Whoa. It's been WAY too long since I started this, and I do apologize for holding out so long on the ending. Since most folks probably have forgotten the first three installments, I've provided links. As always, I LIVE for feedback!
Part 1: http://www.ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?t=178563
Part 2: http://www.ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?t=190888
Part 3: http://www.ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?t=195413
Augmented, part 4
by
Kid Indy
NSA Agent Ryan Watson had never gotten quite this sort of a thrill out of watching a girl stare at a chess board, but then again, the last few days had not been like anything he'd ever experienced. As she sat with fingers clasped, leaning over the pieces to study their relationships in space, he knew just what she was preparing for, that she had now been waiting for three days. Watching her on the hidden cameras, he grinned from ear to ear whenever she put a piece back where it started, rethinking what move she would make in this or that situation. He had to adjust his pants whenever she picked a bishop off the board to examine its shape.
Looking at Ryan Watson, the average person would not guess that he had some sort of chess fetish, but neither would the average person guess at his other erotic dispositions. The U.S. government was no average observer. For purposes that could not be made public, they found his particular set of desires significantly more valuable, and in the middle of his interactions with Delkash Ali, Watson found even his own mind unfamiliar in the moments when he caught himself looking at the monitor. He knew that, in just a few moments, he would be returning to her holding cell to play with her again, to lead her into thinking that she might win back the hijab he had taken from her, to make her ask him, perhaps even beg him to touch her. He knew that his encounter with her just days before, not in the clinical and compartmentalized space of the interrogation room but in her bedroom, the place where affection happens, was making it impossible for him to think about the book he had brought to Cuba to read, to play online chess (he did like chess, but not that way), to do anything but keep returning to the observation room to look at her, certainly at her body and her feet, but more and more at the outlines of her face, the depths of her eyes when they were visible, the movements of the whole person Delkash Ali. His orders were to create a sense of connection in the mind of his subject, to start using the Stockholm Syndrome in his favor to accomplish whatever end the government sought but would not tell him, but as the days passed, he realized that in frightening ways he was becoming the captive and Delkash the captor.
Ryan Watson, the government's tickle torturer, began to fear that he was falling in love.
His standing orders were too vague to offer him any support: "Proceed with operations." He was given a blank check to visit her as often or as infrequently as he saw fit, to do with her what he pleased, to establish this bond by any means he could imagine. He had no idea what end he was pursuing, and even as he leaned back against the hallway wall, breathing deeply to settle his nerves, he wished he knew more. But this was Gitmo, and the rules did not apply here, he told himself. He still did not believe it, but as he turned the knob to Delkash's door, he knew that he had to put his game face on. So he did.
"Good afternoon, Miss Ali!"
"Alright. Are we going to play again? I want that hijab back!"
"Hello to you too! So you remember the rules, right?"
"Sure, sure. If you win, you get to tickle me, and if I resign, I have to take my shirt off. Now let's play!"
"And?"
"And my feet go in your lap. So sit down already, and let's play!"
Watson smiled as he took his seat on the couch, laid his calves across his thigh, and pulled the coffee table over. She was overestimating how well her preparations would hold up under fire, and he knew it. But he had to let her have a few moments to build her confidence--as she moved her pieces with almost reflex-like suddenness, Watson took his time, making sure that he could capitalize on the carelessness that he was about to manufacture.
"I used to play competitively, you know," Delkash said as Watson studied the board. Seven moves in, he knew what her plans were.
"Competitively with whom? You didn't play so well the other day."
"Well, I was rusty. And you were tickling me!"
"Oh, I'm planning on doing some of that today as well. You can't move like lightning forever, you know?"
"You'd like to think that, wouldn't you? I'm going to get my hijab back, and you're not going to have time to tickle my feet!" Watson noted well that she was imagining what was going to happen as "tickling" rather than "touching." He made his move. Delkash moved back. Watson moved a knight out of the path of his bishop.
"Check."
Delkash stopped to study the possibilities, and Watson knew this was his moment. With fast fingers he began to scratch lightly at Delkash's soles, and she immediately bucked backwards away from the board. "No!" she half-sang and half-squealed, music to Watson's ears. She leaned back on her elbows and let her head rock back, not even looking at the board as she laughed in ticklish glee.
