I started messing around with this idea when I saw a story on "The Women of the Alt-Right" come across my Twitter. I cranked it out fast, so my apologies if it doesn't show much polish, especially in the epilogue.
Alt-Tickle (m/f)
by
Kid Indy
The YouTube clip ended, and once again Calvin shook his head. "Man, you know we're not really Antifa. What if the real deal gets wind of this and decides to mess us up?"
Emilio wouldn't be swayed. "Man, there are Nazis and stuff running around in Virginia! You think they're going to bother with us?"
"Okay, but what if she has, like, Klan guards at her hotel? What if one of them takes a shotgun to us?'
"Look, I've scouted this out, alright? Her Nazi tour comes here next week. We scout out where her hotel room is, make a move at night, grab her, and get out of there!"
Sharif chimed in. "You don't think that Lana Lokteff is going to have a gun on her? Besides, how do we punch through a reinforced hotel room door? She's not going to stay anywhere cheap, you know."
Emilio's face dropped. "Oh yeah."
Calvin gestured his resignation at the monitor. "Guys, this is nuts. You need to get this idea out of your head."
Sharif held a finger to the air to stop him. "No, we just need to think about this like real operatives. We need to scout some more and take her without a big SWAT-team breach."
His two friends nodded and leaned in. Emilio looked to the corner of the room where his camera-drone's batteries were charging.
* * * * * * *
As she walked off stage and back to her dressing room, Lana Lokteff left the room of two hundred white men cheering. Since America suddenly cared about alt-right politics, her popularity had jumped to a plateau, and an article in Hapers had given her the idea to start an American speaking tour. Three cities in, the protests had gotten bigger and bigger, and the publicity had her image appearing on Twitter feeds across North America. Every room was selling out, and she was riding high as she returned to her hotel room to rest for the next morning's car ride to the next city.
Lana lay in her bath and enjoyed the feeling of warm water as she thought through her next few days. Her husband had already tapped the local militia groups and white-pride biker gangs to increase security for each stop, so she knew that this would likely be the last quiet hotel room she would have. When she got out of the tub and put on her robe, she knew that two ex-military guards were outside the door, but inside the room she was alone, and she sat on the bed and began to flip through channels, looking for Fox News, letting herself get sleepy.
Without a knock, the door opened. "Good evening, Lana Lokteff!" She jumped up and turned to see four men enter her room. Each wore a full-face porous mask so that their faces were invisible.
"Karl! Jim!"
One of the men held his finger up to where his mouth would be to signal quiet. "Don't worry about them, Lana. We know you're all about law and order, so we brought some local police up here to talk with these gentlemen about their parole violations. Who knew that guys who did time for assault weren't supposed to carry guns around inside hotels? But they're going to be at the police station for a while yet."
Lana backed up until the backs of her legs were against the bed. "How did you get in here?"
"You'd be surprised how willing people are to help out when there are real-live Nazis involved. The people next door for two rooms on either side are enjoying an evening out on us, and somehow somebody left a master key out for us to let ourselves in. Not a lot of racially-pure types doing housekeeping at hotels, Lana."
Lana looked at her bag, behind the men, and wondered whether she could get the drop on all four of them and get her pistol. "Wherever you're taking me, can I get in my suitcase and put some clothes on?"
Two of the men looked at each other and chuckled. The ringleader spoke up again and held up a small handgun. "You mean get this in your hand? Yeah, we knew you'd be carrying. So why don't we stop pretending and make the most of the time we've got?" He gestured to the two large men behind him, who took large steps towards her and grabbed her arms.
Knowing that these four men now had numbers, size, and the only firearm that she would likely get her hands on, she decided to switch tactics. "I'm going to find all of you and kill you when this is over! You have no idea what kind of people are loyal to me!"
The ringleader again: "Oh, we've got a good idea, Lana. In fact, we're counting on it." The fourth man was pulling a chair to the middle of the open part of the floor, then climbing up on it. He pulled some kind of plastic device out of his pocket--a stud-finder, Lokteff would later realize--and started scanning the ceiling. As his gloved hand turned a heavy eye-bolt into a ceiling joist, the ringleader pulled the fitted sheet off the bed. He threaded it through the large eye, and the two large men forced her hands above her head. The ringleader used his own glove-covered hands to wrap the sheet several times around her wrists, mummifying her arms from the elbow to her fingers, and when he pulled the sheet tight, her arms raised above her head. Her robe fell open as the tension released, and she could feel the men looking at her racially-superior chest.
