Haven
by Tamira K.
PART I
CHAPTER 1
‘Do either of you know why she invited us?’ asked Zafirah Khalil.
‘No,’ replied Lydia Goodman.
Yvette Baudelaire gave a slight shake of her head. She was piecing together the commonalities that the women and their host shared: female, single and multi-billionaires (although not via the same means). The meeting was most likely to do with finance but as each of them either had previously had nothing to do with each other or, in the case of Lydia Goodman and the host herself, had been fierce competitors in business, it was unwise to lay bets on exactly what the reason would be.
They were in the circular top-floor restaurant of The O Bar. While Zafirah and Yvette sat patiently, Lydia stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows taking in the view that included Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Opera House. A cruise liner blew smoke from its funnel that cast a haze into the otherwise clear and crisp August air.
Lydia eyed the clock – it was 9.29am and 36 seconds. ‘Whatever the reason and despite the impressive breakfast she inevitably has in store for us, I do hope she won’t be late,’ she said with what Yvette perceived to be deliberately accentuated received pronunciation.
Just seconds before it turned 9.30am they heard the maître d’ bid someone welcome and soon Ngaire Brown rounded the bar to where the others were waiting.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ she said and held out a hand. She shook the hands of all three, bowing slightly when it came to Zafirah. ‘Please: take a seat. I’m very glad you could all make it.’ She signalled the maître d’ who smiled from a distance and went to signal the chef to begin.
Lydia tried to ignore her in-built resentment that Ngaire had retained her broad, working-class Australian accent. Whenever their interests had collided and lawyers got involved, she couldn’t help but imagine that, although they were both self-made billionaires, people respected Ngaire more because she came from a meagre background and was twenty-eight when she made her first billion, whereas Lydia had a Berkshire-British accent and was five years older.
‘I don’t usually allow my bodyguards to be so far away from me,’ said Zafirah.
‘I know, and I do appreciate that Miss Khalil. I’m sure they surveyed the building closely enough. They certainly searched me before I came in. Be assured, we’re very safe here but I did want complete secrecy for what I would like to discuss.’
‘Excuse my cutting to ze chase,’ said Yvette, ‘but I have anozzer meeting at lunchtime zat I cannot be late for, so I would like to ensure we fully cover why it is zat we are here.’
‘Of course,’ said Ngaire. ‘While some of us haven’t officially met before and some of us are very familiar with one another…’ she flitted a knowing glance at Lydia, ‘I have a very serious proposition and I couldn’t think of three women—three people—in the world who are better to share it with.’
The women waited as Ngaire contemplated how to continue. There were many routes she could take, but she decided to go with the technique that came most naturally: being forthright.
‘It’s time for change. Big change. History, and most recently the evidence of our own eyes, tells us that when it comes to the crunch, we should be very cautious of the trust we place in men. We can’t trust them to put the people before self-interests; we can’t trust them to take the peaceful route when they need to measure their dicks and we sure-as-shit can’t trust them to set aside their ego or admit their ineptitude to ensure hundreds of thousands of people don’t die in a pandemic! On the other hand, most female world leaders have been outstanding!’
Lydia nodded agreement. The others awaited further explanation.
‘On a smaller scale, we have all experienced pain at the hands of men: Yvette, you were nearly bankrupted by your gold-diggin’ husband; Lydia, both your husbands cheated on you; and, Miss Khalil…’ she paused as Zafirah lowered her eyes. The physical and mental abuse her oil baron husband inflicted upon her for years before his death were well-documented in the press. ‘…I’ve experienced the same as you.’
Zafirah met her eye. ‘You have a solution?’
‘Not a solution for the world, but an answer for those that want it.’
‘Go on,’ said Yvette.
‘There is an uninhabited island in the South Pacific, between New Caledonia and Vanuatu. For decades the French government have looked into establishing a community there, but various issues have kept it from happening. Last week I went to France and had a meeting with the President…’
Yvette raised an eyebrow at the influence Ngaire evidently had in her home country.
‘He would be willing to sell that island.’
‘Sell it?!’ Yvette exclaimed.
‘Yes. The pandemic hit the world hard and France is no different. The island is just sitting there, so I persuaded the President of the benefits in letting it go for a very healthy profit.’
‘You’re suggesting we pool together,’ said Lydia.
Ngaire didn’t answer, but her expression said it all.
‘Set up a new community on an island?’ said Zafirah. ‘But how would being under French rule stop us being governed by men?’
‘We wouldn’t be under French rule. For the price we discussed, the island would have total independence, territorial waters, guaranteed trade routes and… trust me: I’m not someone who overlooks the finer details. I’ve wanted this since I was a child. It’s the vision that got me where I am.’
‘How much are we talking about?’ asked Lydia.
Ngaire reached into her handbag and picked out an Aurora Internazionale fountain pen with an 18 karat gold nib and wrote on her serviette – folded, to shield the content. She turned the serviette to face the other women and opened it.
Accustomed to keeping a poker face, they each absorbed the figure with the respect it deserved.
‘Even we four cannot cover zat,’ said Yvette.
‘Not without further investment, no. But, as long as we are the major contributors… I mean, we each have a history of being successfully persuasive,’ said Ngaire. She was encouraged that the others seemed to be considering it.
‘How would it be governed?’ asked Zafirah.
‘Democratically. Parliamentary, with a Prime Minister and balanced constituencies. But with lessons learned from the mistakes made by “first world countries” and their ancient constitutions; we won’t blindly follow outdated rules. We will preserve the natural resources and beauty of the island—and believe me, ladies—it is a paradise on earth. If you don’t want to live there yourself, it will be the perfect vacation spot and you get the option to pick the spot for your mansions overlooking the white sand beaches or lush forests or the majestic central mountain. The only difficult choice is whether you want the master bedroom to face the sunrise or the sunset.’
The ladies’ poker faces cracked with smirks.
‘It truly does sound like a paradise,’ said Lydia. ‘But aside from placing women in charge—’
‘Not just in charge. The entire island will be female only.’
There was a surprised silence.
‘How will zat work?’ asked Yvette.
‘We will process applications from women all over the world who want to live in a utopia away from men. We’ll have to establish a cut-off point in numbers and we will balance applications based on fair criteria to ensure we get an impressive workforce to make us a country to be reckoned with.’
‘What about children? I mean, boys?’
‘I’ve thought about that: single mothers are obviously welcome, but I suggest if they have sons they will need to leave before secondary school education. This issue will need some discussion. But imagine it: devising the world’s best education system from scratch!’
‘We would become a political target for male-led states that felt threatened,’ Lydia contemplated.
‘When have we ever not been targets?’ said Zafirah.
Lydia concurred. ‘I’m just mentioning it. What about exports?’
‘Darlin’, there’s room enough to set up industry without destroying the environment and we could start from a position of being genuinely carbon neutral and solar powered. Yes, there would be import costs, but we could devise our own tax systems. We could even work together rather than in competition.’
‘It really does sound like a paradise,’ said Yvette.
‘Ladies, while Zafirah is still young, the rest of us are in our mid thirties. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to wait any longer to live in an ideal world… Speaking of which, I would insist everyone has your French accent, Yvette – I love it!’
Zafirah and Lydia smiled agreement.
There was a pause in discussions as the maître d’ oversaw two waiters arrive with the breakfasts and refreshed drinks.
As the men retreated Yvette noticed Zafirah deep in thought. ‘What’s on your mind, Miss Khalil?’
‘I assume that we would want a progressive society?’
‘That’s right,’ said Ngaire, ‘Science over bullshit. It’s better to move forward than back.’
‘Everyone has a vision of paradise when they first start out, but divisions always occur. How can you enforce a liberal society in a democracy?’
‘First, I would regard liberal to be the true sense of the word rather than the politically stained insult that it’s become in some quarters. I’m a believer that the best things exist in balance rather than extremes – sometimes a little bit left, sometimes a little bit right but always level-headed. The only thing I could be accused of having a right-leaning view on is law and order – we would need a strict deterrent to stop people undermining our society.’
Zafirah sat back. ‘Saudi Arabia has the death penalty. I have known people who were innocent when put to death and I’m not able to accept—’
‘Excuse me, Miss Khalil – I’m not talking about capital punishment,’ Ngaire interrupted. ‘But I am talking about a corporal punishment of sorts.’
‘Of sorts?’ said Lydia.
‘Yes. It’s a particular method that is rarely used these days and, if used in the right way, can be extremely effective. If you like, I can take you all on a tour tomorrow to show you what I mean.’
Intrigued, the women agreed.
CHAPTER 2
At noon the next day a cavalcade of limousines arrived in a humble street on the suburban border of Grays Point and the forest of Campbells Creek, which lined part of Sydney’s outer perimeter.
Ngaire Brown waited on the driveway of a house midway up the road. There was an ironic smile on her lips as the cars pulled up.
Lydia, Yvette and Zafirah were escorted from the limousines by their personal security teams. For Zafirah, this consisted of six men in suits and dark glasses. Lydia and Yvette were content with a subtler entourage of two each. All approached Ngaire.
‘Well, if the neighbours weren’t suspicious of what went on here before, they probably are now!’ said Ngaire.
‘You’re right,’ said Zafirah. She turned to her head of security, ‘Ahmad, satuntazar 'ant warijaluk huna.’
Ahmad directed his men to take positions surrounding the house.
‘Attendez ici, s'il vous plaît,’ Yvette told her team.
‘You too, Zoe,’ said Lydia to her head of security.
‘I’d be happier if someone came with you, madam,’ said Zoe. ‘I can leave Callum outside.’
‘Do you mind?’ Lydia asked Ngaire. ‘It ticks the box of ladies only!’
Zoe was just under six feet tall with the lean build of a national team rugby player. Ngaire observed her unwavering stern expression and military gait but resisted the kind of crass crack her father may have made, such as, ‘You sure about that, Daalin’!?’
‘No worries at all. Let’s go inside.’
The ground floor of the bungalow looked very comfortable and lived-in, much like the other houses on the street, but Zoe could tell it was as much a genuine home as the set of a sitcom is. A hostess served them drinks and Ngaire led them to a door secreted in the back of the bedroom closet, which opened onto a wide circular staircase that led down to a sterile-looking steel-walled basement.
‘I built this place years ago so that tests could be carried out in private,’ she said.
‘What kind of tests?’ asked Yvette.
‘I found law enforcement practitioners and interrogation specialists from all over the world in order to research the possible techniques that could be employed in punishment, interrogation and rehabilitation. I was seeking something that would do the job and also felt somewhat humane.’
The basement was divided in two by a wall with a window and a steel door. While the window was obviously a two-way mirror, the light on the other side of the wall was off and so they could not see in.
The door opened and from out of the shadows stepped an imposing figure: around the same height as Zoe, with wavy black hair and the air and looks that would have her labelled as an “ebony goddess” in certain circles. She wore loose-fitting cream cotton top and bottoms, with a flowing drape shrug and bamboo flip-flops, which gave the impression she was about to instruct a meditation class.
‘Ladies,’ said Ngaire, ‘I’d like to introduce you to Kisi Baidoo.’
The women introduced themselves.
‘Good morning. It’s nice to meet you all,’ said Kisi with a silky Ghanaian accent.
‘Were you waiting in there with the lights off?’ asked Ngaire.
‘I was. I do like to make an entrance,’ she said with arid delivery.
‘I’ll leave it to you to explain why I’ve asked you to be here.’
‘Of course. Ladies, I am an ex-agent of Ghana’s National Intelligence Bureau. I have had dealt with with organised crime, espionage, drug trafficking and terrorism by means of interrogation for the purposes of counterintelligence.’
‘You torture people?’ asked Zafirah.
‘Yes,’ she replied, unabashed and without hesitation. ‘During my time at the N.I.B. I helped prevent three major terrorist attacks and place all of the major players behind one of the biggest drug trafficking organisations in jail.’ She was very matter-of-fact.
Yvette marvelled at Kisi’s cheekbones, highlighted by the basement down-lighters. Because she had made some of her wealth in fashion and lifestyle publishing, if it hadn’t been inappropriate to do so, she would have immediately handed Kisi a card with the intent of placing her on the cover of her next magazine release.
‘I do not know of any “paradise” that endorses capital punishment,’ said Zafirah.
‘Perhaps we need to be informed of the specific methods you use, Ms Baidoo,’ said Lydia.
‘I was just about to suggest the same thing myself!’ said Ngaire. ‘But we can do one better than describing it. Over to you, Kisi.’
Kisi stepped back into the darkness of the room, closing the door behind her. Ngaire encouraged the others over to the window.
The lights flashed on to reveal a white room with a digital timer on the wall, set at one hour, and a state-of-the-art St. Andrew’s Cross situated in the middle. To the frame, a young woman was attached at the ankles, wearing just lycra shorts and a crop top.
The women could hear no sound from the room as the young woman raised her arms and Kisi clipped padded metal cuffs around her wrists to keep her in place. Kisi spoke with her in a friendly manner although it seemed that they were not especially familiar with one another.
‘’oo is zat?’ asked Yvette.
‘This is one of our volunteers,’ said Ngaire. ‘Her name’s Sarah. She’s a Lieutenant Commander in the Royal Australian Navy.’
‘Does she ‘ave any secrets to divulge? Or any incentive not to divulge zem? I mean, she’s not in danger, no?’
‘Not secrets, but her commanding officer is an associate of mine. If she doesn’t pass this test, she won’t be considered for a promotion for another year.’
‘And what test is zat?’
‘She has a safe word that she is not allowed to say for one hour. If Kisi gets the safe word, I’ve agreed to give it to her superiors. And, I can assure you, she wants this promotion.’
Kisi tapped a digital panel on the wall and the clock began to countdown. She then stepped in front of the Lieutenant Commander and they could lipread her asking, ‘Ready?’
Sarah took a deep breath and nodded.
Kisi leant in close and whispered something. Sarah frowned a little in confusion, but wiped the expression from her face as Kisi stood upright and placed her fingers at Sarah’s wrists.
Zafirah dreaded what she was about to witness, but her mouth dropped open when Kisi began gently teasing her long fingernails at Sarah’s wrists…
Sarah jolted as though given an electric shock.
She clenched her eyes and mouth tight as she resisted.
Kisi’s fingernails trickled their way down her bare forearms, causing her to tug at the restraints as they reached her inner elbows.
In contrast to the expression on Sarah’s face, Kisi appeared serene and talked to her constantly. Suddenly Sarah panicked in response to something that was said and she looked, wide-eyed at Kisi, shaking her head and pleading.
Kisi’s fingernails continued their journey down Sarah’s triceps and as they approached her underarms she became more frantic until Kisi stimulated her armpits and she threw her head back and laughed.
There was the faint sound of a scream through the soundproofed walls and Sarah shook her head emphatically as she spoke through her laughter.
Kisi replied and nodded to the clock. There were fifty-nine minutes left.
Sarah cried out, prompting Kisi to stop – a subtle smile on her lips. She unclipped the wrist restraints and Sarah instantly hid her face in her hands.
Ngaire pressed a button on a wall-mounted touchscreen and the window misted over. ‘Let’s give her privacy to get dressed,’ she said.
‘Are you serious?’ asked Yvette.
‘Very much so.’
The door opened and out stepped Kisi. ‘Molten Breakaway three zero five is the code,’ she said.
The Lieutenant Commander left the room and hurried for the stairs without acknowledging her audience.
‘This is what you specialise in?’ Lydia asked.
Kisi nodded.
Lydia turned to Ngaire, ‘And out of all the law enforcement techniques, this is the one you have found to be most effective? Who have you tested it on?’
‘Volunteers. Men and women who were well-paid for their time and silence; who pride themselves on their ability to endure anything. From athletes and extreme sports fanatics to secret service agents, but mostly military personnel. This can be used for everything from interrogation to punishment to negative reinforcement rehabilitation. It could revolutionise law enforcement worldwide!’
Lydia was trying to digest the concept when an uncharacteristic change in Zoe’s expression caught her attention. ‘You have an opinion, Zoe?’
‘Excuse me for saying so, but I don’t buy it,’ she replied.
‘You just saw what happened,’ said Ngaire.
She didn’t answer.
‘You think Sarah was a set-up?’
Zoe gave a nominal shrug. Irked, Ngaire looked to Kisi who seemed unmoved.
‘If that’s the case…’ said Kisi, ‘there’s only one way to settle it.’
‘And how is that?’ asked Zoe.
‘You come into the room.’
A silence fell across the basement.
‘I’m here to protect Miss Goodman,’ said Zoe, ‘Getting locked in a room where I can’t see her isn’t an option.’
