Man, it feels good to finally get another story out! It's been a couple months and I was starting to think I'd run dry. This is for those of you who've been asking for a Tara Reid story, thanks for the inspiration at last.
Tara Reid paced nervously in her hotel room, once again mentally recounting the testimony she was about to give. She had gone over it with the assistant D.A. a few times, of course, but she wanted to make sure she presented herself professionally and classily. As she wore a small rut into the plush carpeting, she carefully smoothed out her dress jacket and knee-length skirt, checked her nylons for runs.
Her testimony in the Lizzie Grubman case figured to be pivotal. Out partying with Grubman the night the celebrity publicist fought with bouncers and then drove her SUV into a crowd of people, Tara had seen Lizzie put away enough substances to put Keith Richards to shame. Now the tabloids were trying to tie Tara's name to the incident, just because the two were friends. She'd had nothing to do with the drugs, nor the fights, nor certainly not the automobile antics. Hopefully testifying for the grand jury would set the record straight.
Not that she wanted to get Lizzie deeper into trouble, but . . . well Christ, she fucked up and nearly killed a bunch of people. She deserved whatever she got.
Tara checked her watch: almost time to head to the courthouse. She took a deep breath.
She nearly jumped out of her high-heeled shoes when she heard the knock on the door.
"Housekeeping!"
Tara peeked through the eyehole. Sure enough, a tall woman in a maid's uniform was waiting out in the hallway. Tara opened the door and let her in.
"Afternoon, ma'am," the maid said cheerfully, wheeling her cart in.
"Hello . . " Tara replied absently, going to the mirror to check her makeup. "Is this going to take very long? I'm actually just on my way out."
"Actually, you're not," she heard from behind . . .
And then she felt the rag being smothered against her mouth and nose, the arm wrap around her body and pull her down . . .
"And how long it will take is all up to you . . ."
That was the last thing she heard before it all faded out . . .
*********
When it faded back in . . .
"Ah, good, you're awake."
Tara was lying down, on the bed, groggy. She tried to get up . . . but her arms refused to move. They were over her head -- tied. Her head bolted up as she examined the situation: wrists tied together to the bed frame, arms stretched tight over her head, almost to the point of discomfort but not quite, jacket off, ankles tied together as well, to the other end of the bed frame, legs straight out. And gagged.
All in all, not good.
Then she noticed the maid standing over her, a menacing grin on her face. Okay, now Tara knew how she got like this . . . but why? She tried to scream through her gag, but sure enough it only let some muffled noises through.
"Hello, Ms. Reid," the maid (who Tara was beginning to suspect might not really be a maid) said. "I'm sure you're wondering just what this is all about. You may as well save your voice, screaming will do you no good . . although shortly you will probably be doing a lot of it."
Tara's eyes got wide and she shut up -- what the hell did THAT mean?!
"Ms. Reid, I represent a friend of yours. Lizzie Grubman. You see, she's a bit concerned about your decision to testify before the grand jury in her police matter. She hired me to see to it that you, er, forget certain details that might prove damaging to her case. Do you understand?"
Tara could barely believe what she was hearing. Lizzie had done this?! Hired some woman to -- to what? Scare her? Hurt her? All so she wouldn't testify? This was insane!
No, she told herself. It had to be a scare tactic. Lizzie was a little . . . well, "out there" was putting it kindly. But sadistic? No. She wouldn't resort to something this twisted, and she especially wouldn't do it to a friend. Yeah, it was all an act. And it wasn't going to work.
"Now, if you promise not to bother with all that unpleasant screaming, I'll remove your gag," the pseudo-maid said. "Agreed?"
Tara nodded. The maid pulled the gag down, and Tara took a deep breath.
"Very good. Now, I know Ms. Grubman doesn't want things to go as far as this, and I'm quite sure you don't. So perhaps you'd like to reconsider your testimony right now. Then I can simply untie you and send you on your way. Don't want to keep the grand jury waiting, now do you?"