Lana Lokteff stood, her arms above her head, facing four men, anticipating the violence that was surely to come. The two men who had forced her over to the eye-bolt disappeared behind her, and she gasped as the ringleader pulled a knife out of a belt holster.
"Pretty scary when you're on the other end of it, isn't it?" Lana, in her terror, nonetheless could hear some kind of machinery being assembled behind her.
"When my followers learn I've been raped, they'll hunt you down and kill each of you, and then your families. You should know this."
"Oh, honey. Nobody's getting raped tonight." He advanced with the knife. Lana reflexively recoiled from the blade, and the man began to saw at the left shoulder-seam of her robe. She held her breath as he took it down to a few threads, then abandoned that shoulder to do the same to the right shoulder of the robe. Then he put the knife away where he had gotten it. "Now I want you to know a couple things before we start here. Nobody's going to hurt you, but nobody's going to cut any deals either. So understand that there's nothing in the world you can do to stop what you're about to feel. You can start laughing whenever you like, but if you refuse at first, we're just going to keep going until you are laughing."
Lana's body wanted to squirm, but she knew that the threads keeping her robes up wouldn't take much of that. She attempted bravado. "I don't really like jokes much."
The men started taking their gloves off. Lana gasped as she saw each pair of dark-skinned hands emerge. "I think you know nobody's joking here."
"Keep your hands off of me, you animals!"
The men turned their masked faces to each other and chuckled. Once again the ringleader spoke. "You can call us anything you like, Lana. We just want to tickle you." As he approached, she twisted away, and she could hear one of the robe-threads strain under the motion.
Two large, black hands reached for her torso, and she tried to pull away. But the first touch was not on her sides but on the backs of her knees as one of the men behind her began to scratch at her where thigh met knee. A torrent of racial slurs started coming out of her mouth, and in a split-second another pair of hands was on her from behind, scratching at her ankles. One side of the robe gave way, revealing her shoulder and side, and the man who had been talking immediately reached out his hand and started to tickle under her arm. She screamed in distress, unable for a moment to insult, and her body's natural flight away from the hand tore the other shoulder of the robe, dropping the whole construction to where she had tied it around her waist. The fourth pair of hands was soon on her sides, squeezing just where her ribs ended, and that was what tipped things over. A frustrated squeal filled the room, and then a sound that her angry radio persona would never make on-air: a laugh of such abandon that all four men were taken aback.
That only lasted a second, though. As their stunned hands slowed, she started to form words again, and each of the four men went back to work to make that stop. The self-proclaimed Valkyrie lost control over her voice again, giggling at first and then going back to her loud laugh, her small breasts visibly stiffening as they tormented the white skin in which she took so much pride. These eight hands were accomplishing what a thousand insults on Twitter never could: Lana Lokteff could not say anything as they found live nerve after live nerve and excited her flesh in ways that she had spent years forbidding herself to imagine.
Soon her knees weakened, and her body weight dropped. She could feel the remnant of the robe slip down on her hips, and her eyes, even as she kept laughing, lit up in distress. The man who had been tickling her knees must have seen the movement, because his hands left her legs and began to squeeze at her hips, making her twist and buck and bringing the robe down over her bottom with each of her bounces. The evil hands kept tickling, and she kept laughing and wiggling, and soon what remained of the robe fell to the ground in a heap. The four men relented and let out a whoop at her situation.
Lana gasped and tried to gather enough breath to yell more racial slurs at them, but giggles and gibberish were all she could manage.
"What, Lana, are you going to threaten us again? Call us names?"
Another one spoke, and Lana heard his accent as Mexican. "Isn't it more fun just to have some laughs with us, huh?" He pinched her hip, and she twisted, giggling in spite of herself.
The ringleader pointed to a place behind Lana. "Let's see if she likes the feathers as much as she likes our hands!"