Lydia was curious – Zoe had been by her side for over five years and was the toughest and most resolute person she knew. ‘I believe I’m perfectly safe here, Zoe. This is a substantial investment I am considering. I trust you with my life and, if you wouldn’t mind, it would help me to make my decision if I knew your evaluation.’
‘But, madam, what she did in there doesn’t affect me.’
‘That’s all the more reason for me to entrust you with this.’
Zoe considered a moment then acquiesced: ‘Lead the way,’ she said to Kisi.
Ngaire tapped the touchscreen and the window cleared. Again there was silence as Kisi explained to Zoe that she needed to disrobe. Zoe took off her jacket and began to unbutton her shirt.
‘Zis is somesing that people do—parents do, friends do, lovers do—all ze time, every day, all over ze world, no? How can it be ze groundwork for law enforcement?’ asked Yvette.
‘Parents, friends and lovers each use it in a specific way, Yvie. So will we,’ said Ngaire.
‘Your lady requires something special up her sleeve for this one, Miss Brown,’ said Lydia as they watched Zoe step into position in generic sports underwear and socks. ‘My girl is a uniquely unbreakable biscuit. I’ve known her since she was 27 and in the last five years don’t believe I’ve ever seen her smile.’
‘She’s not the first fitty I’ve seen on that cross,’ said Ngaire. ‘Let’s just see how it goes…’
CHAPTER 3
Kisi began in much the same way as before and drew slow, snaking strokes with her fingernails from Zoe’s wrists to her underarms. Zoe showed no signs of responding. In fact, both women continued to talk as casually as if they were discussing business matters over coffee.
Kisi lightly dragged her nails up and down Zoe’s sides, then criss-crossed over her chest before slowly sweeping down between her breasts and towards her firm stomach.
‘Is she trying to interrogate her or turn her on?’ asked Yvette.
Ngaire didn’t answer. She noticed something the others didn’t: the merest of involuntary retractions by Zoe’s tummy as Kisi grazed a single nail along the waistband of her knickers. Kisi noticed it as well and repeated the action, but it had less effect the second time round and was gone altogether on stroke number three. Undeterred, Kisi lightly scratched her fingers around Zoe’s waist. She had to stand close in order to trace up and down her back before crouching to draw her fingernails over Zoe’s buttocks and forward over her hips.
With one hand, Kisi released the lower section of the frame, which smoothly lifted Zoe into a seated position with her legs straight out in front. Without breaking contact, Kisi locked the frame into position and proceeded to gently and repetitively claw, hand-over-hand, down Zoe’s legs.
Zoe blinked fast and stirred in the seat, as though trying to relieve an ache or push an unwanted thought to the back of her mind. Her legs tensed slightly, displaying the muscle definition in her thighs as Kisi’s hands stroked her leg over and over again, edging a little lower each time.
Eventually Zoe took a deep breath, rested her head back and focussed on the ceiling lights. Kisi continued the same technique all over and down her knee and shin before expertly inserting a finger into her sock and effortlessly slipping it off. Without skipping a beat, she arrived at the top of Zoe’s other leg and began again.
As the second sock popped off to bare the second of Zoe’s unsurprisingly large feet, Ngaire glanced at the clock. 15 minutes had passed.
Kisi stood between Zoe’s feet and drew her nails slowly over the top of them. Zafirah held her breath. Then Kisi swept gently down the sides, around her ankles and swiftly back up her soles.
‘Oh, dear God,’ said Zafirah, averting her eyes in empathy.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Yvette.
‘I couldn’t take that!’
‘It doesn’t seem to be affecting Zoe,’ said Lydia. ‘I’m not sure Miss Baidoo has many options left.’
Ngaire held her tongue and kept watching. Kisi’s fingers sped up on Zoe’s soles and then stopped suddenly. Ngaire couldn’t see her expression; she hoped Kisi was not losing her patience.
Kisi moved behind Zoe, slowly dragging her nails up her leg and across her stomach as she did so, which for some reason reminded Lydia of a she-devil’s tail. Nails scratched lightly up and down the skin of Zoe’s back with one particular area on both sides provoking an almost imperceptible wriggle.
Yvette hummed softly with her own empathetic appreciation. Lydia glanced at her: she appeared to be turned on by the spectacle in front of them. ‘Are you all right, Yvette?’ she asked.
‘Oh yes,’ said Yvette, her eyes glued to the scene.
Lydia sighed. ‘How long until she gives up?’
‘Which one?’ Ngaire responded.
‘Look, it’s obvious this isn’t—’
She was interrupted as Kisi thrust the second knuckle of both index fingers into the muscles of Zoe’s back. Zoe arched forward and threw her head back in a startled snarl.
‘That’s not what she was doing before!’ said Lydia, angrily. ‘Get her out of there!’
‘Look again,’ said Ngaire.
Zoe pulled hard at the restraints, her teeth gritted and her eyes wide as she attempted to evade the pressure being drilled into her.
She had nowhere to go. Her reaction wasn’t the same as Sarah’s, but Lydia was still concerned. Kisi grabbed at Zoe’s torso, which made her yelp in surprise. She grabbed at her lower ribs; her upper ribs; her waist; her armpits, all with firm pressure and intense wriggles and, just as she thought she might be able to withstand it, Kisi pressed with the same intensity into those vulnerable spots on her back.
Zoe spasmed and twisted in the frame. She was wholly unfamiliar with this kind and concentration of touch and swapped between squeezing her mouth and eyes tight in an attempt to maintain her composure. She found herself all the more sensitive due to the light strokes and scratches that had been lavished all over her body and which had given her a false sense of security. She tried all she could to zone out the sensations, but an unfamiliar feeling of anticipation was building inside her.
Suddenly, Kisi pinpointed two sensitive spots deep in the muscles either side of her waist and she realised that her impending reaction was inevitable. She turned to the mirror with an apologetic expression.
From the other side, Lydia could tell Zoe’s look was intended for her. She watched as her head bodyguard’s tough persona contorted into a beautiful laugh.
Kisi was expressionless as she spoke. Zoe shook her head and continued to laugh. Kisi shrugged and doubled the speed at which she wriggled her grip into the flanks of Zoe’s belly. Zoe bellowed with a laughter so loud that Lydia could hear it quite clearly.
Kisi stepped swiftly to Zoe’s feet and, without a break, scrabbled her long fingernails all over Zoe’s soles. Her reaction was in stark contrast to what it had been before: she jerked forward with an instinct to clutch and protect her feet, which, of course, she could not. Instead she laughed with enforced glee, her eyes wide as though if she stared hard enough she could create some kind of barrier. Kisi spoke again, but Zoe’s response was the same as before – she shook her head, but this time with that frozen wide-eyed and open-mouthed clownish expression.
Kisi leaped back to Zoe’s upper body and began scratching erratically at her tummy. Zoe was again surprised by the intensity of the sensations and she screamed with laughter and protest. Kisi was now in her face, talking at her non-stop. Zoe was shaking her head and trying to speak between bouts of laughter until, with 22 minutes left to go, she nodded.
Yvette turned to Lydia. ‘I sink your cookie just crumbled, no?’ Lydia was unable to look away, unlike Zafirah who had her back to the window.
Kisi kicked off a flip-flop and lifted her foot effortlessly into the air to tap a button on the control panel with her toe. A speaker came to life in the main room and Zoe’s laughter filled the basement.
‘Miss Goodman, your head of security has something to tell you,’ said Kisi. ‘Go on,’ she ordered with a quick press into her waist.
‘AH-HAAHKLLL!’ wailed Zoe, ‘OKAY! OKHAY-HAY! M-Madam! I admit ittt! I’m… I’m t-ticklish!’ As soon as she spoke the word, her head flopped forward, ashamed that a vulnerability had been discovered and exposed in front of the powerful women at the window.
Ngaire held a button on the touchscreen, ‘Thank you very much, Kisi. I think that’s enough.’
Kisi nodded. The speaker was silenced and the window again misted over.
‘Different people require different approaches to break down their defences,’ said Ngaire. ‘And that’s why Kisi is an expert. She can train up an entire team.’
While Zafirah felt compassion for anyone who was being tortured, she understood the benefits of this method. Yvette was surprised at her own reaction – she hid how turned on she had became while watching the demonstration. Meanwhile, Lydia felt a little stung at the fact her head of security had been broken by tickling, but her curiosity was satisfied.
‘There’s just one additional piece of information we need to know,’ she said.
‘What’s that?’ asked Ngaire.
‘Do you have a name in mind?’
Ngaire smiled. ‘Yeah. I’d like to give a nod to its French history, so I thought we could name it L'île de la Paix: The Island of Peace.’
CHAPTER 4
As soon as the deal was agreed, progress was swift. L’île de la Paix quickly became a country with which everyone was familiar and with a very strong economy – both factors due to an extraordinary oversight on the part of the French government and extreme stroke of luck for the founders: when work began on the site that was due to be home to L’île de la Paix’s second largest city, construction crews discovered what turned out to be the world’s seventh largest gold mine.
Consequently, France’s president failed in his re-election bid and the Paix Dollar became established as a strong new currency on the world market.
In less than a year a constitution had been agreed and strict but fair processes were established, exactly as Ngaire Brown had envisaged. The island became a melting pot for 7.5 million women from almost every country in the world; from the poor and in need of asylum, to the talented, independent and wealthy.
Four years later, the island exceeded everyone’s initial expectations and, while there were cries of inequality because men were not permitted to reside or holiday there, it lived up to its name as The Island of Peace because crime was virtually non-existent and the newly-established lifestyles created a true sense of community among most of the residents.
…among most of the residents…
PART II
CHAPTER 5
‘You can’t!’ said Mikey. His eyes were flooded with tears.
‘I can – it’s all arranged,’ said Olivia, pulling on a jacket with the most dispassionate expression he had ever seen on her beautiful face. ‘You can’t stop me.’
‘And you can’t just calmly announce that you’re pregnant with my kid and leavin’ the country!’
She recoiled in disgust as strings of saliva formed in his mouth. ‘Do you have to salivate so much when you’re upset? Be a man, for Christ’s sake!’
‘Why are you doing this to me!?’
‘Look, I told you we were over weeks ago. That doesn’t change just because you didn’t pull out in time.’
‘You said you were taking precautions!’ he yelled.
‘Please don’t get aggressive with me!’ she said, raising her voice toward the neighbouring apartment. ‘You can’t stop me living my life! Now, if you want what’s best for your baby and if you ever want to see it when I visit my folks in Melbourne, I suggest you pay me child support every month! You have my account details.’ She opened the door to leave.
‘Can’t we just give it another go? For the benefit of the kid!?’ he pleaded.
‘No,’ she said flatly. As she pulled the door shut, her final snapshot of Mikey was of him sinking to his knees, head-in-hands.
‘Fuckin’ imbecile,’ she muttered to herself.
Outside, Brianna Woroson’s pokey little Ford, which Olivia Jenson suspected may be the rattiest-looking car in Australia, was idling. Olivia exited the apartment block and got in. ‘Let’s go.’
Brianna pulled out into the evening traffic. ‘How did he take it?’ she asked.
‘Like the loser he is.’
‘Ah, jeez, you can’t blame the guy.’
Olivia winced at Brianna’s turn of phrase. Although they had both grown up in the same area, it grated on her that Brianna had never made a concerted effort to lose her outback accent. But Olivia had never come across anyone else who was as willing to accept her personality or bend to her will as Brianna. She hoped that moving to L’île de la Paix would give her the opportunity to find a decent social group and drop the dead weight.
At 24-years-old, although she was taller and slimmer than Brianna, Olivia supposed they were both on the prettier side of the girl next door description and she was happy with that because she knew how to utilise it: she knew how to dress down when she wanted to merge into the background. Conversely, she knew how to wash and condition her long, straight dark hair until it swayed as she walked and the shine drew attention; she knew how to highlight her deep brown eyes so that they hooked whichever man she flashed them at; and she knew how to dress and carry herself so as to turn every head in the room.
Sadly, Brianna placed more importance on eating McDonald’s than appearing hot. That, plus her deficit in the intelligence department and her lack of ambition, meant Olivia had no choice to take the initiative in every situation.
‘I can blame the guy – he needs to take control over his emotions. If not, women will be walking over him his entire life. That said, at least I now have a steady income stream.’
‘But that money will have to go to the kid, won’t it?’
Olivia looked to Brianna as though this was the world’s dumbest statement. ‘I said I was going to tell him I was pregnant with his kid. I didn’t say I was actually pregnant with his kid.’
There was a long pause before Brianna simply said, ‘Oh, wow.’
‘Survival of the smartest, Brianna – I keep telling you.’
‘You’re not going to do anything like that on the island though, are ya? I mean, we were lucky to get our applications accepted. Plus, I hear they come down pretty hard on crims.’
‘Everyone over there is so high on life that they wouldn’t notice or give a toss if someone was robbing them blind. Especially the Africans and Indians; they’re just happy to be there!’
With two grandparents who were Aboriginal, Brianna had never been comfortable with the way Olivia referred to ethnicities other than her own caucasian-defined variety, but she kept quiet about it and changed the subject. ‘Still, it’s a fresh start, eh?’ she said.
‘An untouched orchard is always ripe for the picking, Brianna. And we’re going to fill our baskets!’
CHAPTER 6
Ten months later Brianna found herself driving Olivia along the Ngaire Brown Highway to L’île de la Paix’s central mountain, Halcyon Peak, in the middle of the night.
‘We won’t be able to drive all the way to the top,’ said Brianna as the looming silhouette of the mountain carved a black triangle into the ceiling of stars. ‘But there’s a car park about half-way up.’
‘I know,’ said Olivia.
‘You still haven’t told me why you wanna go up there.’
‘As I said: I’ll tell you when we get there. It isn’t for the bloody sunset.’
The 2-hour trek from the car park to the summit took place in virtual silence, not least because Olivia strode on ahead and so two-way conversation wasn’t an option. Brianna marvelled at the number of shooting stars she saw in the cloudless sky and the golden-pink sunrise that lit the ocean and cast impressive shadows over the east coast houses and green areas as she neared the top. The only thing that tainted her enjoyment a little was how cold it was. She had forgotten to pack a suitable coat and so her hoodie was the only thing she had for warmth. When she arrived at the summit, she found Olivia surveying the west coast with some binoculars.
Olivia was irked to hear Brianna’s chattering teeth as she joined her. ‘Why didn’t you bring a coat like I told you?’
‘Forgot,’ Brianna sniffed. ‘What you lookin’ at?’
‘Opportunity,’ said Olivia.
‘Oh,’ said Brianna.
‘What’s the one thing this island doesn’t have?’
‘Men?’
‘Right,’ said Olivia, a little deflated – she had expected the guessing game to go on for longer. ‘I was in a cocktail bar last week and got talking to this lesbo who works on harbour security. I schmoozed her into giving away that there’s a serious hole in the island’s systems.’
‘Really? I thought security was quite tight.’
‘Not over there. There’s a blind spot for at least six months of the year.’
Brianna followed Olivia’s finger as she pointed towards the north-east coast. The windows of a lone cliff-edge mansion twinkled in the sunlight. Beyond it was the seemingly unending expanse of the Coral Sea. ‘That’s Yvette Baudelaire’s home, ain’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why’s that an opportunity?’
‘Every chick I talk to on this island complains about not getting laid. Some of us are used to getting fucked on a regular basis. They touted this place as “a land of great opportunity”. Well, every opportunity I see is already well-covered by foreigners and immigrants…’
Brianna was about to point out that every single person on the island was a “foreigner and immigrant” but Olivia continued: ‘but there’s no opportunity to get laid. That’s where I come in: I’ve got an old boyfriend in Sydney who organises boat tours. We’re gonna get boatloads of lads to come here and spend the night with our girls. Both sides will pay top dollar for this and, by the time the security systems are up-and-running, I’ll be sittin’ on a pile that will put the lottery to shame.’
‘You’re gonna hold orgies in the home of one of The Founding Mothers?!’
‘“The Founding Mothers”,’ Olivia repeated with contempt. ‘No, I’m not going to hold orgies there, even if she is in France for six months of the year. I just need the land for access and I’ll hire a villa further down the road.’
‘When?’
‘Soon. I need the money.’
‘What about the cash Mikey was sending you?’
‘He stopped.’
‘Why?’
‘He did an image search and found one of the photos I sent him of “our baby” on someone else’s blog from a few years ago. He cut me off. Finished with your questions?’
‘Yeah…’ Brianna said tentatively, although they both instantly knew she hadn’t. She tried to form her next enquiry in a way that didn’t sound like a question. ‘So…you…brought me up here…because…?’
‘Because while I go to meet the boat, I want you to keep watch.’