"Aren't you going to try to move?" Watson offered.
"Not while-e-e-eeeee!" Delkash lost her word in another ticklish squeal, laughed for several seconds as Watson played with her sole, then tried again through her laughter: "Not while you're tickling my feet!"
"Ah, so this is your strategy. I like it! You think I'm going to get tired of doing this, then you can beat me. What you didn't plan on is just how long it takes me to get tired of it!" Watson was positively in heaven, the feet of a beautiful, ticklish girl not tied down to a table but in his feet, not pulling them away, her laughter responding to shifts in his technique from wriggling between the toes, to scratching at her heel, to rubbing at her instep, every new sort of tickling making her voice and her body do things that Watson could not help but stiffen at.
"You're getting excited at this, aren't you?"
"Of course I am--why do you think I come in here?"
"You're not going to be able to think about the ga-a-a-eeee!" Watson nearly lost control of his system as another sentence turned into a tickled squeal. "You're not going to be able to think with your John Thomas up like that!"
Watson grinned devilishly, not even having to look down to know that she could see just what she named. "You just need to admit that this is getting you just as excited as it's getting me, Delkash--you know you like this!"
Delkash's face showed a moment of recognition through her laughter. "You just called me Delkash!"
"I'll call you whatever you want as long as I get to tickle you some more!"
"Alright, alright! I'll move!" Watson, of course, did not slow down in his torture: he kept things up as she tried to look at the board through tear-blurred eyes and did not stop until she had taken her hand off of the piece moved. "Dammit! You made me take a stupid move again!"
"I thought you used to play competitively--what happened to Miss Confidence?" Watson moved his knight again, setting up a choice between immediate loss of pieces and wasted moves and bad position for Delkash. He knew she would have to think about this one, and when she started to, he lit into her feet again, and with her defenses down from the earlier, extended tickling, she did not even get any words out before she started laughing so hard that her abdomen heaved. "I hope this game lasts a while, Delkash--I'm enjoying this more and more!"
"You're going to enjoy yourself right out of a pair of underwear, you know!" She laughed wildly, at her own joke and because he was tickling her toes.
"You let me worry about that. You need to make a move before you wet your own pants!" Delkash stopped looking at the board and just threw her head back in abandon. Ryan Watson was almost beside himself with a kind of pleasure that no interrogation ever gave him. "You can give up any time you want, Miss Ali. I'd love to get at the rest of you." His fingers kept touching the soft flesh of her feet, and her delicious mouth continued to pour forth the wonderful sound of her laughter.
Without warning, and with a force that impressed Watson, Delkash ripped her ankles out of his grasp and stood up. Stepping gingerly, she stepped around the coffee table, putting the chess board between herself and the man who had tickled her into giggles that would not stop. Watson also stood up, though a bit more carefully: "You know the rules, Miss Ali. This means I can tickle you wherever I want!"
"Only if you can catch me!"
In the small room, the catching wasn't a problem: within a few seconds, Watson had grabbed Delkash's thin waist and dragged her over to her bed, grabbing a fistful of her wildly ticklish hip as they tumbled down. Delkash writhed and squealed as his quick hands roamed to more ticklish spots on her ribs and sides, and with his body behind hers, her attempts to tuck her elbows were worse than useless, making her laugh harder because she could move around but not protecting her from the hands that seemed to touch every sensitive spot on her body.
But Watson was in for his own surprise: in a burst of surprising strength, Delkash suddenly pulled Watson's body close, finding his lips with her own and, for a brief moment, stopping his fingers cold. Seizing the moment, her own hands started to grope at his shirt, pulling its hem up towards his shoulders and exposing his own midsection. Within seconds both of their shirts were off, and a fiery gaze passed between them that quickly silenced any reservations that might have kept Watson cautious. In a few grand, smooth gestures, both of their bodies were entirely naked, and they fell to the bed together. Watson's powers of judgment had entirely left him, and the urges that had been building throughout his days of isolation in Guananamo proved far too insistent even to hear objections. Their lovemaking carried on without a thought of where they were, but when they finished, Watson's eye could not help but look to the spot in the cell where the hidden camera watched them both. Remembering something very important he'd read in a dozen tickling stories online, he rolled over onto one shoulder and whispered to Dalkesh.
