Stevereeno
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By: Goldfeather
“Get the Fox.”
That was the command that had been handed down to Inspector Isaacs, by no less than the Commissioner of Police himself. Interpol had put the word out that the international thief known as the Fox, officially known in police files as Francis Octavius Xerian, was in the United States. Every police department from Los Angeles to Duck Key, Florida had been faxed the twenty-eight page file on the master criminal. For twenty years he had brazenly stolen his way across four continents and evaded capture. Now, he had been recognized at Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, disembarking from a flight in from Ontario, Canada. Inspector Isaacs, head of the entire detective bureau of the Chicago Police Department, had been ordered to bring him in. Isaacs laughed shortly when he had been given the assignment; like many police officials, he had believed the Fox to be an urban legend, like the giant alligators in the New York City sewers. But his superiors were not treating Xerian as a legend; they had made it very clear to Isaacs that his pension depended on bringing the Fox in. That was five days ago, and they were no closer to an arrest. But no major crime had been committed...yet.
“Where the Hell is your father?” the older woman fumed. She was thirty-nine, and her night-black hair was beginning to be sprinkled with silvery strands. But she was still a knockout, despite that. Her curvaceous form, which tended just a little to voluptuousness, was poured into an elegant party dress of silver lamé. Her long, lean legs were sheathed in ultra-sheer seamed stockings, held up by a black lace garter belt; her narrow feet shod in silver satin pumps. She nervously lit an Egyptian cigarette as she stood on the balcony of the Palace Garden. A cocktail party was in full swing, the elite of Chicago society all there to be seen (and, ostensibly, to contribute to the charity of the month). Her husband had been supposed to meet her forty minutes earlier. This was cause for alarm, for her husband was Francis Octavius Xerian.
“He’ll be here, Mom,” the teenage girl beside her said impatiently. Barely eighteen, the girl had hair so blonde it was nearly white, framing a cherubic face unblemished by time. In keeping with the fashion of the day, she kept herself so thin she was nearly anorexic. Her narrow form was clothed in a cocktail dress of black satin, her slim legs in black fishnet pantyhose, her feet in black leather high-heeled sandals with spaghetti-thin straps. Her toenails, polished dark blood-red, peeped through the black fishnets. “Or maybe he won’t. You know the plan.”
“I know, I know,” Rebecca Xerian said, fidgeting with her cigarette. “If anything goes awry, if he gets suspicious of the law, he’ll meet us later. I know, I know.”
“Dad is sure smart,” Jessica Xerian said with undisguised admiration. “He thinks of everything, doesn’t he? Didn’t even tell us where he’d go if he smells a rat! The cops can’t torture it out of us if we don’t even know it, can they?”
“No, I guess not,” Rebecca said, a little nervously. Torture it out of them! So easy for a fluffy-headed girl like her to say. It was an alien concept for her, something that happened to other people. She hadn’t felt the rubber hose against the soles of her feet in Pakistan, the burning cigar against her nipples in Vladivostok....at that thought, Rebecca dropped her cigarette and crushed it under her foot, vehemently.
“Come on,” Rebecca said, turning on her heel. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“What?” her daughter asked. “But Dad said he’d meet us here!”
“We’ll wait for your father at the hotel!” Rebecca hissed over her shoulder. Not looking where she was going, she bumped into a large, burly man in a tan overcoat.
“Why don’t you look where you’re going, you oaf?” Rebecca demanded. The man cracked a small smile, and showed Rebecca a bright, silver badge. Rebecca’s heart fell.
“I have to ask you to come with me, Mrs. Xerian,” he said simply.
“Mom, they can’t keep us here! Can they? I mean, we didn’t do anything wrong!” Jessica paced the small room like a caged animal. Her mother merely sat in the straight-backed wooden chair, silently fuming, rage burning inside her. God, she wanted a cigarette!
“Dad will get us out of here,” Jessica said. “He’ll hire a lawyer, the best lawyer! I know they can’t hold us without charging us, and we’ve done nothing! I know--“
“Oh, shut up, will you?” Rebecca spat. “Don’t you see what’s happened?”
“Well, duh,” Jessica said. “The cops picked us up, that’s what happened!” She held her thumb and index finger to her forehead in the shape of a letter L. “But they’ll never catch Dad, he’s too clever for them! He--“
“He gave us up, you airhead!” Rebecca hissed. “Didn’t you hear that flatfoot tell me how they found us?”
“Yeah,” Jessica said, nonplused. “He said they found Dad’s ticket to the charity ball on the floor of that museum where he stole the diamond. Big deal, everyone makes mistakes.”
“Your father hasn’t been the most successful international criminal for the last twenty years by making bonehead mistakes like that!” Rebecca spat. “He dropped that ticket intentionally, sent the police to the ball while he made a clean getaway! Now he’s miles from here, and we’ll probably never see him again!”
Jessica gasped, her mouth a wide-open O. Then she began shaking her head violently from side to side.
“No. No, not Dad! I can’t believe that! He’d never--“
“Honey, do you know what they call a sentimental thief? A convict, that’s what. Your father would cut your throat if he had to, to get away from the law. I should have seen it coming, I really should have.”
Just then, the door to the tiny interrogation room opened. Inspector Isaacs entered the room, with three uniformed police officers, two male and one female.
“Mrs. Xerian, a pleasure to meet you,” the Inspector said. “And your lovely daughter. My name is Inspector Sam Isaacs. I hope you’ve been made comfortable.”
Rebecca shrugged. “It’s not the Biltmore.”
“No, I suppose it’s not, especially to someone used to the best.” Isaacs pulled out a chair across the table from Mrs. Xerian, and sat down. “Do you know that your husband has put us on the brink of an international incident, Mrs. Xerian?”
Rebecca shrugged again. “Could I have a cigarette, please? Menthol, if you’ve got it.”
“Perhaps later,” Isaacs continued. “The Duchamps Diamond is a national treasure of France, Mrs. Xerian. It was on loan to the Chicago Museum of Natural History. By stealing it, your husband has put us in a very embarrassing position with France. Do you know what that means?”
“The price of imported wine will go up?”
Isaacs frowned. “I can see you’re not going to cooperate, are you?”
“Look, Inspector,” Rebecca said, “I’m not stupid. My husband threw my daughter and me to you like lumps of rotting meat to keep the dogs off him while he made his getaway. I’d give him up to you in a second, if I knew where he was. But I don’t. So lay off the scare tactics, okay? I can’t bargain with you, because I have nothing to give you.”
“And anyway, you don’t have a thing on us!” Jessica spat at Isaacs. “We weren’t doing anything wrong!”
“Well, bad taste in clothes isn’t a crime in this country, yet,” Isaacs commented, looking Jessica up and down. “So technically you’re right. However, there are outstanding warrants on your mother in twelve other states and four countries. Nothing on you, as yet, but if your mother goes up, you’ll become a ward of the state. Hardly the life you’re accustomed to.”
“I--I’m eighteen!” Jessica gasped, terrified of the concept.
Isaacs shrugged. “Then you’d be on your own. Tell me, what formal education do you have? What job skills? What prospects?”
Jessica opened her mouth, then closed it again.
Isaacs leaned in close to Rebecca. “I think you’d better tell us what we want to know.”