Now Lana found words, or at least one: "No! No, no no!"
Another of the four stepped in front of Lana, his face close to hers. "Can't you just imagine what this first feather is going to feel like when I put it in that belly button and wiggle it?" Lana winced at the thought; the others chuckled. "And while I'm going to work there, who knows? Now that you're giving us a shot at that ass of yours, I bet someone's going to find that special place where your leg ends and your booty starts." Lana started to breathe more quickly. "And who knows? Someone might even decide to find out what happens when that happy little rack of yours gets some attention!" Lana looked down and realized what these men had been looking at while they were tickling. She stood up again, trying to assert some dignity.
From hand to hand the men passed long, stiff, raven-black feathers, and as two of them drew nearer to her front, she held her breath. Then from behind a feather swiped from the middle of her knee almost up to her buttocks, and Lana squirmed and gasped. To more feathers started tracing the path from her hips, up her ribs, and into her underarms, and the spinning feather began to approach her navel. As it made contact Lana Lokteff once again was a squirming mess, and as the talkative one approached from the side, she knew that his feather was headed for her breasts. "No!" she cried out between tickled moans, but she could only turn one direction so far before he had a shot at her other side, and when the feather made contact with her tickling-excited skin, territory that was usually only a brief stop on the way to intercourse with her husband, she realized that these feathers were turning her whole body into one nerve, each twirl and stroke and swipe and poke heightening the sensations that every other one was exciting.
When the first semi-voluntary moan came from between her lips, once more the men chuckled their approval. The leg-tickler had indeed shifted to the very tops of her legs, or the southern border of her buttocks--it didn't matter; it just tickled. The feathers on her breasts circled, then crossed, then twirled alongside her nipples. She could feel those sensations alone tightening up her lower torso, turning every inhaling breath into a gasp of rising desire, and when the feather that once assaulted her navel made its first pass from her hip down to her womanhood, she let out a cry of frustrated build-up, a sound that her body was making even as her ideology forbade even the thought.
"No... no... no..." The feather between her legs stroked, slashed, ignited her nerves over and over, while the feathers on her breasts (each man in front of her was now giving two feathers' attention to each) opened her mouth in a desperate groaning gasp with each pass. The tickling on her inner thighs added an unbearable tension to her whole body, and her increasingly feeble attempts to squirm away from that feather only added fuel to the fire between her legs that was threatening to explode. She heard herself start to beg these men, these animals, only to leave her to finish this orgasm herself, knowing full well that her superiority had departed and her dignity was not far behind.
And still the feathers worked. The inverted volcano of nervous energy that rocked her body was no surprise to the White Supremacist; she despised herself for giving these men that satisfaction even as the relief and the rapture made any delusions of grandeur almost too absurd to hold in her mind. She trembled as the men stopped feathering her most sensitive skin and the ringleader once again pulled his knife from its belt holster. This was how it was going to end? With these men? After they drowned her in this pleasure?
Nothing ended just then; the man did not touch her body with the knife but cut away the sheets anchored to the eye-bolt. Lana's arms fell to her side, and she sank to her knees. As her hands tried to free themselves from the remnant of the sheet, the ringleader once again spoke to her, laughing in her face.
"Now, my ticklish little Nazi, it's time for the real fun. Every one of your nerves is going to be twice as sensitive now that you hit your climax, and we've not even started on those feet!"
Her hands scrambled in vain, but two men's hands lifting her off the ground were faster than she could possibly be, and as they dumped her backwards on the hotel's bed, her exhausted body simply could not fight the two large bodies that flanked her, each hooking one of her legs and hauling it up off the mattress. The two other men set upon her in a flash, one hand pulling back toes and the other scratching her newly-ticklish soles. The pride and the prejudice of Lana Lokteff ceased to exist instantly as her skin betrayed her. Though her arms were free, they could only flail and smack the matress as she laughed and wailed maniacally. These were hands that loved tickling more than a wolf enjoyed the hunt, and Lana's nervous system was giving these men the show that they needed.
After so much tickling, Lana's torso ached, and when the men turned her loose, she guessed by some signal, she could barely notice that one of them was picking up something from the hotel's TV stand as another unscrewed the eye-bolt from the ceiling. She noticed that their gloves were back on as they left the room in single file.