"Do you know what happens to a ticklish girl after she's made love?"
Dalkesh's eyes, still dilated from their intense encounter, opened wide. "You wouldn't!"
But of course he would. His libido and his ruthless torturer's mind now pulled the same torturous chariot, and his fingers started digging into Dalkesh's most sensitive spots, those places on her delicious body that he'd discovered while she was strapped to the table and while they played in her cell. As she twisted away, screaming as his fingers touched spots that had seldom been so sensitive, Watson saw a corner of the bedsheet dangling off the mattress and realized the opportunity he had on his hands. Tickling and working his body into a new position, he straddled her midsection, pinning her to the bed as he tickled. As one hand worked on her ribs, the other snaked out, snatched the bedsheet, and moved into position. With a few quick movements, he had wrapped the bedsheet around her wrists, and with a diving motion, he looped the end around a leg of the small bed without letting go of her wrists. His hands worked furiously to secure her struggling arms, and within a few seconds he was tying her off, her midsection and underarms (not to mention her wonderful breasts) exposed to him, her chest heaving from trying to fight. Her eyes were ablaze with a mixture of anticipation and anger. But when her protest finally took voice, the pitch of her protest was too high to do anything but encourage him.
"Let me go right now!"
"Why would I want to do that? Like I said, after you make love, your skin gets really sensitive. It's just too bad I don't have any tools with me, or we could really make an occasion of this!" And he started to wiggle his fingers in front of her eyes, making them widen as she imagined what the next touch would feel like. Starting just past her elbow, Watson started to trace an agonizing line down to the edge of her bicep, through her wickedly ticklish underarm, and to the place where torso became breast. Dalkesh shrieked like a misplayed violin as the finger excited nerve after nerve. He began delicately to pinch her at the bases of her ribs, then up the sides until every time he prodded her body he drew forth a giggle, a moan, a protest, another giggle. His hands were not moving nearly as fast as they could; he was enjoying every touch this time, playing with the body that he had fallen into love with, making sure that every contact between his hands and her body extended and twisted the pleasure of their lovemaking into the laughter that had smitten his judgment. Within minutes all protests stopped, and Dalkesh abandoned herself to the sensations, arching her back underneath him and singing the wordless and tuneless and desperate song of the woman whose body is outrunning her spirit. As he tickled up into her armpits again, Watson leaned down and began to flick his tongue at her nipples, and the vocalized laughing gave way, with each flick, to a gasp that Watson could almost feel sucking the air out of the room. She was having a sensual experience that he could only watch, but pressing himself against her as she had it satisfied him in ways that he couldn't remember even wanting to be satisfied. Later on, Agent Watson could not even explain what urge, what part of his own mind, saw the light blanket on the floor and made him realize his next move.
Rolling off of Dalkesh's thrashing body and jumping off the bed, Watson snatched up the blanket and made a move for her feet. Perhaps knowing the horror of pleasure that was coming, Dalkesh feebly tried to kick away from his hands, but she was too far gone to put up much of a fight: Watson with some ease wrapped the blanket around her left ankle twice and tied the other end to the leg diagonal to the first. Her right leg lay free, allowing her to kick out again, but quickly enough Watson positioned himself where she could only feebly kick across her own body. His fingers lightly plucked her big toe, the one on the bound foot, and pulled it back. He licked his lips as Delkash's eyes went from alarm to despair. "Do you remember how ticklish your feet were before, Miss Ali?" Her look deepened in its dread as he heard her interrogation-subject name. "You've never been tickled as I'm about to tickle you." His finger descended towards her sole as he stretched every nerve out for his fingers' pleasure.
Agent Ryan Watson slipped out of Delkash Ali's room into the hall, looking around to see if anyone saw him on his walk of shame. He had put his clothes back on, but his disshevelled appearance would have given him away even if he hadn't just been naked for an hour on hidden cameras. He moved as quietly towards the exit of the prison block as he could, but an agent called his name as he turned the final corner.
"Watson!"
He turned around. An agent whom he'd seen in the hallways was looking at him.
"You've got a debriefing in Alpha Room. Right now."