“Fuck off, cop,” Rebecca hissed. “I told you, we don’t know where my prick husband is! Now either give me a goddam cigarette or leave me the fuck alone!”
Inspector Isaacs grunted at this treatment, then rose from the chair and stepped back into the corner of the room to confer with his officers.
“Tough cookie,” one of the men said.
“I could make ‘em talk,” the other male officer said. “Just let me work ‘em over for about five minutes, chief.”
“You crazy or something?” Isaacs hissed. “When these broads do get a lawyer, if there’s one mark on their bodies, just one, we’ll all be pounding a beat on the South Side, if we’re lucky. No, we’ve gotta just try to scare ‘em, that’s all we can do.”
“How do we do that?” the female officer asked.
“Psyche ‘em out,” Isaacs said. “C’mon.”
With that, Isaacs stepped back into the center of the room. His officers followed him closely. Rebecca looked up at him, unimpressed. “Got my cigarette?”
“Not yet, Mrs. Xerian,” Isaacs said. “Are you quite sure you’ve got nothing to say to us?”
“I already told you--“
“You don’t know where your husband is,” Isaacs finished. “Fine, fine. Well, if you’re sticking to that story.”
Isaacs’ hand plunged into the pocket of his overcoat, and came out with a handful of coiled rope. It was the thin, strong rope generally used for clotheslines. He handed this to one of the male officers.
“Michaelson,” he said, “Mrs. Xerian seems to want to stick around awhile. Make sure she does.”
“Now wait a fucking minute--“ Rebecca began. Isaacs cut her off.
“One ankle to each front chair leg,” Isaacs said. “Wrists behind her back and to the back of the chair.”
“You--you fucking pig!” Rebecca spat, as the male officer moved toward her with the rope. “You can’t do this!”
Isaacs smiled. “Bet you a dollar?”
Jessica watched in terror as her mother’s ankles were securely tied to the legs of the chair. This caused her legs to slightly spread apart; Isaacs noticed with interest that she was wearing garter stockings, rather than pantyhose. He saw a flash of creamy white flesh above the top of her sheer nylon stocking. The way Michaelson tied her ankles forced her feet into a tiptoe position. Isaacs saw one satin pump come off her foot, the heel slapping the floor, only her toes still in the shoe. He glanced around at her nyloned sole, saw the seam of the stocking running up the bottom of her foot. This gave him a wicked idea.
When Michaelson had Rebecca’s arms tied behind her back, Isaacs moved in closer to her. The policewoman, meanwhile, went to stand with the terrified Jessica, to prevent her from doing anything stupid, like trying to rescue her mother.
“Interesting, isn’t it?” the policewoman asked in a whisper, noticing Jessica’s wide-eyed stare. “The Inspector’s never failed to get a confession from anyone.”
Jessica did not comment on that.
Isaacs leaned in very close to Rebecca, placing his hands on the arms of her chair. “We can do this two ways, Mrs. Xerian,” he said kindly. “The easy way, or the hard way. The easy way is very easy indeed. You’ll never tell anyone about the hard way.”
Rebecca tried to show defiance, but the veteran cop could see the fear in her eyes. “Look, Inspector,” she said, “I swear, I don’t know where my husband is!”
“So it’s Inspector now?” Isaacs said. “Not ‘flatfoot’ or ‘fucking cop’ or anything like that?” Isaacs’ right hand drifted down from the armrest. Rebecca inhaled sharply as it landed, gently as a butterfly, on her exposed thigh, above her stocking. “How many times have you been interrogated, Mrs. Xerian?” he asked, gently stroking his palm back and forth across her thigh. The skin of his palm was toughened, and the calloused skin tingled as it gently scraped her smooth thigh. Rebecca bit her lip. “I’ve read your file; quite extensive, really. I read about what they did to you in Vladivostok. I’ll bet that hurt like the devil.
Fortunately, we take a more sophisticated approach here in Chicago.”
“I-I’ll bet you d-do,” Rebecca said, lower lip trembling. Goose pimples popped out on her legs, from what the Inspector was doing with his palm.
“Have I mentioned what a lovely outfit you have on, Mrs. Xerian?” Isaacs said. “Elegance all the way. I’m especially impressed by these.” His index finger slipped into the top of Rebecca’s stocking, gently pulled it away, then let it snap back to her thigh. “You don’t often see them with the seam down the back anymore. Classy, I think.” Rebecca didn’t comment; she was scared and confused, not sure what to say.
“Tell me, does the seam go all the way down? I think I’ll have a look.” Isaacs knelt to the floor behind Rebecca’s chair, and peered at the foot that had come out of its shoe. “Ah yes, the seam goes all the way down to the toes,” he said. He placed the tip of his index finger alongside the seam at the heel, and gently traced it all the way down. Rebecca yelped a little as his fingertip touched her, then fought to hold in the sounds she wanted to make. But it was no use; before his finger reached the base of her toes, she let out a loud shriek.
“Oh my,” Isaacs said, with feigned concern. “Did that hurt you? I’m very sorry.”
“It--it’s all right,” Rebecca said, very nervously. Please, God, don’t let him do that again!
“But maybe it didn’t hurt at all, did it, Mrs. Xerian?” Isaacs asked. “Maybe it only...tickled. Hm? Is that it? Are you ticklish?” Before Rebecca could answer, Isaacs ran his index fingertip quickly up her stockinged arch. She let out a loud shriek, her foot twitching and flailing.
“P-please, don’t do that!” Rebecca screamed. “I hate being tickled!”
“Now, isn’t that a shame?” Isaacs said, and then he attacked Rebecca’s stockinged foot with all five fingers, furiously scribbling on her sole like a hyperactive spider. She let out a loud shriek, and began laughing uncontrollably. She bucked and thrashed in the chair, pulling frantically at her bonds. But it was no use; the awful tickling continued.
“You hate being tickled,” Isaacs said. “And I hate thieves coming to my city and making a monkey out of me. We can help each other, Mrs. Xerian. Just tell me where your husband is!”
“HAHAHAHAHAHA!! I don’t--OH! OH! OH, HAHAHAHAHAHA!! I don’t know-ho-ho!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”
Rebecca laughed and laughed. Isaacs reached out and plucked the satin pump from her other foot, and tossed it over his shoulder. It clattered across the stone floor of the interrogation room, coming to a stop in front of Jessica’s polished toes. Isaacs was tickling both of Rebecca’s feet now, his fingers moving in a flurry of rapid strokes. He left not one part of her feet untouched, going from her heels to her arches to the balls of her feet to the toes. Rebecca shrieked and cried, tears streaming down her flushed face, leaving black tracks of ruined mascara. The laughter poured from her throat, and her whole body shook and convulsed with the force of her laughter.
Isaacs continued to tickle Rebecca’s feet for a full ten minutes. Finally he stopped, and climbed to his feet. Rebecca sat in the chair, head down on her chest, sobbing and gulping for breath. Black tears dripped off her face onto her chest, staining her silver lamé gown and the freckled skin between her breasts. Her dark hair, soft as silk and perfectly coiffed when they had begun, was now matted with sweat. Jessica watched this display in horror.
“Better hope your mom gives in, honey,” the policewoman whispered to her. “Or your turn’s next.” Jessica gulped with fear.