‘I don’t want to get into trouble, Liv. I’m doin’ alright with me job at the supermarket—’
Olivia turned sharply enough to cut her short. She spoke with deliberate calmness. ‘You do know that I’m the one who pulled the strings to get your fat arse here, don’t you? If you’re not going to assist me, then maybe I don’t need you.
‘There are millions of people who want to get on this cockless island. If, for example, you were to take a spill off this mountain, in less than a day I could bring someone else here who would owe me a massive favour.’
Brianna didn’t know what to say. Her jaw quivered as she stood open-mouthed although she couldn’t tell whether it was because of the cold or a sudden fear. Olivia had never taken this tone with her before.
‘Are you going to do as I ask, Brianna?’
Brianna nodded. ‘Yeah-yes. Yes.’
Olivia again looked through her binoculars.
‘Won’t the house have some sort of security?’ Brianna asked.
‘Nothing I haven’t come across before. Besides, the “Founding Mothers” believe in things like trust and community spirit. She probably leaves the key under a plant pot outside the front gate.’ She lowered her binoculars. ‘I’ll book the villa and we’ll start next week.’
Brianna’s instinct was to protest but she stopped herself and switched expression to one of agreement as Olivia faced her. ‘Right-o,’ she nodded.
CHAPTER 7
A week later Brianna was once again behind the wheel as she chauffeured Olivia from the short drive from the private villa—where a stocked bar, a plethora of rooms and 24 young women were anxiously awaiting the arrival of the men on the boat—to the driveway of Yvette Baudelaire’s mansion.
‘It’s not like you to be so quiet,’ said Olivia.
‘I’m alright,’ said Brianna.
‘Then why are your hands shaking? You need to take control of yourself, girl – none of the guys are gonna chat you up if you’re a nervous wreck. Mind you, it might mean I can have two to myself tonight.’ She smoothed down the shimmering silver gown over her body, partially to catch Brianna’s attention, which she achieved. She knew there were feelings of envy towards her on the nights she made a real effort to look good but that was Brianna’s fault; she was the burger muncher. Just because there were no men in the country, it didn’t mean she could completely let herself go!
She saw Brianna eyeing her thigh via the high split in her dress and wondered, as she often did, if there was any sexual desire on Brianna’s side. She liked the idea that she could be desired by women as well as men, but the thought of physical contact with a woman her turned her stomach.
The car slowed turned into the Baudelaire driveway. Olivia produced a device and pointed it at the gate. The device seemed to scrawl through a catalogue of options to a soundtrack of subtle electronic blips and crackles. Suddenly the gates parted and retracted into the walls.
‘Turn the car around and wait here. If you see anyone coming, call me because we’ll have to make a fast departure in the boat.’
‘What about me?’
‘Just say you got lost and were turning around. If you don’t call, I’ll bring the guys out the gate and we’ll head to the villa behind the trees at the side of the road. You got all that?’
‘Yeah,’ said Brianna. She was still shaking.
‘For God’s sake, pop a Xanax, will you, Brianna?’ said Olivia and strode proudly into the shadows of the garden in her sexy backless gown and white trainers.
The moonlight illuminated Olivia’s path as she found her way to the steps that led down to the dock. Before she could see the boat, she could hear the familiar sounds of male revelry and felt a thrill of excitement not only for the money she was making, but also for the chance to break her ten-month dry spell.
A silence fell across the boat as one-by-one the young men caught sight of her long legs and silver gown. ‘Good evening, boys!’ she announced, striking a pose with her arms raised to the sky. ‘Excuse the shoes – I’ve left my heels back the villa; not ideal for climbing up and down these rocky stairs!’
There was a roar of appreciation and she bathed in its glory. So many lustful pairs of eyes fixated on her made her feel like a queen. ‘Who’s ready for some fun?’ There was another cheer. ‘Okay, okay! Keep it down!’ she grinned, ‘We don’t want to attract any attention. Where’s Steve?’ she scanned the faces and physiques on the boat, intentionally working out which guys she was going to target that evening.
‘Hey, darlin’!’ called Steve, her ex-boyfriend.
‘A good turnout you have here. And we’ve got 24 lovely ladies waiting to meet you all, so follow me but keep quiet!’
This was followed by a muted cheer as the men scrambled to get off the boat. Once back in the garden they jostled and peacocked for Olivia’s attention. She considered that this may be one of the greatest days of her life – a scheme that got her unequalled attention, money and sex.
It was only as she arrived at the gate that she noticed things weren’t as she left them. Brianna and her car were gone. In the darkness of the tree-lined driveway she could just make out the shape of two cars and a van.
Exterior security lights from the house switched on, illuminating the entire troop. At the same time the red and blue lights on top of the vehicles in the driveway flashed awake. Olivia and the men were dazzled. A loudspeaker from one of the cars announced: ‘L.P.P.D.! Stop where you are and raise your hands!’ The accent was distinctly Jamaican.
The men raised their hands, but Olivia was too pissed off to be intimidated.
‘You too, lady! If you do not comply, we will use a stun gun.’ Several figures emerged from the driveway, silhouetted by the flashing lights. Two had stun guns trained on Olivia.
She slowly raised her hands. ‘You obviously don’t know who I am!’ she shouted.
‘Yes, I do,’ said the senior officer with the Jamaican accent. ‘You are under arrest!’
CHAPTER 8
The following afternoon at the Haven Law Courts, Olivia sat in a private room across the table from her state-appointed defence attorney and Ngaire Brown.
‘I was set up!’ shouted Olivia.
‘You weren’t “set up”; you were dobbed-in for something you knew damn well was illegal,’ said Ngaire. She was seething. ‘Have you got any fuckin’ idea how embarrassing this is for me? And for the country!’
‘You care more about the country and yourself than you do about me!’
‘Under these circumstances, Olivia, y’fuckin’ oath, I do!’ She leaned forward and jabbed the surface of the table with her finger. ‘I am the leading founder of this country! I’m the one who shipped you over here! I got you an apartment and a job and what do you do? In less than a year, you jack in the job and become the first woman arrested for breaking and entering, people smuggling, blackmail, suspected pimping and assaulting a police officer! Up until now the most anyone got charged for was being drunk and disorderly!’
Olivia was cavalier as she leaned back in her chair. ‘I didn’t “assault” her.’
‘Under L’île de la Paix law, using the N-word as you did is classed as a verbal assault,’ said the attorney, trying to use her tone to calm the tension in the room.
‘And she has you on body cam saying it too!’ said Ngaire. ‘Well done!’
‘Hold on, what do you mean, blackmail?’ asked Olivia.
‘Miss Woroson has made a statement saying you threatened to throw her off Halcyon Peak unless she helped you in your endeavour.’ answered the attorney.
Ngaire threw up her hands in disbelief, ‘For f… And she’s supposed to be your mate!’
‘I know. Backstabbing bitch. She’s in for it.’
‘No…’ Ngaire took a deep breath. ‘I mean: you don’t threaten to kill your friends, Olivia!’
‘Look, are you going to get me off or what?’ Olivia responded, as though she had somewhere else to be.
Ngaire was momentarily gobsmacked. ‘No, I’m not going to get you off, Olivia. They’ve got you banged to rights: they’ve got the friend you threatened, who then told the cops what you were up to; they’ve got the twenty-four tarts who were stupid enough to pay you to pimp them out;…’
Olivia couldn’t help but smirk at it being put that way.
‘…they’ve got 25 dickheads who travelled all the way here from Sydney without enough fuel to get them home again; and they’ve got you on security camera, dressed like Cinder-fuckin’-ella in sneakers, welcoming them onto the island and leading them through the garden of one of the Founding Mothers! How stupid do you have to be?!’
‘I was told that there was no security at that house!’ Olivia snapped at the insult.
‘On what planet does one of the richest women in the world not put up security cameras!? Who told you that?!’
‘If I tell you, will you get me off?’
‘No!’
‘I’m your niece! Have you forgotten or do you just want to walk out on me like you did when I was ten?’
Ngaire paused. ‘Can you give a minute, please?’ she said to the attorney.
‘Of course,’ she replied and left the room.
Ngaire lowered her voice. ‘Look, Olivia, I’m your aunt, not your mother. She ran off to God-knows-where at a time when none of us had anything. I’ve spent the years since working to get where I am today and, believe it or not, part of the reason this island exists is because it’s what I wanted for you.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Olivia replied.
‘Maybe one of the reasons you keep doing things like this is because you can’t believe when things are going well and so you feel the need to make your own backup plans. If that’s the case, I can get you some therapy—’
‘Spare me the amateur psychology, Ngaire. I don’t need a shrink – I need people to leave me alone so I can get ahead in life.’
‘Not by breaking the rules on my island, you don’t, Olivia. There’s too much at stake.’ Ngaire opened the door and beckoned in the attorney. ‘What’s the best we can hope for?’ she asked her.
‘This is the first case of its kind so it’s possible the judge will want to make an example to discourage others. I’ve spoken with the prosecutor and, as it’s a first offence, as long as Olivia sincerely apologises—including to the black police officer she insulted—and promises to make amends, she may get away with a fine for the property damage and one hundred days of incarceration, which could get reduced to community service if she displays good behaviour.’
‘Community service?’ Olivia interrupted. ‘I’m not picking up litter in an orange jumpsuit for the whole island to gander at!’
The attorney continued to address Ngaire: ‘If she doesn’t sincerely repent for what she’s done, the prosecutor could recommend a minimum two hundred days of incarceration with attitude adjustment therapy, plus the fines.’
Ngaire looked to her niece. ‘What do you say, Olivia? The world will be watching. Can you swallow your pride and give a sincere apology?’
Olivia sat back and crossed her arms. ‘If I’m the only one in the prison, it’s just going to be like a holiday.’
PART III
CHAPTER 9
Olivia made a silent vow that she would not be riled by anything the prison system threw at her.
She had already endured what she believed would be the most challenging part of her entire stay when a prison guard with latex gloves and an XXXL shirt—which was still a tight fit—performed a cavity search on her. This was her first test and she passed: no matter how much she disliked being touched by another woman, she didn’t even allow herself to frown.
She had to follow the rules but would not change her personality to suit their idea of who she should be. She would follow the schedule, answer their questions and go along with the “attitude adjustment therapy” – she knew she could easily convince some old biddy with a notepad that she was rehabilitated within two hundred days. In the meantime, she planned to take the free meals and bed, exercise her way to further hotness and intricately devise a new, airtight scheme.
On the first morning she woke early and was brushing her hair when a loud metallic clanking sounded outside her cell door. The peephole on the door slid open and a wooden spoon rattled inside a saucepan. The clanking filled the room and was obviously intended to irritate, but Olivia maintained an unaffected poise as a pair of blue eyes appeared at the hole and a guard with a Texan accent announced, ‘Up and at ‘em, inmate! Breakfast in fifteen!’
‘I’m already awake, thank you,’ Olivia replied, continuing to brush her hair.
Her first breakfast amused her as it was very easy to perceive the prison as her own private hotel: she was escorted to the canteen, kitchen staff served her a meal and she sat alone in the centre of a pristine dining area while three guards stood by the exits. She chose to imagine them to be her own personal bodyguards.
She sipped at her water and spoke to the young guard who stood closest to her with a tone that insinuated she was lucky to be addressed, ‘I suppose it’s nice for you to have someone to take care of after all this time twiddling your thumbs?’
The young guard didn’t answer. Instead, the senior guard with the Texan accent whose name tag read Williams said, ‘I wouldn’t overdo the water, if I were you.’
Olivia didn’t know how to take this comment and so nodded politely, downed the water and got herself a refill.
After breakfast, she was escorted to the showers, which were again pristine and all to herself.
‘A.A.T. in forty-two minutes,’ said Williams as she returned Olivia to the cell.
‘Thank you, Jeeves,’ said Olivia. This was a slip of the tongue – she had intended for the word Jeeves to be silent. But, instead of annoyance, she sensed a slight amusement in Williams’s eyes.
‘Be ready,’ said Williams.
‘I will, thank you,’ Olivia replied, turning her back to the senior guard.
Forty minutes later Williams and the young guard, whose name tag read Martinez, collected Olivia from her cell and escorted her through several corridors to a door with a sign that read A.A.T Suite. No Entry if Red Light is On.
Olivia expected to find a comfortable room with armchairs, perhaps a chez lounge, shelves filled with books on criminal psychology and a grey-haired hippy in round spectacles ready to welcome her. Instead, as Williams opened the door and lead her in, she found a brightly lit, clinical-looking room with an indescribably pleasant smell of newness. The back of the room was a wall-to-wall closet and the tiled floor dipped in the centre where a drain sat beneath an elaborate and adjustable padded chair with individual arm and leg supports and sturdy, padded, adjustable and lockable stocks at the wrist and ankle positions.
Olivia held her poker face despite being confused and concerned by what she saw. She then registered the two women standing in front of the closet – one was tall, black, with modelesque chiselled features. She was dressed as some kind of mystic.
Next to her stood a petite Japanese woman, dressed in a white variant of the prison guards’ grey and navy uniform. Olivia supposed she was pretty.
‘Prisoner Jenson for you, ma’am,’ said Williams.
‘Thank you, Ms Williams,’ replied the tall black woman, with a strong Ghanaian accent. ‘You can leave us now.’
Olivia noticed a smirk on Williams’s lips as she took one last look at her before leaving the room.
There was a moment of silence as the two women regarded Olivia. ‘You may call me Miss Baidoo,’ said Kisi. ‘Top and bottoms off and sit the chair, please, Prisoner Jenson.’
‘Pardon?’ said Olivia.
‘This is your attitude adjustment therapy session, please remove your top, trousers, shoes and socks.’
‘Why?’
‘Firstly, because I am telling you to and, secondly, so that I don’t have to call five or six officers in here to do it for you.’
Olivia raised her chin as the illusion of being in her own private hotel & spa began to fade. She turned to hide her irritation at being told what to do by this woman and was about to lift her top when she saw a window that covered the front wall, behind which sat an audience of around thirty women of all ages and ethnic groups, each dressed the same as the Japanese woman.
‘Quicker!’ said Kisi.
‘Why are they there?’
‘You’ve no need to be embarrassed – you are going to get to know each of these therapists by the time you leave here. Now, will you get undressed or do I have to call the officers?’
Despite the humiliation of stripping in front of all these women, Olivia considered that it would be worse to be forcibly stripped and so she pulled off her top while imagining that she was stripping for a paying audience.
‘That took longer than necessary,’ Kisi commented. ‘Onto the chair – legs up.’
Now in just her prison-issued bra and panties, Olivia sat on the chair. The rubber padding was cool against her skin as she lifted her legs onto the supports. Kisi flipped open a panel on the wall to reveal a touchscreen of options. She touched it and the chair elevated about three feet.
Kisi spoke as she and the Japanese lady set about unceremoniously locking the stocks around Olivia’s wrists and ankles: ‘I am the Head Therapist here at the Haven Correctional Facility. This is Miss Aoki. She and everyone behind that window have been trained by me in my specialist area, which we will be implementing today for your attitude realignment. I will not answer any questions you have about the methods I use. Just trust me that at the end of the course you will be a better person for it…’
Olivia resisted a strong urge to display even the smallest inkling of her intent to undermine this facility.
The women continued by securing curved metal bars across her elbows and kneecaps and, while they weren’t touching her, she found that she couldn’t bend her arms or legs any more than a centimetre. ‘You may like to know,’ said Kisi, ‘that, as the first inmate at Haven, you are the first person in the country to receive this treatment outside of training sessions, which is why we have so many observers today.’
She pressed the touchscreen again and a digital clock appeared on the wall. It read 00:00:00. The seconds began to tick… 00:00:01…00:00:02… She took a seat in the corner of the room, ‘Over to you, Miss Aoki.’
CHAPTER 10
Sora Aoki bowed to her mentor and turned to Olivia, who, despite the ungainly position of having her legs spread at a 90º angle, and arms locked out to the side, had perfected a look of lofty indifference. It was her vs. the world and she was going to win! All she needed to know was what she was up against. She prepared herself for whatever was to come—electric shocks, waterboarding, whatever—they couldn’t kill or seriously harm her, so whatever she was to go through, she would just come out stronger in the end.
Sora moved to Olivia’s side. Olivia occupied herself by maintaining a blank expression while looking into the eyes of one of the older women in the observation room who had an equally blank expression.
Suddenly, Olivia jumped. At first she didn’t know why but then realised it was because the Japanese woman had poked her in the side. This was not a sensation she was familiar with and she steeled herself against it happening again. Then Sora poked in her upper ribs and she jumped. She tensed up the entire left side of her body and when she was again poked in her waist, it resulted in little more than a tiny wiggle in the seat. But, before she could react, Sora reached across and tweaked her waist on the other side, causing her to jump and gasp.
