Joker Jack
02-24-2009, 06:14 PM
This story takes place around the ‘Goldfinger’ / ‘From Russia With Love’ era.
It stars Sean Connery as James Bond.
James Bond spun the wheel of the battleship grey Aston Martin DB5, turning the car off the quiet country road and onto a narrow dirt track. A hundred yards along the track, he turned again into a small clearing amongst some large pine trees. Stopping the car, he turned off the headlights and cut the ignition.
Bond wound down the car window and sat quietly. The only sound he could hear through the night air was the ticking of the Aston’s 2.6-litre engine as it cooled slowly after the 45-mile journey from Bond’s five star hotel.
After a few minutes, 007 collected some items from a secret compartment under the Aston’s dashboard, then got out of the car. He was wearing a black roll neck sweater, black trousers and black shoes. After making sure his 6mm Beretta automatic pistol was secure in its shoulder holster, James Bond started back down the dirt road to the country road. Once there, he continued across the road and scrambled down a steep banking on the other side until he reached the cover of a large corpse of silver birch trees. There Bond crouched down behind some scrub from where he had a view of a fine, large mansion house which stood about five hundred yards away beyond a high wire fence.
Bond new the layout of the mansion and the surrounding area well. This was the third night in a row he had returned to this same spot in order to study it. For the last eighteen months, despite orders from M to the contrary, James Bond had continued his relentless quest to track down the whereabouts of his archenemy, Ernst Stavro Blofeld. At first, the task had seemed hopeless. Then, following information he had been passed a week ago from Station S, Bond had become convinced that Blofeld was now operating from this very mansion house, deep within the English countryside.
James Bond now began to move towards the house. By keeping close to the trees, he soon reached the ten-foot high wire fence. He then took out a small pair of wire cutters, specially made for him by Q-Branch. The cutters were no more than nine inches in length but were extremely strong. In less than two minutes, Bond had cut a gap in the wire large enough for him to squeeze through.
Bond crouched and surveyed the ground leading to the house. He had already decided he would attempt to make entry through a small door on the west side of the mansion which he knew led to servants’ quarters. To reach this, he would have to follow a hedge for a hundred yards, then cross an exposed section of lawn. He took a deep breath then began to make his way cautiously along the hedge towards the grass. He watched carefully as he went for any trip wires which might set off an alarm or activate any floodlights.
Once he’d reached the end of the hedge, Bond paused for a few seconds and carefully checked each window in the house for any sign of movement. Then he sprinted as fast as he could across the twenty yards of manicured lawn. Reaching the wall by the door to the servants’ quarters, he pressed himself hard against the red bricks and listened. The only sound he could hear was the thudding of his own heart in his chest. Would this be the night when finally he would kill his archenemy?
James Bond turned his attention to picking the lock on the heavy wooden door. Again, thanks to gadgetry from Q-Branch, this only took a few minutes. Bond paused to draw his gun, then slowly pushed open the wooden door. Behind it was a short unlit corridor leading to a second door. Bond quickly stepped inside, shut the outer door and moved to the second door. With his gun raised, Bond slowly turned the handle. The handle turned easily and Bond slowly eased the door open. The room beyond looked to be in complete darkness. Bond pulled a small flashlight from his trouser pocket and eased through the door. Before he could even switch the flashlight on, a sixth sense had alerted him that suddenly he was in trouble. A second later, he heard the unmistakable click of an automatic weapon being cocked. The room was then suddenly flooded with light.
James Bond saw four men, all dressed in black, standing in front of him. One of them was pointing a 12mm Uzi automatic pistol at his chest.
“Good evening Mr Bond,” a swarthy looking guard said. “We’ve been expecting you!”
Bond’s heart sank. He knew immediately that somehow he’d been betrayed - but by whom? Who knew about his mission? - Someone from Station S?
Bond was ordered to drop his gun and to turn to face the wall. He was then ordered to lean against the wall and spread his legs. A pair of hands began at his left ankle and felt their way slowly up his leg to his groin. This process was then repeated slowly up his right leg. Bond then felt hands slide into his trouser pockets from where all the contents were removed. The hands then groped their way slowly up over Bonds ribs to his armpits, then down again and over his stomach. James Bond realised with disgust that the guard was almost certainly a homosexual and shut his mind off to the whole disgusting and sordid process.
Bond was then ordered to turn around. He was then marched at gunpoint out of the room and along a corridor. At the end of the corridor was another door. One of the guards opened the door and motioned for Bond to enter. Behind the door was a flight of wooden steps down which Bond was pushed. At the bottom of the steps a heavy wooden door was opened and James Bond was pushed roughly through into the basement room beyond.
The room was quite large for a basement. It had no windows and the only light came from a single electric bulb hanging from the ceiling. Bond’s attention, however, was entirely taken up by an ominous looking contraption which stood in the middle of the room.
The device looked like a variation on a set of medieval stocks and was in two parts. The front part consisted of a thick horizontal wooden beam which sat about three feet off the ground on heavy wooden supports which appeared to be bolted to the floor. The horizontal beam had three holes, each with padded red leather surrounds. The rear part of the device sat about three feet behind the front part, and was down at ground level. This section, which was also bolted to the floor, had two holes, also with padded red leather surrounds. Bond looked over the device with rising unease. It had obviously been constructed for the purpose of holding someone captive.
“Take your clothes off.” One of Blofeld’s guards ordered him, but the words didn’t register with Bond such was his attention on the stocks device.
“Take your clothes off! Now!” Bond suddenly received a painful blow to his ribs from the swarthy looking guard to his right. After taking a few seconds to recover from the blow, Bond glanced around, assessing his chances of taking out the guards and making his escape. The swarthy one stood closest to him and the other two stood on either side of the still open door. The fourth guard had taken up a position on the farthest side of the room and was pointing his black Uzi calmly at Bond’s chest. As Bond looked at him, the guard smiled. Then, as if reading Bond’s thoughts, he shook his head slowly and motioned with the gun for Bond to undress. With a sigh Bond slowly began to remove his black turtle neck sweater, followed by the rest of his clothes. A minute later, he stood in front of the four men, stark naked.
