munchausen
TMF Expert
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The Voyage Out:
Part Three. Mistaken Identity. A Doctor Questioned. A Mystery Begins to Unravel.
This story is intended for mature audiences. Of course, so is this forum, so younguns shouldn’t be here in the first place, so what am I worried about?
[The story so far: Ambitious travel reporter Leah has gone undercover to infiltrate an incredibly exclusive, luxurious, and mysterious cruise. After a strange physical examination to allow her access to the ship, her investigative reporting has overheard a mysterious conversation about crossing some border, and uncovered some bizarre goings-on, including the ticklish torture of a Japanese business leader and his wife by the ship’s “Director of Hospitality,” the menacing, beautiful Yelena Kant . Now, moments after the torture has ended and the torturers departed, Leah feels a hand on her shoulder...]
[This part begins with some serious exposition. If knowing what’s happening is important to you, read on. If you’re the sort who likes to have dessert first, skip ahead.]
Leah swung around with a gasp to look into the dark, long-lashed eyes of Francesca Carlisi. The gorgeous Italian spoke in rapid, hushed tones, her voice lightly accented: "Did you see? Will you now summon your fellow police and put an end to this?"
"My fellow...Oh, Francesca, I'm not a cop. I'm..." She paused for a moment, worrying about her cover, which had taken on a whole new importance, then decided to trust the woman who had, after all, given her the key to the ship's secret areas. " I' m a reporter. For a travel magazine."
Francesca's face fell. "Oh, Christ. Then we're all still screwed. You were our hope to end all of this.” She shook her black-maned head forlornly. “How am I going to tell Ellefson?”
Leah cast about for something to say even as she struggled to get her mind around what she had just witnessed. Suddenly, another voice uttered exactly what was on her mind:
“Maybe you’d better explain just what the hell is going on with this ship.” Courtney Frost, the young student who had befriended Leah the day before, stepped out of the shadows a little ways down the hall. She looked frightened but determined; her eyes sparkled, and her tongue frequently peeked out to make a nervous circuit of her pink lips.
“Courtney? What are you doing here?”
Courtney smiled a little. “Come on, Brigitte. What could be more exciting on this lame Love Boat than secretly following you around? I mean, it’s obvious you’re up to something. You’ve been creeping around like somebody doing charades of Nancy Drew since I met you. I had to figure you were on to something exciting.”
Leah reddened, then sighed. “ I guess I’m not as good at the undercover stuff as I’d hoped. I may as well level with you. I’m not Brigitte Laphroig. I’m Leah Maitland. A travel reporter.”
“Yeah, I heard. That’s okay. I didn’t really but the name thing to begin with. I mean, who the hell has a name like ‘Brigitte Laphroig?’” Leah colored again, as Courtney grinned. “Anyway, the original statement still stands. Francesca, what’s happening on this ship? Why do we need cops?”
Francesca paused for a moment, considering the two women in turn. With a sigh, she gave in. “Very well. I will tell you what little Ellefson and I know. But come to my cabin. I would prefer that none of us was discovered here.”
Ten minutes later, the three women sat in Francesca’s finely appointed chamber. Francesca, still barefoot, had replaced her bikini with a white midriff-baring t-shirt and short denim shorts rolled slightly at the top. Courtney wore a blousy pale pink button down shirt and white shorts with sandals, and Leah still wore the dark shorts, t-shirt, and Yankee’s cap that made up her questionable action gear. In the dimly lit room, accompanied by the lapping of the waves and the rustle of the night-borne breeze, Francesca told a grim and improbable tale.
“I’m not really sure how to begin, so I’ll just jump in. This is not a pleasure cruise, I can tell you that much. Captain Caliban and Yelena Kant plan to take this entire ship over some kind of mystical border into another world, where they will sell this ship’s passengers to some shadowy group who will exploit their universal vulnerability to tickling in some bizarre way that I have yet to understand.”
It came out in a rush. There were three or four seconds of silence, then Courtney burst out laughing. “Pardon my French, but are you shitting us?” She managed, when her laughter subsided.