Sora moved to between Olivia’s legs and worked her way down from the top of her thighs with a series of light pincer grips. Olivia jerked in the seat with each move; they were done so quickly that she wasn’t able to prepare herself for the next and when the final one tweaked just above her kneecaps, it caused her entire body to stiffen and she let out an involuntary sound of resistance in her throat.
Sora then took a step back and performed the same pincer movements down Olivia’s shins. This was not particularly troublesome, but Olivia felt an increasing tingle of anguish in her feet the closer the other woman came to touching them, as though her body was sending an alarm call of protest.
This was also unusual. Olivia had obviously experienced pain and pleasure before: she’d trodden on pointed stones in her bare feet and she’d been given foot massages by one boyfriend, but she’d never experienced this.
She watched as Sora looked to her soles. Olivia was unable to stop the unfamiliar build of anticipation in her feet and ankles. It felt like a concentrated form of restless-leg syndrome and as Sora raised her hands Olivia attempted to retract her legs, which was, of course, impossible. Sora performed a split-second ripple of fingers up Olivia’s soles.
‘YAP!’ Olivia blurted out and she jolted in the seat. She silently cursed her body’s reactions but was able to compose herself as Sora stepped away and nodded as though confirming a suspicion.
Sora disappeared out of sight behind the chair and Olivia tensed her entire upper body in preparation for any surprise that could be implemented from her current position. Olivia’s eyes met Kisi’s as she wondered what these women would do next.
She then noticed something in her peripheral vision – Sora’s hands were approaching slowly on either side. She doubled the strength of her muscles in her torso but the hands closed in on her underarms. The same restless tingle that she felt in her feet now aggravated her armpits and there was nothing she could do to tense or defend them.
As Sora’s fingers invaded her armpits, she felt a strange whimper clambering to be released from her throat. She held Kisi’s gaze but felt her stony expression beginning to falter: her nostrils were pulsing, the corners of her mouth quivered and her eyebrows started to raise in the middle. She bit hard on her tongue in an attempt to suppress the compulsions she felt bubbling inside her and took a deep breath to strengthen her resolve. It worked momentarily, but she quickly realised that if she released the breath she might lose control.
The incessant stroking of her armpits continued as she wondered why the hell this was lasting so long when everywhere else on her body had just been given split-second tests?
She couldn’t hold her breath any longer. Her body began to convulse as the realisation hit her that, against all logic, she was going to laugh!
She closed her eyes in a vain attempt to zone out the maddening sensations but her lips began to curl up, which is when Sora grabbed her waist.
‘PAA-HA-HA-HA!’ Olivia laughed in surprise.
Sora’s fingers probed into her oblique muscles and she growled through her laughter in a frustrated attempt to build her defences, but it was too late – they had already been broken.
Sora stopped. ‘I think she a category seven or eight, ma’am,’ she said to Kisi. ‘She does not need sensitisation treatment.’
‘I agree, Miss Aoki,’ said Kisi. ‘You may continue.’
Olivia was angry at having been forced out of her stoical act. ‘You can’t do this! This is assault! Stop touching me!’
‘Yes we can,’ replied Kisi. ‘If you like, I can show you the document you signed in order to be a L’île de la Paix resident. You agreed to be subject to the laws of the country, including the use of corporal punishment as seen fit by L’île de la Paix’s lawmakers. From what I know about you, you are the definition of someone who will benefit from it.’
Olivia struggled for an argument that would be listened to. The digital display read just 00:07:24. Then she noticed she older woman in the observation room; her blank expression had been replaced with the tiniest of smirks. Indignant, Olivia snapped, ‘How much longer do you intend to do this?’
‘I told you, I do not answer your questions. Miss Aoki, you may continue.’
‘Fuck that! I demand—!’
Olivia’s rant was stopped in its tracks as Sora grabbed either side of her waist, causing her to tug forward and burst into peals of laughter.
CHAPTER 11
This time the touch was not short-lived. Sora massaged circles into Olivia’s tummy muscles with her thumbs and edged unpredictably up, down, left, right and diagonally to keep Olivia at a consistent level of hilarity.
Very quickly, Olivia’s eyes began to fill with tears of laughter. Sora darted behind the chair and, without pause, scrabbled her fingertips into the hollows of her armpits. The effect was electric – she slammed back in the seat and her laugh reached a higher pitch.
Olivia couldn’t believe what was happening to her. Of all the things that could be used to punish her, she would have never believed they would use this and she had no idea it would be so effective on her. A small, dissociated part of her brain seemed to levitate above the chair, looking down on her, enquiring why on earth she couldn’t just stop laughing and retain some dignity?
It’s not as if they’re burning you with branding irons! Just ignore it, for Christ’s sake!
But she couldn’t even muster the jaw-clenched growl that she gave just minutes ago; her mouth was stretched wide open as laughter was forced from her with ludicrously simplistic strokes of the skin under her arms.
Then Sora took her by surprise by scurrying her fingernails up and down her sides and ribs. The surprise was joined by another bout of annoyance as the actions unearthed a new brand of unstoppable laughter: ‘Oooh! Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!’
Olivia was especially irritated by this because, while it was born out of an attempt to stop laughing, it gave the impression that she was somehow enjoying herself.
It was a battle between brain and body as the stone-cold and resolute Olivia of one hour ago bawled at the current iteration to pull herself together. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop her reactions.
‘Do you know what’s happening to you?’
Olivia’s eyes popped open at the surprise of Sora’s voice being so close to her ear because she hadn’t noticed her move.
‘Do you?’ repeated Sora.
Olivia couldn’t believe it – were they taunting her now!? She struggled at the restraints in anger but the strength of her laughter was unchanged.
Sora slowed to give her the chance to speak.
‘Get y-your f-f-fucking hands off me! Y’fuckin’ lesbian bitch!’ Olivia shouted, her face still distorted into a gaping wide smile.
Sora ignored the anger; at this stage it was par for the course. ‘I don’t think she has ever experienced this before,’ she said to Kisi.
‘It’s possible,’ replied Kisi.
‘Is that correct?’ Sora asked Olivia. ‘Did you not know you were ticklish?’
‘I’m-I… I’m not fffucking ticklish!’ shouted Olivia.
Sora cocked her head skeptically and scampered her fingernails all over Olivia’s tummy. Olivia screamed with startled surprise and felt a sheen of sweat sweep over her entire body.
‘Yeah: you ticklish,’ Sora confirmed.
Olivia drew a deep breath, almost gagging on her own tongue in the process. ‘S-S-STOPPP!’
Sora slowed to ensure she wasn’t about to induce a fit.
‘Stop! Stop! For fuck sake! I need the dunnie!’
Sora and Kisi looked at one another in confusion. Olivia cursed herself for lapsing inexplicably into country lingo she hadn’t used for over fourteen years.
‘Toilet! I need a b-bloody restroom! Ha ha ha ha haaa!’
‘No bathroom breaks – you should have gone before.’
A glare of disbelief from Olivia was shattered as Sora jumped her fingers to the pincer grips just above her knees. Olivia squealed in high-pitched desperation at the unbearable sensations that shot through her body.
She thrashed her head from side-to-side in open-mouthed laughter. The tears streaming from her eyes caused her nose to run but she could do nothing about it; not even ask for a tissue.
Frozen in a permanent state of enforced hysteria, Olivia looked through the blur of tears to see the time: 00:54:01. She didn’t want to look at the crowd of unsympathetic spectators behind the glass, although couldn’t help but notice some new figures had joined them. She blinked away the tears enough to recognise Officers Williams and Martinez watching contently from the back of the room.
A wave of humiliation caused her to shiver and let out a one-off girlish “cooing” sound. Her muscles contracted and her bladder suddenly felt like an overfilled water balloon.
‘STOP! STOP! P-PLEEEASE! I… I’m going to PEEEE! HA HA HA HA! STOP THAT ON MY KNEE-HEE-HEE-HEES! I CAN’T STAND IT! HA HA HA HA HA!’ she hated that she was admitting this in full view of the guards who would be watching over her day in, day out for the next 199 days but she couldn’t help it; it was like the begging was being forced from her in the same way as the horrible and irrepressible laughter.
The torture continued for hours. Olivia Jenson was compelled to laugh constantly. There were no breaks except for the occasional sip of water. The temptation to spit this back in Sora’s face was strong but she did not want to make things worse for herself. At least she was proud that her 24-year-old bladder had proven itself to withstand anything she was exposed to but it was starting to throb.
However, amid the non-stop tickling of her knees, thighs, waist, belly and underarms, she been too preoccupied to recognise that Sora had not yet gone anywhere near her feet…
CHAPTER 12
The clock reached 03:30:00, prompting Kisi to announce: ‘Thirty minutes until lunch.’
Sora stopped her current barrage of tickles on Olivia’s ribs and stepped out from behind the chair to indicate she had heard this.
Olivia’s head flopped onto her own shoulder. Sweat dripped from every pore of her body as snot and tears streamed from her chin and collected inside her cleavage.
During the last fifteen or so minutes Kisi had noticed the micro-expressions of exhaustion and distress on Olivia’s face whenever there was even a brief cessation in the tickling.
‘And now, these…’ said Sora
Olivia opened her eyes to see Sora standing at her feet.
‘No…’ Olivia whimpered. The buzz of dread and anticipation returned to her feet with a vengeance and her toes curled tight at the thought.
Sora met Olivia’s eye and wriggled her fingers on a slow journey towards her soles. Behind Sora, Olivia noticed some of the other trainees nudging one another in amusement at this taunting technique. She lifted her chin and refused to beg or let herself be humiliated any further.
‘So, now do you see that you’re ticklish…?’ said Sora with a bedevilling tone that vexed Olivia beyond description and reinforced her determination to stand strong.
…but as soon as the first fingernail touched her sole, she knew she was done.
She wailed with panic and was powerless to escape or mask the effect this had on her. She could only watch and laugh like a maniac as Sora revelled with glee in tickling her bare soles with her lethally long fingernails. Seeing her own feet trapped in place and moving independently as they attempted to dodge the relentless tickling led her to a surreal concept that it was like watching someone torment two innocent pets behind a glass wall without being able to stop them. The difference, the disassociated part of her brain supposed, was that her feet were not separate entities; they were connected, and it was because they were connected that Sora tickling them was forcing Olivia to laugh harder and feel more powerless than she had ever experienced before.
‘Fifteen minutes!’ called Kisi as she watched with interest. As familiar as this was to her, she was still fascinated at how Olivia was making sounds of undiluted hilarity while her face displayed pure distress.
Sora stopped again and made her way to the back of the room.
Olivia’s mouth was so dry, and her body quivering so much with alien sensations, that she couldn’t even swallow. Sora opened one of the cupboard doors and returned with an unlabelled jar of translucent liquid and what looked like two handled, circular pads with tens of rounded rubber nubs of varying thickness on the bottom.
Olivia watched, baffled and terrified as to what would happen next. The unscrewed lid of the jar had an in-built thick paintbrush. Although she knew it was hopeless, Olivia’s body again instinctively attempted to retreat as Sora applied the the bristles and smeared syrupy oil onto her soles. She screwed her face up in an attempt to resist, but the giggles came with little effort from Sora. And, when the tip of the brush began to flick and swirl in the crevasses under Olivia’s toes, she was lost to a stream of snorts and all-out laughter.
The cacophony of undignified noises continued as Sora switched to paint the slippery lubricant all over Olivia’s other foot and between her toes, and she could do nothing to stop it.
Sora screwed the lid back onto the jar and slipped the circular pads onto both hands.
‘No…’ Olivia panted, almost in tears, ‘Whatever you’re going to do, don’t do it!’
‘You still don’t want to say the magic word, huh?’ replied Sora.
‘PLEASE!’ Olivia fumed through gritted teeth.
Sora shook her head, ‘Not that. Okay: two magic words!’
Olivia was flushed red with anger as she glowered at Sora. ‘Fuck you!’
Kisi had heard enough. She stood and walked over to the chair. ‘This is prison, not high school! You do not talk to us like that. If you do, there are consequences…’ She took one of the pads from Sora and stood by Olivia’s left side. With her right hand she began to tease at Olivia’s armpit.
Olivia wriggled in the chair and her look of trepidation increased. There was something about the merest touch from this woman that indicated she was an expert at this; there was no searching for the most ticklish spot – she just went straight to it.
Sora mirrored Kisi’s action and Olivia melted into helpless titters.
‘If you do not admit what Miss Aoki wants you to stay, we will be here for a long time,’ said Kisi.
‘Wh-what do y-you wwwant me to s-say!?’ Olivia managed to ask.
‘You told me you were not ticklish. That was a lie,’ said Sora as she increased the speed of her fingernails on Olivia’s sweat-covered underarm.
‘PWAH-HA!’ Olivia laughed. ‘OKAY! I ADMIT IT! I ADMIT IT! I’M TICKLISH! HA HA HAAA!’
‘Good,’ said Kisi to Sora. ‘That is the first step.’
Olivia looked to Kisi, dreading Step 2.
‘Step two is to ensure you are suitably punished for your crimes…’
Olivia’s eyes widened as Kisi and Sora continued to tickle her armpits and raised the rubber brushes up to the soles of her feet. The initial touch sent a shockwave through her entire body and now she understood the purpose of the lubricant. She tried to beg for mercy but fear stole her breath and anticipation of what was to come made her laugh before it even started.
…and then it did.
Kisi and Sora scrubbed the slippery soles of Olivia’s bare feet with the pads. Although the action was harsh, the brushes were devised to be not too stiff and not to soft – they adapted to the curves of her shapely feet and managed to tickle her twenty times more effectively than anything else so far, from her heels to the tips of her toes and everywhere in between
A long, near-silent wheeze was forced from Olivia’s lungs. Her body was paralysed as she strained forward against her shackles, desperate to escape. She lost the ability to breath for an unnatural length of time until biology took over and she gasped long and deep to prevent her from passing out. Kisi and Sora relented a little to allow her to complete her in-breath before scrubbing hard and forcing an eruption of throat-wrenching laughter.
Olivia could do nothing except feel the tickling. She was humiliated to realise she’d been broken, and now regretted every step that had led her to this point. In this moment she wanted to do everything she could to make it stop—apologise, beg and plead for mercy and promise to do everything they wanted her to do to make amends—but she couldn’t. Her body was betraying her and she had learned of her ultimate weakness.
‘One minute left,’ said Kisi with unbelievable tranquility.
As soon as she heard this, Olivia’s stomach muscles began to tremble uncontrollably. At first she didn’t know why but, amid the overwhelming tickling sensations, she remembered the discomfort in her bladder. She wanted to warn them; that she couldn’t hold on any longer. Just one more tickle and she’d…
A torrent of water gushed from between Olivia Jenson’s legs alongside a guttural groan of humiliation and regret. Kisi and Sora didn’t stop tickling but slowed their actions as they momentarily attempted to avoid the splashes.
Without the subconscious effort to hold herself together, Olivia’s body found some extra energy to laugh out loud as the acute tickling sensations in her soles became even more intense.
‘Three… Two… And stop,’ said Kisi. Both ticklers took a step back. ‘Very good, Miss Aoki.’
Sora bowed in response.
They lowered the chair and released Olivia. The whole time Olivia was sobbing in between aftershocks of laughter. Her hair stuck to her face with sweat and her entire body was dripping.
‘Next time, you clean this up, Jenson,’ said Kisi. Then she beckoned in Williams and Martinez who made their way from the observation room.
The officers helped an exhausted Olivia from the chair. ‘We’ll get her showered,’ said Williams. ‘When do you want her back?’
‘In an hour. It’s Miss Bailey’s turn this afternoon,’ said Kisi.
Olivia couldn’t believe what she was hearing but had no time to protest as she was taken from the room.
EPILOGUE
Three officers stood guard as Ngaire Brown entered the visitors’ room.
Olivia sat alone at a table in the corner. Ngaire walked over and took the seat opposite. She could tell that there was something different about her even before she spoke.
‘How you doin’, Olivia?’
Olivia nodded. ‘I’m ready to come home now.’ She had almost lost her voice.
‘You know that’s not possible.’
‘Do you know what they do here? Do you know what A.A.T. is?!’
‘I do.’
‘Then why didn’t you tell me before my trial?’
‘Would it have made any difference?’
Olivia felt anger building inside. ‘I will get out of here.’
‘Olivia, you’re here for two hundred days, minimum. The people here can choose to implement therapy for eight hours a day or less, depending on what they think you deserve. There’s no breaking out, there’s no parole. And, on the day of your assessment you will only get out if you say you’re ready to abide by the laws and pass a polygraph test, which is 99% accurate. So, the only thing you will do is either shape-up, or stay here.’