Suddenly, without warning, Bond was grabbed by the three unarmed guards. Two of them twisted his arms behind his back whilst the third one swung his arm around Bond’s neck, getting him in a headlock. As they began forcing him over towards the stocks device Bond fought against them with all his strength, but the guards were too experienced. Bond was forced down on his knees and the guards pushed his head down into the open middle recess of the stocks while his wrists were pushed into the two outer recesses. A second later, Bond felt the top part of the stocks being closed down and locked. He immediately began pulling and tugging furiously at his trapped neck and wrists but quickly realised there would be no escape. Then 007 felt the guards grabbing his feet and pushing his ankles into the recesses in the rear part of the stocks. The top part of the foot stocks was then shut down, trapping his ankles. Bond tugged at the rear part of the stocks, but again, there was to be no escape.
Finally, Bond felt something being looped around his big toes. Then, whatever it was got pulled tight - stretching his bare soles.
Three of the guards moved towards the door but Bond could hear the fourth still moving around behind him. A few seconds later he heard the click of an electric switch and immediately felt a warm sensation on the soles of his bare feet. The fourth guard walked back into Bond’s view. He bent down and collected up Bond’s discarded clothing and shoes.
“See you later,” he said with a sneering smile on his face as he left the room with the others.
James Bond guessed he’d been in the basement room around half an hour or so. Much of this time had been spent trying to free his wrists and ankles from the stocks but this had proved impossible. The soles of his bare feet were now stinging madly from the heat of whatever had been placed behind him.
Suddenly the wooden door swung open and Ernst Stavro Blofeld walked into the basement. Blofeld had a very large, domed bald head and wore a monocle in his left eye. He was dressed in a grey jacket and matching trousers. James Bond immediately felt humbled and embarrassed. Blofeld was his greatest enemy, and now he was kneeling before Blofeld, naked and helpless.
Behind Blofeld followed a very old Oriental man. He had a long, white pointed beard and wore a silver and black flowing shirt over black trousers. Bond also noticed he had long pointed and well manicured fingernails.
“Well Mr Bond, how are we now?” asked Blofeld, pulling over a wooden chair from the corner of the room. He sat down directly in front of Bond and barely three feet away from him. “Not too uncomfortable I hope.”
“Damn you to Hell, Blofeld,” Bond snapped, looking away in embarrassment.
“Never mind,” Blofeld replied. “Let me tell you what I have in store for you.”
“Whatever it is, it can’t be any worse than having to listen to you.”
Blofeld merely smiled, choosing to ignore the remark. However, before he continued Blofeld gestured to the Oriental who had moved around behind Bond. A few seconds later Bond heard a click, then felt relief as whatever had been burning his feet was removed.
“As you may know,” Blofeld began, “I have long been fascinated by the many available methods of interrogation. I am very familiar with the more common kinds, as I’m sure you are, but what I’m particularly interested in studying at the moment are some of the more subtle methods, particularly those used by the Chinese. Many of these methods are ancient and use very simple techniques. For example, you may be familiar with water torture, where a simple drop of water repeatedly dripped onto the forehead can soon have the victim driven almost mad and have them begging for the treatment to stop. Over the last few weeks I’ve been refining another interrogation technique much practised by our Chinese friends. Mr Ling here has been a great help in advising on techniques but we’ve lacked a real victim to practise on. That was until you came along.
Tell me Mr Bond…” Blofeld paused. “When did you last have your feet tickled?”
So far during Blofeld’s speech, Bond had refused to look up at him, choosing instead to stare straight down at the dirty red carpet. However, Bond now stared up at Blofeld in disbelief. Had he heard him correctly?
Blofeld smiled at Bond’s reaction, then continued.
“You see, the Chinese were experts at tickling. I’m told they had a whole range of tools – feathers, brushes, even certain types of chopsticks which they would use to drive their victims insane.”
James Bond stared back down at the carpet. Surely Blofeld couldn’t be serious - tickling as a form of torture? Then, with a jolt of panic, Bond suddenly recalled an incident from the previous year when one of Doctor No’s henchmen had placed a tarantula spider in his hotel room bed. It had tickled unbearably as it crawled up his naked body. Bond’s heart rate suddenly began to quicken. Would what Blofeld have in mind be as bad as the spider– or worse?
“As you’ll no doubt be aware,” Blofeld continued, “I’ve arranged to have your soles warmed up a bit. Hot skin is so much more sensitive than cold. I’m told that the Chinese made use of hot oils for this purpose. I’ve made do with a sun ray lamp.”
Blofeld leaned back in his seat and rubbed his hands. “So, let’s get started, shall we? Mr Ling will be doing the necessary under my direction. I’m very keen to see how you react to this particular form of encouragement. Of course I’m not interested in any information you may offer just to make me stop. Oh, and one last thing.” Blofeld leaned down close to Bond’s face. “This room is totally soundproof so feel free to scream and laugh all you wish.”
“God Dam you to Hell Blofeld!” Bond spat, suddenly pulling and tugging furiously at the stocks. “I promise you now, I won’t be laughing or screaming to anyone, least of all you!”
Blofeld laughed. “Very well. We shall see how long you keep that promise.”
As Bond glared furiously down at the carpet, Blofeld nodded to the Oriental.
Suddenly James Bond felt something stroking lightly up and down the bare sole of his right foot. Christ, it did tickle! - far more than he’d anticipated! Bond gritted his teeth and instinctively tried to get some relief by curling his toes - only to suddenly realise why they’d been tied back!
It felt like the Oriental was using his fingernail, but Bond really didn’t care. Already all his concentration was focused on maintaining his composure in front of Blofeld.
Now the fingernail was tracing long, lazy figure eight patterns on Bond’s bare sole. Oh Christ, that tickled even more! To his horror, Bond felt himself wanting to smile, even to laugh. No! He screamed to himself. Don’t give Blofeld the satisfaction! Already he wanted to twist and squirm to get relief from the tickling and had to fight desperately to control himself.
