Power Trip [mf/f, very non-consensual, sexual, messy]

They say that power corrupts. Maybe that was the case here, or maybe the officer standing in front of her had just had a bad day; Sophia didn't know. What she did know was that she had a flight to catch.

She had been dreading the airport security check all day. A shy introvert by nature, there were plenty of aspects of the security process she hated: the crowds of people, the interminable wait, the prying questions… but mostly she dreaded it because she knew that she would have to take off her shoes. Sophia had always hated the idea of going unshod, and to have to take off her shoes under the gaze of all these people, to be poked and prodded by some busybody official… it was nearly unthinkable. But she had promised her mother she would go back to England to visit her on Mother's Day, so she made sure to put on her thickest, fluffiest pair of socks, steeled herself, and drove to the airport. She checked in, handed over her luggage, ate a healthy meal, and joined the queue, her stomach in knots.

‘Shoes off,’ barked the officer behind the desk. ‘In the tray, please.’ Even though he was using his indoor voice, it was like being in the path of a foghorn, and the officious pleasantry somehow only served to make the nominal request more of an order. He had thick grey hair in a military cut, broad muscles covered in a layer of fat in the manner of one who is used to hard lifting but has gone to seed, and marvellously bristly eyebrows that, despite being a little ridiculous, lent him a fearsome intensity, especially as they were currently knotted into a scowl of displeasure that looked very much as if it belonged on his face. Sophia closed her eyes and took a moment to collect herself, then bent down and began unzipping her ankle boots.

‘Please get a move on, ma'am! I don't have all day!’ Sophia yelped a little at the sudden exclamation, her heart beating like a drummer hitting a solo. She quickly finished undoing her boots and stepped out of them, her eyes widening at the coldness of the floor on her sensitive feet, and looked back over at the officer, only to see a fleeting smirk cross his face. He was enjoying this! Anger boiling up inside her, she made a mistake that was to cost her dearly. She met his eyes and scowled right back, feeling a spark of vindictive satisfaction as his ever-present scowl lost a little ground to an expression of shock.

But he was back to his professional demeanour almost immediately. ‘Please stand in the scanner, ma'am,’ he instructed with a new coldness in his voice, gesturing with a huge, meaty hand. Head held high from her fleeting victory, and trying not to show how it bothered her to stand in front of all these strangers in her socked feet, Sophia entered the scanner, aligned her toes with the marks on the floor, and adopted the silly pose depicted in the diagramme opposite. As she lifted her arms, she noticed that the bottom of her shirt and jumper had come untucked, exposing a thin sliver of her tummy to the onlooking crowd. Uncomfortable with their gaze, she reached down to rectify the situation, but was immediately accosted by the foghorn blaring: ‘ARMS ABOVE YOUR HEAD, PLEASE, MA'AM!’ Instinctively, her arms shot back into position, the suddenness of the movement only serving to pull her shirt up a little higher. She held the pose as the scanner whirled about her, silently cursing the petty tyrant. As soon as the scan was complete, she dropped her arms and turned to walk out of the booth, only to be stopped dead in her tracks. ‘Ma'am, could you take off your socks, please.’

She must have misheard him. She had never heard of this happening at security before. Sophia turned around slowly, now wide-eyed with fear. ‘M-my socks?’ she asked tremulously, internally cursing how weak she sounded.

‘Yes ma'am. The machine can't see through them for some reason. Take them off, please.’

Sophia had her limits. ‘I'm sorry,’ she replied, ‘b-but I'm really not comfortable doing that.’

‘Ma'am, you are free to decline, but if you do I will have no option but to take you into custody while we run more thorough background checks.’

‘You can't do that! I've already paid for my flight! I need to board within the hour or I'll miss it!’

‘It's your choice, ma'am.’

Trembling with anxiety, Sophia bent down and slowly stripped off first one sock, then the other, and this time there was no hiding the cringe in her face and shoulders as her soft, bare feet made contact with the filthy airport floor. It was disgusting: she could feel her feet stick slightly with every step, and the vulnerability of being barefoot in front of all these people sent shuddering waves of embarrassment through her, butterflies fluttering in her tummy. She quickly rose up onto her tip-toes to minimise her contact with the cold, dirty floor, adopting a rather absurd gait as she placed her socks in a security tray on the conveyor belt. A couple of people, waiting in line to be checked with nothing better to do, audibly giggled as she lost her balance and teetered on her toes, which did nothing to help the blush she could feel spreading across her face. The officer's expression was professional, but Sophia thought she saw a hint of glee in his eyes as he beheld her discomfort. He gestured to the machine, and she silently obeyed his order, her internal emotional chaos too intense to permit any other response. Once again she lined her now bare toes up with the marks on the floor and held her arms up above her head in a pose of submission, and once again her shirt rode up and showed off a sliver of soft, pale tummy. Gingerly, she lowered her heels onto the rubber pad, trying not to think about how many other feet had tramped through the scanner that day alone, or how often the scanner was cleaned.

Mercifully, this time the scan appeared to work as intended, as Foghorn looked at the readout, grunted, and waved her through. Breathing a sigh of relief, she picked up her socks and shoes from the other side of the X-ray and walked over to the seating area to put them back on. She noticed that Foghorn had begun an animated discussion with another officer, a wiry woman with piercing cornflower-blue eyes who looked to be in her early thirties, and just as she sat down on a nearby bench the woman gestured her back into the security area.

‘I'm sorry, ma'am, but it seems you've been selected for a random check,’ explained the woman patiently. ‘This won't take long; please just bear with us. Since you are a woman, I have been assigned to perform your check.’

Sophia fumed inside, but externally she was calm. She nodded and complied quietly, standing up and taking a variety of positions as the older woman quickly and professionally frisked her with a firm touch, inspected her documents, and asked a series of questions about her job, her family, and her purpose in travelling, while Foghorn looked on in satisfaction.

‘Very well, ma'am,’ Cornflower continued. ‘That barely took any time at all, did it! There's just one more step and you can be on your way. We're trialling a deeper involvement of our canine unit here, so we will have one of our sniffer dogs give you a quick check. It's as much practice for the dogs as it is a security measure.’

As she spoke, a remarkably handsome man was leading a large German Shepherd toward them. Both the dog and its handler seemed rather boisterous: the man, though he had a rather rugged physique, was all smiles, while the dog ran as far ahead of him as its lead would allow, clearly eager to get to work. Sophia had never been good with animals, and as the dog approached she shrank back a little in instinctive fear. Her nerves were quickly put at ease, however, by the dog's handler, who turned out to be as friendly as he had first appeared: he introduced himself as Joe and the dog as Frisky, and began explaining the process to her.

‘He'll sniff you a little, that's all. If he finds something, he'll bark. I'll just need you to hold still for him.’

Sophia was, to tell the truth, a little smitten with the good-looking animal-handler, and wanted to present him with the image of a strong, mature young woman. So she steeled herself and let the dog's nose roam over her. Frisky seemed happy enough, though he lived up to his name, his tail wagging frantically, and the check went fine, wandering across her clothes and hands — until that nose found her still bare feet.

Whether cause or effect Sophia could not say, but her feet, which she never showed off and, indeed, rarely removed from their socks and shoes if she could help it, were very sensitive. Not only were they sensitive, but, she now discovered, they were very, very ticklish. Her family were not an especially affectionate bunch, and certainly not much given to the kinds of playfighting that she heard went on in other families, but she was aware of tickling in theory, and was now getting a crash-course in practice.

As you might expect, as soon as Frisky's cold, wet nose made its way to the tops of her toes, Sophia's fragile and, frankly, not very accurate worldly-woman image shattered spectacularly. Specifically, she jerked her foot away at almost supersonic speeds, simultaneously being overcome with a burst of bubbly, girlish giggles.