Francesca glared in annoyance. “Look, I know it doesn’t make sense, but that’s how it is, as nearly as we’ve been able to figure out. They have some magical method of transforming ticklish laughter into energy there. Something to do with some benevolent sorceress’s plan to save the environment and end war centuries ago, which backfired and is now being abused by some power-hungry groups. Believe it or not, Ellefson was born on the other side; he could tell you more than I. In the mean time, Yelena Kant is milking the super-rich of as much of their assets as she can get their hands on. She selects the wealthiest, or those whose application revealed comparatively little useable information about accessing their finances, then tickle tortures them for bank codes and the like. She then uses an amnesia draught to wipe the memories from their minds. That’s why they carried out this whole elaborate charade–it assured that they could maximize their profits in a single trip without exceeding the maximum number of people they can transport at a single time. They know they can only do this once. And,” she added grimly, “what better way to get away with a monstrous crime than to vanish into another world? They’ll return, a few years down the line, to untold riches.”
“But tickling?” Leah prompted, eyes sparkling with interest, fear warring in her mind with excitement about the story this might make.
“Think about it,” Francesca replied. “Remember that farce of a physical we took to get on this ship? Yes, they gave me one too, as a potential employee. Dr. Mesani, for all her New Age nonsense, did nothing but determine that we were ticklish.” She shuddered. “What doctor, or masseuse, for that matter, spends ten minutes running her nails down the soles of your feet? Somehow, tickling is central to all this, and as more than just a method of torture.”
Courtney and Leah were quiet, remembering. “So who’s in on it?” Leah asked at last.
“Caliban and Yelena Kant are the ringleaders. Dr. Mesani obviously knows what’s going on, at least to some extent. Ellefson is a sad, special case. He was trained and engineered by the group on the other side as an ideal soldier, extremely physically capable and immune to energy sapping techniques–in other words, not ticklish. He was placed on the ship to assist in the operations. But he, the dear, has a conscience. We got to know each other...quite well, and he told me what was happening during training, before we left. He wanted to let me escape, but I determined to help him to foil their plans. When we noticed you, your attitude, and your slightly suspect credentials. Leah, we’d hoped we would have help. We did report this to the authorities, but met with laughter and disbelief. We dared not make any further efforts. Yelena Kant is very powerful, in ways even Ellefson does not completely understand. We hoped that you were an agent they had sent to follow up. It appears, now, that we are on our own.”
The three sat in silence for a moment, digesting the information. At last, Courtney spoke. “So what do we do now?”
“Well, we have to stop this. In order to do so, we have to gain an understanding of what exactly they plan to do, and how they plan to do it. Ellefson can only get away from Yelena Kant for a few hours a day, so he won’t be able to be of much help until we have a definite and final plan worth blowing his cover for. The time of the crossing over is approaching quickly–we may only have a couple of days, or even a few hours. We need information we can act on.”
Leah resisted the writerly urge to correct the sentence-ending preposition, then spoke with an authority that surprised her. “Of those who have definite knowledge, Dr. Mesani is the weak link. We should find out what she knows. We’ll have to be careful, as we have no weapons, but she should be the easiest to overpower and....interrogate.”
Francesca regarded her with surprised approval, then rose and slipped into some deck shoes. “My plan exactly. And as for weapons...well, you’re right in the conventional sense. But Ellefson has slipped me a few, ah, otherworldly devices that might prove helpful.”
Opening a steamer trunk, Francesca showed her companions several compact, otherworldly devices, explaining their functions as best she could as they winced and cringed in aghast approval. “I think the time may be right to catch her unawares. In any event, time is short enough that we must act now. The sun will be rising soon, and I know that Dr. Mesani rises with it to do her yoga routine in the solitude of her office. Well, ladies? Are you ready to exact a little revenge for our excruciating physicals?”
[The meat and potatoes commence below]
The cruise quite agreed with Akhana Mesani. Shortly after departure, she had shed much of her professional, doctorly reserve and concentrated on enjoying her time at sea and the prospect of her considerably amplified wealth. She had arranged her long, sleek, straight black hair into shoulder-length corn rows that gave her delicate, exotic face an appealing, girlish look Any time her conscience began to gnaw at her, or regrets about her mortgaged medical career crept into her mind, the statuesque, coffee-skinned doctor took a deep breath of sea air and imagined a future of wild, if regrettably somewhat low-profile, indulgence.