Bond had never considered himself as ticklish, but he couldn’t deny he was being tickled now. He realised it came from a combination of the sunray lamp and the fact his soles were stretched so taught. God! If only he could clench his toes to wrinkle his sole, but with his toes tied back it was impossible. It drove Bond mad that there was nothing he could do to stop the Oriental’s fingernail from stroking so methodically back and forth all over his bare sole! Bond kept trying to twist or jerk his foot away from his tormentor, but the stocks held his ankle tight and he could hardly even move it. As the stroking continued up and down his bare sole, Bond felt his urge to smile becoming even stronger!
Suddenly the pattern changed and fingernail began moving in little zigzags up and down his bare sole. Bond almost gasped out loud. Then it was stroking straight up and down the length of his sole, then back to the lazy figure eights for a few seconds, then the little zigzags again. Each change seemed to tickle more than the last! There was a brief pause, and then one fingertip was running very rapidly back and forth along his arch, then back to the long swooping figure eights. A few seconds gap, then four fingernails were running up and down his sole at he same time. Bond’s eyes went wide and his jaw clenched until it shook as he fought to maintain his composure. Stop! He screamed silently to the Oriental. Please stop the tickling! But there was to be no relief. Bond desperately glared down at a spot on the dirty red carpet and fought with almost superhuman willpower to maintain his composure as the fingernails scratched, stroked and tickled all over his helpless bare sole.
The Oriental continued varying his technique and his touch was never the same twice. A few seconds of slow, light stroking might be quickly followed by some fingernail scratching, then fast running fingertips, then light little scratches darting all over his bare sole. James Bond’s whole world now consisted only of what was being done to his bare foot. Even as he struggled to keep his composure, Bond was unable to stop his body from giving the occasional jerk or twitch as the Oriental stroked a particularly sensitive spot on his bare sole. Bond hated giving any sort of a reaction, but he just couldn’t help it. As he glared down at the carpet and fought to keep quiet, Bond was forced to concede that he was indeed at the mercy of an extremely proficient tickler.
The tickling stopped very briefly, then Bond suddenly felt the Oriental’s fingernail on the sole of his left foot. It ran maddeningly up and down from his heel to his toes then switched to scratching along his arch, then on to the slow figure eight patterns. The tickling felt even worse on his left sole making Bond want to squirm and wriggle more than ever. Worst of all, his urge to smile was now almost irresistible. He could even feel the corners of his mouth twitching involuntarily. Fight it! He screamed to himself. Keep control! He couldn’t bear the humiliation of being forced to laugh in front of Blofeld! Bond continued to clench his teeth as he fought furiously to maintain his composure, but the tickling was driving him mad! With ever rising panic Bond glared furiously down at the spot on the dirty red carpet as he desperately tried to remain in control of himself. As he did so, the first beads of sweat appeared on his forehead and began to trickle slowly down his face.
The next ten minutes were absolute hell as the Oriental continued to tickle James Bond’s helpless bare feet. The treatment varied constantly – first his right sole, then his left, then both at once. Bond felt as though he was being driven insane. Having his bare feet tickled would have been humiliating enough at the best of times, but to have them tickled and not show any reaction to Blofeld was absolute torture! Bond so desperately wanted to let himself squirm and wriggle rather than having to keep still! His teeth remained clenched and his fingernails dug into his palms as he stared down furiously at the carpet - anything just to maintain control and keep quiet and still. All this time, Blofeld sat directly in front of Bond, staring at him silently and watching for any reactions.
Then, just when Bond thought the tickling couldn’t possibly get any worse, the Oriental’s fingernail started scratching lightly along the bottom of the toes on his right foot. Oh, God! Not there! For a split second, Bond’s whole body jerked in the stocks, and only superhuman willpower stopped him from yelping out loud.
For a few seconds, there was nothing…then the fingernail started again – now running continuously back and forth along the base of his toes. No! No! Almost before he realised what he was doing, Bond started twisting and squirming on his knees - there was nothing he could do to stop himself! Then, to his horror, barely a second later he felt the corners of his mouth curve upwards! Bond tried to stop them, but despite himself, he was now smiling a kind of forced smile with his lips pressed tightly shut. It was all he could do not to burst out laughing. To his fury, as Bond squirmed helplessly, he heard Blofeld chuckling to himself with satisfaction.
The forced smile was now all over Bond’s face. He was furious with himself for reacting, but he just couldn’t help himself as he twisted and squirmed on his knees. The Oriental’s fingernail had been bad enough on his bare soles, but his toes were unbearably ticklish.
Suddenly the Oriental started to lightly scratch each of Bond’s toes individually! Bond let out a single yelp of laughter before he managed to clamp his mouth tight shut, but the damage had been done! He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his trapped head back and forth as if trying to deny what was being done to him. With all his might he pulled and tugged at the wooden ankle stocks, but they barely even moved. As he smiled like an idiot, he could feel laughter virtually bursting out of him and he only just managed to contain it.
At that point, Blofeld began cruelly teasing him.
“You’re smiling, Bond,” he sneered. “Does that tickle?”
Bond turned his right cheek hard against the wooden stocks in a vain attempt to hide the big smile on his face from Blofeld. He felt utterly embarrassed and humiliated but he just couldn’t wipe the smile from his face or stop himself from writhing and squirming as the Oriental’s fingernail continued to scratch lightly at each toe in turn.
The Oriental was truly was an expert – he kept varying the pace and pressure of his fingertips whilst watching Bond closely to gauge his reactions. A few strokes up and down Bond’s toes would be followed by a few quick scratches between them, then a few slow strokes along the bottom of his toes. Bond could hardly bear it! More than anything, he just wanted to give in and just let the laughter burst out of him, but somehow he managed to keep it in.
“It’s so much worse than you though it would be, isn’t it?” Blofeld continued to tease. “It’s all right – It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Lots of men are ticklish on their bare feet.” Blofeld chuckled with glee as he spoke.