The second she moved, Frisky let out a low, rumbling growl, and Joe tightened his grip on the leash.

‘Remember,’ he warned, ‘we do need you to stand still for this. If you move too much Frisky can't get a good read.’

Sophia nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She wasn't at all sure she was capable of this, but she didn't want to make a fool of herself in front of Joe. She set her jaw and, slowly, extended her left foot back towards Frisky.

In fairness to her, she showed significant improvement. As Frisky's nose nuzzled into her arch, she managed to hold out for a full second, a grimace on her face like she had bitten into a lemon. Unfortunately, when she broke, she broke hard. She let out a piercing shriek that quickly devolved into rapid-fire cackles, drawing the attention of every bystander present, of which there were more than a few. And her foot flew forward, kicking poor Frisky square in the muzzle.

Needless to say, Frisky wasn't happy with that at all. The scene that the onlookers witnessed was Joe holding Frisky back while Frisky barked at Sophia at the top of his lungs, hackles raised, as a deep red flush of embarrassment spread over her pale features.

Joe looked at the other two officials and shook his head. ‘I can't get a meaningful result like this. I'm afraid I can't vouch for her.’ He gave Sophia a sympathetic nod and led Frisky away, feeding the dog treats to calm him down.

The officers shared a glance, and then Foghorn turned to Sophia. ‘I'm sorry, ma'am,’ he lied, ‘but I'm afraid you'll have to come to a private room for a more thorough check.’

Sophia put her head in her hands. It was looking increasingly unlikely that she was going to make her flight, but she still had a chance. Maybe if she complied quickly and got this over with, she could rush to the gate in time to board. ‘Okay,’ she sighed, ‘but can I at least put my shoes on first?’

Foghorn shrugged impatiently, which Sophia chose to take as assent. She sat down on the bench she was originally heading for and pulled on her socks and shoes. Feeling much better to have protection for her tender feet, but well aware of the extent to which she was at the officers' bureaucratic mercy, she followed Cornflower down a set of stairs to a basement room tucked away in a remote corner of the airport, with Foghorn following closely behind her in a vaguely threatening manner. The room was painted a stark white and was mostly bare, except for a large mirror covering most of one wall, a remarkably deep, high-backed bench across the opposite wall, and two chairs in the middle of the room. Cornflower went to one of the chairs and sat down; Sophia took her lead and sat on the other, only for Foghorn's voice to ring out once more, startling her back into standing: ‘Stand up please, ma'am!’

Sophia's adrenaline surged once more. Instead, he gestured towards the bench. Sophia was not an especially tall woman, but neither was she particularly short, so she was rather surprised when she realised that the bench was in fact so deep that, if she sat with her back on its back, her ankles only just reached the edge, with her feet dangling off it. Before she had a chance to remark on this strange design, a booming ‘please raise your arms, ma'am!’ introduced her to a stranger feature still: slots placed about the bench held padded polymer straps. Foghorn's strong hands forcibly guided her arms into the appropriate positions and, before she mustered the presence of mind to resist, quickly applied straps about her wrists and slotted them into corresponding slots on the other side, where they ratcheted into place, effectively attaching her to the bench.

Sophia was certainly not expecting such treatment, and couldn't raise much objection beyond wordless spluttering as Foghorn similarly forced her legs out straight in front of her and a little apart, easily quelling her paltry resistance with his far greater weight and physical strength, and applied straps at the edge of the bench, just above the top of her ankle boots. More straps followed: one in her lap, one under her breasts, one across her knees, and one each over her elbows, until she couldn't even try to struggle — all she could do was flail her head and wiggle her hands and feet uselessly, every other joint locked into position.

Sophia finally mustered the wherewithal to explode. ‘WHAT is going on?! I thought you were just going to check me more thoroughly, away from prying eyes!’

‘We are checking you,’ said Foghorn, with a serious expression. ‘Our canine unit reacted to you. They're highly skilled sniffer dogs, trained for months to detect traces of prohibited substances: drugs, explosives, and the like. We can't have you threatening the security of our country with such things, so we're going to find where you've hidden them.’

‘What rubbish! You know very well that the dog only reacted that way because I'm…’ — she blushed, her voice going quieter — ‘t-ticklish…’

‘I know no such thing, ma'am, and neither does the recording system. Your reaction was too fast for the cameras to pick up, so the official record is that Frisky found a scent on you and flagged it up for us. Maybe he'll get a medal.

‘But it is interesting that you should mention your ticklishness. Of course, as a member of the opposite gender, I can't possibly perform your check. That's why I enlisted Officer Flowers here to help me.’

Flowers? Ha, the nickname she'd given her was pretty accurate after all. Either that or Foghorn was making up the name to hide her real identity and avoid trouble later on. That didn't bode well…

Meanwhile, Cornflower had moved her chair close to the bench, facing Sophia's left ankle boot, and had begun fiddling with it. Sophia tried to see what she was doing, but Cornflower's torso was blocking the view, so the first she knew was when she felt her boot unzip and the cooler air in the room flow across her socked, slightly damp, foot.

‘So what,’ Sophia asked, as a worrying realization dawned, ‘you're going to try to torture me for this “information?” Surely that isn't allowed! And I don't know anything anyway! I don't have any drugs, or explosives!’

‘Torture you? No ma'am, absolutely not. That would be completely against regulations, and the law! No, we're just going to check your person for any trace of drugs or explosives. If you have none on your person, then we won't find any, and you'll be free to go — no harm done. The canine units have been wrong before! Of course, since we haven't found any so far, if you <i>do</i> have contraband then you're clearly very good at hiding it, so we're going to have to check very… very… carefully.’

Cornflowers smiled at Sophia conspiratorially as she slid the little boot off her foot. ‘Officer Trent here just doesn't understand, but it's nice to have a woman down here to talk about girly things with sometimes! I got a manicure yesterday. Do you like it? Isn't it pretty?’ She removed the regulation glove she had been wearing on her right hand, revealing a periwinkle-blue manicure with little daisies drawn on the nails. But the most unusual thing was the shape. Most manicures Sophia had seen, and indeed not infrequently got, mimicked the shape of a natural nail: a rounded shape, somewhere between an oval and a square. But Cornflower's nails, while not especially long, had been filed down to precise points, in a squashed teardrop shape. As Sophia's gaze drifted back up to Cornflower's face, the cheeky-girlfriend smile took on a sadistic edge.

The worry began to turn to horror as Sophia realised just what kind of ‘check’ Foghorn had in mind. He had no reason to believe she had any kind of contraband on her, and no reason to search. This ‘check’ was going to be completely ineffective. But it was most definitely going to tickle.

---

‘As I recall, Officer, the dog was having issues with her foot, so maybe you should start your check there. Is that okay with you, ma'am? Thank you for your co-operation.’ Foghorn didn't wait for an answer. He was keeping his face straight, but he was clearly enjoying himself. Cornflower schooled her expression into a mask of stern professionalism, and began gently pinching Sophia's little toes through the thick, fuzzy fabric of her sock. The sock was such a barrier that she could barely feel it, but the very thought of it, combined with having her sensitive body part at the mercy of these two bullies, was enough that she couldn't keep her foot still. With each pinch, and often just when she thought a pinch was coming, Sophia would yelp, her ankle spasming, and her foot would jerk as far away as it could get in its bonds. This only seemed to encourage Cornflower, who made something of a game out of chasing the elusive toes and trying to get in a tweak before they escaped to a new position, but Foghorn had other ideas, apparently unhappy that even thus she had a means to resist his power.

‘So, she is attempting to evade the security check! That's very suspicious behaviour. Ma'am, I am physically restraining you for your safety and the safety of those around you.’

