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The Cult of Tickle Assassins II (F/F, F/F, */F, F/FF. Extreme themes. Sexual themes.)

TamiraK

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Joined
Jul 12, 2020
Messages
122
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18
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.


The Cult of Tickle Assassins II
by Tamira K.

Prologue

Syra Rahul was 19 years old when she got together the guy who was to become her first boyfriend. Because she met him at a bowling alley and this was such an all-American way to meet one’s sweetheart, she had romantic notions that they would be together forever. He was six years older than her, he drove a Mustang, he smoked and his name was Jack. He never wore a leather jacket, but she always pictured him in one.

One day Syra was walking home from her position as an undergraduate teaching assistant and glanced in the front window of her house. She was surprised to see Jack on the sofa with her younger sister, Janee. She could tell from Janee’s expression that she didn’t appreciate him being so close. Then Jack’s hand began to wander. Syra calmly opened the front door and entered the living room to find Jack standing in the middle of the room and behaving as though he had only just arrived. Janee was pretending that everything was okay but Syra knew her. She knew that everything was not okay and that Janee loved her and would want to protect her feelings.

Syra smiled at them both and proposed that Janee stay the night with a friend because Syra and Jack wanted to take the chance, while her parents were out of town, to have some privacy.

Jack liked this idea. Taking Syra’s virginity had been at the forefront of his mind since he met her. He wanted to add “Indian girl” to his list of conquests and the fact that Syra looked like a beautiful and sexy fusion of Lilly Singh and Jameela Jamil was obviously a huge bonus from his point of view. Syra said he could have all he wanted but that they would have to go at her pace. Jack readily agreed.

Syra explained that, for her to feel relaxed, she would have to take the lead to begin with and pulled out some silk scarves from her drawer. Jack was more than turned on when she tied his wrists together to the centre of the slatted bedhead and his ankles to the foot of the bed. His only disappointment was that, while she first removed his T-shirt, boots and socks, she left his jeans on. He consoled himself with the fact that he would be in charge soon.

Jack, however, never got that chance. He was taken to hospital after suffering a cardiac arrest but he could not be saved.

Syra was questioned extensively by police. They were suspicious of the red marks and scratches left on Jack’s body and how dehydrated he was. The experience put an end to the naturally sunny personality she had always possessed. She felt the walls closing in when she was visited by a broad-shouldered African-American man with greying hair and a soft, reassuring voice. He introduced himself as Mr Baker.

He said he had seen her files and that he would provide her with the best lawyer. The case soon fizzled out with a ruling of death by misadventure. Soon after this, the police department system was hacked and Syra’s files disappeared. When Syra asked why Mr Baker would do all this for her, he replied that he could offer her a new vocation.

She was very skeptical when she heard his proposal but then realised that he must be telling the truth — without asking any questions, how else would he be the only one who knew exactly how she dealt with Jack?


Chapter 1

Six years later…

The sun was setting as Syra ran through woodlands that neighboured the RID headquarters. Roads and fields had bored her even in her teens. Hills and remote pathways had their own level of tedium. Man-made obstacle courses were predictable and so she preferred the challenges provided by nature, although, now in her fourth year at the cult, most of this woodland was also pretty recognisable.

Her cell phone received a message as she closed in on her target distance. She raced through the mulch, leaped collapsed trees and ducked low branches to achieve her fastest time yet: 10k in 52 minutes and 41 seconds. She slowed to a stop and got out her phone. The message read:

Please come to my office.
B.


She made her way to a nearby path and jogged to the edge of the forest from where she could see, reflecting the golden glow of the setting sun, the public-facing apartment complex that stood atop the main subterranean headquarters.

She arrived at the blacked-out glass doors of the entrance, which almost hit her as Agent Cheryl Pereira threw them open. ‘Woah! Easy!’ said Syra.

‘Sorry,’ said Cheryl, almost changing the sincerity of the sentiment on the second syllable of the word once she saw who she was speaking to.

There was an unspoken animosity between the two women. From Cheryl’s point-of-view, they both turned 25 on the same day of the year but that was all they had in common. From Syra’s point-of-view, Cheryl had taken a dislike to her for reasons out of her control — a male trainee who had arrived at the same time as them both and who Cheryl fancied, didn’t look at her twice as soon as Syra crossed his field of vision. Syra overlooked Cheryl’s feelings to start and end a relationship with the trainee in the space of a month. She didn’t care whether she was liked or not. She accepted that being the youngest inductee in RID’s history to be promoted to the rank of Senior Agent came with its downsides, including being resented by her peers. She preferred spending time alone anyway — she was the one person she could depend on.

Syra noticed Cheryl’s black blouse, short skirt and high heels. ‘Off on a mission?’ she asked.

‘Just taking some private time,’ Cheryl replied and walked away.

‘Hey… I was sorry to hear about Savannah.’

Cheryl appreciated the sentiment. ‘Thanks,’ she said as she got into her car.


Chapter 2

‘Come in!’ said MS Baker.

Syra entered the office. Baker sat at his desk and opposite him Syra recognised the blonde curls of Agent Kirsten McKeran.

‘Take a seat, Senior Agent,’ said Baker. Syra noticed the lack of acknowledgement from Kirsten and the suppression of a haughty sigh at the pronouncement of her title.

At 32-years-old, Kirsten was one of the established agents who was taken aback by Syra’s swift promotion, however, she was self-aware enough to know that the disappointment at being overlooked had sparked an irrational resentment. Syra being seven years younger and seven inches shorter than Kirsten, who was six feet tall in her bare feet, also added to the humiliation she felt.

‘What’s the news, Sir?’ asked Syra.

‘I have a mission for you both…’ said Baker, picking up a remote control.

Syra and Kirsten glanced at one another, their concerns of having to work together confirmed.

A screen on the wall flashed to life, showing a photo of a tall, handsome-looking, middle-aged redhead in a suit and tie, her hands round the waists of two beautiful younger women.

‘Clarissa Powell,’ said Syra.

‘Yes,’ said Baker. ‘What do you know about her?’

‘British media magnate,’ said Kirsten, ‘Her politics aren’t exactly subtle — she’s a fascist.’

‘Anything else?’

‘She’s a narcissist,’ said Syra, ‘Driven by insecurities. She’s very wealthy. A lesbian, obviously. A staunch feminist, which is surprising as she seems to resent women almost as much as she has contempt for men. She uses her media organisation to squash anyone who she perceives as a threat. She has influence all over the world, which some have speculated goes beyond the influence of her media empire. She might gather dirt on people?’

‘All correct,’ said Baker.

‘She’s a bit more high profile than we usually get involved with,’ said Syra.

‘Yes. That’s why both of you are here. General elections are due to take place all over the world in the coming months. Public discourse is bitter and becoming more extreme, stoked by the views of Powell’s print media, online platforms and television networks.’

‘The client thinks getting rid of her will change that?’ asked Kirsten.

‘Not in the short term. But analysis has determined that the waters of division are choppy and we could do with a period of balance rather than someone who seeks to whip up a storm on a daily basis. Most predictions conclude something disastrous will take place if things continue the way they are going.’

‘It sounds like a political hit,’ said Kirsten.

‘Actually, you would be surprised at who has taken out the contract.’

‘But won’t she just get replaced by someone who is the same or worse?’

‘That’s not our concern,’ said Baker, ‘but procedures are in place elsewhere to influence what happens next.’

‘So, what’s the plan?’ asked Syra.

‘You’re going to do a little more recon than usual,’ said Baker. ‘She’s in the US for a fundraiser in Florida on Sunday and we don’t think she’ll be in the country long. We need to complete the mission before she leaves but she’s rarely without an entourage and she never goes anywhere without either her wife or daughter or both…’ Baker indicated the women in the photo.

‘Which is which?’ asked Kirsten.

‘The petite Latina lady on the left is her wife, Gabriella, 30, from Colombia. The tall blonde on the right is her daughter, Eadlin, from her first marriage. She’s 27. Clarissa Powell herself is 45.’

‘You mentioned additional recon?’

‘Yes. All of Powell’s communications are very well encrypted so we know little about her movements.’

‘A lifetime of snooping and making up shit about other people must make you paranoid,’ said Kirsten.

‘It seems that way,’ said Baker. ‘I’ve organised an auction item that you’ll be representing on the night as it’ll be the ideal place to meet her and see what you can find out.’

‘What do we know that might help us?’

‘She loves to tell pretty women that she can do favours for them so make sure you have something that may allow her to see you as a damsel in need of her help.’

‘What do we know about her wife and daughter?’ asked Kirsten.

