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Augmented, part 1 (m/f)

Kid Indy

TMF Expert
Joined
Oct 12, 2001
Messages
365
Points
18
This is an idea I've been playing with for a while. As usual, I love feedback, and I'll appreciate any comments that anyone can leave!

KI

Augmented

by

Kid Indy

Agent Ryan Watson waited nervously outside of the Bureau Chief's office. He had only been an FBI field agent for a little over two years, and the nebulous tone of the email he'd received made him dread that he was in some kind of trouble. His mind raced over his interactions with suspects, his general police work, everything he'd said to anyone at the office over the last several weeks, and nothing was coming to mind. So he sat and sweated, wondering what in the world his superiors wanted to see him about.

After an eternity in the waiting room, Watson made his way back to his boss's window office. Ron's head was down, reading once again a document that was beyond his powers of comprehension and resistance. "I'm sorry, Ryan, but it looks like NSA has you under investigation. You're going to have to report to their San Francisco office immediately. Your plane leaves tonight."

"Investigation for what? Come on, Ron! You know I'm a good agent. I've kept clean. Hell, I'm up for promotion in the spring!"

"I'm sorry, kid. Pack a bag, and square away any details you need to--these investigations can take a while. What makes me craziest is that we're going to have to find someone to pick up your case load here."

"Until I come back, right?"

"Just get up there and make sure you can come back, kid."

When Ryan packed a bag, there wasn't much of his office left when he was done. A classic workaholic with no real attachments outside of his job, his small apartment's minimal furniture and some cheap pots and pans were all he really left behind as he shoved some clothes into a suitcase, a couple suits into his garment bag, and his personal laptop computer into a backpack. He closed the door and locked it behind him and started to look walk towards the subway station.

As the jet made its way across North America, Ryan wondered why the San Francisco office was the site of this mistake--after all, wasn't NSA a Washington-based organization? Looking at his schedule, he noted that he'd have until the afternoon to report to the NSA office, and he resolved that he'd just spend the late morning catching some sleep and unwinding in his hotel room. "Just treat this as a little vacation," he told himself, but he worried more and more as they approached California, going over his past for anything that the NSA might regard suspicious. He'd been as scrupulous in his young life as someone wanting to be a federal investigator should be, keeping clear even of the conventional misdeeds of the typical college student and treating his conventional college girlfriends well before they went their separate ways. He'd graduated with good grades, done well in agent training, and worked as junior agent for two solid years with nothing but commendations on his record. As the plane touched down, he realized that this was the worst sort of scenario to be going into, the one in which he couldn't see the enemy coming and didn't even know what the enemy was after.

Promptly at 15:00 (he'd shown up at the office fifteen minute early), Ryan was ushered into a massive office, where a man with blonde hair motioned for him to sit across an oak desk. Each looked at the other, and neither spoke. Ryan controlled his breathing, neither looking away from the eyes behind the spectacles across from him nor fidgeting in his chair. He did not bother to count, knowing the classic interrogation technique of waiting for the mark to talk. A clock in the corner of the office ticked.

After some span of time, the man at the desk broke the silence. "Your mental discipline is already impressive; most people in this setting would have been denying crimes that we didn't even know about."

Ryan sat silent.

"I'll go ahead and get to business here, Mr. Watson. I'm Agent Spencer Norton, and you're here because of what we found on your computer." Turning the monitor of the desk's computer towards Ryan, the man said, "Take a look, and tell me what's going on here." Ryan's mind was spinning; his office computer, if anything, was too spare, his tendency towards caution leading him to store every email neatly in folders and never to open a web browser at the office. But what he saw had nothing to do with his work computer.

"How the hell did you get this? This is from my own personal computer that I use on my own personal time!"

"Have you ever heard the proverb, 'Don't prepare for this war, prepare for the next war?'"

"What does this have to do with war? First of all, you have no business digging into my personal business, and second... there is no second! I'm getting out of here."