Watson gulped. He knew that Alpha Room meant business. He made his way to that week's Alpha Room and opened the door tentatively. Instead of his normal commanding officer, he was greeted by a woman with long brown hair sitting behind the desk. As he made his way in, she gestured for him to sit. An attractive woman, Watson guessed that she was in her early forties and took good care of herself. Her grin as he approached the desk gave him thrills, but he could not tell whether they were worries or anticipations.
"You've done well, Agent Watson. I have a hunch you'll go far if you make the right moves next." With that, she picked up a remote control and pointed it at a side wall of the office. It activated a flat screen that both could see from opposite sides of the desk. Watson could feel his skin turning red as the video footage of his naked body and Delkash's filled the screen. His horror only lasted a moment before it became defiance.
"What now, then? Is this going to land me in jail?"
"You're already in jail, Agent Watson. The question now is what we're going to do with your work in jail."
"What do you mean? Isn't there going to be further interrogation so that you can get some intel from her?"
"There never was any interrogation."
Watson stood up in protest, his mirror still having sex on the screen. He noticed his augmented-reality glasses were sitting in front of the woman. "What do you mean? What was that all about? Who are you?"
The woman motioned for him to sit down. He did reluctantly. With another press of the button, the picture on the screen shifted to one of a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, sitting in a military prison cell. "This, Agent Watson, is Ali Jabar, a member of an insurgent group in Iraq but not an Iraqi national. We've got him detained in a secret prison."
"What does that have to do with me, ma'am?" (Watson had remembered protocol, the initial shock having given way to his agent training.)
"Call me Jen, Agent Watson. Call me Jen. I'm a consultant for the NSA, so I don't have any authority to jail you, fire you, or anything else. But I do have expertise in your particular means of interrogation. And if you keep up what you're doing and make me happy, you're heading good places." She turned back to the monitor. "This man has information that we need to break up one of the bombing rings that's giving Coalition troops the most trouble in northern Iraq, Sunni territory."
"And?"
"And his sister has been detained by U.S. agents. You see, in the next few days, he's going to see some heavily-edited video footage of you seducing his sister, and his interrogator is going to tell him that the only thing preserving his sister's honor is our sense of patience as it holds back the American tickler, and the only way to call him--you--off is to give us the intel we need."
"But what was I in there for? Why did you have me..."
"You see, Agent Watson, we needed you to think she was a terrorist, withholding information, just as we need Jabar to think she's a virgin, withholding her honor. The truth in either case is irrelevant; if our charade is good enough, we get what we need."
"Then... why..."
Jen wheeled her chair around the desk so that she was facing Watson across open space instead of a desk. He looked down to see that her feet were in nylon hose but not at the moment in shoes. "Don't ask why, Agent Watson. Don't ask why. You've done well, and you're not far from a big promotion and a big raise." She crossed her legs, and he could not help but notice his own desire to put hands on those lovely legs and silk-clad feet.
"When Jabar talks?"
"Certainly that, but I'd like to imagine better things beyond that for your future." Her feet began to rub against one another in front of her chair, and Watson could not help but look at her shapely calves and hear the near-invitation to ticklish touch that her nylons made as they rubbed. "What I'd like to imagine is getting in there with you so that I can have a go at that ticklish young thing. Between the two of us, we could turn her into one long, tasty bundle of ticklish nerves. I'd like to imagine your fingers and mine taking her everywhere you just took her, and then some." She began to lean back, cat-like, and extend her foot forward, lowering it slowly into his lap. He could feel the warmth of her leg through his pants. "And then I'd like to imagine you doing that kind of job on me, if you're man enough to try my kind of woman on for size."
"Um... I don't know..."
Her foot was now gently rubbing against his crotch. His eyes grew to saucer size as he learned of reserves of energy he hadn't known before. "What's not to know, Agent Watson? This is Gitmo; we make our own rules. All you need to know is that this room is completely sound-proof and bug-proof, and you're going to have to torture me good if you're going to force a promotion out of me. So what are you waiting for?" She reached over to his augmented-reality glasses and handed them to the young agent. "These should help you, because you're going to have to take me to the moon to get this promotion out of my feet!"
