Anger Management (f/f, executive, non-consensual, humiliation)

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Ok, here's another one I found nearly completed in the working files. I'll start posting before my trip this week and continue in segments as usual. There might be a long silence mid-month.

Been writing a lot of true stuff lately so it's fun to do fiction for a change.

As always, if you're not a fan of story development, this probably isn't your jam. I'll spend a number of segments setting up characters and such before the money shot.

Somewhere bouncing around in my head is the idea of a mainstream series along the lines of Sandford's Prey novels, only with a BDSM and tickling twist. I even have a name for it -- The Butterfly Chronicles -- and an opening story well underway.

Maybe someday.

Hope you like it,
-Q.

 

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Anger Management, Part 1

“Ms. Seever, I’m really sorry but you need to head out now for your 4:00. The car is waiting.”

The wilting look Monica Seever shot her assistant Rachel had been known to strike dogs mute and knock birds out of the sky.

Rachel was a veteran law firm admin, but even she cowered a little under the icy blue glare. “I’m sorry Ms. Seever, but Mr. Peyton said to be sure you’re not late. He said someone downtown is pulling a lot of strings on this, and…”

Monica cut the air with her hand. “Rachel, stop. I’m going. Tell Ben not to fire you today.”

Monica squared the files on her blotter and slipped on the Prada slingbacks under her desk. What a pain in the ass. This whole convenience store incident had become a fucking catastrophe. She silently vowed she’d soon have someone’s head on a pike for all the hassle it was causing.

Her corner office looked out from the sixty-seventh floor of the Aon Center over downtown Chicago toward Lake Michigan. The sunshine sparkling off the lake only worsened her mood. What a great fucking day to spend in the basement of city hall, she thought. With a last longing glance at her liquor cabinet, Monica steeled herself for the afternoon’s inevitable bureaucratic clusterfuck and stalked from her office into the hallway.

Two young male associates pivoted like NBA players to miss bumping her as she passed. One had the misfortune to mutter “Jeesh.”

Monica stopped and went rigid but didn’t turn, her blonde hair swaying over her shoulders with the momentum from her stride. The hallway temperature dropped five degrees. “Excuse me?”

The associates traded a look of horror as sweat broke across the jeesher’s forehead. “I’m sorry Ms. Seever, it was about something else.”

Her slim body pivoted a fraction and the associate braced for impact, but Monica only shook her head and moved on.

Ben Peyton, founding partner and lord of all things administrative, was in the lobby flirting with the new receptionist as Monica passed. “Give ‘em hell, Mon,” he chided. “Don’t let the man push you around.”

Monica stopped and favored him with her third best glare, the one with a little smirk. “Fuck you Ben. I’m going to write a check and get the hell out of there. When Simons is finished I’m going back for blood.”

Ben shrugged theatrically like aging the frat boy he was. “I hope so, Monica. Someone’s got a bug up their ass about this whole thing. They absolutely wanted you there in person.”

Monica’s eyes squeezed shut with impatience. “People really need to stop telling me what I already goddamn well know.”

Ben gave Monica a tight smile. As their top earner and most feared courtroom brawler, she could speak to him that way and they both knew it.

“Okay killer, just play nice for now. We have more important hides to collect tomorrow morning. Simons will…be here…at…six…sharp.”

Ben had been dismissed. His words trailed off as Monica walked away.

Ben had always thought Monica moved like a dancer, an impression that returned now as he watched her glide toward the elevators, the cute receptionist temporarily forgotten.

To be continued…

 

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Anger Management, Part 2

Monica spent the ride to the courthouse girding for battle. Whoever was dragging her down here in person to pay a fine was asking for some serious pain. And if they thought she was going to sign an apology, they were sorely and tragically mistaken.

Chicago’s George N. Leighton Criminal Courthouse was not only inconveniently located on the lower west side of town, it was also ugly as hell. Ben had once said it looked like the building you’d get if the Parthenon got drunk and fucked a Lego set. Monica never laughed, but she secretly thought that was kind of funny.

Exiting the limo, she made straight for the building’s glass front doors at flank speed. The bureaucrats lingering on the sidewalk scattered before her perfect blonde hair and icy blue gaze like villagers in a Viking raid, casting dark looks her way but never making eye contact. Monica drew energy from their fear and loathing.

One functionary did meet her eye as she approached, and actually smiled. The smile strained a bit as Monica target-locked her, but to her credit the lumpy old bird didn’t back down.

“Ms. Seever?” she offered tentatively. “My name is…” she stopped speaking and retreated a step as Monica leaned into her personal space.

“Like I give a fuck what your name is. I’m clearly not here to see you, so who am I meeting?”