‘Eadlin bounces from profession to profession — cosmetics diva, music producer, whatever takes her fancy. The wife, Gabriella, was a dancer until Powell saw her in a show in London and asked to meet her. They were married less than six months later and Gabriella doesn’t really do anything else apart from follow Powell around. It’s said that she showed no lesbian tendencies until she met Clarissa. She doesn’t seem to be particularly happy…’ Baker shuffled through several on-screen photos that showed Powell in the foreground and Gabriella behind her, looking less than content.

‘Hm,’ said Syra, ‘I wonder what it was that attracted Gabriella to the older, racist billionaire in the first place…?’

Baker smirked. Kirsten ignored the humour. ‘If she’s racist, is it a good idea to bring Agent Rahul?’ she asked, causing Syra and Baker to share a look. ‘I mean, Agent Smith is available. She’s white and attractive—’

Senior Agent Rahul is who I’ve chosen for this job, specifically because she is Sikh. As you are hopefully aware, Agent McKeran, racists can often be attracted to members of other ethnic groups because they like the feeling of having domain over them—speaking of which, there are rumours that Powell favours the kinkier side of life—but my main point is that having you both there will help cover the bases of ethnic preference.’

‘And what about the main question?’ asked Syra, ‘Is she ticklish?’

‘This is something we also do not have intel on. You will need to find out. What is of the upmost importance is that whatever happens to her, it needs to look like an accident. No marks. Nothing suspicious. There will be a lot of scrutiny on this one. Powell has a lot of extremist fans and any evidence of something untoward happening would only fuel conspiracy theories.’

‘I heard a rumour that there are new facilities being built?’ said Syra, referring to the new, fully-equipped underground safehouses that RID were constructing in several locations around the country for additional security when dealing with high-profile targets.

‘You heard right. Unfortunately, they’re not ready yet,’ said Baker.

‘Do we at least know where she is now?’ asked Kirsten.

‘Yes. She’s staying at the The Breakers on Palm Beach until Monday morning. After that, we don’t know,’ said Baker.

‘Maybe we should book in there. See if we can find any opportunities?’

‘Good idea. Your main challenge is going to be getting her alone,’ said Baker as he picked up his phone and pressed the keypad, ‘Get yourselves ready, I’ll arrange for a pilot to take you down there. Good luck.’

Syra and Kirsten stepped out of the office. ‘Okay,’ said Syra, ‘Let’s pack for a trip to Florida!’ Kirsten nodded and started to walk away. ‘Kirsten?’

She stopped. ‘Yes?’

‘We’re on the same team.’

‘I know,’ she said and walked away.


Chapter 3

The following morning Kirsten awoke early in her luxury hotel room and stepped to the window. She opened the curtains that overlooked The Breakers resort and beachfront and briefly contemplated the night flight with Syra, during which she could muster no more than one conversation topic. She knew her dislike for Syra was unfair and that she would have to get over it, she just didn’t know how.

From her 10th floor location, she watched as the gleaming orange sun sat above the horizon to the east and was able to briefly fantasise that the world was hers alone, save for the three albatrosses that flew casually along the surface of the ocean. As they disappeared into the distance, movement on the white sand beach caught her eye. The long shadow of a jogger bounced into view and, as she appeared from behind the parade of resort palm trees, barefoot and wearing state-of-the-art sportswear, Kirsten recognised Eadlin Powell. She jogged into the grounds and began stretching by a pool. She then unzipped her hooded sweatshirt to reveal a red bikini top and waved to someone. Kirsten pressed her head against the window to look down and saw the figures of Clarissa and Gabriella Powell stepping into the morning light.

Kirsten raced to her suitcase, threw off her nightclothes and pulled on a bright green bikini. She then put on hotel slippers, a dressing gown and sunglasses.

Syra was about to knock on Kirsten’s door when it swung open and Kirsten was slightly startled to see her there. ‘You weren’t here all night, were you?’ she asked.

‘Yeah. I like to listen to you sleep,’ Syra replied. ‘Early breakfast?’

‘I’m going down to the pool. They’re all there.’

‘Okay. I’ll get dressed and come meet you down there. What’s your plan?’

Kirsten shrugged. ‘Just make contact…’

Outside, Powell was laying on her front on a sun-lounger in a green one-piece bathing costume that emphasised the redness of her hair. Gabriella was reading, dressed in a designer white and gold bikini and loose-fitting beach shirt. Her sun-lounger was pulled adjacent to Powell’s, whose arm laid across her stomach as she read. Eadlin was swimming lengths of the pool.

Kirsten passed between the sun-loungers and the pool and noticed the contrast between the flawlessly pedicured toes of Gabriella’s dainty feet and the slightly calloused skin of Powell’s soles.

Eadlin’s gear occupied the lounger the other side of Powell. Kirsten dropped her gown on the lounger next to it, kicked off her slippers, sat on the edge of the pool and dangled her feet in the water. Eadlin was performing a breaststroke on the return length of the pool as Kirsten slid into the water and intentionally reacted to the temperature. Eadlin smirked and they caught each other’s eye. ‘I’m not good with the cold,’ said Kirsten.

‘It helps to cool you down after a morning run,’ said Eadlin. ‘You should try doing that first, then you’d be grateful for it.’

‘Thanks. Maybe I will,’ she said and began to swim.

Syra stepped from the hotel lobby in an orange bikini and sunglasses with a beach towel hanging from her arm. The click-clack of her flip-flops caused Powell to raise her head in order to throw a disparaging look at whoever was interrupting her peaceful doze. Her face softened as she saw the toned body of the young Indian woman approach and shuffle past her to the sun-lounger next to Kirsten’s.

Kirsten and Eadlin reached the edge of the pool and lifted themselves up simultaneously. They shared a polite laugh at the coincidence. ‘I’ll do more when the water is warmer!’ said Kirsten.

The sun was a little higher now and Kirsten laid back on her chair, water droplets glistening on her porcelain skin. She glanced at Powell, her face squished against the lounger, ogling both her and Syra with one open eye while her arm laid across the lean stomach of her wife. Kirsten closed her eyes, stretched herself out and basked in the attention, hoping it would lead to further conversation.

‘Mummy,’ said Eadlin, with quintessential British received pronunciation, ‘Did you bring my slippers down?’

‘No,’ said Powell, flatly.

‘That’s right, I asked Gabriella…’

‘I forgot! Sorry! Please — you can borrow mine,’ said Gabriella, with a Colombian lilt to her voice.

‘Gabriella, I’m a size ten and you’re a size four. Yours won’t fit me. I’m not walking into the hotel barefoot like a nomad!’

Kirsten recognised the opportunity, ‘You can borrow mine if you like. I’m a size ten.’

‘Oh…’ Eadlin hesitated, ‘Thank you. I’ll drop them back down after I’ve been in to get changed.’

‘No problem,’ said Kirsten. She glanced at Evelyn’s feet. They were elegant with long toes and the nails were painted a pale pink. ‘Went running without your shoes, huh?’ said Kirsten as Eadlin put on the slippers.

‘Yes. The sand is good for the feet — a natural pumice. It keeps them very soft and smooth. I’ll see you later.’

More early morning risers began to find their way poolside. Eadlin was well-used to the attention she received by passers-by and inhaled the air of lust as she swanked her way indoors.

‘That was very nice of you,’ said Gabriella.

‘Oh, it was nothing,’ smiled Kirsten.

Powell’s eyes popped open. Syra and Kirsten noticed the suspicion with which she looked at Kirsten. She then turned to Gabriella, ‘Turn over, baby. I want to hug my wife.’

Gabriella smiled at her. She put down her book adjusted her lounger. As Powell rested her head and closed her eyes Gabriella’s smile evaporated. Gabriella lay on her front and Powell’s arm landed on her back. She then rested her long leg over Gabriella’s, pinning it in place.

Kirsten used sign language to communicate with Syra: It doesn’t look like they’re eager to be sociable. What now?

Syra shrugged. At least you made a connection with the daughter. She contemplated a moment, seeing Powell’s foot hanging over the end of her chair. Let’s at least check one thing…

‘Oh, I forgot to order breakfast!’ Syra exclaimed. She then got up and walked along the pool edge, dropping her key card to the ground by Powell’s lounger. She knelt to pick it up and, as she did, she whisked a fingernail over Powell’s arch — there was no reaction. Powell looked over her shoulder and saw Syra crouching. ‘Sorry! I dropped my key card…’ as she stood up, she took the opportunity to swipe the rounded corner of the card along Gabriella’s trapped sole. Gabriella jolted in response and looked up, irked. ‘Oh my God, I’m so clumsy! Sorry again!’

‘Don’t you worry about it, Missy,’ said Powell with a wink as she encouraged Gabriella back down.

Syra smiled appreciation and headed for the hotel lobby. She suspected that this would not be a straightforward mission.