THE END
by Tamira K.
PART I
CHAPTER 1
‘Do either of you know why she invited us?’ asked Zafirah Khalil.
‘No,’ replied Lydia Goodman.
Yvette Baudelaire gave a slight shake of her head. She was piecing together the commonalities that the women and their host shared: female, single and multi-billionaires (although not via the same means). The meeting was most likely to do with finance but as each of them either had previously had nothing to do with each other or, in the case of Lydia Goodman and the host herself, had been fierce competitors in business, it was unwise to lay bets on exactly what the reason would be.
They were in the circular top-floor restaurant of The O Bar. While Zafirah and Yvette sat patiently, Lydia stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows taking in the view that included Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Opera House. A cruise liner blew smoke from its funnel that cast a haze into the otherwise clear and crisp August air.
Lydia eyed the clock – it was 9.29am and 36 seconds. ‘Whatever the reason and despite the impressive breakfast she inevitably has in store for us, I do hope she won’t be late,’ she said with what Yvette perceived to be deliberately accentuated received pronunciation.
Just seconds before it turned 9.30am they heard the maître d’ bid someone welcome and soon Ngaire Brown rounded the bar to where the others were waiting.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ she said and held out a hand. She shook the hands of all three, bowing slightly when it came to Zafirah. ‘Please: take a seat. I’m very glad you could all make it.’ She signalled the maître d’ who smiled from a distance and went to signal the chef to begin.
Lydia tried to ignore her in-built resentment that Ngaire had retained her broad, working-class Australian accent. Whenever their interests had collided and lawyers got involved, she couldn’t help but imagine that, although they were both self-made billionaires, people respected Ngaire more because she came from a meagre background and was twenty-eight when she made her first billion, whereas Lydia had a Berkshire-British accent and was five years older.
‘I don’t usually allow my bodyguards to be so far away from me,’ said Zafirah.
‘I know, and I do appreciate that Miss Khalil. I’m sure they surveyed the building closely enough. They certainly searched me before I came in. Be assured, we’re very safe here but I did want complete secrecy for what I would like to discuss.’
‘Excuse my cutting to ze chase,’ said Yvette, ‘but I have anozzer meeting at lunchtime zat I cannot be late for, so I would like to ensure we fully cover why it is zat we are here.’
‘Of course,’ said Ngaire. ‘While some of us haven’t officially met before and some of us are very familiar with one another…’ she flitted a knowing glance at Lydia, ‘I have a very serious proposition and I couldn’t think of three women—three people—in the world who are better to share it with.’
The women waited as Ngaire contemplated how to continue. There were many routes she could take, but she decided to go with the technique that came most naturally: being forthright.
‘It’s time for change. Big change. History, and most recently the evidence of our own eyes, tells us that when it comes to the crunch, we should be very cautious of the trust we place in men. We can’t trust them to put the people before self-interests; we can’t trust them to take the peaceful route when they need to measure their dicks and we sure-as-shit can’t trust them to set aside their ego or admit their ineptitude to ensure hundreds of thousands of people don’t die in a pandemic! On the other hand, most female world leaders have been outstanding!’
Lydia nodded agreement. The others awaited further explanation.
‘On a smaller scale, we have all experienced pain at the hands of men: Yvette, you were nearly bankrupted by your gold-diggin’ husband; Lydia, both your husbands cheated on you; and, Miss Khalil…’ she paused as Zafirah lowered her eyes. The physical and mental abuse her oil baron husband inflicted upon her for years before his death were well-documented in the press. ‘…I’ve experienced the same as you.’
Zafirah met her eye. ‘You have a solution?’
‘Not a solution for the world, but an answer for those that want it.’
‘Go on,’ said Yvette.
‘There is an uninhabited island in the South Pacific, between New Caledonia and Vanuatu. For decades the French government have looked into establishing a community there, but various issues have kept it from happening. Last week I went to France and had a meeting with the President…’
Yvette raised an eyebrow at the influence Ngaire evidently had in her home country.
‘He would be willing to sell that island.’
‘Sell it?!’ Yvette exclaimed.
‘Yes. The pandemic hit the world hard and France is no different. The island is just sitting there, so I persuaded the President of the benefits in letting it go for a very healthy profit.’
‘You’re suggesting we pool together,’ said Lydia.
Ngaire didn’t answer, but her expression said it all.
‘Set up a new community on an island?’ said Zafirah. ‘But how would being under French rule stop us being governed by men?’
‘We wouldn’t be under French rule. For the price we discussed, the island would have total independence, territorial waters, guaranteed trade routes and… trust me: I’m not someone who overlooks the finer details. I’ve wanted this since I was a child. It’s the vision that got me where I am.’
‘How much are we talking about?’ asked Lydia.
Ngaire reached into her handbag and picked out an Aurora Internazionale fountain pen with an 18 karat gold nib and wrote on her serviette – folded, to shield the content. She turned the serviette to face the other women and opened it.
Accustomed to keeping a poker face, they each absorbed the figure with the respect it deserved.
‘Even we four cannot cover zat,’ said Yvette.
‘Not without further investment, no. But, as long as we are the major contributors… I mean, we each have a history of being successfully persuasive,’ said Ngaire. She was encouraged that the others seemed to be considering it.
‘How would it be governed?’ asked Zafirah.
‘Democratically. Parliamentary, with a Prime Minister and balanced constituencies. But with lessons learned from the mistakes made by “first world countries” and their ancient constitutions; we won’t blindly follow outdated rules. We will preserve the natural resources and beauty of the island—and believe me, ladies—it is a paradise on earth. If you don’t want to live there yourself, it will be the perfect vacation spot and you get the option to pick the spot for your mansions overlooking the white sand beaches or lush forests or the majestic central mountain. The only difficult choice is whether you want the master bedroom to face the sunrise or the sunset.’
The ladies’ poker faces cracked with smirks.
‘It truly does sound like a paradise,’ said Lydia. ‘But aside from placing women in charge—’
‘Not just in charge. The entire island will be female only.’
There was a surprised silence.
‘How will zat work?’ asked Yvette.
‘We will process applications from women all over the world who want to live in a utopia away from men. We’ll have to establish a cut-off point in numbers and we will balance applications based on fair criteria to ensure we get an impressive workforce to make us a country to be reckoned with.’
‘What about children? I mean, boys?’
‘I’ve thought about that: single mothers are obviously welcome, but I suggest if they have sons they will need to leave before secondary school education. This issue will need some discussion. But imagine it: devising the world’s best education system from scratch!’
‘We would become a political target for male-led states that felt threatened,’ Lydia contemplated.
‘When have we ever not been targets?’ said Zafirah.
Lydia concurred. ‘I’m just mentioning it. What about exports?’
‘Darlin’, there’s room enough to set up industry without destroying the environment and we could start from a position of being genuinely carbon neutral and solar powered. Yes, there would be import costs, but we could devise our own tax systems. We could even work together rather than in competition.’
‘It really does sound like a paradise,’ said Yvette.
‘Ladies, while Zafirah is still young, the rest of us are in our mid thirties. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to wait any longer to live in an ideal world… Speaking of which, I would insist everyone has your French accent, Yvette – I love it!’
Zafirah and Lydia smiled agreement.
There was a pause in discussions as the maître d’ oversaw two waiters arrive with the breakfasts and refreshed drinks.
As the men retreated Yvette noticed Zafirah deep in thought. ‘What’s on your mind, Miss Khalil?’
‘I assume that we would want a progressive society?’
‘That’s right,’ said Ngaire, ‘Science over bullshit. It’s better to move forward than back.’
‘Everyone has a vision of paradise when they first start out, but divisions always occur. How can you enforce a liberal society in a democracy?’
‘First, I would regard liberal to be the true sense of the word rather than the politically stained insult that it’s become in some quarters. I’m a believer that the best things exist in balance rather than extremes – sometimes a little bit left, sometimes a little bit right but always level-headed. The only thing I could be accused of having a right-leaning view on is law and order – we would need a strict deterrent to stop people undermining our society.’
Zafirah sat back. ‘Saudi Arabia has the death penalty. I have known people who were innocent when put to death and I’m not able to accept—’
‘Excuse me, Miss Khalil – I’m not talking about capital punishment,’ Ngaire interrupted. ‘But I am talking about a corporal punishment of sorts.’
‘Of sorts?’ said Lydia.
‘Yes. It’s a particular method that is rarely used these days and, if used in the right way, can be extremely effective. If you like, I can take you all on a tour tomorrow to show you what I mean.’
Intrigued, the women agreed.
CHAPTER 2
At noon the next day a cavalcade of limousines arrived in a humble street on the suburban border of Grays Point and the forest of Campbells Creek, which lined part of Sydney’s outer perimeter.
Ngaire Brown waited on the driveway of a house midway up the road. There was an ironic smile on her lips as the cars pulled up.
Lydia, Yvette and Zafirah were escorted from the limousines by their personal security teams. For Zafirah, this consisted of six men in suits and dark glasses. Lydia and Yvette were content with a subtler entourage of two each. All approached Ngaire.
‘Well, if the neighbours weren’t suspicious of what went on here before, they probably are now!’ said Ngaire.
‘You’re right,’ said Zafirah. She turned to her head of security, ‘Ahmad, satuntazar 'ant warijaluk huna.’
Ahmad directed his men to take positions surrounding the house.
‘Attendez ici, s'il vous plaît,’ Yvette told her team.
‘You too, Zoe,’ said Lydia to her head of security.
‘I’d be happier if someone came with you, madam,’ said Zoe. ‘I can leave Callum outside.’
‘Do you mind?’ Lydia asked Ngaire. ‘It ticks the box of ladies only!’
Zoe was just under six feet tall with the lean build of a national team rugby player. Ngaire observed her unwavering stern expression and military gait but resisted the kind of crass crack her father may have made, such as, ‘You sure about that, Daalin’!?’
‘No worries at all. Let’s go inside.’
The ground floor of the bungalow looked very comfortable and lived-in, much like the other houses on the street, but Zoe could tell it was as much a genuine home as the set of a sitcom is. A hostess served them drinks and Ngaire led them to a door secreted in the back of the bedroom closet, which opened onto a wide circular staircase that led down to a sterile-looking steel-walled basement.
‘I built this place years ago so that tests could be carried out in private,’ she said.
‘What kind of tests?’ asked Yvette.
‘I found law enforcement practitioners and interrogation specialists from all over the world in order to research the possible techniques that could be employed in punishment, interrogation and rehabilitation. I was seeking something that would do the job and also felt somewhat humane.’
The basement was divided in two by a wall with a window and a steel door. While the window was obviously a two-way mirror, the light on the other side of the wall was off and so they could not see in.
The door opened and from out of the shadows stepped an imposing figure: around the same height as Zoe, with wavy black hair and the air and looks that would have her labelled as an “ebony goddess” in certain circles. She wore loose-fitting cream cotton top and bottoms, with a flowing drape shrug and bamboo flip-flops, which gave the impression she was about to instruct a meditation class.
‘Ladies,’ said Ngaire, ‘I’d like to introduce you to Kisi Baidoo.’
The women introduced themselves.
‘Good morning. It’s nice to meet you all,’ said Kisi with a silky Ghanaian accent.
‘Were you waiting in there with the lights off?’ asked Ngaire.
‘I was. I do like to make an entrance,’ she said with arid delivery.
‘I’ll leave it to you to explain why I’ve asked you to be here.’
‘Of course. Ladies, I am an ex-agent of Ghana’s National Intelligence Bureau. I have had dealt with with organised crime, espionage, drug trafficking and terrorism by means of interrogation for the purposes of counterintelligence.’
‘You torture people?’ asked Zafirah.
‘Yes,’ she replied, unabashed and without hesitation. ‘During my time at the N.I.B. I helped prevent three major terrorist attacks and place all of the major players behind one of the biggest drug trafficking organisations in jail.’ She was very matter-of-fact.
Yvette marvelled at Kisi’s cheekbones, highlighted by the basement down-lighters. Because she had made some of her wealth in fashion and lifestyle publishing, if it hadn’t been inappropriate to do so, she would have immediately handed Kisi a card with the intent of placing her on the cover of her next magazine release.
‘I do not know of any “paradise” that endorses capital punishment,’ said Zafirah.
‘Perhaps we need to be informed of the specific methods you use, Ms Baidoo,’ said Lydia.
‘I was just about to suggest the same thing myself!’ said Ngaire. ‘But we can do one better than describing it. Over to you, Kisi.’
Kisi stepped back into the darkness of the room, closing the door behind her. Ngaire encouraged the others over to the window.
The lights flashed on to reveal a white room with a digital timer on the wall, set at one hour, and a state-of-the-art St. Andrew’s Cross situated in the middle. To the frame, a young woman was attached at the ankles, wearing just lycra shorts and a crop top.
The women could hear no sound from the room as the young woman raised her arms and Kisi clipped padded metal cuffs around her wrists to keep her in place. Kisi spoke with her in a friendly manner although it seemed that they were not especially familiar with one another.
‘’oo is zat?’ asked Yvette.
‘This is one of our volunteers,’ said Ngaire. ‘Her name’s Sarah. She’s a Lieutenant Commander in the Royal Australian Navy.’
‘Does she ‘ave any secrets to divulge? Or any incentive not to divulge zem? I mean, she’s not in danger, no?’
‘Not secrets, but her commanding officer is an associate of mine. If she doesn’t pass this test, she won’t be considered for a promotion for another year.’
‘And what test is zat?’
‘She has a safe word that she is not allowed to say for one hour. If Kisi gets the safe word, I’ve agreed to give it to her superiors. And, I can assure you, she wants this promotion.’
Kisi tapped a digital panel on the wall and the clock began to countdown. She then stepped in front of the Lieutenant Commander and they could lipread her asking, ‘Ready?’
Sarah took a deep breath and nodded.
Kisi leant in close and whispered something. Sarah frowned a little in confusion, but wiped the expression from her face as Kisi stood upright and placed her fingers at Sarah’s wrists.
Zafirah dreaded what she was about to witness, but her mouth dropped open when Kisi began gently teasing her long fingernails at Sarah’s wrists…
Sarah jolted as though given an electric shock.
She clenched her eyes and mouth tight as she resisted.
Kisi’s fingernails trickled their way down her bare forearms, causing her to tug at the restraints as they reached her inner elbows.
In contrast to the expression on Sarah’s face, Kisi appeared serene and talked to her constantly. Suddenly Sarah panicked in response to something that was said and she looked, wide-eyed at Kisi, shaking her head and pleading.
Kisi’s fingernails continued their journey down Sarah’s triceps and as they approached her underarms she became more frantic until Kisi stimulated her armpits and she threw her head back and laughed.
There was the faint sound of a scream through the soundproofed walls and Sarah shook her head emphatically as she spoke through her laughter.
Kisi replied and nodded to the clock. There were fifty-nine minutes left.
Sarah cried out, prompting Kisi to stop – a subtle smile on her lips. She unclipped the wrist restraints and Sarah instantly hid her face in her hands.
Ngaire pressed a button on a wall-mounted touchscreen and the window misted over. ‘Let’s give her privacy to get dressed,’ she said.
‘Are you serious?’ asked Yvette.
‘Very much so.’
The door opened and out stepped Kisi. ‘Molten Breakaway three zero five is the code,’ she said.
The Lieutenant Commander left the room and hurried for the stairs without acknowledging her audience.
‘This is what you specialise in?’ Lydia asked.
Kisi nodded.
Lydia turned to Ngaire, ‘And out of all the law enforcement techniques, this is the one you have found to be most effective? Who have you tested it on?’
‘Volunteers. Men and women who were well-paid for their time and silence; who pride themselves on their ability to endure anything. From athletes and extreme sports fanatics to secret service agents, but mostly military personnel. This can be used for everything from interrogation to punishment to negative reinforcement rehabilitation. It could revolutionise law enforcement worldwide!’
Lydia was trying to digest the concept when an uncharacteristic change in Zoe’s expression caught her attention. ‘You have an opinion, Zoe?’
‘Excuse me for saying so, but I don’t buy it,’ she replied.
‘You just saw what happened,’ said Ngaire.
She didn’t answer.
‘You think Sarah was a set-up?’
Zoe gave a nominal shrug. Irked, Ngaire looked to Kisi who seemed unmoved.
‘If that’s the case…’ said Kisi, ‘there’s only one way to settle it.’
‘And how is that?’ asked Zoe.
‘You come into the room.’
A silence fell across the basement.
‘I’m here to protect Miss Goodman,’ said Zoe, ‘Getting locked in a room where I can’t see her isn’t an option.’