Now, in her private office with its wall of windows with private seaward exposure, the tall, lithe, long-muscled doctor stood barefoot on her yoga mat and saluted the sun as it tinged her 6' tall, black bikini-clad body. Slowly and deliberately, she went through an advanced routine of sun salutes and stretches, muscles rippling catlike from her elegant exercise. Peace, serenity, and zen blankness. No thoughts of right or wrong. No time or place for the niggling doubts about what was actually going to happen to the ship’s passengers when this “crossing over” was complete. No-one had explained to her what would become of them, and, damn it, no one needed to. There was only she at the center of her universe, and an ever-mounting load of cash on the horizon, just beyond the rising sun she saluted....
A quiet but discernable clicking behind her tore Dr. Mesani from her reverie. She spun, surprised, ready to unload a barrage of verbal barbs on whatever hapless crew member or overly needy patient had disturbed her inviolable morning time. Her green eyes widened as she registered Francesca, Leah, and Courtney standing shoulder to shoulder, facing her defiantly. Francesca reached behind her and shot the bolt.
“What is the meaning of this? I might expect this much from our guests, who may have lost their way, but from you, Francesca? This is a highly unprofessional intrusion.”
“Don’t bother with the bullshit, Doctor. We know enough about what’s going on to want to stop it, and you’re going to tell us the rest.”
Mesani began to sidle along the wall, moving slowly toward the intercom system. “I’m sure I have no idea what you are on about,” she purred in delicately accented tones. “I have nothing to say to you, and I demand that you leave me in peace.” Inside her head, a voice, the voice she had sought to silence with her meditations, screamed, “They know. They damn well know, and you’re not getting out of this, and you’re going to jail, and you never should have gotten involved in the first place and somebody has to come and HELP!!!”
She leaped at the intercom at the same moment that Francesca hurled the metal sphere in her direction. Before her long, delicate fingers could touch the intercom buttons, the sphere struck her with surprisingly little force, then sprung open and wrapped thin, weblike tendrils sparsely around her body from shoulders to knees. The wrappings were not thick, and didn’t seem particularly strong; as Dr. Mesani struggled with them, they began to give slightly.
Suddenly, as if from a living entity, fingerlike appendages sprung out from the bonds and dug ticklishly into the good doctor’s ribs and lean, toned belly. Dr. Mesani gave a surprised yell that quickly turned into guffaws as the device tickled her into submission. Smooth, questing fingers explored between her ribs, feathered the taut skin at the tops of her hipbones, even–to her screeching horror–invaded her deep, smooth-shaven armpits. Drawing into a fetal position, she collapsed to the floor and heaved with uncontrollable laughter.
“Better quit fighting it, doc. From what I understand, the thing tickles you every time you try to resist it. Feeds off your laughter, too, to become stronger and stronger. But I imagine you could explain that principal to us better than we can to you,” Leah said, speaking coolly in spite of her morbid fascination with the magical machine and what it was doing to the doctor’s nearly naked body.
Dr. Mesani wriggled and heaved in desperation as the thing squeezed her thighs just above the knee–something she absolutely could not bear. Her breath came in ragged heaves as she croaked out joyless whoops of laughter. At last, through a massive exertion of zen self-control, she managed to stop her struggling and go limp. The questing fingers hovered for a moment, then withdrew into the thin cords that bound her.
The room was silent for a time, save for her ragged breath and the occasional residual giggle. Then, at last, she was able to speak. “What do you want from me?” She asked, attempting to assert the commanding dignity so recently robbed from her voice.
“Watching that, just now, was a big part of it for me, you cruel bitch,” Courtney said coldly. She was clearly still upset about her examination–moreso since discovering it was a sham.
Leah cleared her throat. “We want to know the plan. How are they going to cross over, and when? How can we stop it? Stop them?”
