at her feet. The other two stood on either side of her. The one at her feet furrowed his brow. Maria knew exactly why. All her life, her feet had given off the strongest, known odor on the planet. It was not necessarily unpleasant, but if she was not wearing shoes, her feet could be smelled from anywhere in the room. The man shook it off and refocused.

"Mmm--!" Maria suddenly exclaimed. A random spasm of energy seemed to have touched the sole of her right foot and traveled to her mind. She realized that the man was dragging his finger up and down her foot. Her breaths became sharp and quivering. <i><u>Lord, no. . . . Jesus Christ, </u></i>please<i><u>, no!</u></i> They could not tickle her; she wouldn't survive three minutes. This was supposed to last <i><u>twenty-four hours</u></i>. <i><u>Lord, hear my prayer: let me be deported!</u></i> As the man's fingers persisted, Maria made a futile effort to squirm. She made her best effort to remain quiet, but as the men on either side of her began a flickering dance across her underarms, she began to giggle.

"That's right . . ." the man at her feet taunted. "If we ever catch you in this country again, you'll spend your entire life this way." One finger, Maria could handle, but when the man put more fingers to use more quickly, her giggles soon became laughs. Maria tried to atleast wiggle her feet, but the toe-stocks prevented this. What she would have given atleast to be able to struggle . . .

The three men seemed to be enjoying this. They had expected this to be a boresome ordeal, but between this gorgeous girl and their newfound source of control, they could get used to this quite easily. With increased enjoyment in the ordeal came more enthusiasm. With more enthusiasm came more vigor. With more vigor came more suffering.

Maria could not stand this torture. It had been about two minutes, and already, she was at sanity's brinks. Horrible jolts of torturous energy streamed through her nerves with every touch, and she was touched scores of times per second. This sort of arousal was evil; pure torture. The sad thing that she refused to acknowledge: she had twent-three hours and fifty-eight minutes to go. "No, no, <i><u>please!</u></i>" she cried out of desperation. She could barely breathe through the tickling, much less, speak. "No m--ahahahaha! No--no--no more t-tickli-hi-hing! Oh, Jesus, please!"

The men were amused. They'd caught a good one. "Lady, we're hardly even started." With that, the tickling intensified. Her laughter heightened in volume. All her life, she had loved having such soft, sleek skin. Never once had she imagined such a predicamemt. What was even worse was that her feet were even more ticklish than they would have been. Her foot stench came from excessive sweat. That made her soles moist and soft, thus heightening sensitivity. This was the worst form of punishment, even in Hell

While the man at her feet raked, danced, and crawled all about her poor, sensitive feet, the other men became curious. One ever so gently traced around the rim of her left underarm, and she ever so violently yipped like mad. The other man saw this and joined in the continual tracing of her underarms' rims. Her laughs were mingled with yells. She began to struggle fiercely, powered by a second wind. Unfortunately, wind never outmatched steel bondage equipment.

"¡Por favor, deja de cosquillearme!" Maria cried. Tears of agonized laughter were streaming down her face. The ticklish onslaught, though, never even dimmed. The men simply loved to tease her sensitive flesh. Soon, she would feel nothing but ticklish surges.

A gentle touch to her ribs froze time for a solid five seconds. When it resumed, she felt the ticklish wrath of five millennia channeled into a ticklish surge through her ribs. She screamed and used every muscle in her body to try to escape. The man who had touched her ribs thought that she'd actually rocked the bondage mechanism for a moment. The two men in charge of her upper body had fun poking her to a screaming reaction each time. Perhaps the most torturous part for Maria was that she could not even try to get away.

A bloodcurdling shriek suddenly pierced their eardrums. The man at her feet had tried using his tongue as a tool. A single touch between her toes, and she had gone ballistic. At that point, the men actually stopped. This gave Maria a chance to beg. "Please. . . . I will give you anything you want, <i><u>anything!</u></i> What do you want?" Her gentle, pleading voice almost convinced them until they snapped back into reality.

"Sorry, m'dear," the one at her feet said. "This is just America's way of taking back what you took. Besides . . . you can't fool me. . . . I know, you love to be tickled. . . ."