Lydia was curious – Zoe had been by her side for over five years and was the toughest and most resolute person she knew. ‘I believe I’m perfectly safe here, Zoe. This is a substantial investment I am considering. I trust you with my life and, if you wouldn’t mind, it would help me to make my decision if I knew your evaluation.’
‘But, madam, what she did in there doesn’t affect me.’
‘That’s all the more reason for me to entrust you with this.’
Zoe considered a moment then acquiesced: ‘Lead the way,’ she said to Kisi.
Ngaire tapped the touchscreen and the window cleared. Again there was silence as Kisi explained to Zoe that she needed to disrobe. Zoe took off her jacket and began to unbutton her shirt.
‘Zis is somesing that people do—parents do, friends do, lovers do—all ze time, every day, all over ze world, no? How can it be ze groundwork for law enforcement?’ asked Yvette.
‘Parents, friends and lovers each use it in a specific way, Yvie. So will we,’ said Ngaire.
‘Your lady requires something special up her sleeve for this one, Miss Brown,’ said Lydia as they watched Zoe step into position in generic sports underwear and socks. ‘My girl is a uniquely unbreakable biscuit. I’ve known her since she was 27 and in the last five years don’t believe I’ve ever seen her smile.’
‘She’s not the first fitty I’ve seen on that cross,’ said Ngaire. ‘Let’s just see how it goes…’
CHAPTER 3
Kisi began in much the same way as before and drew slow, snaking strokes with her fingernails from Zoe’s wrists to her underarms. Zoe showed no signs of responding. In fact, both women continued to talk as casually as if they were discussing business matters over coffee.
Kisi lightly dragged her nails up and down Zoe’s sides, then criss-crossed over her chest before slowly sweeping down between her breasts and towards her firm stomach.
‘Is she trying to interrogate her or turn her on?’ asked Yvette.
Ngaire didn’t answer. She noticed something the others didn’t: the merest of involuntary retractions by Zoe’s tummy as Kisi grazed a single nail along the waistband of her knickers. Kisi noticed it as well and repeated the action, but it had less effect the second time round and was gone altogether on stroke number three. Undeterred, Kisi lightly scratched her fingers around Zoe’s waist. She had to stand close in order to trace up and down her back before crouching to draw her fingernails over Zoe’s buttocks and forward over her hips.
With one hand, Kisi released the lower section of the frame, which smoothly lifted Zoe into a seated position with her legs straight out in front. Without breaking contact, Kisi locked the frame into position and proceeded to gently and repetitively claw, hand-over-hand, down Zoe’s legs.
Zoe blinked fast and stirred in the seat, as though trying to relieve an ache or push an unwanted thought to the back of her mind. Her legs tensed slightly, displaying the muscle definition in her thighs as Kisi’s hands stroked her leg over and over again, edging a little lower each time.
Eventually Zoe took a deep breath, rested her head back and focussed on the ceiling lights. Kisi continued the same technique all over and down her knee and shin before expertly inserting a finger into her sock and effortlessly slipping it off. Without skipping a beat, she arrived at the top of Zoe’s other leg and began again.
As the second sock popped off to bare the second of Zoe’s unsurprisingly large feet, Ngaire glanced at the clock. 15 minutes had passed.
Kisi stood between Zoe’s feet and drew her nails slowly over the top of them. Zafirah held her breath. Then Kisi swept gently down the sides, around her ankles and swiftly back up her soles.
‘Oh, dear God,’ said Zafirah, averting her eyes in empathy.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Yvette.
‘I couldn’t take that!’
‘It doesn’t seem to be affecting Zoe,’ said Lydia. ‘I’m not sure Miss Baidoo has many options left.’
Ngaire held her tongue and kept watching. Kisi’s fingers sped up on Zoe’s soles and then stopped suddenly. Ngaire couldn’t see her expression; she hoped Kisi was not losing her patience.
Kisi moved behind Zoe, slowly dragging her nails up her leg and across her stomach as she did so, which for some reason reminded Lydia of a she-devil’s tail. Nails scratched lightly up and down the skin of Zoe’s back with one particular area on both sides provoking an almost imperceptible wriggle.
Yvette hummed softly with her own empathetic appreciation. Lydia glanced at her: she appeared to be turned on by the spectacle in front of them. ‘Are you all right, Yvette?’ she asked.
‘Oh yes,’ said Yvette, her eyes glued to the scene.
Lydia sighed. ‘How long until she gives up?’
‘Which one?’ Ngaire responded.
‘Look, it’s obvious this isn’t—’
She was interrupted as Kisi thrust the second knuckle of both index fingers into the muscles of Zoe’s back. Zoe arched forward and threw her head back in a startled snarl.
‘That’s not what she was doing before!’ said Lydia, angrily. ‘Get her out of there!’
‘Look again,’ said Ngaire.
Zoe pulled hard at the restraints, her teeth gritted and her eyes wide as she attempted to evade the pressure being drilled into her.
She had nowhere to go. Her reaction wasn’t the same as Sarah’s, but Lydia was still concerned. Kisi grabbed at Zoe’s torso, which made her yelp in surprise. She grabbed at her lower ribs; her upper ribs; her waist; her armpits, all with firm pressure and intense wriggles and, just as she thought she might be able to withstand it, Kisi pressed with the same intensity into those vulnerable spots on her back.
Zoe spasmed and twisted in the frame. She was wholly unfamiliar with this kind and concentration of touch and swapped between squeezing her mouth and eyes tight in an attempt to maintain her composure. She found herself all the more sensitive due to the light strokes and scratches that had been lavished all over her body and which had given her a false sense of security. She tried all she could to zone out the sensations, but an unfamiliar feeling of anticipation was building inside her.
Suddenly, Kisi pinpointed two sensitive spots deep in the muscles either side of her waist and she realised that her impending reaction was inevitable. She turned to the mirror with an apologetic expression.
From the other side, Lydia could tell Zoe’s look was intended for her. She watched as her head bodyguard’s tough persona contorted into a beautiful laugh.
Kisi was expressionless as she spoke. Zoe shook her head and continued to laugh. Kisi shrugged and doubled the speed at which she wriggled her grip into the flanks of Zoe’s belly. Zoe bellowed with a laughter so loud that Lydia could hear it quite clearly.
Kisi stepped swiftly to Zoe’s feet and, without a break, scrabbled her long fingernails all over Zoe’s soles. Her reaction was in stark contrast to what it had been before: she jerked forward with an instinct to clutch and protect her feet, which, of course, she could not. Instead she laughed with enforced glee, her eyes wide as though if she stared hard enough she could create some kind of barrier. Kisi spoke again, but Zoe’s response was the same as before – she shook her head, but this time with that frozen wide-eyed and open-mouthed clownish expression.
Kisi leaped back to Zoe’s upper body and began scratching erratically at her tummy. Zoe was again surprised by the intensity of the sensations and she screamed with laughter and protest. Kisi was now in her face, talking at her non-stop. Zoe was shaking her head and trying to speak between bouts of laughter until, with 22 minutes left to go, she nodded.
Yvette turned to Lydia. ‘I sink your cookie just crumbled, no?’ Lydia was unable to look away, unlike Zafirah who had her back to the window.
Kisi kicked off a flip-flop and lifted her foot effortlessly into the air to tap a button on the control panel with her toe. A speaker came to life in the main room and Zoe’s laughter filled the basement.
‘Miss Goodman, your head of security has something to tell you,’ said Kisi. ‘Go on,’ she ordered with a quick press into her waist.
‘AH-HAAHKLLL!’ wailed Zoe, ‘OKAY! OKHAY-HAY! M-Madam! I admit ittt! I’m… I’m t-ticklish!’ As soon as she spoke the word, her head flopped forward, ashamed that a vulnerability had been discovered and exposed in front of the powerful women at the window.
Ngaire held a button on the touchscreen, ‘Thank you very much, Kisi. I think that’s enough.’
Kisi nodded. The speaker was silenced and the window again misted over.
‘Different people require different approaches to break down their defences,’ said Ngaire. ‘And that’s why Kisi is an expert. She can train up an entire team.’
While Zafirah felt compassion for anyone who was being tortured, she understood the benefits of this method. Yvette was surprised at her own reaction – she hid how turned on she had became while watching the demonstration. Meanwhile, Lydia felt a little stung at the fact her head of security had been broken by tickling, but her curiosity was satisfied.
‘There’s just one additional piece of information we need to know,’ she said.
‘What’s that?’ asked Ngaire.
‘Do you have a name in mind?’
Ngaire smiled. ‘Yeah. I’d like to give a nod to its French history, so I thought we could name it L'île de la Paix: The Island of Peace.’
CHAPTER 4
As soon as the deal was agreed, progress was swift. L’île de la Paix quickly became a country with which everyone was familiar and with a very strong economy – both factors due to an extraordinary oversight on the part of the French government and extreme stroke of luck for the founders: when work began on the site that was due to be home to L’île de la Paix’s second largest city, construction crews discovered what turned out to be the world’s seventh largest gold mine.
Consequently, France’s president failed in his re-election bid and the Paix Dollar became established as a strong new currency on the world market.
In less than a year a constitution had been agreed and strict but fair processes were established, exactly as Ngaire Brown had envisaged. The island became a melting pot for 7.5 million women from almost every country in the world; from the poor and in need of asylum, to the talented, independent and wealthy.
Four years later, the island exceeded everyone’s initial expectations and, while there were cries of inequality because men were not permitted to reside or holiday there, it lived up to its name as The Island of Peace because crime was virtually non-existent and the newly-established lifestyles created a true sense of community among most of the residents.
…among most of the residents…
PART II
CHAPTER 5
‘You can’t!’ said Mikey. His eyes were flooded with tears.
‘I can – it’s all arranged,’ said Olivia, pulling on a jacket with the most dispassionate expression he had ever seen on her beautiful face. ‘You can’t stop me.’
‘And you can’t just calmly announce that you’re pregnant with my kid and leavin’ the country!’
She recoiled in disgust as strings of saliva formed in his mouth. ‘Do you have to salivate so much when you’re upset? Be a man, for Christ’s sake!’
‘Why are you doing this to me!?’
‘Look, I told you we were over weeks ago. That doesn’t change just because you didn’t pull out in time.’
‘You said you were taking precautions!’ he yelled.
‘Please don’t get aggressive with me!’ she said, raising her voice toward the neighbouring apartment. ‘You can’t stop me living my life! Now, if you want what’s best for your baby and if you ever want to see it when I visit my folks in Melbourne, I suggest you pay me child support every month! You have my account details.’ She opened the door to leave.
‘Can’t we just give it another go? For the benefit of the kid!?’ he pleaded.
‘No,’ she said flatly. As she pulled the door shut, her final snapshot of Mikey was of him sinking to his knees, head-in-hands.
‘Fuckin’ imbecile,’ she muttered to herself.
Outside, Brianna Woroson’s pokey little Ford, which Olivia Jenson suspected may be the rattiest-looking car in Australia, was idling. Olivia exited the apartment block and got in. ‘Let’s go.’
Brianna pulled out into the evening traffic. ‘How did he take it?’ she asked.
‘Like the loser he is.’
‘Ah, jeez, you can’t blame the guy.’
Olivia winced at Brianna’s turn of phrase. Although they had both grown up in the same area, it grated on her that Brianna had never made a concerted effort to lose her outback accent. But Olivia had never come across anyone else who was as willing to accept her personality or bend to her will as Brianna. She hoped that moving to L’île de la Paix would give her the opportunity to find a decent social group and drop the dead weight.
At 24-years-old, although she was taller and slimmer than Brianna, Olivia supposed they were both on the prettier side of the girl next door description and she was happy with that because she knew how to utilise it: she knew how to dress down when she wanted to merge into the background. Conversely, she knew how to wash and condition her long, straight dark hair until it swayed as she walked and the shine drew attention; she knew how to highlight her deep brown eyes so that they hooked whichever man she flashed them at; and she knew how to dress and carry herself so as to turn every head in the room.
Sadly, Brianna placed more importance on eating McDonald’s than appearing hot. That, plus her deficit in the intelligence department and her lack of ambition, meant Olivia had no choice to take the initiative in every situation.
‘I can blame the guy – he needs to take control over his emotions. If not, women will be walking over him his entire life. That said, at least I now have a steady income stream.’
‘But that money will have to go to the kid, won’t it?’
Olivia looked to Brianna as though this was the world’s dumbest statement. ‘I said I was going to tell him I was pregnant with his kid. I didn’t say I was actually pregnant with his kid.’
There was a long pause before Brianna simply said, ‘Oh, wow.’
‘Survival of the smartest, Brianna – I keep telling you.’
‘You’re not going to do anything like that on the island though, are ya? I mean, we were lucky to get our applications accepted. Plus, I hear they come down pretty hard on crims.’
‘Everyone over there is so high on life that they wouldn’t notice or give a toss if someone was robbing them blind. Especially the Africans and Indians; they’re just happy to be there!’
With two grandparents who were Aboriginal, Brianna had never been comfortable with the way Olivia referred to ethnicities other than her own caucasian-defined variety, but she kept quiet about it and changed the subject. ‘Still, it’s a fresh start, eh?’ she said.
‘An untouched orchard is always ripe for the picking, Brianna. And we’re going to fill our baskets!’
CHAPTER 6
Ten months later Brianna found herself driving Olivia along the Ngaire Brown Highway to L’île de la Paix’s central mountain, Halcyon Peak, in the middle of the night.
‘We won’t be able to drive all the way to the top,’ said Brianna as the looming silhouette of the mountain carved a black triangle into the ceiling of stars. ‘But there’s a car park about half-way up.’
‘I know,’ said Olivia.
‘You still haven’t told me why you wanna go up there.’
‘As I said: I’ll tell you when we get there. It isn’t for the bloody sunset.’
The 2-hour trek from the car park to the summit took place in virtual silence, not least because Olivia strode on ahead and so two-way conversation wasn’t an option. Brianna marvelled at the number of shooting stars she saw in the cloudless sky and the golden-pink sunrise that lit the ocean and cast impressive shadows over the east coast houses and green areas as she neared the top. The only thing that tainted her enjoyment a little was how cold it was. She had forgotten to pack a suitable coat and so her hoodie was the only thing she had for warmth. When she arrived at the summit, she found Olivia surveying the west coast with some binoculars.
Olivia was irked to hear Brianna’s chattering teeth as she joined her. ‘Why didn’t you bring a coat like I told you?’
‘Forgot,’ Brianna sniffed. ‘What you lookin’ at?’
‘Opportunity,’ said Olivia.
‘Oh,’ said Brianna.
‘What’s the one thing this island doesn’t have?’
‘Men?’
‘Right,’ said Olivia, a little deflated – she had expected the guessing game to go on for longer. ‘I was in a cocktail bar last week and got talking to this lesbo who works on harbour security. I schmoozed her into giving away that there’s a serious hole in the island’s systems.’
‘Really? I thought security was quite tight.’
‘Not over there. There’s a blind spot for at least six months of the year.’
Brianna followed Olivia’s finger as she pointed towards the north-east coast. The windows of a lone cliff-edge mansion twinkled in the sunlight. Beyond it was the seemingly unending expanse of the Coral Sea. ‘That’s Yvette Baudelaire’s home, ain’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why’s that an opportunity?’
‘Every chick I talk to on this island complains about not getting laid. Some of us are used to getting fucked on a regular basis. They touted this place as “a land of great opportunity”. Well, every opportunity I see is already well-covered by foreigners and immigrants…’
Brianna was about to point out that every single person on the island was a “foreigner and immigrant” but Olivia continued: ‘but there’s no opportunity to get laid. That’s where I come in: I’ve got an old boyfriend in Sydney who organises boat tours. We’re gonna get boatloads of lads to come here and spend the night with our girls. Both sides will pay top dollar for this and, by the time the security systems are up-and-running, I’ll be sittin’ on a pile that will put the lottery to shame.’
‘You’re gonna hold orgies in the home of one of The Founding Mothers?!’
‘“The Founding Mothers”,’ Olivia repeated with contempt. ‘No, I’m not going to hold orgies there, even if she is in France for six months of the year. I just need the land for access and I’ll hire a villa further down the road.’
‘When?’
‘Soon. I need the money.’
‘What about the cash Mikey was sending you?’
‘He stopped.’
‘Why?’
‘He did an image search and found one of the photos I sent him of “our baby” on someone else’s blog from a few years ago. He cut me off. Finished with your questions?’
‘Yeah…’ Brianna said tentatively, although they both instantly knew she hadn’t. She tried to form her next enquiry in a way that didn’t sound like a question. ‘So…you…brought me up here…because…?’
‘Because while I go to meet the boat, I want you to keep watch.’