"Forget it," Tara replied, very evenly. "Lizzie screwed up, and I know she's sorry but she still deserves something. And I have to be honest."
The maid smirked. "I was rather hoping you'd say that, Ms. Reid. I know Ms. Grubman was hoping to avoid this . . . " she said as she casually strolled to the foot of the bed. "But I wasn't."
"You're not gonna scare me, lady," Tara declared. "I know Lizzie, and she'd never hire somebody to rough someone up or whatever you want me to believe you're gonna do. You might as well give it up."
"I assure you, Ms. Reid, this is no mere scare tactic. And I have no intention of 'roughing you up,' as you put it. I was hired to employ some more subtle but equally effective persuasion tactics." With that, the maid removed one of Tara's high heeled shoes. "And believe me when I say, I enjoy my work." Off came the other shoe.
Tara was a bit rattled, but not totally buying it. She kept her cool. "Oh really. And just what sort of 'tactics' do you have up your sleeve?"
The maid smirked again, a thin cruel smile. "Oh, Ms. Reid. I'm so glad you asked."
The maid flexed her fingers, and then ran them up Tara's sole. Tara shrieked and her legs spasmed. Suddenly she was feeling an overwhelming sense of "oh, SHIT."
But before she could form any words to the effect, the woman began deftly dancing her long nails all along Tara's stocking foot, elliciting another shriek which melted into peels of laughter. Her cries doubled upon the touch of the woman's other hand tickling her other foot as well.
"Ahhhhhhh!!!! Ahhhhahahahahahahahaaaa!!! No no no nahahahahaha!!"
"Lizzie was right," the maid said, "You are a ticklish one!"
Tara wanted to beg, wanted to reason with her, wanted to tell her to fuck off. But as carefully as she formed the words in her head, they would only come out as screams and laughter. The woman slid her fingernails up and down Tara's arches, over the balls of her feet, under her toes. As ticklish as her feet normally were, the sheer nylons seemed to magnify every sensation ten-fold. And the bitch didn't stop for fifteen straight torturous minutes.
Tara's laughter outlasted the tickling by a few minutes. "Oh God . . . . Oh God . . ." she managed, still catching her breath. "Please . . . no . . more . . ."
The woman touched a spot right in the middle of Tara's left foot with one fingernail -- not enough to tickle, just enough to threaten. "Now, perhaps you'd care to reconsider your testimony, Ms. Reid?"
"Oh God . . ." Tara panted, "Anything . . . anything you want just please . . . please don't eeeeeeeeeeeheeheheeehheee!!" The woman began twirling her finger slowly, just teasing. "Nooohahahaha please any-hahahahhaa-anything!"
"Very good, Ms. Reid," the woman said, twirling more slowly but not quite stopping. "When you go before the grand jury, what will you tell them?"
"Nothing, I swear, please just no more," Tara pleaded.
"Excellent." The woman strode up towards Tara's head, still flashing that barracuda grin. "There is one problem, though."
"No, no problem. Please, I promise I won't say anything. Please."
"You say that now. But once you get down there, in front of all those people, no longer in such a compromising position, you might change your mind."
"I won't, I swear. Please don't . . . ." Tara couldn't even bear to say the word.
"Of course you won't, dear," the woman said, replacing the gag in Tara's mouth, silencing her screams just as they started again. "Just to make sure, however . . . "
Tara shook her head violently, screaming through the gag, pleading with her big beautiful eyes. The woman began to unbutton Tara's blouse.
"See, you might decide to go back on your word, thinking you've seen the last of me. But if you do -- you haven't. I'll find you again . . ." she put her lips right next to Tara's ear, and whispered, "And that time, I'll tickle you to within an inch of your life. You won't be able to say anything to make it stop that time."
Tara whimpered at the thought of it. She felt like she wanted to cry.
The woman popped Tara's last button and opened her blouse wide, exposing her slender torso, her flat, toned stomach and voluptious breasts protected only by a sheer black bra. With her arms pulled tight, her sides were stretched out and very vulnerable, her ribs protruding and waiting.