Behind the glasses, Watson's eyes lit up as he grabbed her ankle and got his fingers ready.
Part 1: http://www.ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?t=178563
Part 2: http://www.ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?t=190888
Part 3: http://www.ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?t=195413
Augmented, part 4
by
Kid Indy
NSA Agent Ryan Watson had never gotten quite this sort of a thrill out of watching a girl stare at a chess board, but then again, the last few days had not been like anything he'd ever experienced. As she sat with fingers clasped, leaning over the pieces to study their relationships in space, he knew just what she was preparing for, that she had now been waiting for three days. Watching her on the hidden cameras, he grinned from ear to ear whenever she put a piece back where it started, rethinking what move she would make in this or that situation. He had to adjust his pants whenever she picked a bishop off the board to examine its shape.
Looking at Ryan Watson, the average person would not guess that he had some sort of chess fetish, but neither would the average person guess at his other erotic dispositions. The U.S. government was no average observer. For purposes that could not be made public, they found his particular set of desires significantly more valuable, and in the middle of his interactions with Delkash Ali, Watson found even his own mind unfamiliar in the moments when he caught himself looking at the monitor. He knew that, in just a few moments, he would be returning to her holding cell to play with her again, to lead her into thinking that she might win back the hijab he had taken from her, to make her ask him, perhaps even beg him to touch her. He knew that his encounter with her just days before, not in the clinical and compartmentalized space of the interrogation room but in her bedroom, the place where affection happens, was making it impossible for him to think about the book he had brought to Cuba to read, to play online chess (he did like chess, but not that way), to do anything but keep returning to the observation room to look at her, certainly at her body and her feet, but more and more at the outlines of her face, the depths of her eyes when they were visible, the movements of the whole person Delkash Ali. His orders were to create a sense of connection in the mind of his subject, to start using the Stockholm Syndrome in his favor to accomplish whatever end the government sought but would not tell him, but as the days passed, he realized that in frightening ways he was becoming the captive and Delkash the captor.
Ryan Watson, the government's tickle torturer, began to fear that he was falling in love.
His standing orders were too vague to offer him any support: "Proceed with operations." He was given a blank check to visit her as often or as infrequently as he saw fit, to do with her what he pleased, to establish this bond by any means he could imagine. He had no idea what end he was pursuing, and even as he leaned back against the hallway wall, breathing deeply to settle his nerves, he wished he knew more. But this was Gitmo, and the rules did not apply here, he told himself. He still did not believe it, but as he turned the knob to Delkash's door, he knew that he had to put his game face on. So he did.
"Good afternoon, Miss Ali!"
"Alright. Are we going to play again? I want that hijab back!"
"Hello to you too! So you remember the rules, right?"
"Sure, sure. If you win, you get to tickle me, and if I resign, I have to take my shirt off. Now let's play!"
"And?"
"And my feet go in your lap. So sit down already, and let's play!"
Watson smiled as he took his seat on the couch, laid his calves across his thigh, and pulled the coffee table over. She was overestimating how well her preparations would hold up under fire, and he knew it. But he had to let her have a few moments to build her confidence--as she moved her pieces with almost reflex-like suddenness, Watson took his time, making sure that he could capitalize on the carelessness that he was about to manufacture.
"I used to play competitively, you know," Delkash said as Watson studied the board. Seven moves in, he knew what her plans were.
"Competitively with whom? You didn't play so well the other day."
"Well, I was rusty. And you were tickling me!"
"Oh, I'm planning on doing some of that today as well. You can't move like lightning forever, you know?"
"You'd like to think that, wouldn't you? I'm going to get my hijab back, and you're not going to have time to tickle my feet!" Watson noted well that she was imagining what was going to happen as "tickling" rather than "touching." He made his move. Delkash moved back. Watson moved a knight out of the path of his bishop.
"Check."
Delkash stopped to study the possibilities, and Watson knew this was his moment. With fast fingers he began to scratch lightly at Delkash's soles, and she immediately bucked backwards away from the board. "No!" she half-sang and half-squealed, music to Watson's ears. She leaned back on her elbows and let her head rock back, not even looking at the board as she laughed in ticklish glee.
"Aren't you going to try to move?" Watson offered.