Isaacs walked over to the two male officers. He said something to them that Jessica could not hear, and they left the room. Isaacs walked back to Rebecca, whose head was still down on her chest, gasping for breath in huge, ragged gulps. He placed his knuckle under her chin and gently lifted her head; she stared at him with wide eyes ringed in the black stains of her ruined mascara, her face still flushed red from forced laughter.
“You see, Mrs. Xerian,” Isaacs said, “just because it doesn’t hurt doesn’t mean it’s not torture. We can do this all night, and never leave a mark on you for your lawyer to find. Now, do you want to change your story?”
Rebecca summoned up what little defiance she had left in her, and spit at the Inspector. A moist glob of spittle landed on Isaacs’ coat lapel. He chuckled at it, as the door opened and the two male officers returned.
“Mrs. Xerian needs a little more convincing,” Isaacs said to them, as he stepped away from her. He pulled the other chair away from the table, turned it around so that its back faced his prisoner, and straddled it back to front.
Rebecca’s horror tripled as the officers began ripping away her cocktail dress. They left the upper part intact, but tore the lower part away from her groin area. She gasped with horror as she felt her silk panties being tugged.
“NO!” she shrieked. “Stop! Y-you can’t! This is rape!”
“Not at all,” Isaacs said calmly. “There will be no evidence of sexual violation at all. Sure you don’t want to talk?”
“I DON’T KNOW WHERE MY HUSBAND IS!” Rebecca shrieked.
Isaacs sighed loudly. “Start on her.”
One policeman, the one called Michaelson, knelt on the floor behind Rebecca’s chair. His fingers began gently teasing her stocking-clad soles with whisper-light touches. Rebecca’s feet twitched under his touch, and her body began trembling and vibrating. She bit her lip to hold in the giggles, not wanting to give these cops the satisfaction of making her laugh again. She might do it, if only he kept away from her toes! The tingling touch was maddening, as his fingertips lightly whisked over her arches, over the broad middle part of her soles. But if he only didn’t touch her toes, she might not lose it!
Then the other policeman leaned in close to her. He held something in his hand. Rebecca blinked away the tears forming in her eyes, to see what it was. It was a tiny paintbrush, the kind artists use, with soft camel-hair bristles. The policeman began making slow, lazy circles on Rebecca’s inner thighs with this. Her eyes opened even wider at the touch, and she bit down hard on her lower lip to hold in the sounds. Michaelson was still tickling her feet, his fingertips lightly running up and down her soles, from her heels to the base of her toes. The other cop was stroking her inner thighs up and down with the brush, with light, feathery strokes. Rebecca’s head thrashed from side to side, as she fought to keep her lips tightly closed. Only the faintest squeaks escaped her throat. Tears were flung from her eyes as her head thrashed, landing on the stone floor. Finally, Michaelson got to her toes, and she could hold it in no longer. Loud shrieks of laughter burst from her lips as his fingertips began gently teasing the sensitive undersides of her toes. This was her worst spot of all, and the gentle tickling was like live electric wires touched to her nerve endings. When Michaelson began “piggying” her toes like she was a child, the sensation was overwhelming. She barely felt the paintbrush begin to enter her vagina, until the soft bristles touched her clitoris. That was like a surge of lightning, and she jumped in her bonds so forcefully that the front legs of the chair left the floor for a second. She howled and shrieked with laughter, so forcefully that she could not even form words to beg. The soft bristles of the paintbrush circled the edge of her clitoris, sending wave after wave of powerful sensation shooting through her. Michaelson’s fingertips gently probed the very base of her toes, tickling her with an intensity she wouldn’t have thought possible. She couldn’t see anymore, the room had faded into a hazy blur of soft colors. She couldn’t feel anything but the intense tickling, tickling, tickling...
“Wake up, Mrs. Xerian,” the Inspector’s voice called, from far, far away. Rebecca felt like she was floating in a warm, soft void of darkness. Pinpoints of light began to pierce the darkness, as she felt something very gently slapping her cheeks. She shook her head, clearing the cobwebs. She tried to move, but found that she could not. The room slowly came back into view. She looked around, at the police officers, at the Inspector. She realized she was looking down at them! She tried again to move, but it was impossible. She realized that she was on top of the table, kneeling on it. Her feet hung just over the edge of the table, and her ankles were secured there by a large leather strap. Her arms were raised high over her head, hanging from a rope which was tied to a small hook in the ceiling. One of her stockings had come loose from its garter, and had fallen to her knee.
“I’m afraid you passed out during our questioning,” Isaacs said. “While you were napping, we took the liberty of preparing you for the next session.”
“Go to Hell!” Rebecca hissed. “I told you, you flannel-headed cop, I don’t know where my husband is! You can tickle me all night if you want to, but I can’t tell you something I don’t know!”
“Loyalty to your husband,” Isaacs smiled. “I admire that, Mrs. Xerian, I really do. But perhaps we should see if it outweighs your loyalty to your child.”
Rebecca gasped. “Jessica? Where is she? What have you done to her?”
“Mom?” Jessica’s voice sounded weak and frightened. It came from a corner of the room. Rebecca looked, and gasped when she saw. Jessica had been stripped down to her fishnet pantyhose. She was seated in one of the wooden chairs, her arms tied securely to the armrests of the chair. Her young breasts were small, kept from fully developing by her fad diets, but firm and supple. Her legs were straight out in front of her, her ankles pushed through the wooden slats of the back of another chair, securely bound to that chair. Her stocking feet had been relieved of their shoes. Michaelson stood next to this chair, ready and waiting; the policewoman stood behind her chair.
“Don’t do it,” Rebecca begged. “Please, she’s just a baby! She doesn’t know anything! Please don’t--“
“Then tell us what we want to know, Mrs. Xerian,” Isaacs said.
“Mom, tell them!” Jessica begged. “Don’t let them do this! Tell them where Dad is!”
“But I don’t know!” Rebecca insisted. “You know that, you know he didn’t tell us!”
“Of course he didn’t tell me!” Jessica wailed. “I’m just a kid, he knows I wouldn’t be able to take it! But he must have told you! You’re his wife! Mom, he must have told you!”
“He didn’t! Jessica, I swear, he didn’t!”
Isaacs sighed again. “Michaelson.”
“NO!” Jessica shrieked, before Michaelson even touched her feet. He brought his fingers toward her soles slowly, tauntingly, letting her fear build. Rebecca watched with horror. She had felt those fingers on her own soles; she knew what they were capable of! Jessica squeezed her eyes shut, little yips of horror bursting from her lips. Finally, Michaelson’s fingers touched the bottoms of Jessica’s feet, and began scribbling furiously. Jessica let out a loud shriek, followed by forced, frenzied laughter. She threw her head back and laughed, the laughter pouring from her throat in an endless stream. It echoed off the stone walls of the interrogation room, an eerie ringing sound that made it seem like a roomful of young women were being mercilessly tickle-tortured. Rebecca shuddered, and wondered if that was how she had sounded. She watched in helpless agony as her daughter was cruelly tickled by the skillful police officer. His fingertips probed every inch of her feet. He spider-walked them over her insteps, he squeezed and released her heels, he ran his index fingertip up and down her arches, he played with her toes. Jessica continued to howl with laughter, tears streaming down her face. Her lovely white-blond hair was soaked with sweat in no time at all, and her alabaster skin flushed bright crimson pink.