Dr. Mesani managed a smirk–quite an achievement, as she was supine, bound nearly naked and glistening with sweat from her recent torment. “I won’t bother denying that I know much of what’s going on,” she said measuredly. “But I certainly don’t intend to share that information with any of you.”
Francesca scowled, then threw the doctor’s tall, lean form over her shoulder. “The hard way, then,” she said menacingly.
Ten minutes later, the three women had replaced the tickling mechanism that bound the doctor with a series of belts and bungee cords. They had bound her to her own massage table, on her back, with her head elevated, then had adjusted the bottom half to raise her legs so that her long body made something of a ‘V’. Her long, graceful bare feet protruded over the end of the table; she regarded her captors over the ridge of her toes. Courtney had suggested leaving the original restraints in place while they moved to phase two of the operation, but Francesca acknowledged that it might induce heart attack, even in a healthy woman, and in any event would inhibit any exchange of information.
“Damn you all, I’ve told you I’m not going to talk. None of the information I have could help you, anyway. You’d need...” She abruptly shut up, tossing her corn-rowed locks impatiently.
“Hmmm...” Francesca said. “Sounds as if you very nearly gave something away, Doctor. I would very much like to hear what it was.”
Dr. Mesani glared silently back at her.
“Courtney, would you care to begin the ‘examination?’”
Courtney needed no encouragement. Grinning wickedly, she began to scratch her silver-painted fingernails over the comparatively light skin of the bound doctor’s bare soles.
Akhana Mesani, who had not had her feet tickled with any severity since college, had counted on her zen meditation techniques to enable her to transcend the physical and ignore the sensations. As the 19 year old’s fingers touched the soft, wrinkled bottoms of her bare feet, though, all of that went to hell in a second. “YAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA!!! stopstopstopstopstahahahahahhaha!!!!” She jolted and jumped like a crazed marionette as the girl assaulted her ticklish feet with relish born of vengeance. Her long, delicate toes wiggled in grand and dramatic contortions as the brutal girl scratched at the high, tender area just below the ball of each foot. Francesca kept a nervous watch, concerned that even through supposedly soundproof walls this cackling she-demon might be heard.
Leah laid a hand on Courtney’s shoulder, and the younger woman reluctantly stopped. “My, by your standards, you are certainly a picture of health,” Leah mocked. “Now, we will be happy to stop this now and release you–to the proper authorities, of course–if you’ll just tell what you know.”
Dr. Mesani’s tone had changed considerably, but her tune had not. “P-please, really, it..it is too late. You cannot stop them...they will do terrible things to me if I help you...”
Courtney had been eyeing the doctor’s quivering, wiggling feet like a predator, and now jumped on her chance. “Terrible things...like this?” She asked with drama club flourish as she held her newest tools–a q-tip and a small jar of petroleum jelly, found in a cabinet–in front of the doctor’s face.
“Wh-what are you....I don’t...NOOOOOOOOOHOHOHOHOOHOHOHOHOHOHO!!!” Courtney had, of course, dipped the end of the swab in the petroleum jelly and now traced it maddeningly uuuuuup and dooooown Akhana’s long, narrow soles, producing a fresh round of whoops and hollers from the beleaguered doctor. When she grabbed the wildly battling toes of one foot and probed the swab between them, the doctor became so hilariously apoplectic that they feared she might choke. When she had regained some measure of composure, though, Courtney swooped again, tracing the faint lines of her sensitive arches with the swab, forcing gales of laughter from the doctor’s toned, taut body.
When the vindictive teenager paused, the doctor sounded like any other woman recovering from a laughing fit, her breath heaving in a cruel parody of glee. “Oh...god....okay...no more..on the feet.....you...can’t imagine.....”
This last comment outraged Courtney so that she again attacked the barefoot doctor’s soles with her nails, forcing a hoarse squeal of laughter that dissolved into frantic giggles until Leah pulled her away.
“Can’t imagine...The nerve!” Courtney grumbled.
“Ready to talk?” Francesca asked.
“Y-yes,” Doctor Mesani conceded, defeated. “But as I told you, it won’t do any good.”
Next: Mesani’s story. A Monstrous Free-for-all. Pyrrhic Victory (look it up).