Bond was furious at being humiliated, but he was too engrossed in fighting against the tickling to reply. As he writhed helplessly, pulling and tugging madly as the wooden stocks, he knew Blofeld was right - the tickling was driving him crazy!
For several long minutes, the Oriental continued to tickle James Bond’s toes. During this time, Bond’s naked body continued to twist and writhe helplessly as he squirmed helplessly on his knees. His eyes remained squeezed shut and he continued to shake his trapped head back and forth as the big smile remained on his face. He longed more than anything to just give in to the laughter and let it flood out of him. It was only through almost superhuman willpower that he managed to keep quiet.
Suddenly Blofeld held up his hand and the almost unbearable tickling mercifully stopped. Bond let out a gasp of relief and allowed his naked body to slump in the stocks. By now, sweat was trickling down his face and glistening off his naked body.
Ernst Stavro Blofeld leaned back in his chair for a few seconds. He was breathing heavily from the excitement of watching Bond being tickled. Then he stood up and walked out of Bond’s view. Bond heard him exchange a few words of Chinese with the Oriental before he reappeared and sat back down.
“So,” he asked Bond. “Did you enjoy that?”
Bond didn’t reply. Instead he started down hard at the dirty red carpet. He felt utterly humiliated and ashamed of himself for being forced into squirming and smiling like an idiot just by being tickled.
“What you have just experienced,” Blofeld continued, “was just an introduction. It has enabled Mr Ling to find and explore some of your more sensitive areas.” Blofeld paused and leaned down a little closer to Bond’s trapped head. When he next spoke, it was very slow and deliberate as he savoured every word.
“I think you’ll agree that you have quite ticklish feet.” Blofeld smiled as he gazed down – enjoying every last second of Bond’s humiliation.
Bond felt his face burning red with embarrassment at Blofeld’s remarks. He knew Blofeld was getting a sadistic thrill out of humiliating and degrading him but there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
“I must say,” Blofeld continued. “I very much enjoyed the sight of you squirming on your knees in front of me. Of course it’s made even more enjoyable by knowing you were trying so hard to keep still. That must have been very hard bearing in mind how ticklish we’ve discovered you are you are.”
“God dam you, Blofeld!” Bond spat, his voice trembling. “People like you lead such sordid lives. You can’t have normal relationships so you have to tie people up to satisfy your perverted gay pleasures!”
Ernst Stavro Blofeld merely chuckled at Bond’s outburst.
“Oh I don’t mind admitting it,” he smiled. “I have a tickle fetish. In my time, I have tickled a great many men, including several of the guards here. However, from the moment we encountered one another, I knew I had to have you. You were so strong, so masculine and so arrogant. I immediately started fantasising about having you naked and helpless at my mercy. And of course I fantasised about tickling you all over your naked body. I fantasised about how you might react, how long you could resist, and of course, how much I would enjoy it when I broke you.” Blofeld’s voice was now trembling with excitement as he spoke.
“Of course, after I met Mr Ling and discovered his area of expertise, my plans for you really began to take shape.”
Whilst Blofeld talked, Bond became increasingly angry and humiliated. Finally he began tugging and jerking furiously at the wooden stocks.
“Blofeld, when I get out of theses things, I’m going to see to it that you fry in Hell along with the rest of your perverted homosexual cronies!”
At first Blofeld merely smiled. Then he leaned forwards and grabbed Bond’s black hair, forcing Bond’s head up to face him.
“Brave words, Mr Bond,” he smiled. “And I am very much going to enjoy making you eat them. As we have already established, you are very ticklish - particularly around your toes. Mr Ling is now going to concentrate on them…with this!” With an evil look in his eyes, Blofeld held up an object in his right hand.
James Bond raised his eyes, and his blood immediately ran icy-cold. In his right hand, Blofeld held what looked like a small wooden pastry brush. From the top of the brush sprouted three inches of firm looking white bristles!
Blofeld continued to hold Bond’s hair as he turned the brush slowly between his fingers.
“Just imagine it,” he said slowly. “These bristles are soon going to be burrowing their way between your toes. Between your very…ticklish toes. They’re going to drive you insane. If you thought Mr Ling’s fingernails were bad, then you’ve absolutely no idea what these will be like. The bristles have been specially cut to different lengths and firmness to make sure they tickle to maximum effect. And just think…we have the whole night stretching ahead of us!”
Bond couldn’t take his terrified eyes off the hellish looking bristles. He suddenly realised he had never felt so helpless in his entire life. He knew his chances of remaining either quiet or still if the bristles were used between his bare toes would be zero. In a sudden panic, he decided to cut his losses and try and reason with Blofeld.
“Look B-Blofeld,” Bond began - his voice now quivering. “You’ve made your point. Your treatment is very effective - I can vouch for that. Now please…don’t.”
Blofeld stared down at him. “Are you grovelling to me already?”
Bond face burned red with humiliation.
“W-what do you want?” Bond stammered. Do you want to hear me admitting it? Is that it?”
“Admitting what?” Blofeld asked, enjoying the anticipation of hearing Bond grovelling to him.
Bond paused. He absolutely hated what he was about to say. It was utter humiliation. However, right at that moment, he felt it might be his only chance. When he spoke, his voice was almost a whisper.
“I’m…I’m…t-ticklish.”
“I’m sorry,” Blofeld said. “I didn’t quite hear that. What did you say?”
Bond cringed with humiliation.
“I’m ticklish. Okay? I admit it. My toes are very, very ticklish. Now don’t. Please.”
Blofeld’s already considerable erection increased yet further at hearing Bond saying the words.
“Forget it Bond,” he snapped – Blofeld’s voice now turned cruel and angry. “I’ve barely even started on you.” He leaned down and snarled into Bond’s ear. “You’ve no idea how much I’m going to enjoy making you suffer! I’ve waited years for to watch you squirming on your knees, and now I have you!”
“Damn you, you b-bastard,” Bond whimpered. “Damn y-you and y-your perversions.”
But Blofeld merely laughed. Releasing Bond’s hair, he tossed the brush to the Oriental.