“She’s a good little laugher, isn’t she, Mrs. Xerian?” Isaacs asked. “I think she’s even more ticklish than you. Oh, look; Michaelson is doing her arches again. That really makes her scream, doesn’t it? I think that’s her worst spot of all.”
“You sadist!” Rebecca spat. “You sick, fucking sadist! Oh, just you wait until my lawyer hears of this! And the newspapers! I’m going to have a field day with this, just you wait and see!”
Isaacs chuckled. “And do you think anyone is going to believe your little story? Tickle-tortured by the police! It’s too bizarre to be true! And how will you prove it?”
Rebecca opened her mouth to reply, then shut it again. He was right. No one would ever believe such a wild, fantastic story! And there would be no marks on their bodies, no physical evidence to support their claim. He had them, and he had them good.
Jessica continued to laugh and laugh as Michaelson tickled her feet. Her black fishnet pantyhose provided no protection from his skillfully scribbling fingertips. Her feet twitched and bounced as much as the tight ropes allowed; her thin body shook and convulsed on the chair. Soon she was laughing so hard, she couldn’t draw enough breath to make noise. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, tears running down her cheeks; her mouth was a wide-open O, but only the tiniest of squeaks escaped her throat.
Isaacs let the torture go on and on. Rebecca watched in horror as her daughter’s tiny body convulsed with laughter. After about ten minutes, Isaacs asked her again.
“Ready to change your story yet?” he asked, in his polite tones.
Rebecca had given up answering him. There was no convincing this man that they didn’t know anything, that this was all pointless. Jessica hadn’t helped, begging her mother to talk as she had. That empty-headed little bitch! She knew that her father hadn’t told either of them anything! But her terror of being tickle-tortured like her mother had led her to cling desperately to the hope that, perhaps, her mother had been told, and she hadn’t known of it.
Isaacs waited a moment for Rebecca to answer, before turning to the policewoman. “Stone.”
The blonde policewoman smiled wickedly, and nodded. She opened the breast pocket of her uniform, and produced a small, white, fluffy feather. She stood behind Jessica’s chair and leaned closely over her. Rebecca watched with horror as she brought the feather around to Jessica’s small breasts, and began gently teasing her nipples with it. Jessica jerked with a sudden convulsion, and her laughter took on a more urgent tone.
“OH! OOH! OOH! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! OOOOOOHH!! OOH, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”
Stone maneuvered the feather expertly around Jessica’s breasts, flicking it across the tops of her nipples, tracing the sides of her nipples, running it around the rims of her barely-visible aureoles. As she watched, Rebecca couldn’t help but wonder how many times Stone had been on the other end of the feather, she seemed to know just how to use it to the utmost effect.
Michaelson, meanwhile, was using a more methodical stroke on Jessica’s feet. He had gripped all ten of her toes in one large hand and gently pulled them back, stretching her soles taut. He used all the fingers of his other hand to lightly whisk up and down her soles, like strumming a guitar. Jessica shrieked with laughter, punctuated by moans of ecstasy from the feather on her breasts.
“OOH! OH GOD! OH GOD! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! OOOOOOOOOOHH, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”
Tears streamed down Rebecca’s face as she watched her daughter in agony. She tugged at the ropes holding her wrists, but they did not give. There was nothing she could do, nothing! She briefly considered giving the policemen a false lead, giving them a fictional place to find her husband. But she knew they would check it out, and when they found it to be false, Rebecca and Jessica would suffer all the worse. Better just to let them exhaust themselves on them, until it finally sank into their heads that they didn’t know where he was.
“Mrs. Xerian?” Isaacs asked, politely. Rebecca squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head no.
Isaacs shrugged, and walked around to the rear of the table. “As you wish, Mrs. Xerian,” he said, and began tickling her feet again. Rebecca shrieked as his fingertips touched her stockinged soles. He began tracing the seams again, running his index fingertips up and down alongside the seams. Rebecca’s body convulsed and jerked in its odd bondage, her voluptuous breasts bouncing around like huge rubber balls. This bondage allowed her more movement than the chair had, and under the intense tickling of her feet, she writhed and twisted as much as she could. She felt her left breast pop out of the confines of the low-cut gown, but she didn’t care. She would gladly rip off her entire gown, and fellate each of these officers five times, just to stop this awful tickling!
“I’ll bet this tickles like gangbusters, eh, Mrs. Xerian?” Isaacs asked, as his fingertips glided up and down her silky stockinged soles. “But, unless I’m mistaken, the place where it really, really tickles...is right...here.” With that he began gently scribbling his fingertips against the pads of her toes. Each touch, each gentle scrape, was like a tiny lightning bolt shooting up through her body. Shriek after shriek of laughter poured from her throat. Tears flowed from her eyes, blurring her vision. She tried to blink them away, to see if they had at least let up on Jessica to concentrate on her. But no, they were not that merciful. Michaelson was still tickling Jessica’s fishnet-stockinged feet, and Stone still teasing her tiny breasts with the feather. Jessica was still shrieking with laughter, begging for mercy whenever she got enough air. Mercy which would never come.
“Adamopolis.” Isaacs said simply, as he continued to tickle Rebecca’s toes. He was playing with them now, “piggying” them one by one. God, Rebecca couldn’t stand that! It not only tickled like the devil, it was humiliating, being played with like a little girl! Nobody had done that to her toes since she was six; the one time Francis had tried it, she had kicked him in the jaw. Rebecca couldn’t help but wonder if that was why he had set her up like this.
Rebecca felt the table move underneath her. She looked up, and saw the other policeman climbing up onto the table. He knelt in front of her, admiring her body and her exposed breast. He produced a tiny white feather, similar to the one Stone was using on Jessica’s nipples, and brought it in close to Rebecca’s pubic area.
“NO!” Rebecca shrieked. She couldn’t take having her clitoris tickled again, not again!!
“Tell us where your husband is,” she heard Isaacs insist, as his fingers wiggled her toes.
“I DON’T KNOW!” she screamed through her laughter. Then she felt the feather brush against her vaginal lips as it worked its way inside her. The sensation was like a jolt, like being electrocuted. She tugged and tugged on the ropes; surely they had to give! But they remained as tight as ever as Isaacs tickled her toes, and Adamopolis brought the feather’s wispy tip into contact with her engorged clitoris. She let out a scream as it touched her love button. Her face felt burning hot, flushed from the forced laughter; tears streamed down her cheeks, leaving tracks of cool moisture that quickly evaporated against the hot skin.
“Inspector,” Adamopolis said, as he tickled Rebecca’s clit with the feather, “how long do we keep this up? I mean, maybe they’re telling the truth, you know? Maybe they don’t know.”
“Maybe,” Isaacs acknowledged, as he scribbled his fingertips along Rebecca’s arches. “But I’m not quite convinced yet.”
“You take a lot of convincing,” Stone called, not looking up from her task, methodically tracing Jessica’s nipples with the feather.
“I sure do,” Isaacs grinned. “A whole heaping lot of convincing.” Rebecca shrieked louder as she felt Isaacs’ teeth begin to gently nibble her toes.
THE END (of the story, obviously not the tickling).