Chapter 4

That evening Syra sat at a corner table in the hotel restaurant and perused the menu. She was dressed in a casual but sexy little black dress and strappy heels, just in case the Powell clan made an appearance. Kirsten stepped into the restaurant, saw Syra and realised they were dressed almost identically except that she was also wearing stockings. She sighed and made her way over.

‘Perhaps we should consult to make sure we’re not wearing the same thing tomorrow night.’ she said and sat opposite Syra.

‘Did you manage any further contact today?’

‘I bumped into Eadlin in the gym and struck up a conversation. She seemed to be more enthusiastic about pointing out the hot guys in the room but was quite tight-lipped about their plans.’

A handsome young waiter approached and took their order. He couldn’t tell which of the beautiful women he wanted to flirt with more. ‘Nothing else, thanks,’ said Syra, plastering a fake smile on her face that indicated she knew what his next move would be. He walked away, embarrassed.

‘Have you had any luck?’ asked Kirsten.

‘No. They left the pool around noon. I followed them to a restaurant where they had lunch with both of the state senators. Clarissa downed about two bottles of wine in the process. They’ve been in their room ever since.’

‘Did Gabriella look happy?’

‘Would you?’ Syra responded. They both sipped water and Syra noticed a suppressed smirk on Kirsten’s lips. ‘What’s funny?’

‘I was just thinking about your “test” on Clarissa’s foot earlier. Did you get all the recon you needed there? Where did you learn that technique, from The Bashful Tickle Fetishist’s Book of Tips on How to Tickle Strangers?’

‘It was a valid move. And it told me what I expected. I’m pretty sure she’s not ticklish.’

‘You can tell that just by looking at someone?’

‘I have a sense for it and I’m always right,’ said Syra.

‘Or perhaps you create a self-fulfilling prophecy. If you imagine someone isn’t ticklish, it takes away your confidence and ability to find the right spots and techniques,’ said Kirsten.

‘I’m not that green,’ said Syra.

‘I never make assumptions,’ said Kirsten, taking a sip of her water. ‘You know what they say about books and covers.’

‘Yeah — you should read one sometime,’ Syra cursed herself for rising to the bait.

Kirsten was indignant, ‘And I don’t believe that one stroke of the arch tells you the full story about her feet, let alone the rest of her body!’

‘I tested the part where she’s most likely to feel it.’

The waiter approached with reasserted confidence, placed down their starters, refilled their wine glasses and said, ‘Enjoy your starters.’

‘Thanks,’ said Kirsten, whose turn it was to dismiss him with awkward silence. When he was out of earshot she turned to Syra, ‘You have no way of knowing that! You didn’t test her toes, heels, the ball of her foot…’

‘I didn’t need to,’ said Syra, taking the first bite of her meal.

‘That’s bullshit,’ said Kirsten. ‘So you think you know where someone is ticklish just by looking at them?’

Syra responded with a look to avoid repeating herself.

‘Okay, then…’ said Kirsten as she reached down and fiddled with something. ‘I am only ticklish in one spot on my foot…’ Syra was surprised when she felt Kirsten’s right foot rest on her left thigh under the tablecloth. ‘I’ll give you one go at finding it.’

‘Are you sure you’re not a size fifteen?’ said Syra, referring to the weight of Kirsten’s foot.

‘Why don’t you give me yours while we’re at it?’ said Kirsten, ‘I’ll show you what I know.’

‘That won’t prove anything,’ said Syra.

‘Why?’

Syra didn’t answer.

‘Oh,’ said Kirsten, ‘So you’re a tickly little fish? Don’t worry, I won’t make you fall off your chair in the middle of the restaurant, Senior Agent.’

Syra didn’t care for Kirsten’s tone but instead of pulling rank, she reached down and unbuckled the strap of her right shoe and rested her heel on Kirsten’s thigh. Kirsten glanced around to ensure no one was looking, then lifted the tablecloth to see Syra’s size five bare sole on her leg. She couldn’t help but notice the evenness of its creamy colour.

‘You should take a leaf out of Eadlin’s book and have your feet pumiced,’ said Kirsten.

Syra casually cut the food on her plate as though she didn’t recognise the jab that was intended by this comment. The only tell-tale sign from an outsider’s perspective that anything out-of-the-ordinary was going on was the two discarded shoes. She answered without looking up, ‘Are you going to keep marvelling at my foot or are you going to get on with it?’

Kirsten dropped the tablecloth and put her hand underneath. Syra’s eyes met hers and she was momentarily unsure of herself. She let two fingernails lightly tease at the middle of Syra’s sole, where the arch meets the heel.

Syra’s nostrils flared and she bit her cheeks. She looked back at her food in an attempt to distract herself from the sensations.

Kirsten was gratified at this reaction and scratched so lightly that she could feel the ridges of the prints on the skin of Syra’s heel.

Syra tried to act casually and put some more food in her mouth. In response, Kirsten intensified her actions. Syra tensed in her seat and snorted a little. She tried to pull her foot away but Kirsten slipped her other hand under the tablecloth and held it in place. Syra began to wriggle and tried not to spit out her food, ‘Okay! Enough!’ she whispered. Kirsten controlled her instincts and let the foot go. Syra immediately slipped her shoe back on.

‘There’s no need to look so smug,’ said Syra, composing herself. ‘You had a whole target to aim for. I’m the one who hits the bullseye every time.’

Kirsten looked defiant. Syra set down her knife and fork and lifted the tablecloth to see Kirsten’s large, stocking clad sole on her thigh. The black nylon was semi-transparent and the lines of the fabric wrapped around the contours of her foot in a way that made Syra concede that it looked like a work of art. She dropped the tablecloth and pinned Kirsten’s ankle in place with a strength that took Kirsten by surprise.

Syra pulled at the toes of the stocking. ‘You said you could go straight to it,’ said Kirsten. ‘Don’t be feeling around!’

‘I’m not. I’m loosening the nylon so…’ Syra cut short her explanation due to Kirsten’s self-satisfied expression. ‘Fine! You want me to go straight to it? Here…’ she said and pressed her finger into the nylon webbing between Kirsten’s fourth and pinky toes. Kirsten jolted in her seat and hit the underside of the table with her knee, causing the cutlery to rattle. She grabbed the side of her chair as she and Syra gave a polite nod to the waiting staff to let them know everything was alright.

Kirsten held her breath, her eyes locked on Syra’s. Syra pressed her fingertip deeper and rubbed the nylon between the toes, provoking a loud yelp. The waiting staff and several other diners looked round. Syra let her foot go and, in her haste to retract it, Kirsten kneed the table once more.

The waiter walked over, ‘Is everything to your satisfaction, ladies?’

‘Fine, thank you,’ said Syra, as though nothing had happened.

Kirsten watched him walk away as she slid her foot back into her shoe, flushed with embarrassment. ‘How do you do that?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Syra, ‘it’s a sixth sense.’

‘Can you teach it?’

Syra looked at her, ‘Teach you, you mean?’

Kirsten nodded, humbly.

‘I can give it a try,’ said Syra.


Chapter 5

The following evening Syra and Kirsten arrived at the The Breakers Hotel Circle Ballroom for the fundraising event. Syra was dressed in an orange, asymmetrical, silk dress, with a cut-out that exposed her waist on the right side and a completely open back, complemented by minimalist heels. Kirsten wore an elegant white off-the-shoulder Givenchy dress that hugged her in all the right places and 2.5 inch heels that made her tower above most people in the room.

They stood at the display of their silent auction item — a holiday to Fiji. As the room began to fill up they kept a keen eye out for Powell and her family.

A sixty-something-year-old with a dishevelled beard and a baseball cap stood next to them. He couldn’t have looked more out of place. ‘Evening ladies,’ he said, doffing his cap. ‘Can I interest you in a Captain Crispin plane tour? I’ll take you to Heaven and back!’ he said, handing them business cards with a self-aware humour.

Syra smiled, ‘Not a fan of heights, thanks.’

Kirsten spotted Powell, Gabriella and Eadlin at the far side of the room, encircled by a room of fawning socialites, ‘Over there,’ she said.

‘Let’s give it time,’ said Syra as interested parties perused their display.

Soon a familiar voice said, ‘Hello there!’

They turned to see Eadlin, ‘Oh, hi!’ said Kirsten and they exchanged air kisses.

‘I didn’t know you’d be here,’ said Eadlin.

‘Oh, yes. We have an item up for auction,’ said Syra. ‘A 10-night stay on the Island of Laucala.’

‘Fiji?’ said Eadlin, ‘I’ll bid on that. I’ll get Mummy to bid on it too. Come say hello.’