“Uh…Mrs. Hawthorn,” the old woman finished. “I am Mrs. Hawthorn. I’m not sure who you’re meeting, Ms. Seever, I only know the room. This way, please.”

Monica followed as the functionary pivoted from the front doors and set out around the side of the building. Odd. They navigated toward an entrance near the building’s back corner, sometimes used by high profile defendants trying to avoid the press. For now, it was deserted, and smelled like stale cigarettes and cat piss.

Once inside, Mrs. Hawthorn led Monica along a dim and dingy hall to what almost looked like a service elevator. She pressed the down button, and matched Monica silence for silence as they stepped into the summoned car and descended.

Several floors below, the elevator doors opened and they set off into an even grungier network of hallways. Monica’s only acknowledgement was to raise her eyebrows skeptically as the older woman finally stopped and opened a conference room door, gesturing for the attorney to enter.

The smallish meeting space looked like a page from the city government catalog: functional, mismatched, and slightly messy. A warm bottle of generic water waited on the table next to a Staples pad and some pens.

“Please wait here, Ms. Seever, and someone will be with you shortly.”

“They have exactly two minutes.”

“Umm...” Her escort scurried away.

Monica wasn’t about to sit down, so the three minions who arrived two and a half minutes later found her standing at the head of the table.

When she saw them enter, she sat primly, mentally giving the sad little team ten seconds to settle. She’d rarely encountered a sorrier looking assembly. It was as if all her most wretched middle school teachers had left their jobs to come and work for the court system.

Minion #1, an overweight middle-aged African American man wearing clothes that might have fit him thirty pounds ago, began to speak. “Tha-”

“I understand I’m required to pay my fine in person,” Monica cut in. She slid a check from her jacket and placed it on the table. “Done. And now I’m leaving.”

Minion #2 placed a finger on the check and slid it closer for inspection. It was a certified money order for the correct amount. He nodded.

Minion #1 watched Monica stand, and then spoke again, drawing a sheet of paper from a folder he’d produced. “There’s also this matter of the…”

“I won’t be signing that.” Monica stated flatly. “You’re paid. I came in person. Chalk it up as a win.”

She pivoted to leave the room…and found Minion #3 had stood to block her exit. This one was a bespectacled lump of a woman wearing at least four layers of faded green clothing in various clashing shades.

“Wait, you don’t understand!” Minion #3 stated with clerical indignation. “The signed apology is required by CMC Section 48.02 under the AMRD…code…for…uh.”

Her voice trailed off. Monica’s second best glare had that effect on people, just before they entered cardiac arrest.

“Move.” Monica’s voice was low and deadly quiet, her contempt a physical force. “Or I will fucking move you.”

Minion #3 wisely listened to her lizard brain and stepped aside, paling visibly. Thus had her ancestors survived predator threats for millennia.

And as three astonished bureaucrats gaped in horror, Monica left the room.

By the time she reached the elevator, Monica had almost forgotten the whole sad scene. She was trying to get a signal on her cell phone to text the Simons team.

The Simons case would wait for no one, and neither would she.

The elevator doors slid open and she stepped inside, wrinkling her nose in the stale air. She hit the lobby floor button, sighing in frustration that she’d just lost her signal.

To be continued…

 

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Anger Management, Interlude 1

Ben hustled down the hall toward the new receptionist. He could have reached her on the intercom, but she was awfully young and pretty and he didn’t mind an excuse to visit.

“Any word from Monica?” he asked with some urgency.

“No sir, no one’s heard from her.” The receptionist smiled sweetly at her boss, wondering how this idiot who couldn’t figure out how to join a group chat had come to lead a huge law firm.

“Damn peculiar,” Ben muttered to himself. “I thought she’d be back an hour ago.”

More to come…

 

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Anger Management, Interlude 2

The wall of windows could have been looking out over a Martian polar ice cap, but the room was warm and luxurious. Massive logs burned in a huge fireplace dominating one wall, with an enormous bank of computer displays along the other, most quietly displaying a frenzy of global news programs and stock market activity. The ambiance was wood, and leather, and books, and efficiency, and very expensive liquor, all with a hint of smoke.

The wall decor leaned toward weapons and big game trophies, several from each category quite illegal.

A soft chime sounded, gently drawing the attention of a gray-bearded, stocky businessman sitting at an enormous antique wood desk, rolled sleeves showing burns and scars on his muscular forearms. Files and papers were scattered around him. Two fit younger men in comfortable suits lounged on a couch nearby. One glanced up expectantly at the sound.

The businessman turned to his computer and clicked an icon to receive the message.

It read: “Done.”