Part Three. Mistaken Identity. A Doctor Questioned. A Mystery Begins to Unravel.
This story is intended for mature audiences. Of course, so is this forum, so younguns shouldn’t be here in the first place, so what am I worried about?
[The story so far: Ambitious travel reporter Leah has gone undercover to infiltrate an incredibly exclusive, luxurious, and mysterious cruise. After a strange physical examination to allow her access to the ship, her investigative reporting has overheard a mysterious conversation about crossing some border, and uncovered some bizarre goings-on, including the ticklish torture of a Japanese business leader and his wife by the ship’s “Director of Hospitality,” the menacing, beautiful Yelena Kant . Now, moments after the torture has ended and the torturers departed, Leah feels a hand on her shoulder...]
[This part begins with some serious exposition. If knowing what’s happening is important to you, read on. If you’re the sort who likes to have dessert first, skip ahead.]
Leah swung around with a gasp to look into the dark, long-lashed eyes of Francesca Carlisi. The gorgeous Italian spoke in rapid, hushed tones, her voice lightly accented: "Did you see? Will you now summon your fellow police and put an end to this?"
"My fellow...Oh, Francesca, I'm not a cop. I'm..." She paused for a moment, worrying about her cover, which had taken on a whole new importance, then decided to trust the woman who had, after all, given her the key to the ship's secret areas. " I' m a reporter. For a travel magazine."
Francesca's face fell. "Oh, Christ. Then we're all still screwed. You were our hope to end all of this.” She shook her black-maned head forlornly. “How am I going to tell Ellefson?”
Leah cast about for something to say even as she struggled to get her mind around what she had just witnessed. Suddenly, another voice uttered exactly what was on her mind:
“Maybe you’d better explain just what the hell is going on with this ship.” Courtney Frost, the young student who had befriended Leah the day before, stepped out of the shadows a little ways down the hall. She looked frightened but determined; her eyes sparkled, and her tongue frequently peeked out to make a nervous circuit of her pink lips.
“Courtney? What are you doing here?”
Courtney smiled a little. “Come on, Brigitte. What could be more exciting on this lame Love Boat than secretly following you around? I mean, it’s obvious you’re up to something. You’ve been creeping around like somebody doing charades of Nancy Drew since I met you. I had to figure you were on to something exciting.”
Leah reddened, then sighed. “ I guess I’m not as good at the undercover stuff as I’d hoped. I may as well level with you. I’m not Brigitte Laphroig. I’m Leah Maitland. A travel reporter.”
“Yeah, I heard. That’s okay. I didn’t really but the name thing to begin with. I mean, who the hell has a name like ‘Brigitte Laphroig?’” Leah colored again, as Courtney grinned. “Anyway, the original statement still stands. Francesca, what’s happening on this ship? Why do we need cops?”
Francesca paused for a moment, considering the two women in turn. With a sigh, she gave in. “Very well. I will tell you what little Ellefson and I know. But come to my cabin. I would prefer that none of us was discovered here.”
Ten minutes later, the three women sat in Francesca’s finely appointed chamber. Francesca, still barefoot, had replaced her bikini with a white midriff-baring t-shirt and short denim shorts rolled slightly at the top. Courtney wore a blousy pale pink button down shirt and white shorts with sandals, and Leah still wore the dark shorts, t-shirt, and Yankee’s cap that made up her questionable action gear. In the dimly lit room, accompanied by the lapping of the waves and the rustle of the night-borne breeze, Francesca told a grim and improbable tale.
“I’m not really sure how to begin, so I’ll just jump in. This is not a pleasure cruise, I can tell you that much. Captain Caliban and Yelena Kant plan to take this entire ship over some kind of mystical border into another world, where they will sell this ship’s passengers to some shadowy group who will exploit their universal vulnerability to tickling in some bizarre way that I have yet to understand.”
It came out in a rush. There were three or four seconds of silence, then Courtney burst out laughing. “Pardon my French, but are you shitting us?” She managed, when her laughter subsided.