"Not so fast, Watson. Let me open a few of them." Ryan stopped and turned as Norton clicked twice, opening a video player. The sound of a young woman's screaming laugh was loud enough that Ryan began to turn red, looking over his shoulder to see if Norton's secretary had noticed. Watson grinned. "Tickle Abuse, no? Not a bad collection they've got."

"Look, sir, I can delete those files if they're some kind of security threat. I didn't know that--"

"Delete them? No, you've got this all wrong. Come with me, will you?" Norton cleared the screen, stood up, and opened a door behind the desk. "Follow me, and we might just be able to work something out." Ryan felt his legs following, his mind unable to make sense of anything happening. They walked down a narrow hallway until they came to a small room with one computer terminal facing three large, high-definition television screens. Norton quickly tapped a password into the terminal, and each of the screens lit up with an image, almost life-size, of someone, sometimes a masked man, sometimes a sexy woman, tickling a bound lady. Ryan's jaw dropped. "Let me tell you what you're looking at, Watson. Our bureau has the budget to purchase and download every tickling clip produced by every company on the Internet. We have clips in twelve languages, terabytes of the stuff. And we want you to have access to all of them."

"Why in the world would you want that?" Norton clicked a few times at the terminal, and the images on the screen changed. Like a heads-up display from a science fiction movie, flashing grids suddenly overlay all of the tickled women's bodies. Although the accompanying text moved by quickly, Ryan could read the names of body parts, descriptions of limbs' movements, and what seemed to be measurements of the screams in decibels and pitch-frequencies. "What in the world is this?"

"Like I said, Watson, one must prepare for the next war. Right now the administration is cleaning up the mess from two wars against states that no longer harbor terrorist organizations. The problem, of course, is that fighters captured in those theaters have no actionable intelligence, in most cases, about plans to do harm to American targets."

Ryan raised an eyebrow. "You're talking about domestic surveillance? I thought that was Homeland Security's job."

Norton snorted. "Homeland security? Honestly, son, didn't anyone ever catch you up to speed on that? Homeland Security is a bad joke, a way to break up the TSA unions. Homeland Security gets in front of cameras to take credit for what the real players get done so that the public can't link the results to the method."

"I still don't get it. What does all this have to do with these videos?"

"Interrogation."

"You mean tickle torture? Now you're the one who's not up to speed. Tickling is a social club, something to blow off steam. If you've been getting ideas from online tickling stories, you're really not getting anywhere. Tickling just isn't effective interrogation."

"You mean right now it's not. That's what we're working on at this facility. You see, domestics aren't like fighters in Kabul or Fallujah. Their families and friends are going to pull strings if they disappear, and if they reappear with any marks of duress, we can't bury it with celebrity stories and local freak shows like we can with overseas matters."

"Okay, so there's no tissue damage. There's still the matter of getting someone to give out important information because of tickling. It just doesn't happen."

"You mean it hasn't happened yet. Look at the screens, Watson. What you're looking at is the boring part of your new job. You're going to scan every publisher of tickling videos on the Internet weekly and use the government's credit card to buy up all the new material. Then you're going to feed it through this computer, and the computer is going to store all the information on body types, locations of touches, reaction levels, whether the girl is rewarded for reacting loudly or not reacting, basically all the observable data one can garner from every tickling video published."

"That's the boring part, you say? What's the other part?"

Norton once again grinned. "I was hoping you would ask." He keyed another password into the terminal's keyboard, and a drawer opened in the wall next to the computer. Norton pulled out a pair of black sunglasses, stood up, and put them in his jacket pocket. "Let's go for a walk, shall we?"

Out on the street, Norton and Watson strolled a few blocks to the campus of a small college. Norton pulled the glasses out and handed them to Ryan. "Put them on, and look at any girl you'd like to. You'll have to focus for a second, because the technology is still under development, but be patient."

The glasses were heavy, the sort that Ryan had worn in his brief training in undercover surveillance. He could tell immediately there were electronics built in. As he looked left and right, his eyes settled on a tan brunette, tall with hair part of the way down her back. Since the spring semester was winding down, her shorts did not cover up much of a pair of trim, sexy legs. As Watson took her in, suddenly a heads-up grid flew up the girl's body, then down, and suddenly two patches halfway down her torso, on the sides, began to glow. Ryan looked down and saw that her hips also had begun to emanate light in his display. He snatched the glasses off of his head, looked at them, then glared at Norton. "What is this?"