As Eadlin led the way, Syra and Kirsten exchanged a look at how unexpectedly simple the introduction process had been.

Eadlin obliviously pushed between the individuals waiting to have a private word with Powell. Powell was dressed in a tuxedo, her long, red hair tied up in a bun. Gabriella was exchanging mundane pleasantries with the partners of those who got the chance to speak with Powell, adorned in a glittering gold dress and a well-practiced polite smile.

‘Mummy,’ said Eadlin to Powell, ‘I want you to meet Kristen and…?’ she looked to Syra.

‘I’m Syra,’ she said, holding out a hand.

Powell’s eyes widened with desire as she took Syra’s hand, ‘You were by the pool yesterday morning. Dropped your key card.’

Syra nodded, ‘That was me.’

Gabriella was on autopilot and shook Syra and Kirsten’s hands without recognising them, ‘I’m Kirsten,’ said Kirsten, correcting Eadlin’s mistake.

Powell avoided her hand and instead put her arm around Gabriella, eyeing Kirsten with suspicion.

‘They are auctioning a holiday in Laucala,’ Eadlin said to her mother. ‘I’m going to put in a bid. Do you want me to put in one for you as well?’

‘Maybe later,’ said Powell. ‘So you’re working here?’ she asked Syra.

‘Yes.’

‘Is that what you want to be doing?’

Syra appeared awkward.

‘Come along…’ cajoled Powell, ‘Your boss isn’t here now.’

‘Well, I hope to one day do some modelling,’ said Syra.

‘And you should!’ said Powell.

‘I don’t know. I’m 25 now. Getting a little too old for it.’

‘Nonsense! You’re a stunner, especially for someone from your part of the world. In fact, a friend of mine who’s a magazine editor in London is looking for someone just like you.’ Powell pulled out a business card, ‘Email my assistant. I can help you with that.’

‘Oh, wow. Thank you!’ said Syra, biting her tongue. The “especially someone from your part of the world” comment was something that, if spoken by anyone else in any other context, would immediately require her to cut them off at the knees.

‘You’re welcome,’ Powell winked, leaning in and placing her hand on the area of Syra’s waist and ribs that were exposed by the cut-out on her dress. She flinched a little and the corner of her mouth curled upward. ‘Oops! Looks like you’re a little ticklish!’ said Powell and poked Syra’s waist.

Syra smiled wide and stepped out of reach. Gabriella looked away in frustration and Powell responded by hugging her in tight.

Feeling sympathy for Gabriella, Kirsten asked her, ‘How much longer are you in town?’

Powell’s jealousy caused her smile to dissolve, ‘We leave tomorrow.’

‘Yes. A short stay, unfortunately,’ said Eadlin. ‘Tomorrow we set sail for Bermuda before heading home.’

‘Aw, lucky you!’ said Syra.

‘Maybe we could take you with us, my dear,’ said Powell, prompting a sour look from Gabriella. ‘…maybe.’

‘You sail?’ Kirsten asked Eadlin.

‘It’s a figure of speech,’ said Eadlin, ‘Mummy has a new yacht and a Captain’s licence.’

‘Nice! Every yacht has its own name, doesn’t it?’ Syra probed.

‘Oh, don’t tell them, Mummy. It’s so embarrassing.’

Powell seemed about to embarrass her daughter when Kirsten spoke too soon, ‘You can tell us!’

Powell’s smile disappeared along with the name of the yacht. She spotted someone to whom she wanted to speak and took Gabriella with her without saying a word.

Eadlin scooped up a passing champagne and took a sip, ‘This champagne really is luscious, isn’t it? I’m thinking of getting into wine production and this is just the sort of thing I like… Right! I’m going to bid on your holiday!’ she said and walked over to the display, leaving Syra and Kirsten alone.

Kirsten looked sheepish. ‘That was a stupid mistake, sorry. Why doesn’t Powell like me?’

‘It seems like she thinks you want to seduce her wife,’ said Syra.

‘How did she get that impression!?’

‘Who knows? Look, we need to get the name of that yacht. We can’t stakeout every boatyard in the hope we see them leave.’

Kirsten thought for a moment, ‘I have an idea…’ Syra followed as she made her way over to Eadlin who was completing her bid. ‘Hey, Eadie, I’ve just had a thought.’

‘Yeah? What about?’

‘I’ve got an uncle who owns a winery about an hour from here. Most people know about the wines from California and Virginia, but in my opinion his wine tops the lot. He’s looking to sell up and retire but I reckon it would be a fabulous investment for someone who has a passion for wine and a good business head on them.’

Eadlin sipped her champagne, her eyes bright with tipsy inspiration. ‘Sounds good. Maybe I can visit when I’m back in a few months.’

‘Unfortunately he wants to put it on the market now. But if you came with me and liked it, you could have the first option on it.’

‘Okay, let’s do it! I can charter a flight to Bermuda in the afternoon. Let me just tell Mummy. Ooh, this is exciting!’ she said and flitted into the crowd.

Syra looked to Kirsten, ‘You have an uncle with a vineyard?’

‘No,’ said Kirsten, ‘But you remember Agent Coulson who retired a couple of years ago? He has one. He’ll be happy to help me out with what I have in mind. I’ll go call him.’

‘I’ll call him,’ said Syra, lowering her voice. ‘You talk to Eadlin and arrange to do whatever it is you’re going to do as early as possible so that you can let me know and I can get into a decent hiding place on that boat.’


Chapter 6

It was 8:45am as Kirsten and Eadlin, both wearing summer dresses and flip-flops, pulled off a main road onto the narrow dust track that led to the grounds of Autumn Leaves Vineyard, one hour’s drive north of West Palm Beach. Eadlin was excited to see a field of grape vines.

‘This is really nice of you, Kristen.’

‘Hey, I’m a really nice person!’ said Kirsten, swerving the opportunity to remind Eadlin of her actual name.

Up ahead a car drove towards them. Both cars slowed and had to move slightly off-road to pass one another. Kirsten recognised the driver to be ex-Agent Coulson. They stopped and wound down their windows.

‘Hey, Kirsten, good to see you.’

‘Hi, Uncle Teddy. This is Eadlin Powell, she’s real interested in your estate.’

‘I’m glad to hear it!’ said Coulson, ‘I’ve left the place open for you, exactly as you asked for… No one working today so you’ll have privacy. There are even some grapes to press, if you like!’

‘Ha! Thanks!’ said Eadlin.

‘Enjoy yourselves, girls!’

‘Thanks, Uncle,’ Kirsten said with a wink.

They pulled into a small parking area outside of the ramshackle main building and stepped out into the sunshine. ‘Cute!’ Eadlin exclaimed. ‘This is so rustic!’

The previous night Kirsten and Coulson had spent some time going over her plan and he gave her a walkthrough on a video call so that she was familiar with the layout.

They entered the front door into a sunlit reception room. To the left was a closed door with a large round, threadbare rug before it. Several cobwebs decorated the ceiling and another door lead downstairs. ‘It’s quite old then?’ said Eadlin, waving away a housefly before her attention was immediately drawn to a table, on top of which sat a bottle of red, two glasses and a note that read: This one’s on me! Uncle Ted. ‘How thoughtful!’ she said.

Kirsten poured two large glasses, ‘Let’s take the tour! This is the reception room. Let’s go downstairs…’ they stepped down the creaking staircase into the basement and became aware of the sweet, musty smell produced by decades of grape farming. A mechanical press and processor sat at one end of the room and, at the other, racks that housed 200 barrels stretched into the gloom.

As Eadlin examined the press Kirsten stepped over to a door that concealed a room directly beneath the reception area. She opened the door a crack, peered inside and quickly shut it again.

‘What’s that?’ asked Eadlin, ‘I should see everything.’

‘It’s a storage cupboard, full of junk. If we open it we’re likely to get caught in an avalanche of bric-a-brac. I’ll get my uncle to send you photos of it.’

As they arrived back in the reception area, Eadlin indicated the closed door, ‘What’s in there?’

‘It’s a restroom,’ said Kirsten. ‘Toilet, sink and a foot wash.’

‘Foot wash?’ said Eadlin, now a little tipsy.

‘Yeah, you know, from when people used to crush grapes with their feet. There are still a couple of vats outside. The occasional tourist likes to still come here and do some treading, apparently.’

‘Ooh, fun! Let’s!’ said Eadlin.

‘Okay,’ smiled Kirsten. They walked to the rear of the building where two large wooden vats were surrounded by long grass. A couple of ageing steps helped access to each of the vats. ‘Look, Uncle Teddy has put some grapes in there for us.’

Eadlin clapped excitedly and kicked off her flip-flops. She hitched her skirt a little and tentatively placed one foot in the vat, feeling some of the grapes pop and squish underfoot. She wrinkled her nose, ‘So slimy! Are you not getting in?’