With this proclamation, Foghorn sat on Sophia's leg, wrapping his tree-trunk–like legs around her slender ankle and grasping her small, warm toes in his powerful fingers, pinning them back against his own leg and stretching out her sole. Cornflower wasted no time in taking advantage of the new setup, beginning to rake three of her pointy nails up and down the fabric of the sock with just enough pressure and distance between them that Sophia could feel the three individual points running up and down her sole, over and over. Still, given the thickness of the sock, the sensation was not particularly intense, but Sophia's fear of being tickled and the extreme sensitivity of her skin combined for this continuous bombardment to quickly wear her down, and thirty seconds later her flinches and winces gave way to a stream of quiet, bubbly giggles.

‘She's so adorable,’ gushed Flowers. ‘I could keep this up all day.’ Trent just grunted. Sophia looked far too much like she was enjoying herself. He had taken this job because he loved to know that he had the power to break people whenever he felt like it. The heady brew of power had long since cast its spell over him, and for a slip of a girl like this to defy him, in his own airport? He couldn't let it go unpunished. Flowers might be having fun being cute, but Trent wanted her to go through her own personal hell. He counted himself incredibly lucky that she had buttons he could press without — technically — breaking any rules, or at least any serious ones.

You would never know it to look at the sweet smile on her face or to listen to the mellifluous giggles pouring out of her, but in fact Sophia was already suffering dreadfully. She absolutely hated these new sensations at her feet, and while they weren't overpowering, the fact that these power-drunk nobodies were able to make her smile and titter for them as if she were a schoolgirl flirting with the teacher, completely against her will and with no way for her to escape or resist, enraged her.

Unfortunately for her, Cornflower had made an overstatement. In fact, she kept it up for about ten minutes, before deciding that she wanted to feel skin under her fingers. Sophia's relief when the raking of nails over her sole stopped lasted about as long as it took Cornflower to home in on the inch of bare skin between the top of her sock and the hem of her jeans with those pinpoint claws, at which point it abruptly shattered into a brief scream of surprise. This area was nowhere near as sensitive as her foot, but was also completely unprotected, and it was her first time feeling those deadly nails on her skin and truly appreciating how sharp they were. Where the slow, measured raking had produced smooth, low-pitched laughter, now Cornflower was not stroking at all, just repeatedly tapping her skin with those nails, like being gently pricked with pins, over and over again. Sophia's surprise quickly crystallised into a series of higher-pitched, quick, staccato titters, better matched in tempo to the prick-prick-prick sensations. The previous assault had been slow, predictable, the torture in anticipation as much as sensation; now, every new ‘prick’ came in a different place, and it was always a surprise, a quick burst of electricity — five times a second.

Trent was not satisfied with such a limited area, though. He may have had a rather short-sighted worldview, but stupid he was not; in fact, he was only where he was now because of his ability to be imaginative with his cruelty. He was not the kind of bully to chase his victims down and beat them up: he preferred to take a more personal approach. The boy who was afraid of heights, he took to a cliff and dangled him over until he cried and begged him to stop. The girl who was afraid of bugs, he collected a jar full of creepy-crawlies, spiders and beetles and centipedes, and held her down while he put them in her shoes and her clothes and her mouth, making her feel them crawl around and inside her, until she wet herself. The boy who was afraid of letting his parents down, he framed with pot, and got kicked out of school; he stood over him as he sobbed his heart out, watched as he cowered before his father's contemptuous gaze. They all deserved it, of course: one took his seat, one broke his heart, one beat him in the wrong test. He knew Sophia's buttons: she was afraid of losing control, afraid of being overwhelmed by sensation, and if he was going to really make her suffer, he needed to explore, to find just the right acts on just the right spots to make her feel like she was losing her mind.

So he helped. He moved his grip so that, instead of pinning Sophia's toes back to give access to her sole, he pushed them forward, stretching out those oh-so-sensitive tendons on the top of the foot. And with his free hand, he pinched the top of her fluffy, safe, protective sock, and began to slide it down her foot.

Oh, he didn't do it all at once. This was experimentation, and for this kind of work he was the most patient man in the world. No, he slid it about an inch at a time, each time giving Officer Flowers a little bit more skin to play with. And play she did: every new scrap of skin she pounced on like a cat with a new toy, trying all her favourite techniques on it, with nails, fingertips, teeth, tongue.

And Trent was watching. He heard how Sophia howled when Officer Flowers danced her nails on either side of her ankle. He felt how hard she tried to pull away when she lightly traced her fingertip up the tendon leading to her big toe. He saw the desperation in her eyes when Flowers gently, lovingly nibbled on her Achilles tendon. Every time she pleaded ‘not there!’, or screamed a hysterical ‘NONONONONO!’ when Flowers moved to a new spot, he made a mental note, burned it into his brain, and remembered just how to torture her later. He let her document her own weaknesses for him, her body and mind both betraying her, revealing the best ways to torture and break her to the man most likely to do just that.

But soon Officer Flowers had exhausted all the possibilities in that area, and he switched his grip back. The motions he made were the same, exposing inch by careful inch of fresh, virgin skin to become Flowers' newest plaything, but the reactions… oh, the reactions were very different.

The moment Sophia felt her beloved protector sock abandon that first inch of her heel, she screamed, as hard as she could, a true scream of desperation. Not because her heel was ticklish — oh, it was ticklish, the nails drumming into it sending shockwaves like electric worms squirming deep into her flesh, the teeth with every tiny nibble and gentle bite making her whole leg spasm so hard she thought surely it must break rather than lie still and take such sensations, even the passage of the fluffy sock under someone else's control teasing and titillating the skin in a way that brought tears to her eyes — but because, for the first time, she really understood what she was about to face. She imagined those nails on the hellishly sensitive sole of her foot, she had reference points for the sensation, and there was absolutely nothing stopping these bullies from doing it, and having <i>fun</i>, for as long as they wanted. And she had no idea how she would react. There was no word, no sound, no motion that could adequately capture the suffering of such a thing. And then it happened, and she stopped imagining, stopped thinking.

It turned out she shrieked. Trent noted this down, carefully, like all the other things. She started with a loud, uncontrollable, tears-from-the-eyes belly laugh. Then, when she realised that the sensation was still going on, that it wasn't going to stop any time soon and there was nothing she could do to make it, she emitted a scream that seemed like it would shatter the giant two-way mirror. Her lungs spasmed, the tickling forcing her lungs and diaphragm to contract despite herself, and she laughed, a long, drawn-out, screaming laugh like a woman possessed, and when the laugh died out for a scant moment she screamed again. Foghorn looked down. Flowers had been doing again what she had done before, running those needle-sharp nails up and down Sophia's sole. But where before there had been nearly half an inch of fluffy, woolly fabric in the way, now there was no such thing. The only reminder that the sock was ever there was a lasting warmth and very slight dampness, each of which served to amplify the sensation twofold, and Flowers' touch had gone from firm pressure just to be felt through the sock to the lightest touch that can still be called a touch, the points of just three of her periwinkle nails slowly and oh-so-gently trickling down the very surface of Sophia's skin from toe to heel and back up again, over and over and over again, while his powerful hands held her foot completely, absolutely still, giving Flowers total control over the sensations Sophia felt.

Suddenly, relief. Sophia began to think again, regained free control of her mind if not her body. Cool water splashed into her mouth and she opened her throat and let it run down, too tired even to swallow. She sat panting for what seemed like forever as the room stopped spinning, the ringing in her ears subsided, and she regained control of her voice. It took a longer time for the tingling sensations to subside from her foot. Eventually, she opened her eyes to see Cornflower smiling at her from the foot of the bench. But as she refocused, she looked in the mirror and saw something much more terrifying. Foghorn was still in his position at her foot. In his left hand, he held the tip of a sock. The other end of the sock was barely clinging to her toes. He was facing away from her, but in the mirror, he was looking straight into her eyes. Once he had captured her gaze, he smiled, the first time she had seen such a thing, and gently slipped the sock from her toes. In the mirror, she saw her own, now totally naked foot on display, exposed to everyone present.