The woman ran her hand along Tara's stomach, as if trying to feel a baby kick. Tara didn't breath; her body tensed, as she prayed that what she feared was coming would not come.
Her prayers were dashed when she heared the woman say, "I think maybe a little preview would make sure you remember that."
Tara tried screaming again, uselessly of course, and thrashing against her bonds, also uselessly. Fifteen minutes of relentless foot tickling had pushed her well beyond her limits . . . and the further up on Tara Reid's body you went, the more ticklish she became.
She closed her eyes and bit her lip.
The woman rested her fingers gently over Tara's ribs and began to wiggle them so subtlely as to barely be noticeable -- except, of course, to the bound girl receiving the touch. It was the only thing Tara noticed, the faint ticklish sensations shooting through her upper body. The woman had each of finger in between a pair of ribs, kneading the nerves there with the utmost of gentle precision.
Tara fought to keep the laughter in. She could feel the muscles in her face straining, and her jaw start to quiver. The woman applied her other hand to the other side of Tara's ribcage and repeated the process, wiggling her fingers with the absolute bare minimum of motion required to tickle. It was not enough to force the laughter out of Tara, but just enough to be purely maddening.
The woman grinned, and started to tickle a little faster. Tara felt some sputtering giggles escape. She shook her head back and forth violently. The woman made a "tsk, tsk" at her, and kicked the tickling up another subtle notch.
God, if only she'd just get it over with! The teasing, the building -- it was driving Tara crazy! All she could think about was how ticklish she was . . . how vulnerable . . . how bad it was going to tickle when the lady finally got going . . . .how much longer this little teasing was going to make it last.
Up another gear . .. the lady's fingers never surrendered their position, just nestled deeper in between Tara's sensitive ribs. It was making her even more tender, more ticklish.
A flash of optimism hit her: what if it didn't get any worse than this? Not that teetering on the edge of ticklish agony was particularly fun, by any stretch of the imagination. But given her choice, it was far better than being pushed over that edge into a tickle-torture abyss. Maybe the woman would just do this for a while, as a sort of warning that --
"AAAAAIIIIIIIMMMMPPHHHHEHEHEHEHHHH!!"
Though muffled by the gag, Tara heard her own shriek echo inside her head. It was brought on by the woman abruptly sliding her fingers down and digging into Tara's soft, sensitive sides. Tara's body shot off the bed, which only allowed the woman to sneak her hands around and tickle near the small of Tara's back.
"Mmmpphh!!!! Mhmmhhmmhhhmmmmphhh!!!!"
"That's it, Tara," the woman whispered. "Laugh for me little girl." She wrapped her hands around the sides of Tara's stomach, wiggling her thumbs into the sides of Tara's abs while drumming her fingers along the sensitive flesh on either side of her spine. Tara bucked and squirmed, but the woman had a tight grip on her, and her tickling hands followed every gyration.
Tara's laughter poured into the gag, some seeping out even though it was expertly applied. Though muffled, the noises she emitted were at a normal speaking volume. After thirty minutes nonstop, her screams and her laughter were indistinguishable. All one could discern was the occassional whimper for mercy, which usually preceded or followed a bout of silent laughter.
That went on for just over an hour, with scarcely a break. Tara was amazed and distraught that she hadn't passed out by that point; the thought of losing consciousness was her only glimmer of hope throughout the awful ticklish ordeal. When the woman finally did stop, Tara's body went limp as she wheezed and gasped as best she could to catch her breath. Her chest and throat ached, sweat drenched her face.
"Mmmph . .. mmphh . . ." she muttered, begging for mercy quietly.
"Poor girl had enough?" the woman purred with mock sympathy. "Not quite yet, I think. Have to make sure you're good and convinced."
Tara shook her head, limply and slowly as she had little energy. She mumbled "nuh-uh," and felt tears welling up in her eyes. She'd been tortured well beyond her limits. Any more and . . . . oh God . . . . she nearly fainted at the thought.