“Get the Fox.”
That was the command that had been handed down to Inspector Isaacs, by no less than the Commissioner of Police himself. Interpol had put the word out that the international thief known as the Fox, officially known in police files as Francis Octavius Xerian, was in the United States. Every police department from Los Angeles to Duck Key, Florida had been faxed the twenty-eight page file on the master criminal. For twenty years he had brazenly stolen his way across four continents and evaded capture. Now, he had been recognized at Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, disembarking from a flight in from Ontario, Canada. Inspector Isaacs, head of the entire detective bureau of the Chicago Police Department, had been ordered to bring him in. Isaacs laughed shortly when he had been given the assignment; like many police officials, he had believed the Fox to be an urban legend, like the giant alligators in the New York City sewers. But his superiors were not treating Xerian as a legend; they had made it very clear to Isaacs that his pension depended on bringing the Fox in. That was five days ago, and they were no closer to an arrest. But no major crime had been committed...yet.
“Where the Hell is your father?” the older woman fumed. She was thirty-nine, and her night-black hair was beginning to be sprinkled with silvery strands. But she was still a knockout, despite that. Her curvaceous form, which tended just a little to voluptuousness, was poured into an elegant party dress of silver lamé. Her long, lean legs were sheathed in ultra-sheer seamed stockings, held up by a black lace garter belt; her narrow feet shod in silver satin pumps. She nervously lit an Egyptian cigarette as she stood on the balcony of the Palace Garden. A cocktail party was in full swing, the elite of Chicago society all there to be seen (and, ostensibly, to contribute to the charity of the month). Her husband had been supposed to meet her forty minutes earlier. This was cause for alarm, for her husband was Francis Octavius Xerian.
“He’ll be here, Mom,” the teenage girl beside her said impatiently. Barely eighteen, the girl had hair so blonde it was nearly white, framing a cherubic face unblemished by time. In keeping with the fashion of the day, she kept herself so thin she was nearly anorexic. Her narrow form was clothed in a cocktail dress of black satin, her slim legs in black fishnet pantyhose, her feet in black leather high-heeled sandals with spaghetti-thin straps. Her toenails, polished dark blood-red, peeped through the black fishnets. “Or maybe he won’t. You know the plan.”
“I know, I know,” Rebecca Xerian said, fidgeting with her cigarette. “If anything goes awry, if he gets suspicious of the law, he’ll meet us later. I know, I know.”
“Dad is sure smart,” Jessica Xerian said with undisguised admiration. “He thinks of everything, doesn’t he? Didn’t even tell us where he’d go if he smells a rat! The cops can’t torture it out of us if we don’t even know it, can they?”
“No, I guess not,” Rebecca said, a little nervously. Torture it out of them! So easy for a fluffy-headed girl like her to say. It was an alien concept for her, something that happened to other people. She hadn’t felt the rubber hose against the soles of her feet in Pakistan, the burning cigar against her nipples in Vladivostok....at that thought, Rebecca dropped her cigarette and crushed it under her foot, vehemently.
“Come on,” Rebecca said, turning on her heel. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“What?” her daughter asked. “But Dad said he’d meet us here!”
“We’ll wait for your father at the hotel!” Rebecca hissed over her shoulder. Not looking where she was going, she bumped into a large, burly man in a tan overcoat.
“Why don’t you look where you’re going, you oaf?” Rebecca demanded. The man cracked a small smile, and showed Rebecca a bright, silver badge. Rebecca’s heart fell.
“I have to ask you to come with me, Mrs. Xerian,” he said simply.
“Mom, they can’t keep us here! Can they? I mean, we didn’t do anything wrong!” Jessica paced the small room like a caged animal. Her mother merely sat in the straight-backed wooden chair, silently fuming, rage burning inside her. God, she wanted a cigarette!
“Dad will get us out of here,” Jessica said. “He’ll hire a lawyer, the best lawyer! I know they can’t hold us without charging us, and we’ve done nothing! I know--“
“Oh, shut up, will you?” Rebecca spat. “Don’t you see what’s happened?”
“Well, duh,” Jessica said. “The cops picked us up, that’s what happened!” She held her thumb and index finger to her forehead in the shape of a letter L. “But they’ll never catch Dad, he’s too clever for them! He--“
“He gave us up, you airhead!” Rebecca hissed. “Didn’t you hear that flatfoot tell me how they found us?”
“Yeah,” Jessica said, nonplused. “He said they found Dad’s ticket to the charity ball on the floor of that museum where he stole the diamond. Big deal, everyone makes mistakes.”
“Your father hasn’t been the most successful international criminal for the last twenty years by making bonehead mistakes like that!” Rebecca spat. “He dropped that ticket intentionally, sent the police to the ball while he made a clean getaway! Now he’s miles from here, and we’ll probably never see him again!”
Jessica gasped, her mouth a wide-open O. Then she began shaking her head violently from side to side.
“No. No, not Dad! I can’t believe that! He’d never--“
“Honey, do you know what they call a sentimental thief? A convict, that’s what. Your father would cut your throat if he had to, to get away from the law. I should have seen it coming, I really should have.”
Just then, the door to the tiny interrogation room opened. Inspector Isaacs entered the room, with three uniformed police officers, two male and one female.
“Mrs. Xerian, a pleasure to meet you,” the Inspector said. “And your lovely daughter. My name is Inspector Sam Isaacs. I hope you’ve been made comfortable.”
Rebecca shrugged. “It’s not the Biltmore.”
“No, I suppose it’s not, especially to someone used to the best.” Isaacs pulled out a chair across the table from Mrs. Xerian, and sat down. “Do you know that your husband has put us on the brink of an international incident, Mrs. Xerian?”
Rebecca shrugged again. “Could I have a cigarette, please? Menthol, if you’ve got it.”
“Perhaps later,” Isaacs continued. “The Duchamps Diamond is a national treasure of France, Mrs. Xerian. It was on loan to the Chicago Museum of Natural History. By stealing it, your husband has put us in a very embarrassing position with France. Do you know what that means?”
“The price of imported wine will go up?”
Isaacs frowned. “I can see you’re not going to cooperate, are you?”
“Look, Inspector,” Rebecca said, “I’m not stupid. My husband threw my daughter and me to you like lumps of rotting meat to keep the dogs off him while he made his getaway. I’d give him up to you in a second, if I knew where he was. But I don’t. So lay off the scare tactics, okay? I can’t bargain with you, because I have nothing to give you.”
“And anyway, you don’t have a thing on us!” Jessica spat at Isaacs. “We weren’t doing anything wrong!”
“Well, bad taste in clothes isn’t a crime in this country, yet,” Isaacs commented, looking Jessica up and down. “So technically you’re right. However, there are outstanding warrants on your mother in twelve other states and four countries. Nothing on you, as yet, but if your mother goes up, you’ll become a ward of the state. Hardly the life you’re accustomed to.”
“I--I’m eighteen!” Jessica gasped, terrified of the concept.
Isaacs shrugged. “Then you’d be on your own. Tell me, what formal education do you have? What job skills? What prospects?”
Jessica opened her mouth, then closed it again.
Isaacs leaned in close to Rebecca. “I think you’d better tell us what we want to know.”