“Make him scream his head off, and don’t stop till I tell you!”
To be continued...
It stars Sean Connery as James Bond.
James Bond spun the wheel of the battleship grey Aston Martin DB5, turning the car off the quiet country road and onto a narrow dirt track. A hundred yards along the track, he turned again into a small clearing amongst some large pine trees. Stopping the car, he turned off the headlights and cut the ignition.
Bond wound down the car window and sat quietly. The only sound he could hear through the night air was the ticking of the Aston’s 2.6-litre engine as it cooled slowly after the 45-mile journey from Bond’s five star hotel.
After a few minutes, 007 collected some items from a secret compartment under the Aston’s dashboard, then got out of the car. He was wearing a black roll neck sweater, black trousers and black shoes. After making sure his 6mm Beretta automatic pistol was secure in its shoulder holster, James Bond started back down the dirt road to the country road. Once there, he continued across the road and scrambled down a steep banking on the other side until he reached the cover of a large corpse of silver birch trees. There Bond crouched down behind some scrub from where he had a view of a fine, large mansion house which stood about five hundred yards away beyond a high wire fence.
Bond new the layout of the mansion and the surrounding area well. This was the third night in a row he had returned to this same spot in order to study it. For the last eighteen months, despite orders from M to the contrary, James Bond had continued his relentless quest to track down the whereabouts of his archenemy, Ernst Stavro Blofeld. At first, the task had seemed hopeless. Then, following information he had been passed a week ago from Station S, Bond had become convinced that Blofeld was now operating from this very mansion house, deep within the English countryside.
James Bond now began to move towards the house. By keeping close to the trees, he soon reached the ten-foot high wire fence. He then took out a small pair of wire cutters, specially made for him by Q-Branch. The cutters were no more than nine inches in length but were extremely strong. In less than two minutes, Bond had cut a gap in the wire large enough for him to squeeze through.
Bond crouched and surveyed the ground leading to the house. He had already decided he would attempt to make entry through a small door on the west side of the mansion which he knew led to servants’ quarters. To reach this, he would have to follow a hedge for a hundred yards, then cross an exposed section of lawn. He took a deep breath then began to make his way cautiously along the hedge towards the grass. He watched carefully as he went for any trip wires which might set off an alarm or activate any floodlights.
Once he’d reached the end of the hedge, Bond paused for a few seconds and carefully checked each window in the house for any sign of movement. Then he sprinted as fast as he could across the twenty yards of manicured lawn. Reaching the wall by the door to the servants’ quarters, he pressed himself hard against the red bricks and listened. The only sound he could hear was the thudding of his own heart in his chest. Would this be the night when finally he would kill his archenemy?
James Bond turned his attention to picking the lock on the heavy wooden door. Again, thanks to gadgetry from Q-Branch, this only took a few minutes. Bond paused to draw his gun, then slowly pushed open the wooden door. Behind it was a short unlit corridor leading to a second door. Bond quickly stepped inside, shut the outer door and moved to the second door. With his gun raised, Bond slowly turned the handle. The handle turned easily and Bond slowly eased the door open. The room beyond looked to be in complete darkness. Bond pulled a small flashlight from his trouser pocket and eased through the door. Before he could even switch the flashlight on, a sixth sense had alerted him that suddenly he was in trouble. A second later, he heard the unmistakable click of an automatic weapon being cocked. The room was then suddenly flooded with light.
James Bond saw four men, all dressed in black, standing in front of him. One of them was pointing a 12mm Uzi automatic pistol at his chest.
“Good evening Mr Bond,” a swarthy looking guard said. “We’ve been expecting you!”
Bond’s heart sank. He knew immediately that somehow he’d been betrayed - but by whom? Who knew about his mission? - Someone from Station S?
Bond was ordered to drop his gun and to turn to face the wall. He was then ordered to lean against the wall and spread his legs. A pair of hands began at his left ankle and felt their way slowly up his leg to his groin. This process was then repeated slowly up his right leg. Bond then felt hands slide into his trouser pockets from where all the contents were removed. The hands then groped their way slowly up over Bonds ribs to his armpits, then down again and over his stomach. James Bond realised with disgust that the guard was almost certainly a homosexual and shut his mind off to the whole disgusting and sordid process.
Bond was then ordered to turn around. He was then marched at gunpoint out of the room and along a corridor. At the end of the corridor was another door. One of the guards opened the door and motioned for Bond to enter. Behind the door was a flight of wooden steps down which Bond was pushed. At the bottom of the steps a heavy wooden door was opened and James Bond was pushed roughly through into the basement room beyond.
The room was quite large for a basement. It had no windows and the only light came from a single electric bulb hanging from the ceiling. Bond’s attention, however, was entirely taken up by an ominous looking contraption which stood in the middle of the room.
The device looked like a variation on a set of medieval stocks and was in two parts. The front part consisted of a thick horizontal wooden beam which sat about three feet off the ground on heavy wooden supports which appeared to be bolted to the floor. The horizontal beam had three holes, each with padded red leather surrounds. The rear part of the device sat about three feet behind the front part, and was down at ground level. This section, which was also bolted to the floor, had two holes, also with padded red leather surrounds. Bond looked over the device with rising unease. It had obviously been constructed for the purpose of holding someone captive.
“Take your clothes off.” One of Blofeld’s guards ordered him, but the words didn’t register with Bond such was his attention on the stocks device.
“Take your clothes off! Now!” Bond suddenly received a painful blow to his ribs from the swarthy looking guard to his right. After taking a few seconds to recover from the blow, Bond glanced around, assessing his chances of taking out the guards and making his escape. The swarthy one stood closest to him and the other two stood on either side of the still open door. The fourth guard had taken up a position on the farthest side of the room and was pointing his black Uzi calmly at Bond’s chest. As Bond looked at him, the guard smiled. Then, as if reading Bond’s thoughts, he shook his head slowly and motioned with the gun for Bond to undress. With a sigh Bond slowly began to remove his black turtle neck sweater, followed by the rest of his clothes. A minute later, he stood in front of the four men, stark naked.