"Not while-e-e-eeeee!" Delkash lost her word in another ticklish squeal, laughed for several seconds as Watson played with her sole, then tried again through her laughter: "Not while you're tickling my feet!"
"Ah, so this is your strategy. I like it! You think I'm going to get tired of doing this, then you can beat me. What you didn't plan on is just how long it takes me to get tired of it!" Watson was positively in heaven, the feet of a beautiful, ticklish girl not tied down to a table but in his feet, not pulling them away, her laughter responding to shifts in his technique from wriggling between the toes, to scratching at her heel, to rubbing at her instep, every new sort of tickling making her voice and her body do things that Watson could not help but stiffen at.
"You're getting excited at this, aren't you?"
"Of course I am--why do you think I come in here?"
"You're not going to be able to think about the ga-a-a-eeee!" Watson nearly lost control of his system as another sentence turned into a tickled squeal. "You're not going to be able to think with your John Thomas up like that!"
Watson grinned devilishly, not even having to look down to know that she could see just what she named. "You just need to admit that this is getting you just as excited as it's getting me, Delkash--you know you like this!"
Delkash's face showed a moment of recognition through her laughter. "You just called me Delkash!"
"I'll call you whatever you want as long as I get to tickle you some more!"
"Alright, alright! I'll move!" Watson, of course, did not slow down in his torture: he kept things up as she tried to look at the board through tear-blurred eyes and did not stop until she had taken her hand off of the piece moved. "Dammit! You made me take a stupid move again!"
"I thought you used to play competitively--what happened to Miss Confidence?" Watson moved his knight again, setting up a choice between immediate loss of pieces and wasted moves and bad position for Delkash. He knew she would have to think about this one, and when she started to, he lit into her feet again, and with her defenses down from the earlier, extended tickling, she did not even get any words out before she started laughing so hard that her abdomen heaved. "I hope this game lasts a while, Delkash--I'm enjoying this more and more!"
"You're going to enjoy yourself right out of a pair of underwear, you know!" She laughed wildly, at her own joke and because he was tickling her toes.
"You let me worry about that. You need to make a move before you wet your own pants!" Delkash stopped looking at the board and just threw her head back in abandon. Ryan Watson was almost beside himself with a kind of pleasure that no interrogation ever gave him. "You can give up any time you want, Miss Ali. I'd love to get at the rest of you." His fingers kept touching the soft flesh of her feet, and her delicious mouth continued to pour forth the wonderful sound of her laughter.
Without warning, and with a force that impressed Watson, Delkash ripped her ankles out of his grasp and stood up. Stepping gingerly, she stepped around the coffee table, putting the chess board between herself and the man who had tickled her into giggles that would not stop. Watson also stood up, though a bit more carefully: "You know the rules, Miss Ali. This means I can tickle you wherever I want!"
"Only if you can catch me!"
In the small room, the catching wasn't a problem: within a few seconds, Watson had grabbed Delkash's thin waist and dragged her over to her bed, grabbing a fistful of her wildly ticklish hip as they tumbled down. Delkash writhed and squealed as his quick hands roamed to more ticklish spots on her ribs and sides, and with his body behind hers, her attempts to tuck her elbows were worse than useless, making her laugh harder because she could move around but not protecting her from the hands that seemed to touch every sensitive spot on her body.
But Watson was in for his own surprise: in a burst of surprising strength, Delkash suddenly pulled Watson's body close, finding his lips with her own and, for a brief moment, stopping his fingers cold. Seizing the moment, her own hands started to grope at his shirt, pulling its hem up towards his shoulders and exposing his own midsection. Within seconds both of their shirts were off, and a fiery gaze passed between them that quickly silenced any reservations that might have kept Watson cautious. In a few grand, smooth gestures, both of their bodies were entirely naked, and they fell to the bed together. Watson's powers of judgment had entirely left him, and the urges that had been building throughout his days of isolation in Guananamo proved far too insistent even to hear objections. Their lovemaking carried on without a thought of where they were, but when they finished, Watson's eye could not help but look to the spot in the cell where the hidden camera watched them both. Remembering something very important he'd read in a dozen tickling stories online, he rolled over onto one shoulder and whispered to Dalkesh.