“Fuck off, cop,” Rebecca hissed. “I told you, we don’t know where my prick husband is! Now either give me a goddam cigarette or leave me the fuck alone!”
Inspector Isaacs grunted at this treatment, then rose from the chair and stepped back into the corner of the room to confer with his officers.
“Tough cookie,” one of the men said.
“I could make ‘em talk,” the other male officer said. “Just let me work ‘em over for about five minutes, chief.”
“You crazy or something?” Isaacs hissed. “When these broads do get a lawyer, if there’s one mark on their bodies, just one, we’ll all be pounding a beat on the South Side, if we’re lucky. No, we’ve gotta just try to scare ‘em, that’s all we can do.”
“How do we do that?” the female officer asked.
“Psyche ‘em out,” Isaacs said. “C’mon.”
With that, Isaacs stepped back into the center of the room. His officers followed him closely. Rebecca looked up at him, unimpressed. “Got my cigarette?”
“Not yet, Mrs. Xerian,” Isaacs said. “Are you quite sure you’ve got nothing to say to us?”
“I already told you--“
“You don’t know where your husband is,” Isaacs finished. “Fine, fine. Well, if you’re sticking to that story.”
Isaacs’ hand plunged into the pocket of his overcoat, and came out with a handful of coiled rope. It was the thin, strong rope generally used for clotheslines. He handed this to one of the male officers.
“Michaelson,” he said, “Mrs. Xerian seems to want to stick around awhile. Make sure she does.”
“Now wait a fucking minute--“ Rebecca began. Isaacs cut her off.
“One ankle to each front chair leg,” Isaacs said. “Wrists behind her back and to the back of the chair.”
“You--you fucking pig!” Rebecca spat, as the male officer moved toward her with the rope. “You can’t do this!”
Isaacs smiled. “Bet you a dollar?”
Jessica watched in terror as her mother’s ankles were securely tied to the legs of the chair. This caused her legs to slightly spread apart; Isaacs noticed with interest that she was wearing garter stockings, rather than pantyhose. He saw a flash of creamy white flesh above the top of her sheer nylon stocking. The way Michaelson tied her ankles forced her feet into a tiptoe position. Isaacs saw one satin pump come off her foot, the heel slapping the floor, only her toes still in the shoe. He glanced around at her nyloned sole, saw the seam of the stocking running up the bottom of her foot. This gave him a wicked idea.
When Michaelson had Rebecca’s arms tied behind her back, Isaacs moved in closer to her. The policewoman, meanwhile, went to stand with the terrified Jessica, to prevent her from doing anything stupid, like trying to rescue her mother.
“Interesting, isn’t it?” the policewoman asked in a whisper, noticing Jessica’s wide-eyed stare. “The Inspector’s never failed to get a confession from anyone.”
Jessica did not comment on that.
Isaacs leaned in very close to Rebecca, placing his hands on the arms of her chair. “We can do this two ways, Mrs. Xerian,” he said kindly. “The easy way, or the hard way. The easy way is very easy indeed. You’ll never tell anyone about the hard way.”
Rebecca tried to show defiance, but the veteran cop could see the fear in her eyes. “Look, Inspector,” she said, “I swear, I don’t know where my husband is!”
“So it’s Inspector now?” Isaacs said. “Not ‘flatfoot’ or ‘fucking cop’ or anything like that?” Isaacs’ right hand drifted down from the armrest. Rebecca inhaled sharply as it landed, gently as a butterfly, on her exposed thigh, above her stocking. “How many times have you been interrogated, Mrs. Xerian?” he asked, gently stroking his palm back and forth across her thigh. The skin of his palm was toughened, and the calloused skin tingled as it gently scraped her smooth thigh. Rebecca bit her lip. “I’ve read your file; quite extensive, really. I read about what they did to you in Vladivostok. I’ll bet that hurt like the devil.
Fortunately, we take a more sophisticated approach here in Chicago.”
“I-I’ll bet you d-do,” Rebecca said, lower lip trembling. Goose pimples popped out on her legs, from what the Inspector was doing with his palm.
“Have I mentioned what a lovely outfit you have on, Mrs. Xerian?” Isaacs said. “Elegance all the way. I’m especially impressed by these.” His index finger slipped into the top of Rebecca’s stocking, gently pulled it away, then let it snap back to her thigh. “You don’t often see them with the seam down the back anymore. Classy, I think.” Rebecca didn’t comment; she was scared and confused, not sure what to say.
“Tell me, does the seam go all the way down? I think I’ll have a look.” Isaacs knelt to the floor behind Rebecca’s chair, and peered at the foot that had come out of its shoe. “Ah yes, the seam goes all the way down to the toes,” he said. He placed the tip of his index finger alongside the seam at the heel, and gently traced it all the way down. Rebecca yelped a little as his fingertip touched her, then fought to hold in the sounds she wanted to make. But it was no use; before his finger reached the base of her toes, she let out a loud shriek.
“Oh my,” Isaacs said, with feigned concern. “Did that hurt you? I’m very sorry.”
“It--it’s all right,” Rebecca said, very nervously. Please, God, don’t let him do that again!
“But maybe it didn’t hurt at all, did it, Mrs. Xerian?” Isaacs asked. “Maybe it only...tickled. Hm? Is that it? Are you ticklish?” Before Rebecca could answer, Isaacs ran his index fingertip quickly up her stockinged arch. She let out a loud shriek, her foot twitching and flailing.
“P-please, don’t do that!” Rebecca screamed. “I hate being tickled!”
“Now, isn’t that a shame?” Isaacs said, and then he attacked Rebecca’s stockinged foot with all five fingers, furiously scribbling on her sole like a hyperactive spider. She let out a loud shriek, and began laughing uncontrollably. She bucked and thrashed in the chair, pulling frantically at her bonds. But it was no use; the awful tickling continued.
“You hate being tickled,” Isaacs said. “And I hate thieves coming to my city and making a monkey out of me. We can help each other, Mrs. Xerian. Just tell me where your husband is!”
“HAHAHAHAHAHA!! I don’t--OH! OH! OH, HAHAHAHAHAHA!! I don’t know-ho-ho!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”
Rebecca laughed and laughed. Isaacs reached out and plucked the satin pump from her other foot, and tossed it over his shoulder. It clattered across the stone floor of the interrogation room, coming to a stop in front of Jessica’s polished toes. Isaacs was tickling both of Rebecca’s feet now, his fingers moving in a flurry of rapid strokes. He left not one part of her feet untouched, going from her heels to her arches to the balls of her feet to the toes. Rebecca shrieked and cried, tears streaming down her flushed face, leaving black tracks of ruined mascara. The laughter poured from her throat, and her whole body shook and convulsed with the force of her laughter.
Isaacs continued to tickle Rebecca’s feet for a full ten minutes. Finally he stopped, and climbed to his feet. Rebecca sat in the chair, head down on her chest, sobbing and gulping for breath. Black tears dripped off her face onto her chest, staining her silver lamé gown and the freckled skin between her breasts. Her dark hair, soft as silk and perfectly coiffed when they had begun, was now matted with sweat. Jessica watched this display in horror.
“Better hope your mom gives in, honey,” the policewoman whispered to her. “Or your turn’s next.” Jessica gulped with fear.