‘Let me go,’ she croaked. Her usually melodic voice was cracked and throaty from exhaustion and screaming.

Foghorn just shook his head. ‘I'm sorry, ma'am, but I can't do that.’

<i>Ma'am.</i> He was still keeping up the pretence of being the good border guard.

He looked her dead in the eyes. ‘After all, what if there were some cocaine hidden between your toes?’ He turned his gaze to Cornflower and nodded.

‘Don't. No. Don't. Please. Please don't. No. No! Please!’

She was expecting Cornflower to begin tickling her with her nails again. Instead, Cornflower decided to finish what Frisky had started. She simply bent her head down and began suckling on Sophia's three biggest toes, her lips moving back and forth. Sophia's begging ended abruptly as she cried out in disgust at the feeling of the slimy saliva on and in between her toes and then instinctively began laughing at the delicate touch on her bare foot, but her laughter quickly died down to a continuous throaty chuckle when she realized that, actually, it didn't tickle very much. Or rather, it did, but to call both this sensation and the last ‘tickling’ is to do them both a disservice. The nails on her sole were three points of sharp, intense, highly localised sensation. The warm, wet sensation of Cornflower's lips on her toes was something else altogether. It tickled, yes, but it was a bone-deep tingle that started in her toes and shot all the way up her leg to her tummy, and was bound up so tightly with streaks of pleasure that it was hard to know where one ended and the other began. She could feel herself becoming increasingly wet, and amongst her forced chuckles, when she forgot to suppress them, there came some long, sensual moans, followed by groans of self-loathing as she realised to whom she was displaying such lust and weakness.

Trent found this interesting, and made a mental note to come back to it later. For now, though, Sophia was not ready for this. She hadn't earned it. He gestured to Officer Flowers.

Sophia's reverie was cut short as she felt Cornflower's tongue join in. It was reminiscent of the lips, but where the lips produced mainly a firm, satisfying pressure around the pads of her toes, like a warm embrace, the tongue was an unwelcome intruder. It produced similar sensations, but it moved in much more slithery, slimy, unpredictable ways, making her produce gasps of surprise and involuntary groans of disgust with every new movement. Furthermore, the tongue had much more control over its pressure, and varied constantly. Now it would push between her big and second toes, running its nubbly surface across the skin there that nobody had ever touched; now it would dart out and dip into the groove beneath her toes, flicking up and down or side to side with feather-light touches, producing a powerful tickling sensation.

At this point, Sophia was, anyway, too tired to even struggle. Foghorn was no longer holding her foot, his weight wrapped around her leg more of a psychological bond than physical. The muscles of her leg and foot, along with the rest of her body, were just too tired to even try to rotate her ankles or flex her toes. All she could do was throw her head back and laugh the deep, throaty, exhausted laugh of one who has laughed to the point where they feel they can laugh no more but is being pushed over the edge anyway, her toes completely the plaything of Cornflower without even a semblance of resistance. From time to time, Foghorn would pull her toes back or grasp two between thumbs and index fingers to spread them gently apart; these actions were usually followed by a yelp and a renewed burst of laughter as Cornflower took advantage of the extra-sensitive spots revealed. Occasionally, if a sensation was particularly bad, she would flail her head back and forth in sheer sensory overload. Cornflower was experimenting, and had come up with two moves that could reliably instigate a head-flail: first, flickering her tongue back and forth underneath Sophia's littlest toes (the underside of the webbing between the pinky toe and the ring toe seemed especially sensitive to this treatment); or second, in a change of pace, popping the toes out from her mouth and lightly spidering her nailtips over the tops of the toes and the very tips. That latter point was especially unpleasant for Sophia, an intense, sharp sensation that left a deep, irritating tickle that would persist for minutes, resulting in a growl of frustration from Sophia amid the laughter; once she realised this, Cornflower began doing it more and more often, to Foghorn's obvious delight.

After another small eternity, Sophia once again sat with her head lolling to the side, mouth wide open and chest heaving as she gasped for air. Her raven hair, as well as her shirt and jumper, were by this point thoroughly soaked with sweat, which she was quite grateful for as it kept her cool. Her left foot was bare and covered in a slightly sticky sheen of saliva, but her right foot was still fully shod, which somehow only served to make the left feel that much more vulnerable.

‘Well, ma'am,’ pontificated Foghorn, ‘it seems like there was no contraband down there’ — he gestured to her foot — ‘but smugglers are real clever. You could have hidden it in any number of places.’ He got up off the bench and grabbed the foot section of it, pulling it outwards; Cornflower moved her chair out of the way. To her surprise, Sophia found herself sliding downwards. The bench must have been hinged: as Foghorn pulled, the foot section moved further away from the wall, and the back folded down into a horizontal position, sliding down the wall on newly-revealed grooves. As she reached the horizontal, he leaned over her and, with precision, never touching her skin, pinched the bottom of her shirt and jumper and raised them to just underneath her breasts, exposing her tummy.

Sophia groaned. ‘Don't. Please don't tickle me any more.’ She composed herself a little, fixed her green eyes directly on Foghorn's brutish grey ones, knit her brow, and tried to sound like she meant business. ‘Look, I just want to catch my flight.’ She watched Cornflower draw closer to her exposed tummy, her resolve to maintain eye contact with Foghorn breaking as her eyes kept fixing on those sharp blue nails, and her breath caught, an involuntary, nervous smile growing on her face as she felt the apprehensive butterflies in her tummy worsen. She closed her eyes so that she could concentrate on her words and maintaining her serious tone, schooled her expression, and continued. ‘My mother is waiting for me. It's very important that I— nggh!’ The butterflies from her stomach shot up through her chest and into her throat and face, pulling the corners of her mouth into a silly, euphoric smile that completely undermined her words. She had been expecting the kiss of Cornflower's nails, so she bit her tongue to stifle her laughter, but it only served to make her look more the giddy schoolgirl.

The attack was over almost before it had begun, a quick swirl of sharp nails on her sides, and she composed herself and continued: ‘I'm obviously not carrying any weapons, I barely… hah! Ahaha!’ This time it was a circle traced around the ball of her bare foot with a soft fingertip. She hadn't been expecting that. Her eyes flew open, and giggles poured from her mouth despite her resolve. Cornflower was leaning over, to all appearances concentrating on her foot, but Foghorn was staring at her with a slight smile on his mouth.

She tried a few more times to reason with them, but each time her speech was soon interrupted by a tickle: nails wiggling under her toes, fingers squeezing either side of her kneecap, a quick poke in her side, a gentle caress under her chin. Every time it was different, and it always ended quickly, but each attack took away any semblance of power she tried to muster and immediately transformed her into a helpless, giggling bundle of nerves. After her first experience she learnt to keep her eyes open: at least if she knew what was coming she could usually avoid bursting into actual laughter at the quick tickles. They took advantage of it, though: Cornflower started preparing herself immediately, her diabolical fingers poised, to let Sophia know what awaited her if she spoke again, and Foghorn just watched her eyes as if daring her. Their devious conditioning worked. It became harder and harder to speak and willingly subject herself to torment of whatever weak spot the nails were targeting this time around, and pretty soon she couldn't even open her mouth without the laughter bottled up inside her immediately escaping like uncorked champagne. She was fuming inside, but it was no use: she contented herself with glaring silently at the sadistic officials.

Foghorn gave her an infuriating smile. ‘We understand your concerns, ma'am, but please be assured this is just a routine check. Officer Flowers, if you would be so kind as to check her top, please?’