"Do you know what happens to a ticklish girl after she's made love?"
Dalkesh's eyes, still dilated from their intense encounter, opened wide. "You wouldn't!"
But of course he would. His libido and his ruthless torturer's mind now pulled the same torturous chariot, and his fingers started digging into Dalkesh's most sensitive spots, those places on her delicious body that he'd discovered while she was strapped to the table and while they played in her cell. As she twisted away, screaming as his fingers touched spots that had seldom been so sensitive, Watson saw a corner of the bedsheet dangling off the mattress and realized the opportunity he had on his hands. Tickling and working his body into a new position, he straddled her midsection, pinning her to the bed as he tickled. As one hand worked on her ribs, the other snaked out, snatched the bedsheet, and moved into position. With a few quick movements, he had wrapped the bedsheet around her wrists, and with a diving motion, he looped the end around a leg of the small bed without letting go of her wrists. His hands worked furiously to secure her struggling arms, and within a few seconds he was tying her off, her midsection and underarms (not to mention her wonderful breasts) exposed to him, her chest heaving from trying to fight. Her eyes were ablaze with a mixture of anticipation and anger. But when her protest finally took voice, the pitch of her protest was too high to do anything but encourage him.
"Let me go right now!"
"Why would I want to do that? Like I said, after you make love, your skin gets really sensitive. It's just too bad I don't have any tools with me, or we could really make an occasion of this!" And he started to wiggle his fingers in front of her eyes, making them widen as she imagined what the next touch would feel like. Starting just past her elbow, Watson started to trace an agonizing line down to the edge of her bicep, through her wickedly ticklish underarm, and to the place where torso became breast. Dalkesh shrieked like a misplayed violin as the finger excited nerve after nerve. He began delicately to pinch her at the bases of her ribs, then up the sides until every time he prodded her body he drew forth a giggle, a moan, a protest, another giggle. His hands were not moving nearly as fast as they could; he was enjoying every touch this time, playing with the body that he had fallen into love with, making sure that every contact between his hands and her body extended and twisted the pleasure of their lovemaking into the laughter that had smitten his judgment. Within minutes all protests stopped, and Dalkesh abandoned herself to the sensations, arching her back underneath him and singing the wordless and tuneless and desperate song of the woman whose body is outrunning her spirit. As he tickled up into her armpits again, Watson leaned down and began to flick his tongue at her nipples, and the vocalized laughing gave way, with each flick, to a gasp that Watson could almost feel sucking the air out of the room. She was having a sensual experience that he could only watch, but pressing himself against her as she had it satisfied him in ways that he couldn't remember even wanting to be satisfied. Later on, Agent Watson could not even explain what urge, what part of his own mind, saw the light blanket on the floor and made him realize his next move.
Rolling off of Dalkesh's thrashing body and jumping off the bed, Watson snatched up the blanket and made a move for her feet. Perhaps knowing the horror of pleasure that was coming, Dalkesh feebly tried to kick away from his hands, but she was too far gone to put up much of a fight: Watson with some ease wrapped the blanket around her left ankle twice and tied the other end to the leg diagonal to the first. Her right leg lay free, allowing her to kick out again, but quickly enough Watson positioned himself where she could only feebly kick across her own body. His fingers lightly plucked her big toe, the one on the bound foot, and pulled it back. He licked his lips as Delkash's eyes went from alarm to despair. "Do you remember how ticklish your feet were before, Miss Ali?" Her look deepened in its dread as he heard her interrogation-subject name. "You've never been tickled as I'm about to tickle you." His finger descended towards her sole as he stretched every nerve out for his fingers' pleasure.
Agent Ryan Watson slipped out of Delkash Ali's room into the hall, looking around to see if anyone saw him on his walk of shame. He had put his clothes back on, but his disshevelled appearance would have given him away even if he hadn't just been naked for an hour on hidden cameras. He moved as quietly towards the exit of the prison block as he could, but an agent called his name as he turned the final corner.
"Watson!"
He turned around. An agent whom he'd seen in the hallways was looking at him.
"You've got a debriefing in Alpha Room. Right now."