Suddenly, without warning, Bond was grabbed by the three unarmed guards. Two of them twisted his arms behind his back whilst the third one swung his arm around Bond’s neck, getting him in a headlock. As they began forcing him over towards the stocks device Bond fought against them with all his strength, but the guards were too experienced. Bond was forced down on his knees and the guards pushed his head down into the open middle recess of the stocks while his wrists were pushed into the two outer recesses. A second later, Bond felt the top part of the stocks being closed down and locked. He immediately began pulling and tugging furiously at his trapped neck and wrists but quickly realised there would be no escape. Then 007 felt the guards grabbing his feet and pushing his ankles into the recesses in the rear part of the stocks. The top part of the foot stocks was then shut down, trapping his ankles. Bond tugged at the rear part of the stocks, but again, there was to be no escape.
Finally, Bond felt something being looped around his big toes. Then, whatever it was got pulled tight - stretching his bare soles.
Three of the guards moved towards the door but Bond could hear the fourth still moving around behind him. A few seconds later he heard the click of an electric switch and immediately felt a warm sensation on the soles of his bare feet. The fourth guard walked back into Bond’s view. He bent down and collected up Bond’s discarded clothing and shoes.
“See you later,” he said with a sneering smile on his face as he left the room with the others.
James Bond guessed he’d been in the basement room around half an hour or so. Much of this time had been spent trying to free his wrists and ankles from the stocks but this had proved impossible. The soles of his bare feet were now stinging madly from the heat of whatever had been placed behind him.
Suddenly the wooden door swung open and Ernst Stavro Blofeld walked into the basement. Blofeld had a very large, domed bald head and wore a monocle in his left eye. He was dressed in a grey jacket and matching trousers. James Bond immediately felt humbled and embarrassed. Blofeld was his greatest enemy, and now he was kneeling before Blofeld, naked and helpless.
Behind Blofeld followed a very old Oriental man. He had a long, white pointed beard and wore a silver and black flowing shirt over black trousers. Bond also noticed he had long pointed and well manicured fingernails.
“Well Mr Bond, how are we now?” asked Blofeld, pulling over a wooden chair from the corner of the room. He sat down directly in front of Bond and barely three feet away from him. “Not too uncomfortable I hope.”
“Damn you to Hell, Blofeld,” Bond snapped, looking away in embarrassment.
“Never mind,” Blofeld replied. “Let me tell you what I have in store for you.”
“Whatever it is, it can’t be any worse than having to listen to you.”
Blofeld merely smiled, choosing to ignore the remark. However, before he continued Blofeld gestured to the Oriental who had moved around behind Bond. A few seconds later Bond heard a click, then felt relief as whatever had been burning his feet was removed.
“As you may know,” Blofeld began, “I have long been fascinated by the many available methods of interrogation. I am very familiar with the more common kinds, as I’m sure you are, but what I’m particularly interested in studying at the moment are some of the more subtle methods, particularly those used by the Chinese. Many of these methods are ancient and use very simple techniques. For example, you may be familiar with water torture, where a simple drop of water repeatedly dripped onto the forehead can soon have the victim driven almost mad and have them begging for the treatment to stop. Over the last few weeks I’ve been refining another interrogation technique much practised by our Chinese friends. Mr Ling here has been a great help in advising on techniques but we’ve lacked a real victim to practise on. That was until you came along.
Tell me Mr Bond…” Blofeld paused. “When did you last have your feet tickled?”
So far during Blofeld’s speech, Bond had refused to look up at him, choosing instead to stare straight down at the dirty red carpet. However, Bond now stared up at Blofeld in disbelief. Had he heard him correctly?
Blofeld smiled at Bond’s reaction, then continued.
“You see, the Chinese were experts at tickling. I’m told they had a whole range of tools – feathers, brushes, even certain types of chopsticks which they would use to drive their victims insane.”
James Bond stared back down at the carpet. Surely Blofeld couldn’t be serious - tickling as a form of torture? Then, with a jolt of panic, Bond suddenly recalled an incident from the previous year when one of Doctor No’s henchmen had placed a tarantula spider in his hotel room bed. It had tickled unbearably as it crawled up his naked body. Bond’s heart rate suddenly began to quicken. Would what Blofeld have in mind be as bad as the spider– or worse?
“As you’ll no doubt be aware,” Blofeld continued, “I’ve arranged to have your soles warmed up a bit. Hot skin is so much more sensitive than cold. I’m told that the Chinese made use of hot oils for this purpose. I’ve made do with a sun ray lamp.”
Blofeld leaned back in his seat and rubbed his hands. “So, let’s get started, shall we? Mr Ling will be doing the necessary under my direction. I’m very keen to see how you react to this particular form of encouragement. Of course I’m not interested in any information you may offer just to make me stop. Oh, and one last thing.” Blofeld leaned down close to Bond’s face. “This room is totally soundproof so feel free to scream and laugh all you wish.”
“God Dam you to Hell Blofeld!” Bond spat, suddenly pulling and tugging furiously at the stocks. “I promise you now, I won’t be laughing or screaming to anyone, least of all you!”
Blofeld laughed. “Very well. We shall see how long you keep that promise.”
As Bond glared furiously down at the carpet, Blofeld nodded to the Oriental.
Suddenly James Bond felt something stroking lightly up and down the bare sole of his right foot. Christ, it did tickle! - far more than he’d anticipated! Bond gritted his teeth and instinctively tried to get some relief by curling his toes - only to suddenly realise why they’d been tied back!
It felt like the Oriental was using his fingernail, but Bond really didn’t care. Already all his concentration was focused on maintaining his composure in front of Blofeld.
Now the fingernail was tracing long, lazy figure eight patterns on Bond’s bare sole. Oh Christ, that tickled even more! To his horror, Bond felt himself wanting to smile, even to laugh. No! He screamed to himself. Don’t give Blofeld the satisfaction! Already he wanted to twist and squirm to get relief from the tickling and had to fight desperately to control himself.