‘Of course, Officer Trent.’ Cornflower reached up towards Sophia's ribs, and despite herself Sophia instinctively scrunched her eyes and moaned, ‘nononono…’. But the expected scribbling of nails never came. Instead, she squealed as the officer's cold hands slipped effortlessly under her clothing. The exploration of her armpits was… gentle, almost loving. The closest analogy she could give was a kitten, investigating a new object with curiosity. Indeed, she could almost imagine Cornflower's fingertips as the soft noses of a bundle of kittens, nuzzling shyly at her flesh.

In fact, Flowers was very much enjoying this part of the session. She knew that Trent was a psychopath; she held no particular love for the man, and fervently hoped never to get on his bad side. But she was happy enough to serve as his tool in this, primarily because he had no interest in carrying out the dirty work himself. She, on the other hand, loved nothing more than to feel the soft skin of a helpless victim quivering under her ministrations, and warm, slightly damp armpits were a particular favourite. They had pulled off this scheme on several occasions now, ever since Trent had discovered her little fetish and presented her with an opportunity to exercise it. He tried to pick good-looking victims for her — and boy, had he succeeded with Sophia; just seeing her in this situation was enough to make her tingle deep inside — and in exchange she did as he said. It was a match made in hell. Of course, she told herself, she wasn't really a part of his stupid power games. She held no ill will toward her victims, and in fact she often felt deep affection for them, which she was currently demonstrating to Sophia by offering her tender caresses in one of her more sensitive places.

Unfortunately, that soft exploration, with no means of escape, was devastatingly ticklish, and Sophia had immediately melted. Her head was flailing from side to side so hard that it banged against the hard surface of the bench until Foghorn moved up the bench and held her still with a strong arm, taking even that distraction from her. Her icy glare was long gone, her eyes scrunched up and her mouth fixed in a wide grin. The sounds coming from her now were less like laughter and more howls of misery with laughter mixed in: ‘Nooooooohohohooo! Noohohohohoooo!’

But Flowers didn't care. She was lost in the raw data of her senses, completely present but not comprehending anything as complex as words. Instead, she paid attention to the sweet smell of fresh sweat, the sight of Sophia's beautiful face in the throes of hilarity, the moans of intense sensation… but mostly she was engrossed in touch. She had flipped herself over on top of Sophia, and she felt every tremor pass through Sophia's supple body as if it were her own, starting with a spasm of the toes on her adorable bare left foot, followed by a sudden flex of her ankles, the jerking of her knees as if she could pull free and curl into a protective ball if she just tried hard enough. Her stomach rippled and clenched, her arms pulsing as they struggled valiantly to break the straps that held them prisoner. But mostly it was her fingertips that were in heaven. To call her activity an exploration was not merely a figure of speech: it truly felt like every touch uncovered new ground. The moment a fingertip made contact, the skin would jump to meet it, accompanied by a welcoming spike in the pitch of Sophia's laughter. Different patches of skin gave different sensations: the soft, dry outer rim of the armpit shivered, and as she brushed her fingertips over it lovingly she could feel goosebumps rising to meet her and hard muscle tensing beneath the skin. The inner mound was stubbled with the ghosts of hairs that had been meticulously shaved off, but a slick sheen of sweat helped a questing finger glide smoothly over it. The valleys around it were warm and smooth, and gave her the illicit thrill of exploring an intimate, personal area in which she doubted Sophia had been touched often, if ever, before. And at the end of the trails she was tracing… she felt the gentle bumps of Sophia's upper ribs, and was careful each time to sweep her fingertips inwards to glide over the beginning of soft, pillowy breast, inasfar as Sophia's bra would allow it. Then she would begin over again, the sounds and sights and feelings occurring anew, with subtle variations, different timings, new combinations. It could never get old. Sometimes, to switch the sensations up a little more, she would begin the new stroke by taking her nails and quickly skittering them at the very outer edge of Sophia's armpit, where the bicep began. This always produced a gratifying shriek of surprise, and the laughter following always rose in intensity.

After a while, she noticed a change: Sophia's laughter had become silent, her breasts heaving spasmodically in a silent semblance of laughter as she struggled to get a full breath in. Flowers was a little disappointed by this development, so she switched to her specially-sharpened nails, lightly touching them to the skin and swirling them around in random circles, never breaking contact. This resulted in a short scream, which she thought was quite impressive given how little air her dear victim had left. As expected, though, it quickly subsided into more gasping, silent laughter, only to crescendo into a scream next time Sophia got a sufficient lungful of air. The cycle repeated itself many times before she felt Trent's hand on her shoulder. Gradually, she slowed the scribbling of her nails, then removed them entirely, laying her fingers flat on Sophia's armpits. After the torture she had just received, even this seemed to be too much for Sophia: she was taking long, desperate inward breaths to replenish her oxygen supplies, but the exhales were punctuated by low, quiet chortles, and a smile remained on her face.

Sophia shut her eyes tight. ‘Okay. Okay. I'm carrying cocaine, I'm wired with bombs, just please please let me go!’ The confession came almost without thinking. She didn't care any more, she didn't care if she made her flight, she didn't care if they arrested her. All she wanted to do was escape from this hell. She would submit to them, she would say whatever they wanted, if only she could stop the unbearable tickling and get some control back over her own body!

Trent grinned, and turned to Officer Flowers. ‘Did you hear that, Officer Flowers? It seems like we were right about this dangerous terrorist after all!’

‘I don't know, Officer Trent,’ Flowers replied with a smug smirk. She took a small recording device from her breast pocket, stopped recording, navigated a bit and pressed play. ‘I'm wired with bombs!’ came Sophia's voice. ‘I guess I might have heard it.’ She tucked the device back into her pocket, giving Sophia a wink as she did so.

‘Right,’ nodded Trent. ‘We might have heard it, we might not have heard it. Who knows? If Sophia here behaves herself, maybe she never even said it.’

Sophia groaned. She was well aware that that little soundbite, from an airport official, was more than enough to get her locked up in a maximum-security prison and have the key thrown away. Sure, if she managed to get word to a lawyer or two she could probably have the charges reduced, but she had no illusions: with national paranoia being what it was, there would at least be a hefty fine and a travel ban for even uttering those words in an airport.

‘For your own sake, ma'am, I think I'm going to add some more attachments to this fine suit you're wearing,’ said Foghorn. ‘I understand you have free speech, but you can't just go around yelling things like that in a public place, you know? You could start a panic!’ He reached into his pocket and produced a contraption that reminded Sophia of the metal brain-teaser puzzles that, for some reason, she always ended up getting for Christmas. Her eyes widened with fear and confusion for a moment, a gaze that was broken as he used his other hand to squeeze her cheeks. His large hand fit easily across her face, and applied enough pressure that he could effectively pry her mouth open. He took advantage of this to slip part of the device into her mouth, as he did so folding back the two ‘wings’ so that they met behind her head with an audible click.

‘Hey!’ cried Sophia in indignation — or at least she tried to, since it came out as more of a ‘heeh!’ The device, it turned out, served a dual purpose: firstly, padded metal rods held her mouth open wide; but secondly, a flat plate trapped her tongue in position behind her bottom teeth. She could still move the back of her tongue sufficiently to swallow, but was rendered dumb: able to make sounds, but, without the use of her tongue, completely incapable of forming words.

‘Please relax, ma'am,’ said Trent, well aware that at this point he was fooling nobody with his faux-professional mannerisms, but continuing the charade to taunt his victim. ‘This is a variant on the scold's bridle, a device used in medieval times to prevent criminals from speaking. Here, we routinely use it to assist us in our searches. It is quite harmless.’