‘No, I’ve done it plenty of times. Want me to hold your wine?’ said Kirsten.

Eadlin responded by draining her glass an handing it to her. ‘It’s a really strange feeling, isn’t it? I didn’t expect it to feel crunchy.’

Kirsten watched the ankle-deep burgundy carpet of grapes as Eadlin continued to stomp on them. The more she stomped, the more juicy the mixture became, with red liquid and grape peel squishing between her long, painted toes and splashing up her toned calves.

After fifteen minutes or so, Kirsten checked her watch — time was passing quickly. ‘Phew, this is thirsty work!’ said Eadlin. ‘Some of these little buggers keep escaping me. I can feel them slipping away each time I try to stand on them.’

‘Are you done?’

Eadlin nodded, ‘Yeah. But I’ll do it lots more if I buy this place!’

She took Kirsten’s hand as she climbed onto the step and slipped her flip-flops back on, which smacked against her skin as she walked, ‘Eurgh, it’s all sticky now.’

‘That’s what the foot wash is for,’ said Kirsten.

‘Oh, yeah!’

Kirsten’s heart was beating fast as she led Eadlin back inside. This was a gamble and it had to pay off. She placed the wine glasses back on the table as Eadlin headed for the restroom. She was about to open the door but as she stood on the threadbare rug she heard a cracking, tearing sound and before she could react the floor went from beneath her and she shrieked. Like water rushing into a sinkhole, the rug was pulled with her as she dropped. She put her hands down to try and prevent herself from falling through the floor but the rug continued to slip, taking her hands with it into the hole, rumpling at the edges and wedging her tight around the forearms and waist.

Kirsten watched as this old-school trick worked like a charm. ‘Oh, my God!’ she cried, as though in a panic, ‘Are you okay?’

To Kirsten’s slight surprise, Eadlin responded with laughter. ‘This is hilarious! I can’t move! You’re going to have to get me out of here.’

Kirsten continued her flappable act, ‘How?! I can’t pull you by the head! I’ll go downstairs and see what I can see…’

‘Okay!’ said Eadlin, still finding the situation highly amusing.

Kirsten went downstairs and entered the small room that she had prevented Eadlin from seeing, closing the door behind her. Eadlin’s long legs dangled from the ceiling, skirted by the torn rug. Stepping into the room and closer to the young woman’s feet, Kirsten wondered if she would be able to emulate Syra’s ability to guess if and where Eadlin’s large soles and long toes were ticklish. One of her flip-flops was still on her foot while the other lay on the floor. Both feet still dripped with sticky grape juice.

Splintered balsa wood and sawdust were scattered from where the floorboards had been deliberately weakened. She looked up and saw that the hole had been made in exactly the right spot — a ceiling beam crossed between Eadlin’s legs, meaning that the only way out was up.

Kirsten approached an old air vent at the side of the room. A large plastic sewing box with a sliding lid had been propped on top of a tall ladder in front of it and wedged against the wall with the top of the box open against the vent. She carefully slid the top shut, lifted the box down and sealed the open ventilator. A smell of rotting fruit emanated from the box, as did a deep hum of white noise.

She rotated the box and, through the transparent plastic lid, she saw a pile of fruit peelings and hundreds of house flies. ‘Thank you, Coulson,’ she said to herself.

‘Can you see anything that will do the trick?’ called Eadlin.

‘I’m not sure yet!’ Kirsten called back.

She placed the box on floor directly under Eadlin’s dangling feet, swiftly pulled open the lid and retreated to avoid the black swarm. She rapidly left the room, closing the door before any of the flies could escape.

She went upstairs and found Eadlin to be less amused with the situation.

‘Well?’ asked Eadlin.

‘Sorry, your legs have gone into that other room downstairs. It would take me a while to clear it out and pull you down. I think the only thing to do is to try and pull you back up but I don’t think I’m strong enough.’

‘Oh, this is silly— Wait…’ she frowned.

‘What?’ asked Kirsten.

‘Something’s touching my leg.’

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know. A spider or a mosquito or something. Get off!’ she said, irritated and evidently kicking her legs. She waited a second, ‘Okay, it’s gone. Try and pull me—’ an unexpected titter interrupted her.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Kirsten.

‘I can feel more of those things. They’re crawling on my toes. It must be flies, attracted to the grape juice!’ she said.

‘Oh, no, really?’

‘Yes, I— Agh…’ Eadlin clenched her teeth, trying to endure the sensations. She wriggled more vigorously as she kicked. Kirsten heard her second flip-flop fall to the ground. ‘My God, there are loads of them!’ she said, with a slight giggle in her voice, ‘They’re really tickling me!’

Kirsten had to disguise a sigh of relief, ‘Ha! Are they? That’s quite funny.’

‘No, it isn’t!’ insisted Eadlin but another giggle burst from her lips. ‘Get off me!’ she shouted.

In the dark basement room Eadlin’s legs thrashed wildly but the cloud of excitable flies were undeterred and pretty soon she was exhausted from the effort. The wooden beam prevented her from knocking her legs together and so, as each fly left her skin, it was replaced by another, attracted by the scent of the sweet grape juice. From the splashes that had reached her knees and thighs to the liquid that covered her calves, ankles and feet, there wasn’t an inch of skin that didn’t have an insect rapidly crawling on or feasting from her.

The majority of the flies congregated at Eadlin’s feet, where the juice was at its most concentrated. They probed the creases of her skin and the crevices of her toenails in an effort to find every last drip of the plentiful supply of sugary goodness, their wings occasionally buzzing between her toes.

‘P-please!’ said Eadlin, her ability to resist almost at its limit. ‘You’ve got to get me out of here!’

‘Why?’ smiled Kirsten. ‘It looks like you’re enjoying it!’

Eadlin wanted to give Kirsten a no-nonsense look. She was not used to people not taking her seriously but she couldn’t control the loss of control that was bubbling up inside her until it overflowed in a stream of high-pitched, girlish giggles.

Kirsten allowed herself to laugh at her. Although she was the daughter of a sociopath and well on her way to being one herself, there was something delightfully endearing about the innocence of her ticklish laughter.

‘C-c-c-come on, Kristen! I can’t bear it! Oh, my God, it’s so tickly on my poor-hoor-hoor toesss!’ she cried before falling into out-and-out hysterics.

‘This is too good an opportunity to pass up!’ teased Kirsten, ‘I feel like I should be interrogating you! Let’s see, what should I ask…?’

Eadlin looked at her with disbelief, unable to form words due to the intense sensations that enveloped her legs and feet.

‘I’ve got it! How about: what is the name of your mother’s boat that you were so embarrassed about last night?’

Eadlin responded through constant laughter, ‘I’m not telling you that!’

Kirsten folded her arms, ‘Fair enough! Maybe the flies will get tired in three or four hours!’

Eadlin’s eyes filled with tears of laughter as she gave another fruitless attempt at getting her arms free.

‘I’m waiting…!’ said Kirsten with mock seriousness. Inside, she was nervous that the information would not come. Plan B was to go downstairs, let the flies escape and use her own techniques, but that would extinguish all pretence of playfulness.

Just at that moment the flies that had been feasting at her knees and thighs finished their morsels and, with no vacant space around her feet and ankles, many of them climbed higher…

These new explorations around Eadlin’s upper thighs and pantyline induced an increased level of panic. ‘OhmyGod! OhmyGod! You’ve gotta get me out! Get me out—!’ she punctuated this statement with a scream of hysteria that dissolved into helpless laughter.

‘I only wish I could!’ said Kirsten, ‘but the name of that boat is the safe word!’

‘I-It’s Mummy’s Little Cherub, okay!? Mummy’s… Li... HA HA HA HA—HELLLP!!!

‘Okay, okay. I was only teasing!’ Kirsten had to shout to be heard over Eadlin’s laughter as she stepped behind her and rapidly texted Syra. She put her phone back in her purse and stooped to put her hands under Eadlin’s armpits.

‘C-CAREFUL!’ Eadlin shrieked, ‘I’m t-tickly there too!’

‘Oh, really?’ Kirsten sneered, ‘Then perhaps we should also have a lesson on how to pronounce my name…’


Chapter 7

Syra sat in the shade of a palm tree on the grounds of the Rybovich Superyacht Marina, having guessed it was the most likely marina for the Powells to use. She had planned to follow them after they checked out of the hotel but had misjudged their time of departure. When she made enquiries she discovered that they had left very early that morning. Irritated with herself and aware that she could do nothing to speed up the process of gathering information from Eadlin, she decided to meditate. She was dressed in a black spandex crop-top and jogging shorts and was resting against a compact backpack.