But the woman was nodding yes in return, grinning. She started running the tips of her index fingers up Tara's sides, towards . . .
Tara shrieked, suddenly found a burst of energy. She writhed and struggled as much as she could, shook her head violently. If she could just get free somehow before the woman reached --
"Kitchy kitchy coo," the woman teased, sing-songy, as the pads of her fingers slowly stroked the smooth hollows under Tara's arms. Tara bucked and laughed bloody murder. The woman had hit her worst spot.
She knew it, too, as she scratched her long nails over the tight skin. Tara's body bounced up and down on the bed like a rag doll. Underneath her lag she was laughing all the air out of her lungs, barely able to regain any breath between the obstruction and the endless forced guffaws. She shut her eyes tight, squeezing out tears. She couldn't see, couldn't breath, couldn't speak, couldn't move. This was utter hell.
The woman continued tickling Tara's arms and armpits, with a mix of long sweeping strokes and short, quick wiggles. Tara had given up on trying to escape by this point and was focusing on trying to lose the gag somehow, working her lips and tongue in hopes that it might loosen a little, just to be able to breath better, to cry out, to let the laughter tearing through her body to come rushing forward. Some small mercy in the midst of this tickligh agony.
"Have you had enough, Ms. Reid," the woman finally asked, though Tara barely heard her. "Or shall I keep going?"
That, she heard. "Mmmph!! Mmph!!" she sputtered, shaking her head "no."
"Very well." The woman got off the bed and untied Tara's arms. Tara yanked the gag off and instantly curled up into a limp fetal position, wheezing heavily.
"Good luck with the grand jury," the woman said, striding out of the room. "I'm sure your testimony will be most helpful."
A little while later, after offering a clumsy excuse as to why she had been so long detained, a visibly rattled Tara Reid testified that she had not seen Lizzie Grubman consume any alcohol or illegal substances on the night in question, nor had she noticed any erratic or unusual behavior. The DA was, quite obviously, puzzled, and tried to press her about it. But Tara stuck by her story.
If she needed any reminder to do so, all she had to do was glance at the familiar face at the back of the courtroom.
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Tara Reid paced nervously in her hotel room, once again mentally recounting the testimony she was about to give. She had gone over it with the assistant D.A. a few times, of course, but she wanted to make sure she presented herself professionally and classily. As she wore a small rut into the plush carpeting, she carefully smoothed out her dress jacket and knee-length skirt, checked her nylons for runs.
Her testimony in the Lizzie Grubman case figured to be pivotal. Out partying with Grubman the night the celebrity publicist fought with bouncers and then drove her SUV into a crowd of people, Tara had seen Lizzie put away enough substances to put Keith Richards to shame. Now the tabloids were trying to tie Tara's name to the incident, just because the two were friends. She'd had nothing to do with the drugs, nor the fights, nor certainly not the automobile antics. Hopefully testifying for the grand jury would set the record straight.
Not that she wanted to get Lizzie deeper into trouble, but . . . well Christ, she fucked up and nearly killed a bunch of people. She deserved whatever she got.
Tara checked her watch: almost time to head to the courthouse. She took a deep breath.
She nearly jumped out of her high-heeled shoes when she heard the knock on the door.
"Housekeeping!"
Tara peeked through the eyehole. Sure enough, a tall woman in a maid's uniform was waiting out in the hallway. Tara opened the door and let her in.
"Afternoon, ma'am," the maid said cheerfully, wheeling her cart in.
"Hello . . " Tara replied absently, going to the mirror to check her makeup. "Is this going to take very long? I'm actually just on my way out."
"Actually, you're not," she heard from behind . . .
And then she felt the rag being smothered against her mouth and nose, the arm wrap around her body and pull her down . . .
"And how long it will take is all up to you . . ."
That was the last thing she heard before it all faded out . . .
*********
When it faded back in . . .
"Ah, good, you're awake."