‘Nnn!’ Sophia very much doubted that this device was part of any routine. She was pretty sure it would have made the news if it were, and she was rather insulted that this odious man would think she would buy such a story. At this point she was completely incapable of expressing her skepticism, though, which only served to frustrate her further. The only appropriate sound she could make was an angry grunt.

‘Officer Flowers, please proceed with the inspection. Just like last time.’ Foghorn spread his legs and kneeled with his knees on either side of Sophia's head, then used a large, calloused hand to hold her forehead down, denying her any head movement. Cornflower nodded professionally, and from her pocket produced a small, fine paintbrush, leaning over Sophia until their faces were close enough to kiss, her hot breath on Sophia's face. Shy Sophia was very uncomfortable with this level of intimacy from the sadistic stranger, and she shuddered and instinctively tried to pull away.

Unfortunately for her, in her current predicament this only served to alert Flowers to her discomfort. She felt a frisson of delight at the helplessness of the beautiful young woman before her, and decided to rub it in. She winked at Sophia as she slowly extended a long pink tongue, proceeding to delicately lick once around Sophia's soft upper lip, enjoying how the girl's pretty green eyes screwed up in disgust. But she had work to do. She lowered her head to get a better look at Sophia's ivory-pale throat and readied her brush.

Sophia felt thoroughly violated by the gentle but inescapable touch of the older woman's tongue, despite the jolt of pleasure it sent through her mouth. But what came next made her wish Cornflower had spent longer giving in to her passion. Cornflower's head ducked below Sophia's line of sight, and she felt a devillishly soft touch run begin tracing patterns on her collarbone. It must be the brush the woman was brandishing earlier! It was sweeping back and forth, following the line of her collarbone across to what was visible of her shoulders, and Sophia was wishing that she had chosen to wear a garment with a narrower neck — though of course they had already shown her that clothes were no obstacle to their designs. Each swish of the brush on her skin made her twitch, and by the time Cornflower had completed the first pass, she already goosebumps: not just where the brush touched, but all the way down her chest and spilling down her back. Her shoulders, especially, she found particularly sensitive, with each new touch from the brush sending shivers down her spine. In spite of herself, she felt her nipples begin to stiffen from the persistent caresses. But this state of affairs was not to last for long: like a pendulum, Cornflower's brush made its way inexorably upwards towards her neck, but there were no rats to save her. As the brush spent longer drifting over her trapezius muscles she found herself shivering more and more, but it was a conflicted sensation, and the moment the brush found its way into the hollow of her neck the giggles that had been threatening to overwhelm her burst out, her shoulder scrunching up involuntarily to try to cover the vulnerable flesh. Alas, bound as she was it was out of her reach, and the feather descended again and again with impunity, each time resulting in another high-pitched trickle of laughter overflowing her dam, try as she might to shore herself up against it.

Flowers found this quite fascinating. She thought it simply adorable how the reserved Sophia's shoulder scrunched up like a little girl in a giggle fit, and made sure that each pass her brush spent a little longer there, swirling increasingly intricate designs to bookend the sweep from shoulder to neck, making every dribble of laughter last a little longer. Soon she was spending all her time there, drawing circles and ovals and letters in the spot that Sophia evidently wanted her well clear of, venturing out only to trace an arc across Sophia's neck and up to trespass in the hollow on the other side. Almost by accident, though, she began to let her brush strokes drift idly up and down the front and sides of Sophia's neck and under her chin, and she was certainly glad she did. It seemed that tickles there caused Sophia's neck to tense up, and as a result, her silvery chuckles took on an altogether different tone. They transformed quite abruptly into low-pitched, gurgling chortles of a most unladylike nature. The first time she heard it, Flowers laughed out loud in delight, a pleasure only compounded by the sight of the blush spreading across Sophia's features.

Trent was also taking note. So she liked to be seen as the lady, not the tramp, hmm? He filed that away as a new form of humiliation he could use against her. He rather liked the next part, though, so for now he let it be.

Sophia, of course, was mortified. She would never have imagined she was capable of making such an undecorous sound. As if being pinned completely helpless and tickled under the chin like a cat or a small child weren't embarrassing enough, why did it have to elicit such an undignified reaction? Silently she cursed her body for breaking her image in front of these people, and of course the officials for making it do things she had no idea it would do. Such thoughts were quickly driven out of her mind, though, as, at a prompt from Foghorn, the brush left her chin and began circling her lips. She had heard that the lips were one of the most sensitive parts of the body, but she had never had a concrete understanding of what that meant — until now. She had thought that her feet were sensitive, but, though the sensation didn't make her laugh, every touch of the tiny, soft brush on her lips made her nerves light up like fireworks, drowning out all other sensation. Her eyes scrunched up and her lips did their level best to pucker around the device in her mouth, but that only served to give Cornflower access to the even more hypersensitive back edges of her lips, which she took shameless advantage of whenever it happened. But none of this prepared her for the sensation of the delicate brush darting into her open mouth. One evanescent lick across the roof of her mouth, and she yelled involuntarily, unbearably ticklish sensations cascading through her skin like a shower of sparks, feeling like they were penetrating directly into her brain, and leaving a deep discomfort behind, an itch she had no way to scratch. Meanwhile, the brush was already going further back, tracing a path like a river of fire, to stroke the soft walls of her throat with feather-light touches until she gagged, her eyes popping open, recovering her breath just in time for the brush to return to her palate and the cycle to begin all over again.

Watched her expressions spasm beyond her control, listening to her growls and mewls of torment, for the first time in a long while Trent laughed, a deep belly laugh of pure vindictive satisfaction. He had discovered this trick the last time they pulled a stunt like this. He had felt the lack of proper mouth bondage that time, having to hold the handsome young man's jaw open with his hands and nearly getting bitten more than once, so he had made a point of carrying around the scold's bridle since then, waiting for this opportunity. People were often unaware of just how private a place the mouth was, and he took an almost sexual delight in the psychological effect of violating it, of letting them know that they were so vulnerable that not only the outside but even the inside of their body was his plaything, to use against them as he pleased. He leaned over so that she had no choice but to see him whenever her eyes opened, so that she would know who was in control of this situation, and laughed right in her face, savouring the mocking role reversal. Her face was already smeared with tears of laughter, and had been since the attack on her sole, her carefully-applied makeup smudged beyond recognition, but as her pleading, agonised gaze met his Trent saw fresh tears make their way from the corners of her eyes, felt the warmth of them soak his pant legs. He knew that they were partly from the overwhelming sensory overload she was currently going through, but also the despair of knowing she was well and truly in his power. And it was good. He smiled, a kind smile this time, and laid a hand on Flowers' wrist, signalling that she should stop. She looked askance at him, but did as he ordered. Sophia locked eyes with him, the look of gratitude in her eyes pitiful, almost making him laugh out loud. He stroked her hair and gave her words of assurance as he unclipped the bridle from behind her head and removed it from her mouth, replacing it with a water bottle. ‘Don't worry, Sophia. Everything is alright now.’ She nodded, sucking greedily from the bottle, quickly draining the whole thing. Then, when Sophia's eyes closed in an expression of deep relief, he caught Flowers' gaze and winked. The look of wicked delight that spread across her features warmed the cockles of his black heart.