"The concept of augmented reality has been with us for some time now, as you no doubt know. Unlike virtual reality, which replaces the physical world with a fabricated set of perceptions, augmented reality simply overlays useful information onto the world that we normally see."

"So what's so useful about that girl's ribs and hips?"

"Nothing right now. In fact, if you touched her there, you'd likely get arrested. But in the body position she's in, the glasses just told you that the most ticklish spots on a woman of her build, standing as she's standing, are those spots. It's data cobbled from hundreds and hundreds of tickling videos." Ryan stared at Norton. "If you had started tickling her, her responsive body motions would tell the computer with which those glasses are communicating what moves to make next, and the information would be relayed to you in the form of further glowing areas."

"So it uses the information from all those tickling videos to make someone the perfect tickler."

"If by perfect you mean able to cause the most distress, yes. What our software does is eliminate the performance factor from the videos, making sure that we're not basing our interrogators' moves off of what girls who make good money screaming for boys like you do but from what their actual bodies do when certain devices touch them."

"So it would suggest tools as well?"

"Indeed. Now that we've got several hundred videos programmed in, the next step is letting the program's AI work with girls who are not playing at being captured but actually are."

"You mean we're going to try this out on real domestic terrorists?"

"Oh, not yet, Watson. Actual domestic terrorists will come later. Right now, though, we still have enough latitude under the Patriot Act to put less disciplined targets on our watch list. Targets like the ones on this campus."

"That girl there, you mean?"

"Nah. She's a sorority girl, a registered Republican if she votes at all. But let's not get too far ahead of ourselves. Are you willing to be a part of this project?"

"Let me make sure I've got the basics down. The NSA wants me to test out this new interrogation technology for the foreseeable future?"

"That's right."

"And that's going to involve watching hours of tickling videos and actually tickling college girls?"

"Correct."

"And I get to claim some kind of patriotic mandate to do it?"

"If that helps you deal with it."

"I'm in, man!"

"Good. Let's head back to the bureau, and we'll prep you for our first target."

The target was the sort of girl that wasn't all too common back at the University of Alabama where Ryan had attended school, but he'd paid enough attention to the larger world that the profile wasn't unfamiliar. Kelly Quinn had graduated from an exclusive prep school in Los Angeles, and now she was a sophomore at Berkley. Rebelling against her banker parents, she had gotten involved with a Leftist Pan-American group that didn't do all that much but wrote copiously online about American abuses in Colombia, Chile, and other South American states.

"So the Patriot Act is going to let us declare this girl an enemy combatant?"

"It's great when Congress doesn't actually read legislation, ain't it?"

Ryan looked at the progression of photographs from the reserved and overmotivated high school kid to the passionate and overmotivated young activist. The hair style changed from the subdued mane of the prom-going girl to the tied-back ponytail of the amateur subversive, but what stayed the same, what Ryan could not deny, was that she didn't look like any Kelly Quinn he would have imagined. The full-lipped beauty of the girl, the jet black hair and smooth olive skin, spoke to Ryan of a Mediterranean heritage that probably had turned into Los Angeles blandness long before the British surname blotted out the Jordanian or the Italian or whatever lay in her genetic past. In the video clips that were part of the target's dialect was entirely American; no accent, Arab or Italian or Irish, remained. There was no denying the girl's appeal, and he was already imagining what she might look like tied up.

"So our ostensible target for this interrogation is Carlos Vasquez?"

"That's right. He's at large in the Los Angeles area, but he's really an easy target, more useful to us as a rationale than as a link in the cocaine chain. Our agency has been holding onto DEA's leash for a month now so that we could write this up rather than making it Black Ops. You'll be fully sanctioned by the War on Terror to perform these interrogations."

"Gotta love it."