Tara was lying down, on the bed, groggy. She tried to get up . . . but her arms refused to move. They were over her head -- tied. Her head bolted up as she examined the situation: wrists tied together to the bed frame, arms stretched tight over her head, almost to the point of discomfort but not quite, jacket off, ankles tied together as well, to the other end of the bed frame, legs straight out. And gagged.
All in all, not good.
Then she noticed the maid standing over her, a menacing grin on her face. Okay, now Tara knew how she got like this . . . but why? She tried to scream through her gag, but sure enough it only let some muffled noises through.
"Hello, Ms. Reid," the maid (who Tara was beginning to suspect might not really be a maid) said. "I'm sure you're wondering just what this is all about. You may as well save your voice, screaming will do you no good . . although shortly you will probably be doing a lot of it."
Tara's eyes got wide and she shut up -- what the hell did THAT mean?!
"Ms. Reid, I represent a friend of yours. Lizzie Grubman. You see, she's a bit concerned about your decision to testify before the grand jury in her police matter. She hired me to see to it that you, er, forget certain details that might prove damaging to her case. Do you understand?"
Tara could barely believe what she was hearing. Lizzie had done this?! Hired some woman to -- to what? Scare her? Hurt her? All so she wouldn't testify? This was insane!
No, she told herself. It had to be a scare tactic. Lizzie was a little . . . well, "out there" was putting it kindly. But sadistic? No. She wouldn't resort to something this twisted, and she especially wouldn't do it to a friend. Yeah, it was all an act. And it wasn't going to work.
"Now, if you promise not to bother with all that unpleasant screaming, I'll remove your gag," the pseudo-maid said. "Agreed?"
Tara nodded. The maid pulled the gag down, and Tara took a deep breath.
"Very good. Now, I know Ms. Grubman doesn't want things to go as far as this, and I'm quite sure you don't. So perhaps you'd like to reconsider your testimony right now. Then I can simply untie you and send you on your way. Don't want to keep the grand jury waiting, now do you?"
"Forget it," Tara replied, very evenly. "Lizzie screwed up, and I know she's sorry but she still deserves something. And I have to be honest."
The maid smirked. "I was rather hoping you'd say that, Ms. Reid. I know Ms. Grubman was hoping to avoid this . . . " she said as she casually strolled to the foot of the bed. "But I wasn't."
"You're not gonna scare me, lady," Tara declared. "I know Lizzie, and she'd never hire somebody to rough someone up or whatever you want me to believe you're gonna do. You might as well give it up."
"I assure you, Ms. Reid, this is no mere scare tactic. And I have no intention of 'roughing you up,' as you put it. I was hired to employ some more subtle but equally effective persuasion tactics." With that, the maid removed one of Tara's high heeled shoes. "And believe me when I say, I enjoy my work." Off came the other shoe.
Tara was a bit rattled, but not totally buying it. She kept her cool. "Oh really. And just what sort of 'tactics' do you have up your sleeve?"
The maid smirked again, a thin cruel smile. "Oh, Ms. Reid. I'm so glad you asked."
The maid flexed her fingers, and then ran them up Tara's sole. Tara shrieked and her legs spasmed. Suddenly she was feeling an overwhelming sense of "oh, SHIT."
But before she could form any words to the effect, the woman began deftly dancing her long nails all along Tara's stocking foot, elliciting another shriek which melted into peels of laughter. Her cries doubled upon the touch of the woman's other hand tickling her other foot as well.
"Ahhhhhhh!!!! Ahhhhahahahahahahahaaaa!!! No no no nahahahahaha!!"
"Lizzie was right," the maid said, "You are a ticklish one!"
Tara wanted to beg, wanted to reason with her, wanted to tell her to fuck off. But as carefully as she formed the words in her head, they would only come out as screams and laughter. The woman slid her fingernails up and down Tara's arches, over the balls of her feet, under her toes. As ticklish as her feet normally were, the sheer nylons seemed to magnify every sensation ten-fold. And the bitch didn't stop for fifteen straight torturous minutes.
Tara's laughter outlasted the tickling by a few minutes. "Oh God . . . . Oh God . . ." she managed, still catching her breath. "Please . . . no . . more . . ."