Her phone beeped and she picked it up without hesitation. A text message from Kirsten read: Mummy’s Little Cherub. ‘That is embarrassing,’ she muttered and made her way to the main reception where a brief enquiry informed her that the yacht had left the marina just after 6am. Syra stepped outside and made a phone call.

‘Hello Senior Agent,’ answered Baker.

‘Hello, Sir. The target has departed. We had no opportunity while she was here.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘On a yacht, headed for Bermuda. I have an idea, but I need a lift. Do we have any transport in the area?’

‘I’m afraid not. You think you can complete the mission without being seen?’

‘I can complete the mission, Sir,’ she said, and hung up.

She flagged down a taxi and twenty minutes later she arrived in the car park of the south entrance to Palm Beach International Airport and luck was on her side — she immediately spotted the dishevelled beard she was looking for. ‘Crispen!’ she called as she exited the cab and paid the driver.

The captain turned as he heard his name called. He squinted at Syra from under his baseball cap, trying to place her.

‘Hi. We met last night? At the silent auction?’ she said as she approached.

‘Oh, yes! You were the juicy little satsuma standing next to me!’

‘I’m not exactly sure what that means, but yes, I was. I wondered if you were available to take me up? I mean, now.’

‘Less afraid of heights with ol’ Captain Crisp’ by your side, eh?’

‘I have an incentive.’

‘Really? Well, I might need one too.’

‘I thought you might,’ she said, unzipping a pocket on her pack and handing him an envelope.

He opened it and thumbed through a wedge of hundred dollar bills. ‘That’s an incentive.’

‘Yeah. Plus, it comes with a side order of no questions asked and the ability to forget me as soon as we’re done.’

Crispen looked at her with a straight face, ‘If there’s one thing that makes me an excellent pilot in my refined years, my dear, it’s the blank spots in my mind created by Wild Turkey, dementia and a fat wad of cash.’

‘Marvellous,’ said Syra.

In less than an hour she watched from Captain Crispin’s Cessna 150 as the coast receded into midday mist and all that was visible was the shimmering blue of the Atlantic ocean.

‘You know, there’s a lot of water between the USA and Bermuda!’ shouted Crispen over the sound of the engine.

‘I do know that, yes,’ Syra replied as she surveyed the ocean with binoculars. Just then her attention was caught by a yellow glint in the distance. She focussed her view and spotted a somewhat modest 20m super yacht at anchor with a gold-painted gunwale and lettering on the side that read Mummy’s Little Cherub.

‘It’ll be difficult to—!’

‘This is where I get off!’ she interrupted as she secured a parachute over her backpack and pulled on some goggles. She knew that parachuting involved a risk of being seen but she didn’t want the additional risk of the plane’s engine drawing attention to her. ‘Stay high!’ she shouted.

‘I always am, darlin’!’ Crispin replied as she jumped.

The plane grew distant behind her and banked back towards the coast. Syra’s hair flapped in the wind as she skydived towards the boat. She deployed her parachute and aimed for a spot about 30m off the starboard side. She couldn’t see anyone up top and so assumed that Powell, Gabriella and any crew were below deck. She pulled off the goggles and dropped them, clutched the buckles of the harness and detached them around 30 feet from the surface.

The parachute caught the wind and flew in the opposite direction as Syra performed a near-silent swan-dive into the water. She twisted so that the trajectory of the dive propelled her towards the boat, dispersing a shoal of Spanish mackerel. She flowed as far as she could before breaching the surface to take a breath. There was still nobody on deck.

She could hear jazz piano music floating over the air and submerged to swim closer but as she did so, she noticed a large shadow pass beneath her. She stopped and looked into the gloom of the deep…

Nothing.

All she could hear was the thumping of her heartbeat in her ears and the ethereal echoes of the ocean. With oxygen running short, she kicked her legs to keep moving but as she did, something bolted at her from the shadows like a rocket. She just had time to recognise it as a marlin some ten feet in length with it’s spear-like snout aimed directly at her chest. She instinctively twisted and parried the spike with her forearm and it sailed past her, launching itself out of the water. She kicked for the boat as the marlin coiled in the air and plunged back down, unintentionally spearing straight through Syra’s backpack. Panicked, the fish lashed its tail and headed for the safety of the deep, dragging Syra with it. Syra pulled against it to no avail and, as the surroundings turned cold and the surface became more distant, she unclipped her backpack and swam for air. She had time to look down and see the marlin shaking violently as it disappeared into the depths, taking with it her bag of tickle tools, bondage equipment and her cell phone.

Syra breached the surface next to the rear of the boat and gasped for breath as silently as possible, knowing that the element of surprise may well be over. She was ready to take action but there was still nobody to be seen. ‘Jesus,’ she whispered to herself, ‘I never thought I’d get mugged by a fish!’


Chapter 8

The music emanated from below deck. She pulled herself gently onto the transom, removed her trainers and socks and crept silently along the side of the yacht, peering into a window that looked down into the empty kitchen. She went further and looked into the bedroom window — a compact but luxurious room with a cream carpet, gold-trimmed sandalwood closets, an antique chair and a double bed. On the bed lay Gabriella in just her brassiere, her raven hair splayed out on the pillow. Kneeling between her legs knelt Clarissa Powell, naked except for her panties. She was using a 10-inch dildo on her wife. Gabriella had her eyes shut tight, trying to exhibit pleasure while obviously not enjoying herself.

Syra returned to the transom and softly trod down the stairs and past the toilet and shower rooms. There were no other people onboard. She padded through the kitchen with the thought in mind that, with her equipment gone, this mission had become even more difficult and would require some improvisation, especially in order to prevent leaving marks on Clarissa Powell’s body. She hesitated outside the bedroom as she heard Gabriella deliver the most strained of fake orgasms she had ever heard.

Powell looked down on Gabriella. There may have been a part of her that knew she wasn’t giving her wife the glorious climax that had just been portrayed but her ego was fed enough to overlook it. ‘That’s right, my girl,’ said Powell, ‘Give it all up because now it’s my turn. I want you to French kiss it: long and slow…’

Gabriella tightened her lips into a smile of acquiescence but then noticed a movement over Powell’s shoulder, where stood Syra in the bedroom doorway. Gabriella screamed, nearly bucking Powell off the bed.

‘What the—?!’ said Powell, before turning to see Syra. ‘Where the hell did you come from!?’

Syra smiled, coyly. ‘I’m sorry, I thought I was invited.’

‘You were not invited! How did you get here?’ shouted Gabriella, lapsing fully into the Spanish accent she often tried to conceal and pulling on her white lace panties.

‘I stowed away,’ said Syra, looking at the floor. ‘Sorry. Did I get the wrong end of the stick?’

‘Yes!’ shouted Gabriella.

Powell eyed Syra with caution, ‘We didn’t give you the name of our boat.’

‘I know,’ said Syra, ‘I took a lucky guess. As your daughter was so embarrassed by it, when I wandered the marina and saw Mummy’s Little Cherub, I thought that must be it.’

Powell smirked a little at Syra’s ballsiness. At the same, she couldn’t help noticing her sexy legs and tight body. ‘Why are you all wet?’

‘I’m sneaky but I’m clumsy. I just feel off the back.’

‘Well, you’ll have to go! You can’t stay here!’ said Gabriella.

‘How’s she going to “go”?’ said Powell. ‘We’re not travelling back.’

‘I don’t care!’ said Gabriella, ‘Let her swim!’

Powell cocked her head in response then turned to Syra, ‘You’ll have to excuse my wife’s Latin temperament.’

Syra registered that Powell had taken no steps to cover her bare breasts, which looked to be around a 34DD. She had obviously had some work done to them but they still looked great for a woman of her age and the rest of her body matched, obviously her vanity causing her to spend as much time in the gym as possible. Her red hair cascaded over her shoulders and she looked the most seductive she had done since Syra met her. Syra suspected she was well aware of this fact and wanted Syra’s appreciation.

‘Well…’ said Syra, ‘Maybe I could make it up to you both.’

‘How? Are you going to go in the kitchen and cook us a meal?’ Gabriella snapped.

‘No. Not in there. In here,’ said Syra.

This was followed a silence, caused by inner turmoil for both Powell and Gabriella. Gabriella didn’t want some new beautiful, young woman to capture Clarissa’s attention but also liked the idea of not having to pretend to enjoy giving Powell oral pleasure for once. Powell, meanwhile, felt the potential to be jealous at another woman touching her wife but she was really turned on right now and wanted nothing more than to rip this delicious Indian girl’s wet clothes off and expose that tight young body.

Gabriella opened her mouth to speak but Powell got in there first, ‘What did you have in mind, Missy?’