On the night of April 17, NSA agents began to tail Kelly Quinn. She left the meeting of Raza California shortly after 1:05 AM on Sunday morning, and after walking with a friend for three blocks, she broke off and headed for her apartment a few blocks from campus. Within the next block a car sped past her, executed a bootleg turn to replace the next street to be crossed with the body of a sedan, and burst forth with two men in black suits. As she screamed and turned around, she saw another running up behind her. Within seconds strong, trained hands muscled her into the car, which sped off, leaving two of the men to be picked up by a second vehicle.

Within thirty seconds of the order's being given, the campus street was filled with students who had come running too late, wondering out loud what had just happened but unable to agree what the events looked like.

Looking through a narrow soundproof door in a metal door through his new glasses, Ryan saw hips and sides light up through blue jeans and a T-shirt, along with bean-shaped patches on the sides of the girl's knees. He knew, though, that the glasses' first objectives were still covered up with a pair of tennis shoes, objects which his glasses apparently could not see through. Kelly was tied to a chair, her feet still on the ground, and the official interrogator was asking her questions about the cocaine runner Carlos Vasquez, a known contact of Raza California. The girl was obviously proud of herself as she refused to answer the man's questions.

Ryan lifted the glasses from his nose so that he could look directly at Norton. "She doesn't know he's going easy, does she?"

Norton chuckled. "How could she? This kid hasn't seen anything of our world except in the movies. She's only met Vasquez once, and she probably thinks he's some sort of Che Guevara rather than a simple lowlife. When you get ahold of her, she's going to think of herself as protecting the revolution."

Agent Decker turned and started moving towards the door. Ryan lowered the glasses again. "Let's see how that works out, shall we?"

Ryan walked into the room, his shoes clicking on the smooth tile floor. "Let's get a couple things out of the way, Miss Quinn. I'm not an intelligence interviewer, so there's no point in telling me anything about your contacts. I'm only going to be in here for twenty minutes this time, but if you don't cooperate with our agents in your next interview, you will see me again."

"You don't scare me, pig. I'm an American citizen. You can't do anything to me."

"Actually, Miss Quinn, you've been declared an Enemy Combatant, so whereas you used to be a citizen, you won't be again until my superiors say so."

"You can't do that! You're bluffing."

"Oh, Miss Quinn, we can. You need to read up on War on Terror legislation. But you'll have time to do that later. Right now, let's see what we've got, shall we?" Ryan set a blue duffel bag down loudly by his own feet and knelt down by Kelly's legs. He began to untie her right tennis shoe.

"Don't touch me! I have rights!"

He tugged at the shoe and popped it off, revealing a white sock. "We'll let you know if and when you have rights again, Miss Quinn." His glasses were already beginning to apprehend her foot, the heads-up display superimposing an outline over her sock. Ryan made a mental note to himself that the device must be able to detect form through clothing, but not shoes. "Right now, let's get these shoes off so you can get comfortable." He began to untie the other. This time Kelly kicked her leg straight out, trying to strike him, but he deflected it easily enough and grabbed her ankle. "Oh, so you're going to start out fighting, are you?" Her exposed ankle was already glowing with ticklish spots, and her left shoe came off quickly enough. Ryan shifted slightly to the side to avoid the pivot of her knee and looked up at a beautiful but confused and frightened face. He laughed. "What should we do now, Miss Quinn?"

"You can't do this to me. I'm an American citizen!"

"We can talk legal matters later, Miss Quinn, but what's the 'this' that you think is coming?"

"You're going to cut my feet!"

Ryan shook his head. "No, Miss Quinn, that would be barbarism, though I wouldn't put it past some of these drug runners like Vasquez. No, what we're trying out today actually derives from Soviet-era archives. You should know a bit about the Soviets, what with your being a Zapatista and all." He placed four fingers and two thumbs on the top of her left sock and began slowly to roll the sock down her ankle and towards her foot.

Kelly screamed, then, regaining her composure, she said, "Then what are you doing?"