‘I don’t want to get into trouble, Liv. I’m doin’ alright with me job at the supermarket—’
Olivia turned sharply enough to cut her short. She spoke with deliberate calmness. ‘You do know that I’m the one who pulled the strings to get your fat arse here, don’t you? If you’re not going to assist me, then maybe I don’t need you.
‘There are millions of people who want to get on this cockless island. If, for example, you were to take a spill off this mountain, in less than a day I could bring someone else here who would owe me a massive favour.’
Brianna didn’t know what to say. Her jaw quivered as she stood open-mouthed although she couldn’t tell whether it was because of the cold or a sudden fear. Olivia had never taken this tone with her before.
‘Are you going to do as I ask, Brianna?’
Brianna nodded. ‘Yeah-yes. Yes.’
Olivia again looked through her binoculars.
‘Won’t the house have some sort of security?’ Brianna asked.
‘Nothing I haven’t come across before. Besides, the “Founding Mothers” believe in things like trust and community spirit. She probably leaves the key under a plant pot outside the front gate.’ She lowered her binoculars. ‘I’ll book the villa and we’ll start next week.’
Brianna’s instinct was to protest but she stopped herself and switched expression to one of agreement as Olivia faced her. ‘Right-o,’ she nodded.
CHAPTER 7
A week later Brianna was once again behind the wheel as she chauffeured Olivia from the short drive from the private villa—where a stocked bar, a plethora of rooms and 24 young women were anxiously awaiting the arrival of the men on the boat—to the driveway of Yvette Baudelaire’s mansion.
‘It’s not like you to be so quiet,’ said Olivia.
‘I’m alright,’ said Brianna.
‘Then why are your hands shaking? You need to take control of yourself, girl – none of the guys are gonna chat you up if you’re a nervous wreck. Mind you, it might mean I can have two to myself tonight.’ She smoothed down the shimmering silver gown over her body, partially to catch Brianna’s attention, which she achieved. She knew there were feelings of envy towards her on the nights she made a real effort to look good but that was Brianna’s fault; she was the burger muncher. Just because there were no men in the country, it didn’t mean she could completely let herself go!
She saw Brianna eyeing her thigh via the high split in her dress and wondered, as she often did, if there was any sexual desire on Brianna’s side. She liked the idea that she could be desired by women as well as men, but the thought of physical contact with a woman her turned her stomach.
The car slowed turned into the Baudelaire driveway. Olivia produced a device and pointed it at the gate. The device seemed to scrawl through a catalogue of options to a soundtrack of subtle electronic blips and crackles. Suddenly the gates parted and retracted into the walls.
‘Turn the car around and wait here. If you see anyone coming, call me because we’ll have to make a fast departure in the boat.’
‘What about me?’
‘Just say you got lost and were turning around. If you don’t call, I’ll bring the guys out the gate and we’ll head to the villa behind the trees at the side of the road. You got all that?’
‘Yeah,’ said Brianna. She was still shaking.
‘For God’s sake, pop a Xanax, will you, Brianna?’ said Olivia and strode proudly into the shadows of the garden in her sexy backless gown and white trainers.
The moonlight illuminated Olivia’s path as she found her way to the steps that led down to the dock. Before she could see the boat, she could hear the familiar sounds of male revelry and felt a thrill of excitement not only for the money she was making, but also for the chance to break her ten-month dry spell.
A silence fell across the boat as one-by-one the young men caught sight of her long legs and silver gown. ‘Good evening, boys!’ she announced, striking a pose with her arms raised to the sky. ‘Excuse the shoes – I’ve left my heels back the villa; not ideal for climbing up and down these rocky stairs!’
There was a roar of appreciation and she bathed in its glory. So many lustful pairs of eyes fixated on her made her feel like a queen. ‘Who’s ready for some fun?’ There was another cheer. ‘Okay, okay! Keep it down!’ she grinned, ‘We don’t want to attract any attention. Where’s Steve?’ she scanned the faces and physiques on the boat, intentionally working out which guys she was going to target that evening.
‘Hey, darlin’!’ called Steve, her ex-boyfriend.
‘A good turnout you have here. And we’ve got 24 lovely ladies waiting to meet you all, so follow me but keep quiet!’
This was followed by a muted cheer as the men scrambled to get off the boat. Once back in the garden they jostled and peacocked for Olivia’s attention. She considered that this may be one of the greatest days of her life – a scheme that got her unequalled attention, money and sex.
It was only as she arrived at the gate that she noticed things weren’t as she left them. Brianna and her car were gone. In the darkness of the tree-lined driveway she could just make out the shape of two cars and a van.
Exterior security lights from the house switched on, illuminating the entire troop. At the same time the red and blue lights on top of the vehicles in the driveway flashed awake. Olivia and the men were dazzled. A loudspeaker from one of the cars announced: ‘L.P.P.D.! Stop where you are and raise your hands!’ The accent was distinctly Jamaican.
The men raised their hands, but Olivia was too pissed off to be intimidated.
‘You too, lady! If you do not comply, we will use a stun gun.’ Several figures emerged from the driveway, silhouetted by the flashing lights. Two had stun guns trained on Olivia.
She slowly raised her hands. ‘You obviously don’t know who I am!’ she shouted.
‘Yes, I do,’ said the senior officer with the Jamaican accent. ‘You are under arrest!’
CHAPTER 8
The following afternoon at the Haven Law Courts, Olivia sat in a private room across the table from her state-appointed defence attorney and Ngaire Brown.
‘I was set up!’ shouted Olivia.
‘You weren’t “set up”; you were dobbed-in for something you knew damn well was illegal,’ said Ngaire. She was seething. ‘Have you got any fuckin’ idea how embarrassing this is for me? And for the country!’
‘You care more about the country and yourself than you do about me!’
‘Under these circumstances, Olivia, y’fuckin’ oath, I do!’ She leaned forward and jabbed the surface of the table with her finger. ‘I am the leading founder of this country! I’m the one who shipped you over here! I got you an apartment and a job and what do you do? In less than a year, you jack in the job and become the first woman arrested for breaking and entering, people smuggling, blackmail, suspected pimping and assaulting a police officer! Up until now the most anyone got charged for was being drunk and disorderly!’
Olivia was cavalier as she leaned back in her chair. ‘I didn’t “assault” her.’
‘Under L’île de la Paix law, using the N-word as you did is classed as a verbal assault,’ said the attorney, trying to use her tone to calm the tension in the room.
‘And she has you on body cam saying it too!’ said Ngaire. ‘Well done!’
‘Hold on, what do you mean, blackmail?’ asked Olivia.
‘Miss Woroson has made a statement saying you threatened to throw her off Halcyon Peak unless she helped you in your endeavour.’ answered the attorney.
Ngaire threw up her hands in disbelief, ‘For f… And she’s supposed to be your mate!’
‘I know. Backstabbing bitch. She’s in for it.’
‘No…’ Ngaire took a deep breath. ‘I mean: you don’t threaten to kill your friends, Olivia!’
‘Look, are you going to get me off or what?’ Olivia responded, as though she had somewhere else to be.
Ngaire was momentarily gobsmacked. ‘No, I’m not going to get you off, Olivia. They’ve got you banged to rights: they’ve got the friend you threatened, who then told the cops what you were up to; they’ve got the twenty-four tarts who were stupid enough to pay you to pimp them out;…’
Olivia couldn’t help but smirk at it being put that way.
‘…they’ve got 25 dickheads who travelled all the way here from Sydney without enough fuel to get them home again; and they’ve got you on security camera, dressed like Cinder-fuckin’-ella in sneakers, welcoming them onto the island and leading them through the garden of one of the Founding Mothers! How stupid do you have to be?!’
‘I was told that there was no security at that house!’ Olivia snapped at the insult.
‘On what planet does one of the richest women in the world not put up security cameras!? Who told you that?!’
‘If I tell you, will you get me off?’
‘No!’
‘I’m your niece! Have you forgotten or do you just want to walk out on me like you did when I was ten?’
Ngaire paused. ‘Can you give a minute, please?’ she said to the attorney.
‘Of course,’ she replied and left the room.
Ngaire lowered her voice. ‘Look, Olivia, I’m your aunt, not your mother. She ran off to God-knows-where at a time when none of us had anything. I’ve spent the years since working to get where I am today and, believe it or not, part of the reason this island exists is because it’s what I wanted for you.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Olivia replied.
‘Maybe one of the reasons you keep doing things like this is because you can’t believe when things are going well and so you feel the need to make your own backup plans. If that’s the case, I can get you some therapy—’
‘Spare me the amateur psychology, Ngaire. I don’t need a shrink – I need people to leave me alone so I can get ahead in life.’
‘Not by breaking the rules on my island, you don’t, Olivia. There’s too much at stake.’ Ngaire opened the door and beckoned in the attorney. ‘What’s the best we can hope for?’ she asked her.
‘This is the first case of its kind so it’s possible the judge will want to make an example to discourage others. I’ve spoken with the prosecutor and, as it’s a first offence, as long as Olivia sincerely apologises—including to the black police officer she insulted—and promises to make amends, she may get away with a fine for the property damage and one hundred days of incarceration, which could get reduced to community service if she displays good behaviour.’
‘Community service?’ Olivia interrupted. ‘I’m not picking up litter in an orange jumpsuit for the whole island to gander at!’
The attorney continued to address Ngaire: ‘If she doesn’t sincerely repent for what she’s done, the prosecutor could recommend a minimum two hundred days of incarceration with attitude adjustment therapy, plus the fines.’
Ngaire looked to her niece. ‘What do you say, Olivia? The world will be watching. Can you swallow your pride and give a sincere apology?’
Olivia sat back and crossed her arms. ‘If I’m the only one in the prison, it’s just going to be like a holiday.’
PART III
CHAPTER 9
Olivia made a silent vow that she would not be riled by anything the prison system threw at her.
She had already endured what she believed would be the most challenging part of her entire stay when a prison guard with latex gloves and an XXXL shirt—which was still a tight fit—performed a cavity search on her. This was her first test and she passed: no matter how much she disliked being touched by another woman, she didn’t even allow herself to frown.
She had to follow the rules but would not change her personality to suit their idea of who she should be. She would follow the schedule, answer their questions and go along with the “attitude adjustment therapy” – she knew she could easily convince some old biddy with a notepad that she was rehabilitated within two hundred days. In the meantime, she planned to take the free meals and bed, exercise her way to further hotness and intricately devise a new, airtight scheme.
On the first morning she woke early and was brushing her hair when a loud metallic clanking sounded outside her cell door. The peephole on the door slid open and a wooden spoon rattled inside a saucepan. The clanking filled the room and was obviously intended to irritate, but Olivia maintained an unaffected poise as a pair of blue eyes appeared at the hole and a guard with a Texan accent announced, ‘Up and at ‘em, inmate! Breakfast in fifteen!’
‘I’m already awake, thank you,’ Olivia replied, continuing to brush her hair.
Her first breakfast amused her as it was very easy to perceive the prison as her own private hotel: she was escorted to the canteen, kitchen staff served her a meal and she sat alone in the centre of a pristine dining area while three guards stood by the exits. She chose to imagine them to be her own personal bodyguards.
She sipped at her water and spoke to the young guard who stood closest to her with a tone that insinuated she was lucky to be addressed, ‘I suppose it’s nice for you to have someone to take care of after all this time twiddling your thumbs?’
The young guard didn’t answer. Instead, the senior guard with the Texan accent whose name tag read Williams said, ‘I wouldn’t overdo the water, if I were you.’
Olivia didn’t know how to take this comment and so nodded politely, downed the water and got herself a refill.
After breakfast, she was escorted to the showers, which were again pristine and all to herself.
‘A.A.T. in forty-two minutes,’ said Williams as she returned Olivia to the cell.
‘Thank you, Jeeves,’ said Olivia. This was a slip of the tongue – she had intended for the word Jeeves to be silent. But, instead of annoyance, she sensed a slight amusement in Williams’s eyes.
‘Be ready,’ said Williams.
‘I will, thank you,’ Olivia replied, turning her back to the senior guard.
Forty minutes later Williams and the young guard, whose name tag read Martinez, collected Olivia from her cell and escorted her through several corridors to a door with a sign that read A.A.T Suite. No Entry if Red Light is On.
Olivia expected to find a comfortable room with armchairs, perhaps a chez lounge, shelves filled with books on criminal psychology and a grey-haired hippy in round spectacles ready to welcome her. Instead, as Williams opened the door and lead her in, she found a brightly lit, clinical-looking room with an indescribably pleasant smell of newness. The back of the room was a wall-to-wall closet and the tiled floor dipped in the centre where a drain sat beneath an elaborate and adjustable padded chair with individual arm and leg supports and sturdy, padded, adjustable and lockable stocks at the wrist and ankle positions.
Olivia held her poker face despite being confused and concerned by what she saw. She then registered the two women standing in front of the closet – one was tall, black, with modelesque chiselled features. She was dressed as some kind of mystic.
Next to her stood a petite Japanese woman, dressed in a white variant of the prison guards’ grey and navy uniform. Olivia supposed she was pretty.
‘Prisoner Jenson for you, ma’am,’ said Williams.
‘Thank you, Ms Williams,’ replied the tall black woman, with a strong Ghanaian accent. ‘You can leave us now.’
Olivia noticed a smirk on Williams’s lips as she took one last look at her before leaving the room.
There was a moment of silence as the two women regarded Olivia. ‘You may call me Miss Baidoo,’ said Kisi. ‘Top and bottoms off and sit the chair, please, Prisoner Jenson.’
‘Pardon?’ said Olivia.
‘This is your attitude adjustment therapy session, please remove your top, trousers, shoes and socks.’
‘Why?’
‘Firstly, because I am telling you to and, secondly, so that I don’t have to call five or six officers in here to do it for you.’
Olivia raised her chin as the illusion of being in her own private hotel & spa began to fade. She turned to hide her irritation at being told what to do by this woman and was about to lift her top when she saw a window that covered the front wall, behind which sat an audience of around thirty women of all ages and ethnic groups, each dressed the same as the Japanese woman.
‘Quicker!’ said Kisi.
‘Why are they there?’
‘You’ve no need to be embarrassed – you are going to get to know each of these therapists by the time you leave here. Now, will you get undressed or do I have to call the officers?’
Despite the humiliation of stripping in front of all these women, Olivia considered that it would be worse to be forcibly stripped and so she pulled off her top while imagining that she was stripping for a paying audience.
‘That took longer than necessary,’ Kisi commented. ‘Onto the chair – legs up.’
Now in just her prison-issued bra and panties, Olivia sat on the chair. The rubber padding was cool against her skin as she lifted her legs onto the supports. Kisi flipped open a panel on the wall to reveal a touchscreen of options. She touched it and the chair elevated about three feet.
Kisi spoke as she and the Japanese lady set about unceremoniously locking the stocks around Olivia’s wrists and ankles: ‘I am the Head Therapist here at the Haven Correctional Facility. This is Miss Aoki. She and everyone behind that window have been trained by me in my specialist area, which we will be implementing today for your attitude realignment. I will not answer any questions you have about the methods I use. Just trust me that at the end of the course you will be a better person for it…’
Olivia resisted a strong urge to display even the smallest inkling of her intent to undermine this facility.
The women continued by securing curved metal bars across her elbows and kneecaps and, while they weren’t touching her, she found that she couldn’t bend her arms or legs any more than a centimetre. ‘You may like to know,’ said Kisi, ‘that, as the first inmate at Haven, you are the first person in the country to receive this treatment outside of training sessions, which is why we have so many observers today.’
She pressed the touchscreen again and a digital clock appeared on the wall. It read 00:00:00. The seconds began to tick… 00:00:01…00:00:02… She took a seat in the corner of the room, ‘Over to you, Miss Aoki.’
CHAPTER 10
Sora Aoki bowed to her mentor and turned to Olivia, who, despite the ungainly position of having her legs spread at a 90º angle, and arms locked out to the side, had perfected a look of lofty indifference. It was her vs. the world and she was going to win! All she needed to know was what she was up against. She prepared herself for whatever was to come—electric shocks, waterboarding, whatever—they couldn’t kill or seriously harm her, so whatever she was to go through, she would just come out stronger in the end.
Sora moved to Olivia’s side. Olivia occupied herself by maintaining a blank expression while looking into the eyes of one of the older women in the observation room who had an equally blank expression.
Suddenly, Olivia jumped. At first she didn’t know why but then realised it was because the Japanese woman had poked her in the side. This was not a sensation she was familiar with and she steeled herself against it happening again. Then Sora poked in her upper ribs and she jumped. She tensed up the entire left side of her body and when she was again poked in her waist, it resulted in little more than a tiny wiggle in the seat. But, before she could react, Sora reached across and tweaked her waist on the other side, causing her to jump and gasp.