He almost smiled as he clicked a link and the computer displays flickered to reveal a new series of scenes.

More to come…

 

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Anger Management, Part 3

Monica dreamed she was free diving – a sport she loved – but for some reason she was terrified. The water was silty and dark, limiting her vision to only a few feet, and she seemed to be swimming through kelp. There was something important she needed to find, but the heavy, clinging plants kept dragging at her arms and legs, slowing her down, wrapping her up, making her unable to move or see or even breathe.

She looked up desperately and saw a faint glimmer of light piercing the murky water from above. She began to float like a bubble toward it, watching the brightness grow closer and clearer.

As Monica came to, she felt warm and dry and comfortable, but something was deeply wrong. Her sleepy fear lingered, but her conscious mind began to sift and file away the dream’s vague claustrophobic impressions as her head slowly cleared. She turned to stretch, but then the sense of wrongness grabbed hold as panic washed over her.

She couldn’t move!

Her eyes flew open as her body began to wriggle and thrash. “Hey!” she screamed. “HEY!!! Someone help me…GOD DAMMIT!!!”

Breathing deeply, she willed herself to stop struggling and take stock. She was in what appeared to be a large windowless government-issue lab or doctor’s office, with cabinets along the walls, a computer desk and workstation, and a wash station with a sink. A large, dormant, rectangular LED display was affixed to the wall across from her. Behind her, something hummed with a faint electric drone. Innocuous posters adorned the walls, looking as if they’d been issued by a corporate HR department: diversity goals, inspirational sayings, and how to report this or that infraction.

Monica was reclined comfortably, bent at the waist and knees as if resting on a La-Z-Boy, except that the apparatus beneath her wasn’t a recliner but rather a narrow, vaguely medical-looking table.

Most disturbing of all, Monica’s body was wrapped tightly, shoulders-to-knees, in what felt like a thick mesh of stretchy black tape or rubber. With focused effort she could flex the material to bend her elbow a fraction or barely raise a shoulder, but overall she was mummified helplessly in place, arms at her sides and legs pressed together, her enveloping cocoon belted securely at several points to the table's frame.

She couldn't quite see past her knees, but something firmly enclosed her lower legs from shins to ankles. Her feet seemed to be hanging free off the end of the table, but when she drew them back a bit, through her shoes she could feel the tops of her feet push against a pair of shallow recesses in some kind of rigid apparatus.

A firm round pillow comfortably propped up her head, and as she tucked her chin to survey her body, she was almost surprised to see her hands. Something inside the wrapping secured her wrists to her waist, but her hands themselves were uncovered, one resting on each thigh like pale, expensively manicured starfish on a dark rubbery beach.

Turning her head, flexing her hands, and kicking her feet were the only movements she could manage.

With a final sustained pull to confirm she was stuck, her panic finally subsiding, Monica began to think back. How the hell had she gotten here?

This wasn’t still a dream, she knew that much. She could clearly read some of the inanities on the HR posters, a trick she’d learned in grad school to discern her waking world from a dream state.

The last thing she remembered was…wandering. Through the courthouse. Dingy halls and cheap offices. Following some disgusting old lady. And then a group of mousy bureaucrats asking her to pay the fine for that ridiculous court settlement. They wanted her to sign an apology for that little bitch at the convenience store and the asshole store manager. Now it was coming back. Monica felt some hard emotional tugs as her temper gathered steam. She knew from the outset there was no way in hell she would ever sign an apology. Pay the fine? Ok, whatever. But Monica had firm rules about being wrong or apologizing: she never was, and she never did. It was her most important operating principle.

Monica’s body tensed under the wrapping. Her disorientation was slowly giving way to anger. God DAMN it this was all so frustrating! Sign an apology for what, really? What say should some unemployed whiny-ass kid and a store clerk have over her life? She was busy, she’d been in a big hurry, and that bitchy little ethnic chick had tried to back her out of line, saying she'd cut. Yeah, she’d given the kid a shove, but when the manager stepped up and actually put his hand on her, he was asking to be hit!

She didn’t care how many witnesses or cell phone videos they had, or whose face was bleeding, the whole thing amounted to nobodies trying to push her around. The court case had been a huge farce. She only said she’d sign the apology when it seemed to move things along. She knew she’d never really do it. She’d just pay the fine and walk. Fuck all those people. Good luck enforcing their stupid rules.

What could they do, anyway? Throw her in jail?

So she had come to the dingy office in the courthouse, delivered the check, and refused to sign the apology when that useless fat putz of a bureaucrat shoved it in her face. Then someone had stood in her way…it was getting fuzzier now…but she had needed to get back to the Simons case so she...