Francesca glared in annoyance. “Look, I know it doesn’t make sense, but that’s how it is, as nearly as we’ve been able to figure out. They have some magical method of transforming ticklish laughter into energy there. Something to do with some benevolent sorceress’s plan to save the environment and end war centuries ago, which backfired and is now being abused by some power-hungry groups. Believe it or not, Ellefson was born on the other side; he could tell you more than I. In the mean time, Yelena Kant is milking the super-rich of as much of their assets as she can get their hands on. She selects the wealthiest, or those whose application revealed comparatively little useable information about accessing their finances, then tickle tortures them for bank codes and the like. She then uses an amnesia draught to wipe the memories from their minds. That’s why they carried out this whole elaborate charade–it assured that they could maximize their profits in a single trip without exceeding the maximum number of people they can transport at a single time. They know they can only do this once. And,” she added grimly, “what better way to get away with a monstrous crime than to vanish into another world? They’ll return, a few years down the line, to untold riches.”
“But tickling?” Leah prompted, eyes sparkling with interest, fear warring in her mind with excitement about the story this might make.
“Think about it,” Francesca replied. “Remember that farce of a physical we took to get on this ship? Yes, they gave me one too, as a potential employee. Dr. Mesani, for all her New Age nonsense, did nothing but determine that we were ticklish.” She shuddered. “What doctor, or masseuse, for that matter, spends ten minutes running her nails down the soles of your feet? Somehow, tickling is central to all this, and as more than just a method of torture.”
Courtney and Leah were quiet, remembering. “So who’s in on it?” Leah asked at last.
“Caliban and Yelena Kant are the ringleaders. Dr. Mesani obviously knows what’s going on, at least to some extent. Ellefson is a sad, special case. He was trained and engineered by the group on the other side as an ideal soldier, extremely physically capable and immune to energy sapping techniques–in other words, not ticklish. He was placed on the ship to assist in the operations. But he, the dear, has a conscience. We got to know each other...quite well, and he told me what was happening during training, before we left. He wanted to let me escape, but I determined to help him to foil their plans. When we noticed you, your attitude, and your slightly suspect credentials. Leah, we’d hoped we would have help. We did report this to the authorities, but met with laughter and disbelief. We dared not make any further efforts. Yelena Kant is very powerful, in ways even Ellefson does not completely understand. We hoped that you were an agent they had sent to follow up. It appears, now, that we are on our own.”
The three sat in silence for a moment, digesting the information. At last, Courtney spoke. “So what do we do now?”
“Well, we have to stop this. In order to do so, we have to gain an understanding of what exactly they plan to do, and how they plan to do it. Ellefson can only get away from Yelena Kant for a few hours a day, so he won’t be able to be of much help until we have a definite and final plan worth blowing his cover for. The time of the crossing over is approaching quickly–we may only have a couple of days, or even a few hours. We need information we can act on.”
Leah resisted the writerly urge to correct the sentence-ending preposition, then spoke with an authority that surprised her. “Of those who have definite knowledge, Dr. Mesani is the weak link. We should find out what she knows. We’ll have to be careful, as we have no weapons, but she should be the easiest to overpower and....interrogate.”
Francesca regarded her with surprised approval, then rose and slipped into some deck shoes. “My plan exactly. And as for weapons...well, you’re right in the conventional sense. But Ellefson has slipped me a few, ah, otherworldly devices that might prove helpful.”
Opening a steamer trunk, Francesca showed her companions several compact, otherworldly devices, explaining their functions as best she could as they winced and cringed in aghast approval. “I think the time may be right to catch her unawares. In any event, time is short enough that we must act now. The sun will be rising soon, and I know that Dr. Mesani rises with it to do her yoga routine in the solitude of her office. Well, ladies? Are you ready to exact a little revenge for our excruciating physicals?”
[The meat and potatoes commence below]
The cruise quite agreed with Akhana Mesani. Shortly after departure, she had shed much of her professional, doctorly reserve and concentrated on enjoying her time at sea and the prospect of her considerably amplified wealth. She had arranged her long, sleek, straight black hair into shoulder-length corn rows that gave her delicate, exotic face an appealing, girlish look Any time her conscience began to gnaw at her, or regrets about her mortgaged medical career crept into her mind, the statuesque, coffee-skinned doctor took a deep breath of sea air and imagined a future of wild, if regrettably somewhat low-profile, indulgence.