* * * * * * *
"Would you look at those comments! these guys are PISSED!"
The YouTube clip rolled along, coasting deep into six-digit territory as the blonde woman on the screen talked casually, as if to a reporter: "When I do hire dark-skinned men to tickle me, I get a sexual rush that puny white men just can't deliver. It's definitely a sexual thrill for me."
The clip cut to the footage of Sharif, Emilio, Calvin, and Carlos tickling Lana Lokteff's feet as she thrashed in (what the four knew to be post-orgasmic) ecstasy. The once-famous Alt-Right personality, judging by the YouTube comments, was not retaining much of her popularity with the Neo-Nazi set.
"How do you did you do that again, Carlos?"
"It's called Face2Face. It screen-captured a friend's mouth as she said these things, then mapped it onto the Nazi's face. Then I used Lyrebird to take a bunch of her YouTube footage to capture all the sounds I needed her voice to make. Then I edited in clips of the video that we captured in the hotel, and here you go! Fake news!"
"Look at those comments!"
"You already said that, man."
"Yeah, but look at them! There's no way she's going back to Sweden now!"
Just then a heavy fist knocked at the door, and Emilio instinctively closed the web browser. Calvin checked the peephole. Three figures were outside the door.
"Oh, shit, guys, I don't know who this is!"
A voice called from the hallway. "We know who you are, and we're on your side. Let's talk."
Carlos shrugged and gestured at Calvin to open the door. The three, two men and a woman, entered quietly and shut the door behind them.
"You know who we are, right?"
The four looked at each other in silence.
"We're with Antifa. We saw your video, and it's phenomenal. You've got the Nazis all torn up about dark-skinned men and sexuality, without actually doing any violence on screen. Lana Lokteff is done. She's not going to be able to do any more damage online, and she's not going to be able to go back to her Nazi people in Europe. You've taken her out, which means you're our people."
Now the four nervous glances, moving back and forth, betrayed self-congratulation and even excitement.
"But now that we know what you can do, we've got another target for you. Ever heard of Brittany Pettibone?"
Alt-Tickle (m/f)
by
Kid Indy
The YouTube clip ended, and once again Calvin shook his head. "Man, you know we're not really Antifa. What if the real deal gets wind of this and decides to mess us up?"
Emilio wouldn't be swayed. "Man, there are Nazis and stuff running around in Virginia! You think they're going to bother with us?"
"Okay, but what if she has, like, Klan guards at her hotel? What if one of them takes a shotgun to us?'
"Look, I've scouted this out, alright? Her Nazi tour comes here next week. We scout out where her hotel room is, make a move at night, grab her, and get out of there!"
Sharif chimed in. "You don't think that Lana Lokteff is going to have a gun on her? Besides, how do we punch through a reinforced hotel room door? She's not going to stay anywhere cheap, you know."
Emilio's face dropped. "Oh yeah."
Calvin gestured his resignation at the monitor. "Guys, this is nuts. You need to get this idea out of your head."
Sharif held a finger to the air to stop him. "No, we just need to think about this like real operatives. We need to scout some more and take her without a big SWAT-team breach."
His two friends nodded and leaned in. Emilio looked to the corner of the room where his camera-drone's batteries were charging.
* * * * * * *
As she walked off stage and back to her dressing room, Lana Lokteff left the room of two hundred white men cheering. Since America suddenly cared about alt-right politics, her popularity had jumped to a plateau, and an article in Hapers had given her the idea to start an American speaking tour. Three cities in, the protests had gotten bigger and bigger, and the publicity had her image appearing on Twitter feeds across North America. Every room was selling out, and she was riding high as she returned to her hotel room to rest for the next morning's car ride to the next city.
Lana lay in her bath and enjoyed the feeling of warm water as she thought through her next few days. Her husband had already tapped the local militia groups and white-pride biker gangs to increase security for each stop, so she knew that this would likely be the last quiet hotel room she would have. When she got out of the tub and put on her robe, she knew that two ex-military guards were outside the door, but inside the room she was alone, and she sat on the bed and began to flip through channels, looking for Fox News, letting herself get sleepy.