Bond had never considered himself as ticklish, but he couldn’t deny he was being tickled now. He realised it came from a combination of the sunray lamp and the fact his soles were stretched so taught. God! If only he could clench his toes to wrinkle his sole, but with his toes tied back it was impossible. It drove Bond mad that there was nothing he could do to stop the Oriental’s fingernail from stroking so methodically back and forth all over his bare sole! Bond kept trying to twist or jerk his foot away from his tormentor, but the stocks held his ankle tight and he could hardly even move it. As the stroking continued up and down his bare sole, Bond felt his urge to smile becoming even stronger!
Suddenly the pattern changed and fingernail began moving in little zigzags up and down his bare sole. Bond almost gasped out loud. Then it was stroking straight up and down the length of his sole, then back to the lazy figure eights for a few seconds, then the little zigzags again. Each change seemed to tickle more than the last! There was a brief pause, and then one fingertip was running very rapidly back and forth along his arch, then back to the long swooping figure eights. A few seconds gap, then four fingernails were running up and down his sole at he same time. Bond’s eyes went wide and his jaw clenched until it shook as he fought to maintain his composure. Stop! He screamed silently to the Oriental. Please stop the tickling! But there was to be no relief. Bond desperately glared down at a spot on the dirty red carpet and fought with almost superhuman willpower to maintain his composure as the fingernails scratched, stroked and tickled all over his helpless bare sole.
The Oriental continued varying his technique and his touch was never the same twice. A few seconds of slow, light stroking might be quickly followed by some fingernail scratching, then fast running fingertips, then light little scratches darting all over his bare sole. James Bond’s whole world now consisted only of what was being done to his bare foot. Even as he struggled to keep his composure, Bond was unable to stop his body from giving the occasional jerk or twitch as the Oriental stroked a particularly sensitive spot on his bare sole. Bond hated giving any sort of a reaction, but he just couldn’t help it. As he glared down at the carpet and fought to keep quiet, Bond was forced to concede that he was indeed at the mercy of an extremely proficient tickler.
The tickling stopped very briefly, then Bond suddenly felt the Oriental’s fingernail on the sole of his left foot. It ran maddeningly up and down from his heel to his toes then switched to scratching along his arch, then on to the slow figure eight patterns. The tickling felt even worse on his left sole making Bond want to squirm and wriggle more than ever. Worst of all, his urge to smile was now almost irresistible. He could even feel the corners of his mouth twitching involuntarily. Fight it! He screamed to himself. Keep control! He couldn’t bear the humiliation of being forced to laugh in front of Blofeld! Bond continued to clench his teeth as he fought furiously to maintain his composure, but the tickling was driving him mad! With ever rising panic Bond glared furiously down at the spot on the dirty red carpet as he desperately tried to remain in control of himself. As he did so, the first beads of sweat appeared on his forehead and began to trickle slowly down his face.
The next ten minutes were absolute hell as the Oriental continued to tickle James Bond’s helpless bare feet. The treatment varied constantly – first his right sole, then his left, then both at once. Bond felt as though he was being driven insane. Having his bare feet tickled would have been humiliating enough at the best of times, but to have them tickled and not show any reaction to Blofeld was absolute torture! Bond so desperately wanted to let himself squirm and wriggle rather than having to keep still! His teeth remained clenched and his fingernails dug into his palms as he stared down furiously at the carpet - anything just to maintain control and keep quiet and still. All this time, Blofeld sat directly in front of Bond, staring at him silently and watching for any reactions.
Then, just when Bond thought the tickling couldn’t possibly get any worse, the Oriental’s fingernail started scratching lightly along the bottom of the toes on his right foot. Oh, God! Not there! For a split second, Bond’s whole body jerked in the stocks, and only superhuman willpower stopped him from yelping out loud.
For a few seconds, there was nothing…then the fingernail started again – now running continuously back and forth along the base of his toes. No! No! Almost before he realised what he was doing, Bond started twisting and squirming on his knees - there was nothing he could do to stop himself! Then, to his horror, barely a second later he felt the corners of his mouth curve upwards! Bond tried to stop them, but despite himself, he was now smiling a kind of forced smile with his lips pressed tightly shut. It was all he could do not to burst out laughing. To his fury, as Bond squirmed helplessly, he heard Blofeld chuckling to himself with satisfaction.
The forced smile was now all over Bond’s face. He was furious with himself for reacting, but he just couldn’t help himself as he twisted and squirmed on his knees. The Oriental’s fingernail had been bad enough on his bare soles, but his toes were unbearably ticklish.
Suddenly the Oriental started to lightly scratch each of Bond’s toes individually! Bond let out a single yelp of laughter before he managed to clamp his mouth tight shut, but the damage had been done! He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his trapped head back and forth as if trying to deny what was being done to him. With all his might he pulled and tugged at the wooden ankle stocks, but they barely even moved. As he smiled like an idiot, he could feel laughter virtually bursting out of him and he only just managed to contain it.
At that point, Blofeld began cruelly teasing him.
“You’re smiling, Bond,” he sneered. “Does that tickle?”
Bond turned his right cheek hard against the wooden stocks in a vain attempt to hide the big smile on his face from Blofeld. He felt utterly embarrassed and humiliated but he just couldn’t wipe the smile from his face or stop himself from writhing and squirming as the Oriental’s fingernail continued to scratch lightly at each toe in turn.
The Oriental was truly was an expert – he kept varying the pace and pressure of his fingertips whilst watching Bond closely to gauge his reactions. A few strokes up and down Bond’s toes would be followed by a few quick scratches between them, then a few slow strokes along the bottom of his toes. Bond could hardly bear it! More than anything, he just wanted to give in and just let the laughter burst out of him, but somehow he managed to keep it in.
“It’s so much worse than you though it would be, isn’t it?” Blofeld continued to tease. “It’s all right – It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Lots of men are ticklish on their bare feet.” Blofeld chuckled with glee as he spoke.
Bond was furious at being humiliated, but he was too engrossed in fighting against the tickling to reply. As he writhed helplessly, pulling and tugging madly as the wooden stocks, he knew Blofeld was right - the tickling was driving him crazy!