Isaacs walked over to the two male officers. He said something to them that Jessica could not hear, and they left the room. Isaacs walked back to Rebecca, whose head was still down on her chest, gasping for breath in huge, ragged gulps. He placed his knuckle under her chin and gently lifted her head; she stared at him with wide eyes ringed in the black stains of her ruined mascara, her face still flushed red from forced laughter.
“You see, Mrs. Xerian,” Isaacs said, “just because it doesn’t hurt doesn’t mean it’s not torture. We can do this all night, and never leave a mark on you for your lawyer to find. Now, do you want to change your story?”
Rebecca summoned up what little defiance she had left in her, and spit at the Inspector. A moist glob of spittle landed on Isaacs’ coat lapel. He chuckled at it, as the door opened and the two male officers returned.
“Mrs. Xerian needs a little more convincing,” Isaacs said to them, as he stepped away from her. He pulled the other chair away from the table, turned it around so that its back faced his prisoner, and straddled it back to front.
Rebecca’s horror tripled as the officers began ripping away her cocktail dress. They left the upper part intact, but tore the lower part away from her groin area. She gasped with horror as she felt her silk panties being tugged.
“NO!” she shrieked. “Stop! Y-you can’t! This is rape!”
“Not at all,” Isaacs said calmly. “There will be no evidence of sexual violation at all. Sure you don’t want to talk?”
“I DON’T KNOW WHERE MY HUSBAND IS!” Rebecca shrieked.
Isaacs sighed loudly. “Start on her.”
One policeman, the one called Michaelson, knelt on the floor behind Rebecca’s chair. His fingers began gently teasing her stocking-clad soles with whisper-light touches. Rebecca’s feet twitched under his touch, and her body began trembling and vibrating. She bit her lip to hold in the giggles, not wanting to give these cops the satisfaction of making her laugh again. She might do it, if only he kept away from her toes! The tingling touch was maddening, as his fingertips lightly whisked over her arches, over the broad middle part of her soles. But if he only didn’t touch her toes, she might not lose it!
Then the other policeman leaned in close to her. He held something in his hand. Rebecca blinked away the tears forming in her eyes, to see what it was. It was a tiny paintbrush, the kind artists use, with soft camel-hair bristles. The policeman began making slow, lazy circles on Rebecca’s inner thighs with this. Her eyes opened even wider at the touch, and she bit down hard on her lower lip to hold in the sounds. Michaelson was still tickling her feet, his fingertips lightly running up and down her soles, from her heels to the base of her toes. The other cop was stroking her inner thighs up and down with the brush, with light, feathery strokes. Rebecca’s head thrashed from side to side, as she fought to keep her lips tightly closed. Only the faintest squeaks escaped her throat. Tears were flung from her eyes as her head thrashed, landing on the stone floor. Finally, Michaelson got to her toes, and she could hold it in no longer. Loud shrieks of laughter burst from her lips as his fingertips began gently teasing the sensitive undersides of her toes. This was her worst spot of all, and the gentle tickling was like live electric wires touched to her nerve endings. When Michaelson began “piggying” her toes like she was a child, the sensation was overwhelming. She barely felt the paintbrush begin to enter her vagina, until the soft bristles touched her clitoris. That was like a surge of lightning, and she jumped in her bonds so forcefully that the front legs of the chair left the floor for a second. She howled and shrieked with laughter, so forcefully that she could not even form words to beg. The soft bristles of the paintbrush circled the edge of her clitoris, sending wave after wave of powerful sensation shooting through her. Michaelson’s fingertips gently probed the very base of her toes, tickling her with an intensity she wouldn’t have thought possible. She couldn’t see anymore, the room had faded into a hazy blur of soft colors. She couldn’t feel anything but the intense tickling, tickling, tickling...
“Wake up, Mrs. Xerian,” the Inspector’s voice called, from far, far away. Rebecca felt like she was floating in a warm, soft void of darkness. Pinpoints of light began to pierce the darkness, as she felt something very gently slapping her cheeks. She shook her head, clearing the cobwebs. She tried to move, but found that she could not. The room slowly came back into view. She looked around, at the police officers, at the Inspector. She realized she was looking down at them! She tried again to move, but it was impossible. She realized that she was on top of the table, kneeling on it. Her feet hung just over the edge of the table, and her ankles were secured there by a large leather strap. Her arms were raised high over her head, hanging from a rope which was tied to a small hook in the ceiling. One of her stockings had come loose from its garter, and had fallen to her knee.
“I’m afraid you passed out during our questioning,” Isaacs said. “While you were napping, we took the liberty of preparing you for the next session.”
“Go to Hell!” Rebecca hissed. “I told you, you flannel-headed cop, I don’t know where my husband is! You can tickle me all night if you want to, but I can’t tell you something I don’t know!”
“Loyalty to your husband,” Isaacs smiled. “I admire that, Mrs. Xerian, I really do. But perhaps we should see if it outweighs your loyalty to your child.”
Rebecca gasped. “Jessica? Where is she? What have you done to her?”
“Mom?” Jessica’s voice sounded weak and frightened. It came from a corner of the room. Rebecca looked, and gasped when she saw. Jessica had been stripped down to her fishnet pantyhose. She was seated in one of the wooden chairs, her arms tied securely to the armrests of the chair. Her young breasts were small, kept from fully developing by her fad diets, but firm and supple. Her legs were straight out in front of her, her ankles pushed through the wooden slats of the back of another chair, securely bound to that chair. Her stocking feet had been relieved of their shoes. Michaelson stood next to this chair, ready and waiting; the policewoman stood behind her chair.
“Don’t do it,” Rebecca begged. “Please, she’s just a baby! She doesn’t know anything! Please don’t--“
“Then tell us what we want to know, Mrs. Xerian,” Isaacs said.
“Mom, tell them!” Jessica begged. “Don’t let them do this! Tell them where Dad is!”
“But I don’t know!” Rebecca insisted. “You know that, you know he didn’t tell us!”
“Of course he didn’t tell me!” Jessica wailed. “I’m just a kid, he knows I wouldn’t be able to take it! But he must have told you! You’re his wife! Mom, he must have told you!”
“He didn’t! Jessica, I swear, he didn’t!”
Isaacs sighed again. “Michaelson.”
“NO!” Jessica shrieked, before Michaelson even touched her feet. He brought his fingers toward her soles slowly, tauntingly, letting her fear build. Rebecca watched with horror. She had felt those fingers on her own soles; she knew what they were capable of! Jessica squeezed her eyes shut, little yips of horror bursting from her lips. Finally, Michaelson’s fingers touched the bottoms of Jessica’s feet, and began scribbling furiously. Jessica let out a loud shriek, followed by forced, frenzied laughter. She threw her head back and laughed, the laughter pouring from her throat in an endless stream. It echoed off the stone walls of the interrogation room, an eerie ringing sound that made it seem like a roomful of young women were being mercilessly tickle-tortured. Rebecca shuddered, and wondered if that was how she had sounded. She watched in helpless agony as her daughter was cruelly tickled by the skillful police officer. His fingertips probed every inch of her feet. He spider-walked them over her insteps, he squeezed and released her heels, he ran his index fingertip up and down her arches, he played with her toes. Jessica continued to howl with laughter, tears streaming down her face. Her lovely white-blond hair was soaked with sweat in no time at all, and her alabaster skin flushed bright crimson pink.