Without a knock, the door opened. "Good evening, Lana Lokteff!" She jumped up and turned to see four men enter her room. Each wore a full-face porous mask so that their faces were invisible.
"Karl! Jim!"
One of the men held his finger up to where his mouth would be to signal quiet. "Don't worry about them, Lana. We know you're all about law and order, so we brought some local police up here to talk with these gentlemen about their parole violations. Who knew that guys who did time for assault weren't supposed to carry guns around inside hotels? But they're going to be at the police station for a while yet."
Lana backed up until the backs of her legs were against the bed. "How did you get in here?"
"You'd be surprised how willing people are to help out when there are real-live Nazis involved. The people next door for two rooms on either side are enjoying an evening out on us, and somehow somebody left a master key out for us to let ourselves in. Not a lot of racially-pure types doing housekeeping at hotels, Lana."
Lana looked at her bag, behind the men, and wondered whether she could get the drop on all four of them and get her pistol. "Wherever you're taking me, can I get in my suitcase and put some clothes on?"
Two of the men looked at each other and chuckled. The ringleader spoke up again and held up a small handgun. "You mean get this in your hand? Yeah, we knew you'd be carrying. So why don't we stop pretending and make the most of the time we've got?" He gestured to the two large men behind him, who took large steps towards her and grabbed her arms.
Knowing that these four men now had numbers, size, and the only firearm that she would likely get her hands on, she decided to switch tactics. "I'm going to find all of you and kill you when this is over! You have no idea what kind of people are loyal to me!"
The ringleader again: "Oh, we've got a good idea, Lana. In fact, we're counting on it." The fourth man was pulling a chair to the middle of the open part of the floor, then climbing up on it. He pulled some kind of plastic device out of his pocket--a stud-finder, Lokteff would later realize--and started scanning the ceiling. As his gloved hand turned a heavy eye-bolt into a ceiling joist, the ringleader pulled the fitted sheet off the bed. He threaded it through the large eye, and the two large men forced her hands above her head. The ringleader used his own glove-covered hands to wrap the sheet several times around her wrists, mummifying her arms from the elbow to her fingers, and when he pulled the sheet tight, her arms raised above her head. Her robe fell open as the tension released, and she could feel the men looking at her racially-superior chest.
Lana Lokteff stood, her arms above her head, facing four men, anticipating the violence that was surely to come. The two men who had forced her over to the eye-bolt disappeared behind her, and she gasped as the ringleader pulled a knife out of a belt holster.
"Pretty scary when you're on the other end of it, isn't it?" Lana, in her terror, nonetheless could hear some kind of machinery being assembled behind her.
"When my followers learn I've been raped, they'll hunt you down and kill each of you, and then your families. You should know this."
"Oh, honey. Nobody's getting raped tonight." He advanced with the knife. Lana reflexively recoiled from the blade, and the man began to saw at the left shoulder-seam of her robe. She held her breath as he took it down to a few threads, then abandoned that shoulder to do the same to the right shoulder of the robe. Then he put the knife away where he had gotten it. "Now I want you to know a couple things before we start here. Nobody's going to hurt you, but nobody's going to cut any deals either. So understand that there's nothing in the world you can do to stop what you're about to feel. You can start laughing whenever you like, but if you refuse at first, we're just going to keep going until you are laughing."
Lana's body wanted to squirm, but she knew that the threads keeping her robes up wouldn't take much of that. She attempted bravado. "I don't really like jokes much."
The men started taking their gloves off. Lana gasped as she saw each pair of dark-skinned hands emerge. "I think you know nobody's joking here."
"Keep your hands off of me, you animals!"
The men turned their masked faces to each other and chuckled. Once again the ringleader spoke. "You can call us anything you like, Lana. We just want to tickle you." As he approached, she twisted away, and she could hear one of the robe-threads strain under the motion.