Sora moved to between Olivia’s legs and worked her way down from the top of her thighs with a series of light pincer grips. Olivia jerked in the seat with each move; they were done so quickly that she wasn’t able to prepare herself for the next and when the final one tweaked just above her kneecaps, it caused her entire body to stiffen and she let out an involuntary sound of resistance in her throat.
Sora then took a step back and performed the same pincer movements down Olivia’s shins. This was not particularly troublesome, but Olivia felt an increasing tingle of anguish in her feet the closer the other woman came to touching them, as though her body was sending an alarm call of protest.
This was also unusual. Olivia had obviously experienced pain and pleasure before: she’d trodden on pointed stones in her bare feet and she’d been given foot massages by one boyfriend, but she’d never experienced this.
She watched as Sora looked to her soles. Olivia was unable to stop the unfamiliar build of anticipation in her feet and ankles. It felt like a concentrated form of restless-leg syndrome and as Sora raised her hands Olivia attempted to retract her legs, which was, of course, impossible. Sora performed a split-second ripple of fingers up Olivia’s soles.
‘YAP!’ Olivia blurted out and she jolted in the seat. She silently cursed her body’s reactions but was able to compose herself as Sora stepped away and nodded as though confirming a suspicion.
Sora disappeared out of sight behind the chair and Olivia tensed her entire upper body in preparation for any surprise that could be implemented from her current position. Olivia’s eyes met Kisi’s as she wondered what these women would do next.
She then noticed something in her peripheral vision – Sora’s hands were approaching slowly on either side. She doubled the strength of her muscles in her torso but the hands closed in on her underarms. The same restless tingle that she felt in her feet now aggravated her armpits and there was nothing she could do to tense or defend them.
As Sora’s fingers invaded her armpits, she felt a strange whimper clambering to be released from her throat. She held Kisi’s gaze but felt her stony expression beginning to falter: her nostrils were pulsing, the corners of her mouth quivered and her eyebrows started to raise in the middle. She bit hard on her tongue in an attempt to suppress the compulsions she felt bubbling inside her and took a deep breath to strengthen her resolve. It worked momentarily, but she quickly realised that if she released the breath she might lose control.
The incessant stroking of her armpits continued as she wondered why the hell this was lasting so long when everywhere else on her body had just been given split-second tests?
She couldn’t hold her breath any longer. Her body began to convulse as the realisation hit her that, against all logic, she was going to laugh!
She closed her eyes in a vain attempt to zone out the maddening sensations but her lips began to curl up, which is when Sora grabbed her waist.
‘PAA-HA-HA-HA!’ Olivia laughed in surprise.
Sora’s fingers probed into her oblique muscles and she growled through her laughter in a frustrated attempt to build her defences, but it was too late – they had already been broken.
Sora stopped. ‘I think she a category seven or eight, ma’am,’ she said to Kisi. ‘She does not need sensitisation treatment.’
‘I agree, Miss Aoki,’ said Kisi. ‘You may continue.’
Olivia was angry at having been forced out of her stoical act. ‘You can’t do this! This is assault! Stop touching me!’
‘Yes we can,’ replied Kisi. ‘If you like, I can show you the document you signed in order to be a L’île de la Paix resident. You agreed to be subject to the laws of the country, including the use of corporal punishment as seen fit by L’île de la Paix’s lawmakers. From what I know about you, you are the definition of someone who will benefit from it.’
Olivia struggled for an argument that would be listened to. The digital display read just 00:07:24. Then she noticed she older woman in the observation room; her blank expression had been replaced with the tiniest of smirks. Indignant, Olivia snapped, ‘How much longer do you intend to do this?’
‘I told you, I do not answer your questions. Miss Aoki, you may continue.’
‘Fuck that! I demand—!’
Olivia’s rant was stopped in its tracks as Sora grabbed either side of her waist, causing her to tug forward and burst into peals of laughter.
CHAPTER 11
This time the touch was not short-lived. Sora massaged circles into Olivia’s tummy muscles with her thumbs and edged unpredictably up, down, left, right and diagonally to keep Olivia at a consistent level of hilarity.
Very quickly, Olivia’s eyes began to fill with tears of laughter. Sora darted behind the chair and, without pause, scrabbled her fingertips into the hollows of her armpits. The effect was electric – she slammed back in the seat and her laugh reached a higher pitch.
Olivia couldn’t believe what was happening to her. Of all the things that could be used to punish her, she would have never believed they would use this and she had no idea it would be so effective on her. A small, dissociated part of her brain seemed to levitate above the chair, looking down on her, enquiring why on earth she couldn’t just stop laughing and retain some dignity?
It’s not as if they’re burning you with branding irons! Just ignore it, for Christ’s sake!
But she couldn’t even muster the jaw-clenched growl that she gave just minutes ago; her mouth was stretched wide open as laughter was forced from her with ludicrously simplistic strokes of the skin under her arms.
Then Sora took her by surprise by scurrying her fingernails up and down her sides and ribs. The surprise was joined by another bout of annoyance as the actions unearthed a new brand of unstoppable laughter: ‘Oooh! Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!’
Olivia was especially irritated by this because, while it was born out of an attempt to stop laughing, it gave the impression that she was somehow enjoying herself.
It was a battle between brain and body as the stone-cold and resolute Olivia of one hour ago bawled at the current iteration to pull herself together. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop her reactions.
‘Do you know what’s happening to you?’
Olivia’s eyes popped open at the surprise of Sora’s voice being so close to her ear because she hadn’t noticed her move.
‘Do you?’ repeated Sora.
Olivia couldn’t believe it – were they taunting her now!? She struggled at the restraints in anger but the strength of her laughter was unchanged.
Sora slowed to give her the chance to speak.
‘Get y-your f-f-fucking hands off me! Y’fuckin’ lesbian bitch!’ Olivia shouted, her face still distorted into a gaping wide smile.
Sora ignored the anger; at this stage it was par for the course. ‘I don’t think she has ever experienced this before,’ she said to Kisi.
‘It’s possible,’ replied Kisi.
‘Is that correct?’ Sora asked Olivia. ‘Did you not know you were ticklish?’
‘I’m-I… I’m not fffucking ticklish!’ shouted Olivia.
Sora cocked her head skeptically and scampered her fingernails all over Olivia’s tummy. Olivia screamed with startled surprise and felt a sheen of sweat sweep over her entire body.
‘Yeah: you ticklish,’ Sora confirmed.
Olivia drew a deep breath, almost gagging on her own tongue in the process. ‘S-S-STOPPP!’
Sora slowed to ensure she wasn’t about to induce a fit.
‘Stop! Stop! For fuck sake! I need the dunnie!’
Sora and Kisi looked at one another in confusion. Olivia cursed herself for lapsing inexplicably into country lingo she hadn’t used for over fourteen years.
‘Toilet! I need a b-bloody restroom! Ha ha ha ha haaa!’
‘No bathroom breaks – you should have gone before.’
A glare of disbelief from Olivia was shattered as Sora jumped her fingers to the pincer grips just above her knees. Olivia squealed in high-pitched desperation at the unbearable sensations that shot through her body.
She thrashed her head from side-to-side in open-mouthed laughter. The tears streaming from her eyes caused her nose to run but she could do nothing about it; not even ask for a tissue.
Frozen in a permanent state of enforced hysteria, Olivia looked through the blur of tears to see the time: 00:54:01. She didn’t want to look at the crowd of unsympathetic spectators behind the glass, although couldn’t help but notice some new figures had joined them. She blinked away the tears enough to recognise Officers Williams and Martinez watching contently from the back of the room.
A wave of humiliation caused her to shiver and let out a one-off girlish “cooing” sound. Her muscles contracted and her bladder suddenly felt like an overfilled water balloon.
‘STOP! STOP! P-PLEEEASE! I… I’m going to PEEEE! HA HA HA HA! STOP THAT ON MY KNEE-HEE-HEE-HEES! I CAN’T STAND IT! HA HA HA HA HA!’ she hated that she was admitting this in full view of the guards who would be watching over her day in, day out for the next 199 days but she couldn’t help it; it was like the begging was being forced from her in the same way as the horrible and irrepressible laughter.
The torture continued for hours. Olivia Jenson was compelled to laugh constantly. There were no breaks except for the occasional sip of water. The temptation to spit this back in Sora’s face was strong but she did not want to make things worse for herself. At least she was proud that her 24-year-old bladder had proven itself to withstand anything she was exposed to but it was starting to throb.
However, amid the non-stop tickling of her knees, thighs, waist, belly and underarms, she been too preoccupied to recognise that Sora had not yet gone anywhere near her feet…
CHAPTER 12
The clock reached 03:30:00, prompting Kisi to announce: ‘Thirty minutes until lunch.’
Sora stopped her current barrage of tickles on Olivia’s ribs and stepped out from behind the chair to indicate she had heard this.
Olivia’s head flopped onto her own shoulder. Sweat dripped from every pore of her body as snot and tears streamed from her chin and collected inside her cleavage.
During the last fifteen or so minutes Kisi had noticed the micro-expressions of exhaustion and distress on Olivia’s face whenever there was even a brief cessation in the tickling.
‘And now, these…’ said Sora
Olivia opened her eyes to see Sora standing at her feet.
‘No…’ Olivia whimpered. The buzz of dread and anticipation returned to her feet with a vengeance and her toes curled tight at the thought.
Sora met Olivia’s eye and wriggled her fingers on a slow journey towards her soles. Behind Sora, Olivia noticed some of the other trainees nudging one another in amusement at this taunting technique. She lifted her chin and refused to beg or let herself be humiliated any further.
‘So, now do you see that you’re ticklish…?’ said Sora with a bedevilling tone that vexed Olivia beyond description and reinforced her determination to stand strong.
…but as soon as the first fingernail touched her sole, she knew she was done.
She wailed with panic and was powerless to escape or mask the effect this had on her. She could only watch and laugh like a maniac as Sora revelled with glee in tickling her bare soles with her lethally long fingernails. Seeing her own feet trapped in place and moving independently as they attempted to dodge the relentless tickling led her to a surreal concept that it was like watching someone torment two innocent pets behind a glass wall without being able to stop them. The difference, the disassociated part of her brain supposed, was that her feet were not separate entities; they were connected, and it was because they were connected that Sora tickling them was forcing Olivia to laugh harder and feel more powerless than she had ever experienced before.
‘Fifteen minutes!’ called Kisi as she watched with interest. As familiar as this was to her, she was still fascinated at how Olivia was making sounds of undiluted hilarity while her face displayed pure distress.
Sora stopped again and made her way to the back of the room.
Olivia’s mouth was so dry, and her body quivering so much with alien sensations, that she couldn’t even swallow. Sora opened one of the cupboard doors and returned with an unlabelled jar of translucent liquid and what looked like two handled, circular pads with tens of rounded rubber nubs of varying thickness on the bottom.
Olivia watched, baffled and terrified as to what would happen next. The unscrewed lid of the jar had an in-built thick paintbrush. Although she knew it was hopeless, Olivia’s body again instinctively attempted to retreat as Sora applied the the bristles and smeared syrupy oil onto her soles. She screwed her face up in an attempt to resist, but the giggles came with little effort from Sora. And, when the tip of the brush began to flick and swirl in the crevasses under Olivia’s toes, she was lost to a stream of snorts and all-out laughter.
The cacophony of undignified noises continued as Sora switched to paint the slippery lubricant all over Olivia’s other foot and between her toes, and she could do nothing to stop it.
Sora screwed the lid back onto the jar and slipped the circular pads onto both hands.
‘No…’ Olivia panted, almost in tears, ‘Whatever you’re going to do, don’t do it!’
‘You still don’t want to say the magic word, huh?’ replied Sora.
‘PLEASE!’ Olivia fumed through gritted teeth.
Sora shook her head, ‘Not that. Okay: two magic words!’
Olivia was flushed red with anger as she glowered at Sora. ‘Fuck you!’
Kisi had heard enough. She stood and walked over to the chair. ‘This is prison, not high school! You do not talk to us like that. If you do, there are consequences…’ She took one of the pads from Sora and stood by Olivia’s left side. With her right hand she began to tease at Olivia’s armpit.
Olivia wriggled in the chair and her look of trepidation increased. There was something about the merest touch from this woman that indicated she was an expert at this; there was no searching for the most ticklish spot – she just went straight to it.
Sora mirrored Kisi’s action and Olivia melted into helpless titters.
‘If you do not admit what Miss Aoki wants you to stay, we will be here for a long time,’ said Kisi.
‘Wh-what do y-you wwwant me to s-say!?’ Olivia managed to ask.
‘You told me you were not ticklish. That was a lie,’ said Sora as she increased the speed of her fingernails on Olivia’s sweat-covered underarm.
‘PWAH-HA!’ Olivia laughed. ‘OKAY! I ADMIT IT! I ADMIT IT! I’M TICKLISH! HA HA HAAA!’
‘Good,’ said Kisi to Sora. ‘That is the first step.’
Olivia looked to Kisi, dreading Step 2.
‘Step two is to ensure you are suitably punished for your crimes…’
Olivia’s eyes widened as Kisi and Sora continued to tickle her armpits and raised the rubber brushes up to the soles of her feet. The initial touch sent a shockwave through her entire body and now she understood the purpose of the lubricant. She tried to beg for mercy but fear stole her breath and anticipation of what was to come made her laugh before it even started.
…and then it did.
Kisi and Sora scrubbed the slippery soles of Olivia’s bare feet with the pads. Although the action was harsh, the brushes were devised to be not too stiff and not to soft – they adapted to the curves of her shapely feet and managed to tickle her twenty times more effectively than anything else so far, from her heels to the tips of her toes and everywhere in between
A long, near-silent wheeze was forced from Olivia’s lungs. Her body was paralysed as she strained forward against her shackles, desperate to escape. She lost the ability to breath for an unnatural length of time until biology took over and she gasped long and deep to prevent her from passing out. Kisi and Sora relented a little to allow her to complete her in-breath before scrubbing hard and forcing an eruption of throat-wrenching laughter.
Olivia could do nothing except feel the tickling. She was humiliated to realise she’d been broken, and now regretted every step that had led her to this point. In this moment she wanted to do everything she could to make it stop—apologise, beg and plead for mercy and promise to do everything they wanted her to do to make amends—but she couldn’t. Her body was betraying her and she had learned of her ultimate weakness.
‘One minute left,’ said Kisi with unbelievable tranquility.
As soon as she heard this, Olivia’s stomach muscles began to tremble uncontrollably. At first she didn’t know why but, amid the overwhelming tickling sensations, she remembered the discomfort in her bladder. She wanted to warn them; that she couldn’t hold on any longer. Just one more tickle and she’d…
A torrent of water gushed from between Olivia Jenson’s legs alongside a guttural groan of humiliation and regret. Kisi and Sora didn’t stop tickling but slowed their actions as they momentarily attempted to avoid the splashes.
Without the subconscious effort to hold herself together, Olivia’s body found some extra energy to laugh out loud as the acute tickling sensations in her soles became even more intense.
‘Three… Two… And stop,’ said Kisi. Both ticklers took a step back. ‘Very good, Miss Aoki.’
Sora bowed in response.
They lowered the chair and released Olivia. The whole time Olivia was sobbing in between aftershocks of laughter. Her hair stuck to her face with sweat and her entire body was dripping.
‘Next time, you clean this up, Jenson,’ said Kisi. Then she beckoned in Williams and Martinez who made their way from the observation room.
The officers helped an exhausted Olivia from the chair. ‘We’ll get her showered,’ said Williams. ‘When do you want her back?’
‘In an hour. It’s Miss Bailey’s turn this afternoon,’ said Kisi.
Olivia couldn’t believe what she was hearing but had no time to protest as she was taken from the room.
EPILOGUE
Three officers stood guard as Ngaire Brown entered the visitors’ room.
Olivia sat alone at a table in the corner. Ngaire walked over and took the seat opposite. She could tell that there was something different about her even before she spoke.
‘How you doin’, Olivia?’
Olivia nodded. ‘I’m ready to come home now.’ She had almost lost her voice.
‘You know that’s not possible.’
‘Do you know what they do here? Do you know what A.A.T. is?!’
‘I do.’
‘Then why didn’t you tell me before my trial?’
‘Would it have made any difference?’
Olivia felt anger building inside. ‘I will get out of here.’
‘Olivia, you’re here for two hundred days, minimum. The people here can choose to implement therapy for eight hours a day or less, depending on what they think you deserve. There’s no breaking out, there’s no parole. And, on the day of your assessment you will only get out if you say you’re ready to abide by the laws and pass a polygraph test, which is 99% accurate. So, the only thing you will do is either shape-up, or stay here.’
THE END
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