"You see, Joseph Stalin kept his nose pretty clean as far as the historical record goes--all we've got are the accusations of his enemies, and you know how those could be. But one of his middle-level party bosses, Stalin saw this guy as a threat, so Stalin kept a thick file on him." Ryan rolled the sock over the heel and held his position, letting the girl's own struggles slowly and by small tugs pull the sock towards her toes. "You see, he had a bad habit as far as Soviet college girls went. He was a dirty old goat, a weakness that Stalin knew he could exploit. But he wasn't a good-looking man, you see. He knew that sleeping with these girls by force wouldn't be any fun, so he had to figure out a way to make them want him." With a swift tug, Ryan pulled the sock off and tossed it behind him.

Kelly's face flushed with humiliation and anger. "What are you doing? Give me my shoes back!"

"Don't you want to know how he did this?"

"What, by torturing them and telling them to sleep with him to make it stop?"

"No, that's not much better than a gun to the head. What this Soviet minister wanted was the girls' desire, so he used certain techniques to get their bodies excited, then showed up at the right moment so that they could even imagine finishing it off on him. It was a brilliant thing, actually." With Kelly's guard down, Ryan snapped his fingers around her ankle, drawing a gasp from the girl. Her ankle flexed, showing him a strong glowing patch beginning from the edge of the heel up to the beginning of the ball of her foot. Even through the dark glass of his optical device and around the heads-up highlighting of her sole, he could see that her soft sole was slightly lighter than the rest of her skin, setting off the arch against the top of her foot as some sort of upside-down cappuccino, the cream in this sweet drink waiting for him on the bottom of the foot. "The way I figure it, that Soviet had it figured out--Stalin's spies showed that he tortured and bedded dozens of young women in Moscow. Do you know what sort of treatment can get your body excited, no matter how much you hate the person doing it?"

"Please! Don't!"

Ryan grinned evilly. "Wrong answer." Trusting the goggles, he began to scribble his fingers over the soft, smooth surface of the sole, and the girl screamed. Her leg tried to kick out of his grasp, but he had anticipated just that, and his holding arm gave just slightly with every kick, the hand tickling her foot following the motion and relentlessly stroking and lightly scratching the sensitive skin.

"NO!"

Ryan's tickling hand suddenly grabbed the foot, and he pivoted his body weight so that he was sitting down beside the chair's front legs, pinning the ankle between his upper arm and his torso and keeping the other leg out of play. The fingers that had been teasing the sole wrapped around her heel, and the hand that had been holding now arced across his body and began its own assault on that ticklish sole as the glasses gathered data and sent them to the central computer.

"NO!"

Ryan's fingers kept performing their frantic dance on her sole, and he could feel her struggles becoming more spasmodic. "I've still got you for several more minutes, Kelly. You're only going to be able to hold out for so long before you start laughing, so you might as well start now."

Kelly began to groan the agony of the woman who does not want to laugh, who hates the touches on her feet but whose body has already betrayed her. She clenched her teeth and shut her eyes, but Ryan's fingers, now moving down on to the heel as the computer guided him, now changing his pattern on her sole, kept touching and rubbing, and before she knew what was happening she was giggling, then laughing a full-voiced and melodic laugh that inspired his fingers to even faster touches, even more sly side trips to her instep and to the bases of her toes. As Ryan felt her free leg stop kicking, he released the other and rolled to the side. Looking back at the voice that he could not see for those minutes, he saw tears on cheeks that were trying to regulate blood flow.

"You see, Kelly? There's no need to protect your partner. When the nice man with the tape recorder comes back in, you can just cooperate with him, alright?" He began to walk around Kelly to the part of the room behind him.

"You mean w'e're done?"

Ryan laughed, and Kelly could hear wheels rolling on the tile behind her. "No, Miss Quinn, we've just barely started. Just think of it this way: Stalin's underling would sometimes do this to a woman for two, three hours. I've only got you for about sixteen more minutes!"

"Look, I just want to get out of here! Just let me go!"