The woman touched a spot right in the middle of Tara's left foot with one fingernail -- not enough to tickle, just enough to threaten. "Now, perhaps you'd care to reconsider your testimony, Ms. Reid?"
"Oh God . . ." Tara panted, "Anything . . . anything you want just please . . . please don't eeeeeeeeeeeheeheheeehheee!!" The woman began twirling her finger slowly, just teasing. "Nooohahahaha please any-hahahahhaa-anything!"
"Very good, Ms. Reid," the woman said, twirling more slowly but not quite stopping. "When you go before the grand jury, what will you tell them?"
"Nothing, I swear, please just no more," Tara pleaded.
"Excellent." The woman strode up towards Tara's head, still flashing that barracuda grin. "There is one problem, though."
"No, no problem. Please, I promise I won't say anything. Please."
"You say that now. But once you get down there, in front of all those people, no longer in such a compromising position, you might change your mind."
"I won't, I swear. Please don't . . . ." Tara couldn't even bear to say the word.
"Of course you won't, dear," the woman said, replacing the gag in Tara's mouth, silencing her screams just as they started again. "Just to make sure, however . . . "
Tara shook her head violently, screaming through the gag, pleading with her big beautiful eyes. The woman began to unbutton Tara's blouse.
"See, you might decide to go back on your word, thinking you've seen the last of me. But if you do -- you haven't. I'll find you again . . ." she put her lips right next to Tara's ear, and whispered, "And that time, I'll tickle you to within an inch of your life. You won't be able to say anything to make it stop that time."
Tara whimpered at the thought of it. She felt like she wanted to cry.
The woman popped Tara's last button and opened her blouse wide, exposing her slender torso, her flat, toned stomach and voluptious breasts protected only by a sheer black bra. With her arms pulled tight, her sides were stretched out and very vulnerable, her ribs protruding and waiting.
The woman ran her hand along Tara's stomach, as if trying to feel a baby kick. Tara didn't breath; her body tensed, as she prayed that what she feared was coming would not come.
Her prayers were dashed when she heared the woman say, "I think maybe a little preview would make sure you remember that."
Tara tried screaming again, uselessly of course, and thrashing against her bonds, also uselessly. Fifteen minutes of relentless foot tickling had pushed her well beyond her limits . . . and the further up on Tara Reid's body you went, the more ticklish she became.
She closed her eyes and bit her lip.
The woman rested her fingers gently over Tara's ribs and began to wiggle them so subtlely as to barely be noticeable -- except, of course, to the bound girl receiving the touch. It was the only thing Tara noticed, the faint ticklish sensations shooting through her upper body. The woman had each of finger in between a pair of ribs, kneading the nerves there with the utmost of gentle precision.
Tara fought to keep the laughter in. She could feel the muscles in her face straining, and her jaw start to quiver. The woman applied her other hand to the other side of Tara's ribcage and repeated the process, wiggling her fingers with the absolute bare minimum of motion required to tickle. It was not enough to force the laughter out of Tara, but just enough to be purely maddening.
The woman grinned, and started to tickle a little faster. Tara felt some sputtering giggles escape. She shook her head back and forth violently. The woman made a "tsk, tsk" at her, and kicked the tickling up another subtle notch.
God, if only she'd just get it over with! The teasing, the building -- it was driving Tara crazy! All she could think about was how ticklish she was . . . how vulnerable . . . how bad it was going to tickle when the lady finally got going . . . .how much longer this little teasing was going to make it last.
Up another gear . .. the lady's fingers never surrendered their position, just nestled deeper in between Tara's sensitive ribs. It was making her even more tender, more ticklish.
A flash of optimism hit her: what if it didn't get any worse than this? Not that teetering on the edge of ticklish agony was particularly fun, by any stretch of the imagination. But given her choice, it was far better than being pushed over that edge into a tickle-torture abyss. Maybe the woman would just do this for a while, as a sort of warning that --
"AAAAAIIIIIIIMMMMPPHHHHEHEHEHEHHHH!!"