---

Trent gently moved his hand over Sophia's eyes, effectively blindfolding her and pinning her head back down onto the bench, but her misplaced trust in him — or was it just exhaustion? — was such that she didn't even flinch until Flowers gently inserted the tip of her brush into her nose. Then she roared, a deep howl of betrayal, every muscle straining as she tore at her bonds. But the bonds were made to withstand people much stronger than her, and she didn't even succeed in stretching them, only amusing her two captors. Trent's mocking belly laugh was joined by Flowers' mischievous cackle, and Sophia flopped back onto the bench, all the fight abruptly leaving her as she realised the futility of it. Her newfound acceptance, though, was not to be: Flowers swirled the brush around in her nostril, and Sophia's attempt at mental fortitude quickly crumbled under the sensory onslaught. Involuntarily she struggled and strained to move her head, but she had just as much luck against Trent's iron grip as she had against the military-grade ties with which she was bound. Flowers pushed the brush slightly further up inside her nostril, teasing the delicate hairs she found there, and carefully stroked the inside of Sophia's mucous membrane as she had been doing to her throat earlier. The effect was not dissimilar: Sophia's face immediately scrunched up, beginning to take short, sharp breaths. Flowers had done this before, and pushed Sophia's jaw closed as she counted down, swirling the brush one, two, three times before withdrawing it. With nowhere else to go, the sneeze burst forth from Sophia's nose, spraying a thick glob of mucus down onto her face, to the cruel amusement of her captors. Twice more Flowers executed this procedure with precision. When she was done Sophia was a sorry sight indeed, strings of snot covering her face, neck, and clothing. Trent knew that, as fastidious as she was, merely feeling such a disgusting and unhygienic substance coat her with no way of cleaning herself off was a deep psychological torment for her. Which meant that she was really going to hate what came next.

Sophia had thought she was in hell before, but now she really knew the meaning of the term. She could hardly believe that a scant eternity ago — had it been hours? days? — she had made such a fuss at the thought of walking barefoot on the airport floor. Now, though, she lay in absolute misery, every part of her soaked in sweat, saliva, or snot, under the taunting gaze of two people she had long ago come to hate. There wasn't much more that could make this worse. As she thought the ill-fated thought, she came to a realisation. Throughout the ordeal, every time she got a break she had been drinking water to soothe her parched throat. But now, lying in misery with some space to think, she became aware that that water had to go somewhere. She had only one recourse: she had to tell her captors. Given their attendence to her psychological needs, she didn't hold out much hope that they would pay heed to her physical ones, but what else could she do? ‘P-please… I really need to use the toilet. Please let me use the toilet…’

As soon as she said it, she realised that she had made a mistake. The officers immediately lit up — clearly they had been expecting this. Had they planned it? Maybe. But now it was just another chip they could use against her, to make her suffer.

Flowers smiled slightly, and changed position. Where she had been lying more or less flat across Sophia to feel her reactions, now she shifted her weight just a little. The movement was small, but the consequence was that now the point of her hip lay directly on Sophia's bladder, with a significant portion of her weight behind it. Meanwhile, Trent had stood up from his position at the head of the bench and moved to its foot. He quickly unzipped Sophia's remaining boot, and, with a violent move in stark contrast to Flowers' subtle teasing earlier, ripped off shoe and sock in one motion.

A strange gasp escaped Sophia's lips — first a panicked inhalation as she felt the sudden pressure and quickly tensed the muscles around her bladder and urethra lest she wet herself, and second a squeak of fear as she felt herself suddenly left completely barefoot, her tender toes laid out in front of Foghorn like a banquet table. It didn't take a genius to figure out what they were planning to do, and she felt her heartrate rise as she began to squeal out a pleading ‘noooooooooo!’. They couldn't! But they could, and the end of the word shot up in pitch and immediately broke off into desperate, cackling laughter. Maybe it was the fact that it had been cooped up in her boot as she suffered and was now incredibly hot and soaked in sweat, but her newly-exposed right foot was somehow more ticklish than the left had ever been. Foghorn was not as subtle a tickler as Cornflower, and he lacked her delicate fingers and sharp nails, but combined with her extra sensitivity and her desperation to hold her bladder, his brute strength more than compensated. He firmly grasped her toes and held them back as he wrapped his big, rough, calloused hand all the way around her tiny, soft, bare foot, his five fingers somehow managing to tickle all the way up and down her sole at once in a way that felt totally different to Cornflower. Not that he hadn't learnt from her: he seemed to take great joy in the desperate screams of disgust and ticklishness she produced when he took her smallest toes into his mouth and ran his big, slimy tongue underneath and between them, but in his case it was augmented by the awful feeling of his scruffy grey beard scratching at the soft pad of her foot as he did so. And, of course, whenever he felt like she might be about to acclimatise a little, all he had to do was switch to her other bare foot, and he would find a whole new playing field of complacent, ticklish flesh awaiting him.

Cornflower, meanwhile, was up to her old tricks, one hand finding its way under Sophia's arm with practised ease, but there was no affectionate teasing this time: she dove straight in with all five pointy nails scribbling dementedly at the armpit, careful only to keep her touch as light as possible — Sophia suspected that, if she were to apply too much pressure, those nails would slice right through Sophia's skin and into her flesh, a fact that made her even more twitchy as she tried with all her might to avoid squirming. But even though her armpit was hopelessly ticklish, it was the other hand that was really getting her focus. Three fingers and a thumb were drawing designs on her exposed tummy — tracing circles, stroking up and down, and, worst, ducking underneath her jeans and underwear and scribbling at her pantyline. But the littlest finger had a different target. The sharp, deadly nail there homed in on her navel whenever it was in reach, diving deep and curiously poking at the tiny knot of flesh at the bottom, and each of those pokes felt like an icy spear stabbing straight into her bladder, down into her urethra.

Between laughter, the poking of her tummy-button, and the tickling on her tummy making her muscles spasm and ripple uncontrollably, it took less than five minutes of laughing and desperate pee-wriggling before Sophia lost a new form of control over her body. She gave a final plea for clemency with little hope of an answer, an atheist in a foxhole: ‘No, please, please stop! I'm going to pee! Please stoooop!’ But it was already too late. Before she had finished uttering the last word, her urethra relaxed, permitting a flood of golden liquid to jet forth, soaking first her panties and then her jeans, down to the knee. As soon as the first drops left her, she arched her back and the knotted brow with which she had been holding herself back gave way to a blissful expression of peace, even the tickling momentarily forgotten in the pleasure of releasing a long-held need. But it didn't take long for reality to come crashing back down. Her face crumpled and she began to cry.

---

She knew Trent was getting a kick out of this, but Flowers actually felt sorry for the poor girl. She looked so vulnerable and sweet, and so utterly distraught, that despite herself Flowers couldn't help but want to protect her. She hugged her as best she could, holding her close and stroking her hair and face while making soothing sounds, until her tears of shame dried up.

‘Oh dear, ma'am, you seem to have had an accident,’ said Foghorn, his deep voice feeling comforting in Cornflower's embrace, even though Sophia knew he didn't mean a word of it. ‘Let us help you with that.’

Sophia's conflicted illusion of safety was stripped away as she felt her sodden jeans and panties pulled down until they were around her knees, and she cried out in surprise and indignation. She had to admit, physically, it was a relief to be free of the sodden and rapidly cooling fabric; but there was absolutely no way she wanted her new nemeses to see her most private area, and she dreaded to think what they had planned for it. She felt a rage build up inside of her, and at the top of her voice she yelled at them: ‘GET OFF OF ME!’

As if obeying her, Cornflower let her go, moving down to sit beside her legs. From her pocket she pulled a pack of sanitary wipes, and began to lovingly wipe down Sophia's thighs. The tender care produced conflicting feelings within Sophia, especially when Cornflower reached her neatly-trimmed pussy. Intellectually she knew that these people were responsible for her current situation in the first place, that they had been constructing this hell for her since shortly after she walked into the airport; but this information conflicted with what her body was telling her, that somebody was kindly, sensually tending to her erogenous zones with a soothing, cooling touch.