“She’s a good little laugher, isn’t she, Mrs. Xerian?” Isaacs asked. “I think she’s even more ticklish than you. Oh, look; Michaelson is doing her arches again. That really makes her scream, doesn’t it? I think that’s her worst spot of all.”
“You sadist!” Rebecca spat. “You sick, fucking sadist! Oh, just you wait until my lawyer hears of this! And the newspapers! I’m going to have a field day with this, just you wait and see!”
Isaacs chuckled. “And do you think anyone is going to believe your little story? Tickle-tortured by the police! It’s too bizarre to be true! And how will you prove it?”
Rebecca opened her mouth to reply, then shut it again. He was right. No one would ever believe such a wild, fantastic story! And there would be no marks on their bodies, no physical evidence to support their claim. He had them, and he had them good.
Jessica continued to laugh and laugh as Michaelson tickled her feet. Her black fishnet pantyhose provided no protection from his skillfully scribbling fingertips. Her feet twitched and bounced as much as the tight ropes allowed; her thin body shook and convulsed on the chair. Soon she was laughing so hard, she couldn’t draw enough breath to make noise. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, tears running down her cheeks; her mouth was a wide-open O, but only the tiniest of squeaks escaped her throat.
Isaacs let the torture go on and on. Rebecca watched in horror as her daughter’s tiny body convulsed with laughter. After about ten minutes, Isaacs asked her again.
“Ready to change your story yet?” he asked, in his polite tones.
Rebecca had given up answering him. There was no convincing this man that they didn’t know anything, that this was all pointless. Jessica hadn’t helped, begging her mother to talk as she had. That empty-headed little bitch! She knew that her father hadn’t told either of them anything! But her terror of being tickle-tortured like her mother had led her to cling desperately to the hope that, perhaps, her mother had been told, and she hadn’t known of it.
Isaacs waited a moment for Rebecca to answer, before turning to the policewoman. “Stone.”
The blonde policewoman smiled wickedly, and nodded. She opened the breast pocket of her uniform, and produced a small, white, fluffy feather. She stood behind Jessica’s chair and leaned closely over her. Rebecca watched with horror as she brought the feather around to Jessica’s small breasts, and began gently teasing her nipples with it. Jessica jerked with a sudden convulsion, and her laughter took on a more urgent tone.
“OH! OOH! OOH! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! OOOOOOHH!! OOH, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”
Stone maneuvered the feather expertly around Jessica’s breasts, flicking it across the tops of her nipples, tracing the sides of her nipples, running it around the rims of her barely-visible aureoles. As she watched, Rebecca couldn’t help but wonder how many times Stone had been on the other end of the feather, she seemed to know just how to use it to the utmost effect.
Michaelson, meanwhile, was using a more methodical stroke on Jessica’s feet. He had gripped all ten of her toes in one large hand and gently pulled them back, stretching her soles taut. He used all the fingers of his other hand to lightly whisk up and down her soles, like strumming a guitar. Jessica shrieked with laughter, punctuated by moans of ecstasy from the feather on her breasts.
“OOH! OH GOD! OH GOD! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! OOOOOOOOOOHH, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”
Tears streamed down Rebecca’s face as she watched her daughter in agony. She tugged at the ropes holding her wrists, but they did not give. There was nothing she could do, nothing! She briefly considered giving the policemen a false lead, giving them a fictional place to find her husband. But she knew they would check it out, and when they found it to be false, Rebecca and Jessica would suffer all the worse. Better just to let them exhaust themselves on them, until it finally sank into their heads that they didn’t know where he was.
“Mrs. Xerian?” Isaacs asked, politely. Rebecca squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head no.
Isaacs shrugged, and walked around to the rear of the table. “As you wish, Mrs. Xerian,” he said, and began tickling her feet again. Rebecca shrieked as his fingertips touched her stockinged soles. He began tracing the seams again, running his index fingertips up and down alongside the seams. Rebecca’s body convulsed and jerked in its odd bondage, her voluptuous breasts bouncing around like huge rubber balls. This bondage allowed her more movement than the chair had, and under the intense tickling of her feet, she writhed and twisted as much as she could. She felt her left breast pop out of the confines of the low-cut gown, but she didn’t care. She would gladly rip off her entire gown, and fellate each of these officers five times, just to stop this awful tickling!
“I’ll bet this tickles like gangbusters, eh, Mrs. Xerian?” Isaacs asked, as his fingertips glided up and down her silky stockinged soles. “But, unless I’m mistaken, the place where it really, really tickles...is right...here.” With that he began gently scribbling his fingertips against the pads of her toes. Each touch, each gentle scrape, was like a tiny lightning bolt shooting up through her body. Shriek after shriek of laughter poured from her throat. Tears flowed from her eyes, blurring her vision. She tried to blink them away, to see if they had at least let up on Jessica to concentrate on her. But no, they were not that merciful. Michaelson was still tickling Jessica’s fishnet-stockinged feet, and Stone still teasing her tiny breasts with the feather. Jessica was still shrieking with laughter, begging for mercy whenever she got enough air. Mercy which would never come.
“Adamopolis.” Isaacs said simply, as he continued to tickle Rebecca’s toes. He was playing with them now, “piggying” them one by one. God, Rebecca couldn’t stand that! It not only tickled like the devil, it was humiliating, being played with like a little girl! Nobody had done that to her toes since she was six; the one time Francis had tried it, she had kicked him in the jaw. Rebecca couldn’t help but wonder if that was why he had set her up like this.
Rebecca felt the table move underneath her. She looked up, and saw the other policeman climbing up onto the table. He knelt in front of her, admiring her body and her exposed breast. He produced a tiny white feather, similar to the one Stone was using on Jessica’s nipples, and brought it in close to Rebecca’s pubic area.
“NO!” Rebecca shrieked. She couldn’t take having her clitoris tickled again, not again!!
“Tell us where your husband is,” she heard Isaacs insist, as his fingers wiggled her toes.
“I DON’T KNOW!” she screamed through her laughter. Then she felt the feather brush against her vaginal lips as it worked its way inside her. The sensation was like a jolt, like being electrocuted. She tugged and tugged on the ropes; surely they had to give! But they remained as tight as ever as Isaacs tickled her toes, and Adamopolis brought the feather’s wispy tip into contact with her engorged clitoris. She let out a scream as it touched her love button. Her face felt burning hot, flushed from the forced laughter; tears streamed down her cheeks, leaving tracks of cool moisture that quickly evaporated against the hot skin.
“Inspector,” Adamopolis said, as he tickled Rebecca’s clit with the feather, “how long do we keep this up? I mean, maybe they’re telling the truth, you know? Maybe they don’t know.”
“Maybe,” Isaacs acknowledged, as he scribbled his fingertips along Rebecca’s arches. “But I’m not quite convinced yet.”
“You take a lot of convincing,” Stone called, not looking up from her task, methodically tracing Jessica’s nipples with the feather.
“I sure do,” Isaacs grinned. “A whole heaping lot of convincing.” Rebecca shrieked louder as she felt Isaacs’ teeth begin to gently nibble her toes.
THE END (of the story, obviously not the tickling).