Though muffled by the gag, Tara heard her own shriek echo inside her head. It was brought on by the woman abruptly sliding her fingers down and digging into Tara's soft, sensitive sides. Tara's body shot off the bed, which only allowed the woman to sneak her hands around and tickle near the small of Tara's back.
"Mmmpphh!!!! Mhmmhhmmhhhmmmmphhh!!!!"
"That's it, Tara," the woman whispered. "Laugh for me little girl." She wrapped her hands around the sides of Tara's stomach, wiggling her thumbs into the sides of Tara's abs while drumming her fingers along the sensitive flesh on either side of her spine. Tara bucked and squirmed, but the woman had a tight grip on her, and her tickling hands followed every gyration.
Tara's laughter poured into the gag, some seeping out even though it was expertly applied. Though muffled, the noises she emitted were at a normal speaking volume. After thirty minutes nonstop, her screams and her laughter were indistinguishable. All one could discern was the occassional whimper for mercy, which usually preceded or followed a bout of silent laughter.
That went on for just over an hour, with scarcely a break. Tara was amazed and distraught that she hadn't passed out by that point; the thought of losing consciousness was her only glimmer of hope throughout the awful ticklish ordeal. When the woman finally did stop, Tara's body went limp as she wheezed and gasped as best she could to catch her breath. Her chest and throat ached, sweat drenched her face.
"Mmmph . .. mmphh . . ." she muttered, begging for mercy quietly.
"Poor girl had enough?" the woman purred with mock sympathy. "Not quite yet, I think. Have to make sure you're good and convinced."
Tara shook her head, limply and slowly as she had little energy. She mumbled "nuh-uh," and felt tears welling up in her eyes. She'd been tortured well beyond her limits. Any more and . . . . oh God . . . . she nearly fainted at the thought.
But the woman was nodding yes in return, grinning. She started running the tips of her index fingers up Tara's sides, towards . . .
Tara shrieked, suddenly found a burst of energy. She writhed and struggled as much as she could, shook her head violently. If she could just get free somehow before the woman reached --
"Kitchy kitchy coo," the woman teased, sing-songy, as the pads of her fingers slowly stroked the smooth hollows under Tara's arms. Tara bucked and laughed bloody murder. The woman had hit her worst spot.
She knew it, too, as she scratched her long nails over the tight skin. Tara's body bounced up and down on the bed like a rag doll. Underneath her lag she was laughing all the air out of her lungs, barely able to regain any breath between the obstruction and the endless forced guffaws. She shut her eyes tight, squeezing out tears. She couldn't see, couldn't breath, couldn't speak, couldn't move. This was utter hell.
The woman continued tickling Tara's arms and armpits, with a mix of long sweeping strokes and short, quick wiggles. Tara had given up on trying to escape by this point and was focusing on trying to lose the gag somehow, working her lips and tongue in hopes that it might loosen a little, just to be able to breath better, to cry out, to let the laughter tearing through her body to come rushing forward. Some small mercy in the midst of this tickligh agony.
"Have you had enough, Ms. Reid," the woman finally asked, though Tara barely heard her. "Or shall I keep going?"
That, she heard. "Mmmph!! Mmph!!" she sputtered, shaking her head "no."
"Very well." The woman got off the bed and untied Tara's arms. Tara yanked the gag off and instantly curled up into a limp fetal position, wheezing heavily.
"Good luck with the grand jury," the woman said, striding out of the room. "I'm sure your testimony will be most helpful."
A little while later, after offering a clumsy excuse as to why she had been so long detained, a visibly rattled Tara Reid testified that she had not seen Lizzie Grubman consume any alcohol or illegal substances on the night in question, nor had she noticed any erratic or unusual behavior. The DA was, quite obviously, puzzled, and tried to press her about it. But Tara stuck by her story.
If she needed any reminder to do so, all she had to do was glance at the familiar face at the back of the courtroom.
http://www.geocities.com/tklr5150
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