"Not my choice, Kelly." She gasped as she saw what was rolling in front of her: a low-sitting metal frame held up two padded cuffs, obviously just the size for ankles. "You really should have talked earlier, but now I've got you for the allotted time. Just remember this when he comes back, alright?" He grabbed one leg, the one that he hadn't tickled, and Kelly kicked with all the ferocity that she could muster. Without much effort he maneuvered it up into the first cuff and clamped the hinge down, then secured the leg further with a padded leather strap. The other did not take much longer. He placed fingers and thumbs on the remaining sock and began to roll it towards her heel. "Now, Kelly, I can't collect any intel, but I can ask you personal questions."

"Please! Just stop!"

"Where are you the most ticklish?"

"Stop!" The sock rolled a little further towards her heel.

"You're moving towards being barefoot, Kelly! Where are you most ticklish?" The sock was now rolled so that the cylinder of fabric was at the edge of the bottom of her heel.

"Please just stop!"

He continued to roll the sock, how reaching her arch. "You're going to lose your sock, Kelly!"

"My sides, alright? Now just stop!"

He rolled the sock off the end of her toes and tossed it as unceremoniously as he did the first. "Good, Kelly, good! Now just remember, if you don't talk to the nice interviewer next time he's in here, I'm going to be able to test that out!" As Ryan talked the glasses gave him a pattern of bright reds and more mildly ticklish yellows based on the tickling he's already given her. "Now what would a tickle torture be without pulling your toes, Kelly?"

"Please! I can't take any more!"

Ryan pulled two leather straps from his bag. "Sure you can." He secured one end of each to the ankle-cuffs and looped the other ends to each of her toes. With a gentle pull he exposed and pulled tight the soft flesh of her soles, and the ticklish readout changed. "Now, Kelly, we're going to play with some toys! Which one would you like to start with?" Ryan began slowly to pull devices from his bag, one by one, and holding them up for Kelly to behold. As each one came into the open she gasped a little: for the stiff feather, the first exhibit, she stared wide-eyed, and for the hairbrush, the second, she recoiled. As he pulled out the engraving tool, her look turned to one of confusion, breaking the moment's enchantment.

"What is that thing?"

With the press of a button the device started to vibrate. "It's an engraving tool. They use them at shopping malls to put people's names on metal Christmas ornaments. I've dulled down the tip so that it tickles like nothing you've ever felt." As it buzzed, she averted her eyes. "Now, Kelly, we've got some time to kill. Which device would you like to start with?"

"Just let me go!"

"Nope. None of that in my bag. Let's start with the brush, shall we?" With her toe tied back, her sole could not even move to avoid the oncoming bristles, and she shrieked as the brush began to rub back and forth, the thick plastic bristles rubbing the plastic safety tips on her nerve endings and lighting her whole body up with the irrepressible but unfulfillable need to get away from those touches, those awful touches. She was laughing hard, unable to control what her abdomen demanded, within seconds, and strands of her long hair soon began sticking to the sweat on her forehead, her ponytail holder unable to contain them. The glasses were lighting up almost the entirety of the foot, detecting that the bristles of the brush could roam at will, evoking that laughter no matter where they traced their merciless path. Ryan kept at her foot as her laughter took on a gasping character, but as she began gasping without stop he bent his wrist slightly, lifting the bristles.

"Alright, then, Kelly, the feather or the engraver?"

Kelly, still breathing hard, shook her head feebly.

"I'm not going to touch anything but your feet right now, but believe me, your other e-zones are probably going nuts right now--this is where Stalin's dude would have been cleaning up."

"This isn't turning me on, you creep!"

"You see, you think that, but you're wrong. Let's just say that I'll be able to prove it if you don't talk to the interviewer when he comes back in--I've got full body access for the next round!"

"Does that mean I'm going to be..."

"Naked? Yes. And believe me, the things that I can do to a woman will be like nothing you've even dreamed of before. It's not fair, really--I've taken trained espionage agents and had them reduced to jelly in fifteen minutes. But they're giving me twenty on your feet alone, and if you don't talk next time, they're giving me a full hour."

"An HOUR?"