Syra stepped forward, seductively, ‘I thought you might want to see me giving your beautiful wife a good time.’

Powell’s libido wrestled with her green eyes, ‘I might like that. What do you say, Gabbi?’

The fact that Gabriella wasn’t leaping at the opportunity allowed Powell to feel as though she remained in charge. She moved over to the chair, leaving the bed vacant for them both. Gabriella looked to Syra, who knelt on the lower end of the bed, which was solid, immobile and had round corners. There was no way to tie anything to it. She needed to buy some time.

Gabriella stepped forward and also knelt on the bed. Syra leant in and the two of them shared a light, tentative kiss. They looked at Powell who was still on the cusp of whether she was comfortable with this.

Syra could see the uncertainty in her eyes and so slowly and deliberately lifted off her wet spandex top and cast it to one side, freeing her breasts and throwing fuel on Powell’s desire. Syra kept constant eye contact with Powell as she leant forward and guided Gabriella to lie down. Syra kissed slowly along her thigh until Powell slid her hand down and inside her panties.

Syra smiled, ‘Oh, no,’ she said.

‘Pardon?’ said Powell.

‘No touching yourself. This is to turn you on and then let me finish you,’ said Syra.

Powell faced another inner turmoil: being told what to do by anyone—let alone a young, brown-skinned person—was such an anathema to her that she felt the need to assert herself. Then again, with nobody else looking, she could allow herself this one unusually sexy fling and then ditch the girl once they reached Bermuda.

She slowly retracted her hand.

‘You’re used to being in control aren’t you?’ said Syra, provocatively.

Powell nodded.

‘Would you permit me to be in control for a while… Sir?’

Powell raised an eyebrow. Syra knew that using “Sir” rather than “Mistress” was a gamble but seeing as Powell dressed in typically masculine clothes when she wanted to assert dominance, it just felt right to her. And it worked.

‘Yes,’ said Powell. ‘You may.’

Syra sat up, as though she had just thought of something. ‘Wait here,’ she said and went to the kitchen.

Powell and Gabriella exchanged a look as Syra went through some drawers in the kitchen. She then returned and approached Powell with a roll of plastic wrap.

‘And what are you going to do with that?’ asked Powell.

‘You’ll see,’ Syra smiled and she swiftly and expertly twisted the wrap around Powell’s upper body and the chair. This eventuality was so unexpected and out-of-the-ordinary to Powell that she watched on in fascination for some moments before realising that she was held fast with her arms slightly behind her body. She instinctively responded by straining at the wrap. ‘Oh, no. Don’t struggle. Just enjoy…’ said Syra as she wrapped each of Powell’s legs to the chair legs. By the time she was finished, only Powell’s feet, ankles, knees, thighs, stomach and head were left exposed.

Powell didn’t appreciate the squashed effect this had on her breasts under the transparent cling film. ‘Okay, that’s enough,’ said Powell. ‘Time for you to get back on the bed.’

Syra responded by stepping over to the closet. She pressed a narrow drawer and it opened, serving her a selection of silk ties. She pulled out two and turned to Gabriella who had been watching in stunned silence this whole time. She was not used to seeing Powell out of control and looking somewhat ridiculous. Syra approached her. ‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘You’re not tying me up!’

‘I’m afraid I am,’ said Syra.

Gabriella protested again and was about to get off the bed when Syra grabbed and twisted her arm behind her. ‘No!’ she shouted and stamped down on the top of Syra’s foot. Syra winced and pulled her onto the bed by the hair. Her arms were already tied behind her. Syra quickly wrapped her ankles and tied them to her wrists, leaving her hogtied, face down on the bed.

Powell watched, not sure whether to be turned on or concerned. When she again felt how securely she was tied to the chair, her concern was undeniable.

Hija de puta! I don’t like being tied up!’ screamed Gabriella.

‘Shut…up!’ said Syra.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Powell.

Syra’s pretence of coyness was now gone. ‘Taking control, like we agreed,’ she said. She went behind Powell and teased under her hair and around her neck with her fingernails. Powell took it in her stride. ‘I need to give you both attention, don’t I?’

‘Let me go!’ shouted Gabriella.

‘Shhh,’ said Syra. ‘The thing about those knots is that the more you struggle, the more they tighten and unless you do as I say, you may not get out of there.’

Gabriella glared at her.

Syra knelt in front of Powell and grazed her fingernails lightly over the tops of her large feet. They twitched lightly, but not in a way that would ever produce any great effect. She moved up to the knees, circling them lightly and squeezing them in the right place: nothing. She could feel Powell looking at her. She increased the pressure and grazed her fingernails over her thighs and looked up. Again, nothing.

‘This isn’t working for me,’ said Powell.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Syra who quickly plucked at the sides of Powell’s tummy like a harpist. At last, Powell jumped in her seat.

‘Ooh! Looks like you’re a little ticklish!’ said Syra, quoting Powell’s words back to her. She plucked again.

Powell was prevented from wriggling by the plastic wrap but a smirk coiled at the corner of her mouth, ‘A little, yes. But don’t do that, it’s irritating.’ Syra did it again and Powell jumped a little more. ‘I said: don’t!’ she shouted.

Whilst Gabriella felt contempt for Powell in many ways, there was something disturbing about seeing the woman who she allowed to dominate her get dominated by this silly young stranger. ‘Coño! She said leave her alone!’

Syra stood up. She was anxious that she would not be able to dispose of Clarissa Powell in the required manner and she was irritated that this Colombian golddigger was insulting her. She pulled another tie from the drawer and gagged Gabriella with it before she could say anything more, tying it tight. Gabriella growled in fury.

‘There,’ said Syra. ‘Now pipe down!’

As she retreated from the bed she trickled her fingers over one of Gabriella’s upturned soles. Gabriella’s growl effortlessly melted into a shriek and giggle and Syra again knelt in front of Powell, plucking at her tummy again. Unfortunately she had lost her previous sensitivity.

‘Okay, don’t give me any more shit, girl. What is it you’re after? Money? Some sort of blackmail material? Or are you some kind of tickle obsessive freak?’ said Powell.

Syra didn’t answer, she just kept trying to elicit even just a small giggle.

‘Wait a minute…’ said Powell. ‘R.I.D.

Syra looked up.

‘Oh, my God. That’s it, isn’t it!? I thought that was just a legend! You’re from the cult of R.I.D.!’ she laughed, ‘And this is how you’re trying to kill me!? How’s it working out for you?’

Syra blanched as Powell laughed again. She had never failed before and she couldn’t think of what protocols she would have to follow at this point. If she dumped Powell overboard there would certainly be suspicions of foul play if she washed up, Saran-wrapped in the St Johns River. And, unlike anyone Syra encountered before, she seemed to get less susceptible to tickling the more she laughed.

‘This is hilarious!’ crowed Powell, ‘I am going to do the biggest exposé on you and your cronies the world has ever seen! Talk about a clown outfit! You’ll be disbanded and lynched as soon as we touch shore in Bermuda! I have a personal line to the White House!’

As Syra’s mind raced to work out what to do, she saw Gabriella smirking at her with distain. Anger overtook her and she jumped on to the bed, scrabbling her fingers over Gabriella’s soft, size four soles. Gabriella immediately erupted into wild cackles of laughter that were at odds with her stunning beauty.

‘Finding this funny, are you?!’ Syra shouted. ‘Then I’d better show you what I usually do!’

Syra dropped her fingers into the creases under Gabriella’s beautifully soft toes. Gabriella screamed and laughed harder.

‘Leave her alone!’ said Powell, attempting to assert some casual authority.

‘I don’t think I will!’ said Syra. ‘I think she deserves this!’

Syra ran her fingertips over the tanned tops of Gabriella’s flawlessly pedicured feet, her toes painted a deep red. Gabriella whined in protest but the whines broke into giggles and she wriggled as best she could but Syra kept her pinned in place.

‘I said get off her!’ Powell demanded.

‘Very well,’ said Syra and she darted over to Powell to scramble fingernails over her flanks.

Powell stiffened in the chair and a titter burst from her lips as she strived to contain it. ‘Not quite ready, I don’t think…’ said Syra, as though checking on a roast leg of lamb. ‘I think we can do without this shit, though,’ she said, kicking the music system and putting a halt to the jazz piano.

She went back to the bed and nonchalantly pushed Gabriella’s legs so that she toppled onto her side, facing Powell. Gabriella shook her head and pleaded unintelligibly through her gag as Syra’s hands approached her knees. Gabriella saw this and her voice raised several octaves in panic. Syra stroked and twisted her fingertips down and up over both smooth knees with the pulse of a jellyfish. Gabriella squeezed her eyes tight and fell into a machine gun of high-pitched giggles.