Two large, black hands reached for her torso, and she tried to pull away. But the first touch was not on her sides but on the backs of her knees as one of the men behind her began to scratch at her where thigh met knee. A torrent of racial slurs started coming out of her mouth, and in a split-second another pair of hands was on her from behind, scratching at her ankles. One side of the robe gave way, revealing her shoulder and side, and the man who had been talking immediately reached out his hand and started to tickle under her arm. She screamed in distress, unable for a moment to insult, and her body's natural flight away from the hand tore the other shoulder of the robe, dropping the whole construction to where she had tied it around her waist. The fourth pair of hands was soon on her sides, squeezing just where her ribs ended, and that was what tipped things over. A frustrated squeal filled the room, and then a sound that her angry radio persona would never make on-air: a laugh of such abandon that all four men were taken aback.
That only lasted a second, though. As their stunned hands slowed, she started to form words again, and each of the four men went back to work to make that stop. The self-proclaimed Valkyrie lost control over her voice again, giggling at first and then going back to her loud laugh, her small breasts visibly stiffening as they tormented the white skin in which she took so much pride. These eight hands were accomplishing what a thousand insults on Twitter never could: Lana Lokteff could not say anything as they found live nerve after live nerve and excited her flesh in ways that she had spent years forbidding herself to imagine.
Soon her knees weakened, and her body weight dropped. She could feel the remnant of the robe slip down on her hips, and her eyes, even as she kept laughing, lit up in distress. The man who had been tickling her knees must have seen the movement, because his hands left her legs and began to squeeze at her hips, making her twist and buck and bringing the robe down over her bottom with each of her bounces. The evil hands kept tickling, and she kept laughing and wiggling, and soon what remained of the robe fell to the ground in a heap. The four men relented and let out a whoop at her situation.
Lana gasped and tried to gather enough breath to yell more racial slurs at them, but giggles and gibberish were all she could manage.
"What, Lana, are you going to threaten us again? Call us names?"
Another one spoke, and Lana heard his accent as Mexican. "Isn't it more fun just to have some laughs with us, huh?" He pinched her hip, and she twisted, giggling in spite of herself.
The ringleader pointed to a place behind Lana. "Let's see if she likes the feathers as much as she likes our hands!"
Now Lana found words, or at least one: "No! No, no no!"
Another of the four stepped in front of Lana, his face close to hers. "Can't you just imagine what this first feather is going to feel like when I put it in that belly button and wiggle it?" Lana winced at the thought; the others chuckled. "And while I'm going to work there, who knows? Now that you're giving us a shot at that ass of yours, I bet someone's going to find that special place where your leg ends and your booty starts." Lana started to breathe more quickly. "And who knows? Someone might even decide to find out what happens when that happy little rack of yours gets some attention!" Lana looked down and realized what these men had been looking at while they were tickling. She stood up again, trying to assert some dignity.
From hand to hand the men passed long, stiff, raven-black feathers, and as two of them drew nearer to her front, she held her breath. Then from behind a feather swiped from the middle of her knee almost up to her buttocks, and Lana squirmed and gasped. To more feathers started tracing the path from her hips, up her ribs, and into her underarms, and the spinning feather began to approach her navel. As it made contact Lana Lokteff once again was a squirming mess, and as the talkative one approached from the side, she knew that his feather was headed for her breasts. "No!" she cried out between tickled moans, but she could only turn one direction so far before he had a shot at her other side, and when the feather made contact with her tickling-excited skin, territory that was usually only a brief stop on the way to intercourse with her husband, she realized that these feathers were turning her whole body into one nerve, each twirl and stroke and swipe and poke heightening the sensations that every other one was exciting.
When the first semi-voluntary moan came from between her lips, once more the men chuckled their approval. The leg-tickler had indeed shifted to the very tops of her legs, or the southern border of her buttocks--it didn't matter; it just tickled. The feathers on her breasts circled, then crossed, then twirled alongside her nipples. She could feel those sensations alone tightening up her lower torso, turning every inhaling breath into a gasp of rising desire, and when the feather that once assaulted her navel made its first pass from her hip down to her womanhood, she let out a cry of frustrated build-up, a sound that her body was making even as her ideology forbade even the thought.