"That's right. And I've got full rein to make it whatever I want. I could lead you right to the edge of climax and just keep you there for fifteen minutes, or I could give you two or three climaxes, then show you just how much more ticklish you become in that state. In fact, I'd probably have time to do both, now that I think of it. Now tell me, Kelly. Break time's over. Feather or engraver?"

"His safe house is the apartment above Bailey's drug store! It's just a few blocks from campus!"

"I'm sorry, Kelly. I've still got about eight minutes left with you, and my bosses don't trust me to take intel from prisoners. So feather or engraver?"

Kelly tried to look over his shoulder for a camera. "Take me out of here! This man is crazy! I'll tell you everything you need to know!"

Ryan grabbed her chin with his finger and thumb and made her look at him. "Engraver it is, then." He picked up the device and pressed the power button, and the device leapt to life, buzzing in his hand. The glasses showed him a line running right down the middle of her sole and small patches between her toes, and he paused for a moment to admire the fact that it adjusted to the tool. He leaned in, letting the tip vibrate the air just above the skin of her sole. "Enjoy, Kelly!" As the tip touched down where the glasses told him to touch down, Kelly Quinn erupted. Her knees bobbed up and down as she bucked madly, and she threw her head back as the raw ticklish sensation made her ecstatic. Her hands, which had sometimes clenched in fists, now opened and shut, unbidden by Kelly, and her ticklish squeals punctuated her laughter in a rhythm that was already intoxicating and now approached overwhelming. As Ryan slowly and deliberately moved up the line, from heel to the gap between her second and third toes, he could make out words that sounded like a surrender in the girl's maddened laughter and knew that he had her where she could not escape, trapped in her own body, living on the skin of the sole and the ticklish spots between her toes.

He turned off the engraving tool and leered at her, holding it up for her to behold. "It just wouldn't be fair to deny the other foot that fun, would it?"

Kelly shook her head and began to protest, but her body had forgotten how to do anything but laugh, and her pleas came out as giggles as the device once more jumped to life. Kelly screamed as she had never screamed before, laughed a laughter that she never knew she had, as the vibrating tip explored the very most ticklish points of her skin one by one, deliberately and with increasing torment. As the door opened behind her, Ryan once more turned the device off.

"Well, it looks like I've used up the time that was going to be dedicated to the feather. Perhaps we'll save that until you're naked. It's not even almost any more, Kelly. I really hope you don't talk to your interrogator!"

As Ryan Watson left the room, Kelly Quinn described as fast as words would serve her exactly how the feds could apprehend Carlos Vasquez.
 
Working on it even now. I don't know when it'll go live, but I'm glad you read the first part. Thanks for the feedback!
 
You have to start and the beginning, really, and since I promised I'd leave comments, it seems to make the most sense to start here! I quite like the concept of a federal tickle torture expert, since one of the more interesting elements of tickling is it leaves no physical scars, as opposed to whipping or say, waterboarding (I think, I'm not actually on expert on this).

It's an interesting concept (the glasses were a nice touch), the descriptions are nice, especially in regards to how the lee reacts, though personally I could use a bit more detail on the ler's tickling technique. Sometimes I'd like you to be a bit more specific than just "stimulated her nerve endings". I'm a foot guy (I assume you are too) and it'd be terrific if you mentioned terms like arch, ball, heel, toes, webbing between the toes, sides of the feet, the insteps (not the same as the arch!) more just so the tickling could be better visualized. Though I am being somewhat nitpicky here, it's a bit more detail would be nice. The star of this story and many of your others has to be the dialogue between lee and ler and how they banter. I do quite enjoy how you establish the power dynamics by telling us about the lee's fears

The quality of writing was generally very high, though I did notice a typo or two:

"You mean w'e're done?"

Oh, and this is an odd pet peeve of mine, but I don't really like the title much. I mean, when you see the title "Augmented" you think magical crap or etc. The title doesn't really doesn't sell the fic well nor is it really especially relevant. Something like "FTO, Federal Tickling Operative" might have been a bit better, but that's just something random I came up. I'm sure you can do better :p
 
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