"Please," Maria begged in a quivering voice, "I cannot stand it. I can take no more. Please, tickle me no more."

"You're playing hard-to-get so that I'll tickle you more. You love it when I do this. . . ." He dragged a lone finger down her sole.

"No, no, please!"

"And I'll bet, you love it when they touch your ribs--" the other two did so, causing Maria to shout in ticklish agony "--or squeeze your legs. . . ."

"Ple-he-he-hease! No!" she half-laughed, half-sobbed. The men, however, were relentless as ever. With the heightened level of tickling intensity on her feet, legs, and torso, Maria lost the coherent thought necessary for speech. How long did Maria spend in that chair? A year? A decade? An eternity? It did not matter; all she knew anymore was surging torture.

Suddenly, a siren wailed. The men, frozen with fear, stopped completely. "Fire!" people shouted outside. "Fire! Get everyone out! There's a fire!" Still, the men sat, frozen. One of the upper-body-ticklers awoke from the trance.

"C'mon, get her unhooked! We don't have much time!" The other two remembered where they were and tried to unfasten all of the restraints quickly. It took a good sixty seconds, but she was up. Her mind was numb; she simply followed the three as they led her. The flames could be heard from above.

"Hurry! The roof'll crash in!" somone cried. Everyone flooded down the steps. It was tight, so movement was slow. Maria still did not realize what was happening. Finally, they reached the cool, fresh air. Maria began to come to her senses. The men who had tortured her turned back to help others out. Smoke poured from the fourth floor of the building as rushed out of every possible exit. One of the three--the one who had been at her feet--looked back at Maria . . . to find that she was gone. He realized that scores would be escaping in this commotion. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a bush russle and smooth, sleek skin blend into the darkness. Maria had gotten away. After the initial shock of this realization, he turned to a fellow officer.

"How'd the fire start?"

"There was a short circuit in one of the shocking systems." So the very means by which she was meant to be punished had freed her. Ironic.

"I'll find her again," he muttered. "She's not staying here on my watch." The flames roared as strongly as his rage.

<center>TO BE CONTINUED
<hr>
Dedicated to the Mistreated Foreigners</center>
 
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500 views and no replies? Oh, nay nay! You must have <u>some</u> critique! Yes, you! Get commenting!
 


See what I mean?

Anyway. Hi GarreleFeet. I apologize for not commenting sooner being as how I actually read this last night and really enjoyed it. I was in quite a hurry last night though as I am now so I'll be brief and not bore you with details.

I really liked the world you created here. It was very detailed, very well thought-out and the tickling was great. Thank you so much for sharing and I hope you continue to do so in the future. My only "critique" would be the description of the chair. I wanted more info. Specifically the toe straps. Everything else was easy to see in my imagination up until that part because I couldn't figure out how the toe straps would work without first having to somehow anchor the foot itself. I imagined both her feet hanging off the edges of the chair but couldn't figure out the toe straps - if her toes had been pulled back, foward, etc. Aside from that, thanks again for sharing. Keep it up! And...don't mind the seeming current lull around here. It hasn't always been like this.
 
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Thanks, man--this is not my best by any means, though. This was an idea I simply rolled with. I have something a bit more my forte waiting to be typed up from the original. To answer your question, the toe restraints worked like so: the feet were put into iron cuffs that operated like stocks, simply more compact. Connected to that same structure were the toe straps. The feet were put upright, and the straps were tightened around the big toes. Does that help?
 
It's one thing to knock your work and another to recognize your strengths and weaknesses. I'm about to post one that's much better. Thanks again, though; if you like this, just wait.
 
I for one thought the story was awesome. It's about time we had a story revolving around illegal immigration (now if only we could get one about a cute Arab or Arab-American girl detained as an enemy combatant and tickle tortured at Gitmo). My only complaint, other than the aforementioned one, is the constant focus on the stench of her feet. Maybe other people are into that sort of thing, I don't know and if they are that's fine, but I think if you have a girl whose feet stink so bad that people across the room are actually cringing up, then that's not sexy. That's disgusting.
 
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