Watson gulped. He knew that Alpha Room meant business. He made his way to that week's Alpha Room and opened the door tentatively. Instead of his normal commanding officer, he was greeted by a woman with long brown hair sitting behind the desk. As he made his way in, she gestured for him to sit. An attractive woman, Watson guessed that she was in her early forties and took good care of herself. Her grin as he approached the desk gave him thrills, but he could not tell whether they were worries or anticipations.
"You've done well, Agent Watson. I have a hunch you'll go far if you make the right moves next." With that, she picked up a remote control and pointed it at a side wall of the office. It activated a flat screen that both could see from opposite sides of the desk. Watson could feel his skin turning red as the video footage of his naked body and Delkash's filled the screen. His horror only lasted a moment before it became defiance.
"What now, then? Is this going to land me in jail?"
"You're already in jail, Agent Watson. The question now is what we're going to do with your work in jail."
"What do you mean? Isn't there going to be further interrogation so that you can get some intel from her?"
"There never was any interrogation."
Watson stood up in protest, his mirror still having sex on the screen. He noticed his augmented-reality glasses were sitting in front of the woman. "What do you mean? What was that all about? Who are you?"
The woman motioned for him to sit down. He did reluctantly. With another press of the button, the picture on the screen shifted to one of a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, sitting in a military prison cell. "This, Agent Watson, is Ali Jabar, a member of an insurgent group in Iraq but not an Iraqi national. We've got him detained in a secret prison."
"What does that have to do with me, ma'am?" (Watson had remembered protocol, the initial shock having given way to his agent training.)
"Call me Jen, Agent Watson. Call me Jen. I'm a consultant for the NSA, so I don't have any authority to jail you, fire you, or anything else. But I do have expertise in your particular means of interrogation. And if you keep up what you're doing and make me happy, you're heading good places." She turned back to the monitor. "This man has information that we need to break up one of the bombing rings that's giving Coalition troops the most trouble in northern Iraq, Sunni territory."
"And?"
"And his sister has been detained by U.S. agents. You see, in the next few days, he's going to see some heavily-edited video footage of you seducing his sister, and his interrogator is going to tell him that the only thing preserving his sister's honor is our sense of patience as it holds back the American tickler, and the only way to call him--you--off is to give us the intel we need."
"But what was I in there for? Why did you have me..."
"You see, Agent Watson, we needed you to think she was a terrorist, withholding information, just as we need Jabar to think she's a virgin, withholding her honor. The truth in either case is irrelevant; if our charade is good enough, we get what we need."
"Then... why..."
Jen wheeled her chair around the desk so that she was facing Watson across open space instead of a desk. He looked down to see that her feet were in nylon hose but not at the moment in shoes. "Don't ask why, Agent Watson. Don't ask why. You've done well, and you're not far from a big promotion and a big raise." She crossed her legs, and he could not help but notice his own desire to put hands on those lovely legs and silk-clad feet.
"When Jabar talks?"
"Certainly that, but I'd like to imagine better things beyond that for your future." Her feet began to rub against one another in front of her chair, and Watson could not help but look at her shapely calves and hear the near-invitation to ticklish touch that her nylons made as they rubbed. "What I'd like to imagine is getting in there with you so that I can have a go at that ticklish young thing. Between the two of us, we could turn her into one long, tasty bundle of ticklish nerves. I'd like to imagine your fingers and mine taking her everywhere you just took her, and then some." She began to lean back, cat-like, and extend her foot forward, lowering it slowly into his lap. He could feel the warmth of her leg through his pants. "And then I'd like to imagine you doing that kind of job on me, if you're man enough to try my kind of woman on for size."
"Um... I don't know..."
Her foot was now gently rubbing against his crotch. His eyes grew to saucer size as he learned of reserves of energy he hadn't known before. "What's not to know, Agent Watson? This is Gitmo; we make our own rules. All you need to know is that this room is completely sound-proof and bug-proof, and you're going to have to torture me good if you're going to force a promotion out of me. So what are you waiting for?" She reached over to his augmented-reality glasses and handed them to the young agent. "These should help you, because you're going to have to take me to the moon to get this promotion out of my feet!"
Behind the glasses, Watson's eyes lit up as he grabbed her ankle and got his fingers ready.