"No... no... no..." The feather between her legs stroked, slashed, ignited her nerves over and over, while the feathers on her breasts (each man in front of her was now giving two feathers' attention to each) opened her mouth in a desperate groaning gasp with each pass. The tickling on her inner thighs added an unbearable tension to her whole body, and her increasingly feeble attempts to squirm away from that feather only added fuel to the fire between her legs that was threatening to explode. She heard herself start to beg these men, these animals, only to leave her to finish this orgasm herself, knowing full well that her superiority had departed and her dignity was not far behind.
And still the feathers worked. The inverted volcano of nervous energy that rocked her body was no surprise to the White Supremacist; she despised herself for giving these men that satisfaction even as the relief and the rapture made any delusions of grandeur almost too absurd to hold in her mind. She trembled as the men stopped feathering her most sensitive skin and the ringleader once again pulled his knife from its belt holster. This was how it was going to end? With these men? After they drowned her in this pleasure?
Nothing ended just then; the man did not touch her body with the knife but cut away the sheets anchored to the eye-bolt. Lana's arms fell to her side, and she sank to her knees. As her hands tried to free themselves from the remnant of the sheet, the ringleader once again spoke to her, laughing in her face.
"Now, my ticklish little Nazi, it's time for the real fun. Every one of your nerves is going to be twice as sensitive now that you hit your climax, and we've not even started on those feet!"
Her hands scrambled in vain, but two men's hands lifting her off the ground were faster than she could possibly be, and as they dumped her backwards on the hotel's bed, her exhausted body simply could not fight the two large bodies that flanked her, each hooking one of her legs and hauling it up off the mattress. The two other men set upon her in a flash, one hand pulling back toes and the other scratching her newly-ticklish soles. The pride and the prejudice of Lana Lokteff ceased to exist instantly as her skin betrayed her. Though her arms were free, they could only flail and smack the matress as she laughed and wailed maniacally. These were hands that loved tickling more than a wolf enjoyed the hunt, and Lana's nervous system was giving these men the show that they needed.
After so much tickling, Lana's torso ached, and when the men turned her loose, she guessed by some signal, she could barely notice that one of them was picking up something from the hotel's TV stand as another unscrewed the eye-bolt from the ceiling. She noticed that their gloves were back on as they left the room in single file.
* * * * * * *
"Would you look at those comments! these guys are PISSED!"
The YouTube clip rolled along, coasting deep into six-digit territory as the blonde woman on the screen talked casually, as if to a reporter: "When I do hire dark-skinned men to tickle me, I get a sexual rush that puny white men just can't deliver. It's definitely a sexual thrill for me."
The clip cut to the footage of Sharif, Emilio, Calvin, and Carlos tickling Lana Lokteff's feet as she thrashed in (what the four knew to be post-orgasmic) ecstasy. The once-famous Alt-Right personality, judging by the YouTube comments, was not retaining much of her popularity with the Neo-Nazi set.
"How do you did you do that again, Carlos?"
"It's called Face2Face. It screen-captured a friend's mouth as she said these things, then mapped it onto the Nazi's face. Then I used Lyrebird to take a bunch of her YouTube footage to capture all the sounds I needed her voice to make. Then I edited in clips of the video that we captured in the hotel, and here you go! Fake news!"
"Look at those comments!"
"You already said that, man."
"Yeah, but look at them! There's no way she's going back to Sweden now!"
Just then a heavy fist knocked at the door, and Emilio instinctively closed the web browser. Calvin checked the peephole. Three figures were outside the door.
"Oh, shit, guys, I don't know who this is!"
A voice called from the hallway. "We know who you are, and we're on your side. Let's talk."
Carlos shrugged and gestured at Calvin to open the door. The three, two men and a woman, entered quietly and shut the door behind them.
"You know who we are, right?"
The four looked at each other in silence.
"We're with Antifa. We saw your video, and it's phenomenal. You've got the Nazis all torn up about dark-skinned men and sexuality, without actually doing any violence on screen. Lana Lokteff is done. She's not going to be able to do any more damage online, and she's not going to be able to go back to her Nazi people in Europe. You've taken her out, which means you're our people."
Now the four nervous glances, moving back and forth, betrayed self-congratulation and even excitement.
"But now that we know what you can do, we've got another target for you. Ever heard of Brittany Pettibone?"