The Simons case! Holy shit what time was it?!

Monica’s last memory was getting into the elevator. Then, everything went dark. Jesus, did they drug her? Was she in jail now? A psycho ward?

What the actual fuck??!?!

Furious now, memory fully restored, Monica screamed with frustration, thrashed inside her cocoon, and cut loose a string of expletives that could have peeled paint. It felt good to vent, but with no leverage and nothing to push against she could barely move inside the mummy wrapping.

And no one came! Were they just ignoring her? They couldn’t do this!

She thought she must look pretty pitiful, hands flailing and feet kicking as she screamed and struggled, but that only made her angrier.

The room, however, didn’t care. It just let her yell and curse and thrash until she wore herself down and then gathered enough energy to start again.

Time passed. The screaming fits came and went until finally, after a long, exhausted silence, the doorknob gently rattled.

To be continued…

 

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Anger Management, Part 4

The look Monica prepared for her visitor was her best glare. This one could kill plants and flatten charging rhinos, but it was almost wasted on the young girl who entered. She was smiling shyly and carried a small, battered valise. Her aspect was vaguely sweet, but she seemed in every other regard to be almost completely ordinary.

Monica tagged her as the shy artsy high school girl, straight from central casting. The type she’d been completely ignoring for the last twenty years since middle school.

“Hi there, Ms. Seever?” The girl looked about eighteen. “I’m Emma, your case worker.”

Monica remained silent and dialed up the hate in her glare as the “case worker” placed her valise on a wide shallow shelf affixed to the end of the table under Monica’s feet. Emma seemed strangely immune to the glower. The ridiculousness of Monica’s predicament probably didn’t help.

“Can I get you some ice chips? Rick said he heard screaming in here.” Emma walked past Monica to the source of the humming and did something with a paper cup. She wheeled back in an office chair, sat next to the table, fished an ice chip out of the cup with some plastic tongs, and leaned in toward Monica expectantly, smiling, eyebrows arched in a silent question.

Monica’s voice was low and dangerous. “Listen to me carefully, you little bitch. You only need to do one thing. Get. Me. Out. Of. Here. RIGHT FUCKING NOW!!! I don’t know if you’ve had me arrested, or committed, or what, but you need to either cut me loose or give me a phone call immediately before I decide to sue this goddamn city into fucking oblivion.”

This, Emma thought, is a seriously scary lady. But she only smiled and nodded sympathetically as Monica spoke, water dripping from the melting ice chip. She could tell her indifference was further infuriating her client.

“Monica – can I call you Monica?” Emma dropped the drippy ice back into the cup and wiped her hand on her slacks. “I understand your confusion and I know this must be really frustrating, but I’m afraid I can’t legally do what you’re asking until...”

Monica boiled over. She bucked under the wraps. “Fucking GREAT! Get your useless nerdy high school ass out of here then, and find me someone who can!”

“Well, Monica, first of all, that's not a helpful attitude. Second, I’m twenty-three and I have a master’s degree. And third, I was saying I can’t let you out until you sign the formal apology.” Emma leaned over and withdrew a steno pad from her valise. “I’m also supposed to tell you that the apology now includes a commitment to 36 hours of community service because of your altercation with Frida.”

This was beyond the pale. Monica’s chin dropped into an astonished, incredulous gawp. “With Frida? Who the fuck is Frida?”

“Alfrida Vasquez was in the room with you earlier. I understand you threatened her.”

“Jesus. Fucking. Wept. THE BITCH WAS IN MY WAY!!! And I didn’t touch her!” Monica thrashed some more. “Listen, Emma, I have a very important case to prep for tomorrow. My fine is paid in full. No one’s been hurt. This whole apology thing is bullshit. And community service my ass. I just need to get back to the office. So go find someone who can let me out of this, and stop wasting my fucking time!”

“Actually, Monica, I hear your frustration but I’m the only one who can let you out.” Emma smiled sweetly. “And I’m already here! Lucky you. But your tone is not helping your cause.”

“My to… Fucking fabulous! So have I been arrested, or committed, or what?”

“No, Monica, nothing like that. This is actually an intermediary AMRD facility, approved in the last legislative session. My full name is Emma Miller, and as I said before I’m your AMRD case worker.”

“And what the fuck is AMRD?”

“It’s the Anger Management and Reparations Division.”

“The what?!” Monica strained against the wraps some more in frustration, but still couldn’t move. “Lawyers. I am going to bury you in fucking lawyers. Listen, Emma, I am a partner at Peyton and McKinsey. The clothes and jewelry I'm wearing today cost more than you make in a year, and I know every politician ten steps up your chain of command all the way to the governor."