For several long minutes, the Oriental continued to tickle James Bond’s toes. During this time, Bond’s naked body continued to twist and writhe helplessly as he squirmed helplessly on his knees. His eyes remained squeezed shut and he continued to shake his trapped head back and forth as the big smile remained on his face. He longed more than anything to just give in to the laughter and let it flood out of him. It was only through almost superhuman willpower that he managed to keep quiet.
Suddenly Blofeld held up his hand and the almost unbearable tickling mercifully stopped. Bond let out a gasp of relief and allowed his naked body to slump in the stocks. By now, sweat was trickling down his face and glistening off his naked body.
Ernst Stavro Blofeld leaned back in his chair for a few seconds. He was breathing heavily from the excitement of watching Bond being tickled. Then he stood up and walked out of Bond’s view. Bond heard him exchange a few words of Chinese with the Oriental before he reappeared and sat back down.
“So,” he asked Bond. “Did you enjoy that?”
Bond didn’t reply. Instead he started down hard at the dirty red carpet. He felt utterly humiliated and ashamed of himself for being forced into squirming and smiling like an idiot just by being tickled.
“What you have just experienced,” Blofeld continued, “was just an introduction. It has enabled Mr Ling to find and explore some of your more sensitive areas.” Blofeld paused and leaned down a little closer to Bond’s trapped head. When he next spoke, it was very slow and deliberate as he savoured every word.
“I think you’ll agree that you have quite ticklish feet.” Blofeld smiled as he gazed down – enjoying every last second of Bond’s humiliation.
Bond felt his face burning red with embarrassment at Blofeld’s remarks. He knew Blofeld was getting a sadistic thrill out of humiliating and degrading him but there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
“I must say,” Blofeld continued. “I very much enjoyed the sight of you squirming on your knees in front of me. Of course it’s made even more enjoyable by knowing you were trying so hard to keep still. That must have been very hard bearing in mind how ticklish we’ve discovered you are you are.”
“God dam you, Blofeld!” Bond spat, his voice trembling. “People like you lead such sordid lives. You can’t have normal relationships so you have to tie people up to satisfy your perverted gay pleasures!”
Ernst Stavro Blofeld merely chuckled at Bond’s outburst.
“Oh I don’t mind admitting it,” he smiled. “I have a tickle fetish. In my time, I have tickled a great many men, including several of the guards here. However, from the moment we encountered one another, I knew I had to have you. You were so strong, so masculine and so arrogant. I immediately started fantasising about having you naked and helpless at my mercy. And of course I fantasised about tickling you all over your naked body. I fantasised about how you might react, how long you could resist, and of course, how much I would enjoy it when I broke you.” Blofeld’s voice was now trembling with excitement as he spoke.
“Of course, after I met Mr Ling and discovered his area of expertise, my plans for you really began to take shape.”
Whilst Blofeld talked, Bond became increasingly angry and humiliated. Finally he began tugging and jerking furiously at the wooden stocks.
“Blofeld, when I get out of theses things, I’m going to see to it that you fry in Hell along with the rest of your perverted homosexual cronies!”
At first Blofeld merely smiled. Then he leaned forwards and grabbed Bond’s black hair, forcing Bond’s head up to face him.
“Brave words, Mr Bond,” he smiled. “And I am very much going to enjoy making you eat them. As we have already established, you are very ticklish - particularly around your toes. Mr Ling is now going to concentrate on them…with this!” With an evil look in his eyes, Blofeld held up an object in his right hand.
James Bond raised his eyes, and his blood immediately ran icy-cold. In his right hand, Blofeld held what looked like a small wooden pastry brush. From the top of the brush sprouted three inches of firm looking white bristles!
Blofeld continued to hold Bond’s hair as he turned the brush slowly between his fingers.
“Just imagine it,” he said slowly. “These bristles are soon going to be burrowing their way between your toes. Between your very…ticklish toes. They’re going to drive you insane. If you thought Mr Ling’s fingernails were bad, then you’ve absolutely no idea what these will be like. The bristles have been specially cut to different lengths and firmness to make sure they tickle to maximum effect. And just think…we have the whole night stretching ahead of us!”
Bond couldn’t take his terrified eyes off the hellish looking bristles. He suddenly realised he had never felt so helpless in his entire life. He knew his chances of remaining either quiet or still if the bristles were used between his bare toes would be zero. In a sudden panic, he decided to cut his losses and try and reason with Blofeld.
“Look B-Blofeld,” Bond began - his voice now quivering. “You’ve made your point. Your treatment is very effective - I can vouch for that. Now please…don’t.”
Blofeld stared down at him. “Are you grovelling to me already?”
Bond face burned red with humiliation.
“W-what do you want?” Bond stammered. Do you want to hear me admitting it? Is that it?”
“Admitting what?” Blofeld asked, enjoying the anticipation of hearing Bond grovelling to him.
Bond paused. He absolutely hated what he was about to say. It was utter humiliation. However, right at that moment, he felt it might be his only chance. When he spoke, his voice was almost a whisper.
“I’m…I’m…t-ticklish.”
“I’m sorry,” Blofeld said. “I didn’t quite hear that. What did you say?”
Bond cringed with humiliation.
“I’m ticklish. Okay? I admit it. My toes are very, very ticklish. Now don’t. Please.”
Blofeld’s already considerable erection increased yet further at hearing Bond saying the words.
“Forget it Bond,” he snapped – Blofeld’s voice now turned cruel and angry. “I’ve barely even started on you.” He leaned down and snarled into Bond’s ear. “You’ve no idea how much I’m going to enjoy making you suffer! I’ve waited years for to watch you squirming on your knees, and now I have you!”
“Damn you, you b-bastard,” Bond whimpered. “Damn y-you and y-your perversions.”
But Blofeld merely laughed. Releasing Bond’s hair, he tossed the brush to the Oriental.
“Make him scream his head off, and don’t stop till I tell you!”
To be continued...