Now, in her private office with its wall of windows with private seaward exposure, the tall, lithe, long-muscled doctor stood barefoot on her yoga mat and saluted the sun as it tinged her 6' tall, black bikini-clad body. Slowly and deliberately, she went through an advanced routine of sun salutes and stretches, muscles rippling catlike from her elegant exercise. Peace, serenity, and zen blankness. No thoughts of right or wrong. No time or place for the niggling doubts about what was actually going to happen to the ship’s passengers when this “crossing over” was complete. No-one had explained to her what would become of them, and, damn it, no one needed to. There was only she at the center of her universe, and an ever-mounting load of cash on the horizon, just beyond the rising sun she saluted....
A quiet but discernable clicking behind her tore Dr. Mesani from her reverie. She spun, surprised, ready to unload a barrage of verbal barbs on whatever hapless crew member or overly needy patient had disturbed her inviolable morning time. Her green eyes widened as she registered Francesca, Leah, and Courtney standing shoulder to shoulder, facing her defiantly. Francesca reached behind her and shot the bolt.
“What is the meaning of this? I might expect this much from our guests, who may have lost their way, but from you, Francesca? This is a highly unprofessional intrusion.”
“Don’t bother with the bullshit, Doctor. We know enough about what’s going on to want to stop it, and you’re going to tell us the rest.”
Mesani began to sidle along the wall, moving slowly toward the intercom system. “I’m sure I have no idea what you are on about,” she purred in delicately accented tones. “I have nothing to say to you, and I demand that you leave me in peace.” Inside her head, a voice, the voice she had sought to silence with her meditations, screamed, “They know. They damn well know, and you’re not getting out of this, and you’re going to jail, and you never should have gotten involved in the first place and somebody has to come and HELP!!!”
She leaped at the intercom at the same moment that Francesca hurled the metal sphere in her direction. Before her long, delicate fingers could touch the intercom buttons, the sphere struck her with surprisingly little force, then sprung open and wrapped thin, weblike tendrils sparsely around her body from shoulders to knees. The wrappings were not thick, and didn’t seem particularly strong; as Dr. Mesani struggled with them, they began to give slightly.
Suddenly, as if from a living entity, fingerlike appendages sprung out from the bonds and dug ticklishly into the good doctor’s ribs and lean, toned belly. Dr. Mesani gave a surprised yell that quickly turned into guffaws as the device tickled her into submission. Smooth, questing fingers explored between her ribs, feathered the taut skin at the tops of her hipbones, even–to her screeching horror–invaded her deep, smooth-shaven armpits. Drawing into a fetal position, she collapsed to the floor and heaved with uncontrollable laughter.
“Better quit fighting it, doc. From what I understand, the thing tickles you every time you try to resist it. Feeds off your laughter, too, to become stronger and stronger. But I imagine you could explain that principal to us better than we can to you,” Leah said, speaking coolly in spite of her morbid fascination with the magical machine and what it was doing to the doctor’s nearly naked body.
Dr. Mesani wriggled and heaved in desperation as the thing squeezed her thighs just above the knee–something she absolutely could not bear. Her breath came in ragged heaves as she croaked out joyless whoops of laughter. At last, through a massive exertion of zen self-control, she managed to stop her struggling and go limp. The questing fingers hovered for a moment, then withdrew into the thin cords that bound her.
The room was silent for a time, save for her ragged breath and the occasional residual giggle. Then, at last, she was able to speak. “What do you want from me?” She asked, attempting to assert the commanding dignity so recently robbed from her voice.
“Watching that, just now, was a big part of it for me, you cruel bitch,” Courtney said coldly. She was clearly still upset about her examination–moreso since discovering it was a sham.
Leah cleared her throat. “We want to know the plan. How are they going to cross over, and when? How can we stop it? Stop them?”
Dr. Mesani managed a smirk–quite an achievement, as she was supine, bound nearly naked and glistening with sweat from her recent torment. “I won’t bother denying that I know much of what’s going on,” she said measuredly. “But I certainly don’t intend to share that information with any of you.”