Jealousy began to creep over Powell as she watched this insolent Indian girl put her hands all over her wife and forced her to laugh. ‘Stop—!’ she said, but Syra predicted this demand and timed a gentle squeeze just above Gabriella’s knees, prompting a scream so loud with laughter that nothing else could be heard.

‘STOP THAT!’ Powell bellowed.

‘Or what?’ asked Syra. ‘You already said you plan to destroy my life!’

Powell was lost for a believable retort. Syra untied the gag around Gabriella’s mouth.

Para de hacerme cosquillas!’ she pleaded. ‘Por favor!

Syra responded by pressing her thumbs into the muscles at the top of Gabriella’s thighs. She shrieked and writhed in abandoned laughter, tugging against the hogtie.

Syra unexpectedly rushed to Powell and began tickling her waist. Powell looked to the ceiling and gave a resistant moan before falling into deeper giggles than before. ‘This isn’t going to work for you!’ she said through her laughter. ‘I’m nowhere near ticklish enough for it to kill me!’

Syra lurched back over to the bed and clamped her hands around Gabriella’s waist. She squealed and thrashed her head. As Syra had suspected, this was her most ticklish area. Syra’s fingers crawled firmly up and down Gabriella’s ribcage, instantly finding all the sweet spots. Through streaming eyes and a beautiful mouth distorted by laughter, Gabriella looked to Powell. ‘Mi amor! Por favor! Make her st-ah-ah-ha-ha-ha-haaap!

‘Get off of my wife!’ yelled Powell, her cheeks flushing red with anger.

‘Erm… No!’ Syra taunted as she slid her fingers under Gabriella’s armpits.

Para ya! Nooo ahí-eeeeeee!’ screamed Gabriella, throwing her head back in undiluted hysterics.

‘I said get off her!’

Syra jumped back to Powell and wriggled her fingertips intently at her waist. The look on her face as it crumbled from anger into laughter was a wonder to behold but Syra knew that she was right — she was not going to die laughing. She needed another weak spot.

Syra went back to the tie drawer and pulled them all out. She knotted them together, lifted the mattress and looped the lot around it. She then turned her attention to Gabriella, who began to whimper, ‘Don’t keep ticklish me! Please! Is too much! Let me go! You want her not me!’

Powell was stunned by this treachery and both women saw it. Syra smiled as she untied Gabriella’s ankles and secured them to the loop of ties at either edge of the mattress. Gabriella now lay with her arms wrapped behind her and legs apart.

‘That’s how you feel, is it? You ungrateful bitch!’ yelled Powell. ‘You can forget about everything you ever wanted in your life from now on! We’re finished! I’ll make the air around you so toxic nobody will ever speak your name again! You can go back to that slum you lived in before you were lucky enough to meet me! So, do what you want with her!’ she shouted at Syra. ‘Tickle her till she can’t fucking breathe!’

Syra was now kneeling on the bed between Gabriella’s legs. Gabriella looked up at her in fear. Syra turned to Powell and said, ‘You are correct — I can do what I want with her. But that’s because I say so. Not because you do. You have no power over her any more. The same as you’ll never have any power ever again. People suck up to you because they want something from you, not because they want to know you. Your power; your ego is built on intimidation and lies. And the world is a worse place with you in it. Even the people who are on your side know that. They just don’t admit it.’

‘Don’t moralise to me,’ barked Powell. ‘You’re a sick whore for whoever pays you to murder. And this time you failed!’

Syra didn’t answer. She was analysing Gabriella’s semi-naked body. ‘You’re so busy making up lies to benefit yourself, you don’t take the time to look for the things that would benefit others — the things that would make them truly appreciate you.’

Her vision locked on to a patch of skin just above Gabriella’s left hip and around one inch in diameter. She slowly brought two fingertips down towards it. Gabriella let out a hopeless whine and her body tensed as she could sense how ticklish this was going to be. ‘Ple-hease!’ she started to giggle, ‘I’m begging you! No more tickli—’ she jolted as just the very tips of Syra’s fingernails made contact. She twisted from side to side, wailing and cackling with helpless laughter.

Powell looked on in pleasure at seeing this treacherous bitch tortured.

Syra’s fingertips moved almost imperceptibly, teasing the tiny hairs all around Gabriella’s wonderfully soft patch of skin. Gabriella’s panicked laughter was causing her to feel light-headed. Her cheeks twitched and her lips, although stretched wide with laughter, quivered. She felt a new sensation expand from the patch of skin above her hip. The sensation was somehow both mental and physical. Her breathing became gradually shallow and she began to spasm as the sensation engulfed her entire body and wrapped her mind with an overwhelming fuzzy feeling. All of a sudden, she recognised what was happening to her as she let out a throat-wrenching orgasmic scream.

Powell watched, confused, as her wife’s back arched and she unconsciously presented her pussy to Syra Rahul.

Syra was smiling back at her, ‘I think I just gave your wife something you never did!’

Powell struggled powerlessly in the chair, her face flushed red with hatred, ‘You fucking whore! I’ll fucking destroy you…!’

Syra left Powell to seethe as she again applied her fingernails to the patch on Gabriella’s waist and swiftly brought her to a greater, earth-shattering orgasm.

‘…I’ll finish you and your entire scumbag family, you fucking pak—’

‘Uh-uh!’ said Syra, racing over to Powell. ‘I think we’ve heard enough talk from you!’

Syra applied her rapidly scurrying fingertips to the taught muscles of Clarissa Powell’s tummy. This time the laughter came with a strength that matched her ego-fuelled fury. Her head thrashed and she laughed out loud in a way that she had never done in her life. Syra tickled all over her exposed tummy and lower ribs relentlessly, watching her muscles ripple and contract.

Powell tried to beg but helpless laughter stole every word from her lips. She was left wide-eyed and screaming, the skin on her face almost purple and veins pulsing on her forehead until, in a single moment, she stopped — her eyes bloodshot and her mouth frozen in silent open-mouthed laughter. Her head flopped forward and covered her face in a mane of red hair.

For several moments Syra stayed where she was. The only sound was the lapping of waves against the hull. She couldn’t believe she had made it happen.

There was one fly in the ointment to take care of — she turned to face Gabriella, who was watching her in stunned silence.

‘What happens now, Gabriella?’

‘I… Don’t know.’

‘There are two options. Either you are going to report what happened here, in which case you will be tracked down and tickle-tortured until you expire. Or, you are going to keep quiet and become the beneficiary of billions of dollars that, if Clarissa had lived, you would not be entitled to. Which is it?’

‘It’s not a difficult choice, is it?’ said Gabriella.



Epilogue

As she approached Baker’s office, Syra saw Kirsten approaching from the opposite direction.

‘Just got back?’ said Kirsten.

‘I have. It’s not quick when you’re in the middle of the Atlantic and have never sailed a yacht before.’

‘Congratulations, Senior Agent,’ smiled Kirsten, ‘and thank you. I learned some important things on this mission.’

‘It’s Syra to you, okay? And I learned some things too — there is something in what you said about self-fulfilling prophecies. I’ll try not to make assumptions again,’ she said. ‘Well, I’d better get to it. Have you seen Baker already?’

‘Yeah. See you at breakfast?’ asked Kirsten.

‘Sure,’ smiled Syra as she knocked on Baker’s door.

‘Come in!’ said Baker.

Syra entered and took a seat.

‘Welcome back, Senior Agent. That was a job well done.’

‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Syra.

‘And I hear you’re a ship captain now too?’

‘Not quite.’

‘Well, I hope it didn’t leave you too tired because I need you to head straight out again on, what is unfortunately, an extremely unique mission.’

‘What is it, Sir?’

‘One of our agents has gone AWOL. We need you to find her and bring her back. If she doesn’t want to come back…you know what to do.’

‘Wow. Okay,’ said Syra. ‘Do I know the agent?’

‘Yes,’ said Baker, ‘It’s Agent Cheryl Pereira.’


THE END
 
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Darn, part of me hoped Syra was going to mess that up and her targets found out just how ticklish she was..

A good story.
 
OMG. Amazing. Congratulation. Can't wait for the next part.
 
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Darn, part of me hoped Syra was going to mess that up and her targets found out just how ticklish she was...

A good story.

Who knows what the future may bring...?

Really great story! Fine work !

Thank you! :)

OMG. Amazing. Congratulation. Can't wait for the next part.

Thank you for saying so! :) Hopefully there may be a part III!

This is called a 'Perfectly Perfect Story -Plot, Style, Diction just superb.

Very nice compliments! :blush: Thank you!
 
GREAT CONTRIBUTIONS - thank you !!

Your stories are very well written and you have a wonderful imagination!
 
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