Trent nodded to himself, satisfied. He felt that Sophia was ready for the final degradation he could make her suffer: he had broken her down, shamed her, and tormented her to the brink, exploiting all her fears, but the final step was to make her enjoy it. He clambered onto the bench, crawling up to where Sophia's chest and head lay, and reached around her, undoing her bra and pulling it up, tucking it behind her head, so that her small, pale breasts were exposed. He earnt himself a furious glare from the violated woman, but he didn't miss that said bosom was heaving more strongly than was strictly necessary, or that her exhales were frequently interrupted by sharp intakes in time with the contact of Flowers' cloth on her nether regions. He reached out and, without any hesitation or consideration, cupped her left breast; the little thing fit easily into his large, rough hand, and he was rewarded with a gasp and the sensation of her pink nipple slowly stiffening against his palm. Sophia bucked underneath him, which he took as a sign that Flowers had begun the second stage of this torment, and so he indulged himself, grasping her other breast in his hand and massaging it firmly over her chest. He made sure to look her in the eyes as he did so: her furious grunts as she fought her own body to avoid submitting to him were like ambrosia to him, and the hatred in her eyes only stoked his fire.

Contrasting with Foghorn's brutish approach, Cornflower had begun brushing up and down her slit and around the creases of her thighs with what Sophia really hoped was a fresh brush. This was another new sensation for her: it tickled her, to be sure, but at the same time, despite her best efforts, her nipples were hardening even further, and she could feel that she was becoming unmistakeably wet down below. She grit her teeth against the tickling, feeling the bubbles of laughter rise from her tummy and burst in her throat, tugging at the corners of her mouth. She had been determined not to let Cornflower's ministrations get to her, trying to keep in mind how cruelly she had been treated by these fiends, but with the tickling to distract her, her mission was becoming much harder. If she concentrated on resisting the pleasure, she lost track of the tickling, and her icy facade cracked, giggles streaming from her mouth; if she concentrated on resisting the tickling, the pleasure would sneak up on her, building within her until a moan parted her lips. It seemed like there was no escape, and every sound she made only deepened the triumph she could see on Foghorn's hateful face.

But if he liked the noises she made he was about to have a field day, and there was not much she could do about it. She felt Cornflower's cool fingers part her lips, which alone was enough to push a little yip from her throat, but that was nothing compared to the brush. The tip of the brush dabbed gently at her perineum and traced a lazy path up, dipping inside of her and brushing against the walls of her vagina, before making its way up and out and onto her clitoris, where it performed a quick little circle. The moment the brush went inside of her she sucked air into her mouth through her gritted teeth, her whole body tensing with all its might. She had never thought to be ticklish there, but with such a delicate touch, ticklishness was the only thing she could feel. That all changed, though, when the brush made contact with her swollen clit. The sensation was indescribable but utterly unbearable, and her face reddened, all the muscles in her neck tensing as her body spasmed and lifted her chest almost a full inch off the bench. Unfortunately for her, the strap around her hips prevented her pussy from moving at all: all her strength availed her not a whit in dissuading that brush from going just where it wanted to go, and inflicting upon her the sensations it wanted to inflict. Worst of all, the subtle motions of the brush were turning her on. The longer the torment continued, the more she felt the spasms of her body become regular, in tune with the rhythm of the brush, until in horror she realised that she was actually thrusting against Foghorn's weight on top of her, in a desperate attempt to get the release she craved but could never achieve from the delicate touch of the feather-soft brush. She tried to still her body, but there was nothing she could do: it had become simply a series of mechanical reactions, as preventable as gravity. Up went the brush, and she would laugh at the deep tickling sensation; and then it would make its final flourish around her hyper-sensitive clit, and she would thrust upwards, only succeeding in pushing her stomach into the air and pressing her breasts into Foghorn, but leaving no doubt in anyone's mind about the cause of the motion.

If she hadn't already been red as a tomato from head to toe, the shame and humiliation of the officers' mocking laughter when they realised this, watching her thrusting desperately at the air, helplessly horny, would definitely have been the final straw. The noises she was making now, yelps and gasps and cackles and howls of frustration, left no room for speech, but internally she prayed to any god who would listen for the ground to open right now and swallow her up, never to be seen again. Of course, her prayers were not to be answered; but she did receive some small mercy, in that Foghorn got off of her, leaving her to thrust and grind in vain into the straps and the empty air.

Trent had decided to break his own rules about getting his hands dirty. Soon, she was going to explode, and he wanted to be sure that it was his touch she felt as she did, that she knew exactly who was in charge of her pleasure and her pain. He went to Flowers' place between Sophia's legs, Flowers moving to the foot of the bench to make room for him, and inserted two big, sausage-shaped fingers into Sophia, stroking her back and forth.

Sophia moaned gratefully and rocked against his fingers. She didn't care any more that they belonged to the man she despised. She didn't care that she was here against her will, as part of some sick power play, or that the man whose touch she was panting for was thirty years her senior and ugly as sin. She just wanted release, a primal need that, at least for now, overrode all the negative emotions surrounding her current situation. She could feel it building, a hot pressure in her tummy. But just as she neared the point of no return… sharp nails, skittering across her feet! She yelled out loud, surprised laughter mixed with a roar of frustration as she felt her orgasm slipping away, to be replaced by the horrible tickling sensations she hated so much. Foghorn never stopped stroking her, but it served only to keep her desperate, her mind and body much too distracted by the tickles being inflicted on her bare feet to fight towards release.

Eventually the nails stopped, and she began to build toward orgasm. This time, as she neared the edge, she felt Cornflower's lips once again slip over her little toes and begin suckling as if she were a kitten at teat, her wet, slippery tongue sliding around and in between them. It tickled! Sophia began to laugh once again. But this time, instead of distracting from her pleasure, it merely added to it. What had been so disgusting to her before, now, on the precipice, she found enjoyable and intimate. She even welcomed the slimy tongue, spreading her toes as best she could to give it better access and encourage those unbearable licks at the sensitive webbing between them. When they both stopped this time, she raised her head, looking at them in a mix of horror and pleading.

‘Please,’ Sophia begged. ‘Please.’ By this time Trent was more than used to her desperate pleas, but he knew this one was different. This time, she wasn't asking him to stop. She was his. He just wasn't sure she knew why she was begging.

‘Please, what?’ he demanded of her. ‘What do you want?’

Sophia's eyes widened as she realised exactly what it was she had been asking for. ‘P-please… suck on my toes…’ Even in her altered state of mind, this was not something she would ever have expected to hear herself say, and she tucked her face into her shoulder in embarrassment. But that embarrassment merely fed into her arousal. In fact, even Foghorn's gorilla face no longer seemed repulsive to her; when she saw it or thought of it, it almost seemed… sexy.

Trent gestured to Flowers, and she knelt back down next to Sophia's left foot, taking its toes into her mouth. Just as she had earlier, Sophia threw back her head and moaned, the moan broken up by throaty chuckles. But this time there was no hesitation, no holding back. Trent put his fingers back inside of her, enjoying the gasp that resulted as he invaded her, and continued to pump in and out, rubbing circles around her engorged clit with his thumb.

Sophia was half dreading the rising heat inside of her, expecting her pleasure to be interrupted by some new trick designed to tease her. But not this time. Still watching Foghorn in case of some betrayal, she cried out and came, her muscles tensing and her little toes curling as hard as they could in Cornflower's mouth. The orgasm seemed to last forever, her vagina still clenched tightly about Foghorn's probing fingers as she took one, two, three deep, shuddering breaths, before she relaxed, grinding one final time as she came down onto the bench, exhausted.

---

Sophia made her way through the crowd. She was exhausted and smelled of sweat, her hair matted and her makeup gone, the last vestiges washed off in the airport bathroom. But that drew few looks in a place like this: she was just one worn-down soul amongst many. As she approached the security desk, eyes lowered, Foghorn made not a sound. Without prompting, she stepped out of her boots, then bent down and quickly stripped off her socks, placing them in a plastic tray on the conveyor belt. Foghorn smiled.

Very nice story.

Great story.