Francesca scowled, then threw the doctor’s tall, lean form over her shoulder. “The hard way, then,” she said menacingly.
Ten minutes later, the three women had replaced the tickling mechanism that bound the doctor with a series of belts and bungee cords. They had bound her to her own massage table, on her back, with her head elevated, then had adjusted the bottom half to raise her legs so that her long body made something of a ‘V’. Her long, graceful bare feet protruded over the end of the table; she regarded her captors over the ridge of her toes. Courtney had suggested leaving the original restraints in place while they moved to phase two of the operation, but Francesca acknowledged that it might induce heart attack, even in a healthy woman, and in any event would inhibit any exchange of information.
“Damn you all, I’ve told you I’m not going to talk. None of the information I have could help you, anyway. You’d need...” She abruptly shut up, tossing her corn-rowed locks impatiently.
“Hmmm...” Francesca said. “Sounds as if you very nearly gave something away, Doctor. I would very much like to hear what it was.”
Dr. Mesani glared silently back at her.
“Courtney, would you care to begin the ‘examination?’”
Courtney needed no encouragement. Grinning wickedly, she began to scratch her silver-painted fingernails over the comparatively light skin of the bound doctor’s bare soles.
Akhana Mesani, who had not had her feet tickled with any severity since college, had counted on her zen meditation techniques to enable her to transcend the physical and ignore the sensations. As the 19 year old’s fingers touched the soft, wrinkled bottoms of her bare feet, though, all of that went to hell in a second. “YAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA!!! stopstopstopstopstahahahahahhaha!!!!” She jolted and jumped like a crazed marionette as the girl assaulted her ticklish feet with relish born of vengeance. Her long, delicate toes wiggled in grand and dramatic contortions as the brutal girl scratched at the high, tender area just below the ball of each foot. Francesca kept a nervous watch, concerned that even through supposedly soundproof walls this cackling she-demon might be heard.
Leah laid a hand on Courtney’s shoulder, and the younger woman reluctantly stopped. “My, by your standards, you are certainly a picture of health,” Leah mocked. “Now, we will be happy to stop this now and release you–to the proper authorities, of course–if you’ll just tell what you know.”
Dr. Mesani’s tone had changed considerably, but her tune had not. “P-please, really, it..it is too late. You cannot stop them...they will do terrible things to me if I help you...”
Courtney had been eyeing the doctor’s quivering, wiggling feet like a predator, and now jumped on her chance. “Terrible things...like this?” She asked with drama club flourish as she held her newest tools–a q-tip and a small jar of petroleum jelly, found in a cabinet–in front of the doctor’s face.
“Wh-what are you....I don’t...NOOOOOOOOOHOHOHOHOOHOHOHOHOHOHO!!!” Courtney had, of course, dipped the end of the swab in the petroleum jelly and now traced it maddeningly uuuuuup and dooooown Akhana’s long, narrow soles, producing a fresh round of whoops and hollers from the beleaguered doctor. When she grabbed the wildly battling toes of one foot and probed the swab between them, the doctor became so hilariously apoplectic that they feared she might choke. When she had regained some measure of composure, though, Courtney swooped again, tracing the faint lines of her sensitive arches with the swab, forcing gales of laughter from the doctor’s toned, taut body.
When the vindictive teenager paused, the doctor sounded like any other woman recovering from a laughing fit, her breath heaving in a cruel parody of glee. “Oh...god....okay...no more..on the feet.....you...can’t imagine.....”
This last comment outraged Courtney so that she again attacked the barefoot doctor’s soles with her nails, forcing a hoarse squeal of laughter that dissolved into frantic giggles until Leah pulled her away.
“Can’t imagine...The nerve!” Courtney grumbled.
“Ready to talk?” Francesca asked.
“Y-yes,” Doctor Mesani conceded, defeated. “But as I told you, it won’t do any good.”
Next: Mesani’s story. A Monstrous Free-for-all. Pyrrhic Victory (look it up).
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Ms. Maitland (Laphroig indeed! Why not wear a sign saying