"And yet," Emma interrupted primly, "you're here, wrapped to my table."

Monica had a tantrum. Her eyes flashed in anger and she growled and thrashed angrily for several seconds before regaining her composure. Then, with a deep breath, she sighed as if dealing with a difficult child. "Emma? There is no goddamn way you can keep me tied down like this. I demand counsel! I know my rights – this can’t be legal!”

“Oh it’s legal, Monica. It’s just new, and I’m afraid you are not afforded counsel. You see, the state’s penitentiaries are out of room, and something was needed to move minor personal disputes and injury complaints involving violence through the system quickly. So they created the AMRD. Yours is a perfect textbook case! We just need you to show remorse and sign the formal apology as ordered by Judge Jenkins. Oh, and now also the community service commitment form for accosting Frida.”

A look of calculation crossed Monica’s face. “And what if I don’t?”

“Well, Monica, right now we’re in what’s called Stage 0 mediation. If you formally refuse Stage 0, we move to Stage 1, and so on. It goes through Stage 4. If we finish Stage 4 and the case is still open, you’ll spend the night in jail, and then we’ll try again tomorrow. But I’ve never seen that happen. So far we have 100% first day closure!”

There was no humor in Monica’s smile. “I hate to burst your bubble sweetheart, but the thought of those convenience store morons high fiving over my signed apology is worse than whatever your ‘stages’ might be. And there’s no way on earth I’m doing community service." She said it like she was naming a disease.

Then something changed in Monica's expression and demeanor. "But you know," she continued, "I’m starting to feel kind of comfortable.” She laid her head back on the pillow. “I hope you brought a book, honey, because it’s about to get really boring in here.”

With that, Monica settled her gaze on the dormant LED panel, took a breath, and relaxed.

Emma shook her head. “I’m afraid we can’t just sit and wait, Monica. If you’re formally refusing Stage 0, we’ll need to move to Stage 1.”

“Great, fine, whatever,” Monica replied flatly. “Move to Stage 1.”

Emma picked up a notebook. “Ok Monica, I’m required to tell you I’m about to end Stage 0, and I should also tell you that your silence in response to my questions at this time will be taken as assent.”

“Such bullshit,” Monica sighed loudly. Then her eyes closed, and she heard pages flip as Emma seemed to start working through a form.

“Ok, we know you are Monica Seever, age 37, found guilty on 14 May this year of verbally accosting one Sarah King and then assaulting one Greg Rossi, resulting in bodily harm.”

Eyes still closed, Monica turned her head away.

“Uh…then on 8 June this year you were found guilty by Judge Jenkins and ordered to pay a fine of $1500 and sign a formal apology, blah blah blah… You paid the fine this morning but refused a legal order to sign the apology, whereupon you verbally accosted Alfrida Vasquez, resulting in a further summary judgment demanding 36 hours of community service. Monica, for the record, does all this sound correct?”

Monica gave Emma a withering look and kept silent.

“That’s an affirmative, then” Emma muttered as she scratched on the form.

“Ok. Now, Monica, do you acknowledge that I have with me the formal apology and commitment to community service, and I have offered to release you in exchange for pleading remorse and signing these documents per the judge’s orders, but you have refused?” She picked up some forms with her other hand and waved them in the air.

Monica seemed to have found something deeply interesting on the far wall.

“That’s another yes. And do you further acknowledge that your hands are free and you are physically able to sign documents if needed?”

Monica’s fingers briefly drummed her thighs.

“Yes again. Ok, then, for the record, I am now formally ending Stage 0 of the mediation and beginning Stage 1. Please take note that you can end the mediation process at any time by pleading remorse, agreeing to sign, and then in actuality signing the aforementioned documents. Monica, do you understand?”

Monica attempted to set a new world record for looking disinterested.

“Affirmative. So Monica, before we proceed to Stage 1, I am required to read to you the mediation protocol, as it involves me touching your person.”

Monica’s eyes suddenly locked on Emma’s. “What the fuck?”

To be continued…

 

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Anger Management, Part 5

“Hey!” Emma said brightly. “That brought you back. So I have here with me the standard AMRD mediation kit. As we move into Stage 1, and I quote: ‘The case worker is authorized to encourage the subject’s compliance through sensory means to be applied with approved Stage 1 kit materials as described in subsection A to this document. Such encouragement must be applied in 10 second increments. If the subject remains compliant during a full increment, this will be followed by a 10 second respite, all time disputes to be resolved by the case worker. If the subject fails to comply at any time during the 10 second increment, the increment shall restart at 10 seconds. If Stage 1 is unsuccessful, the case worker may proceed to Stage 2 at their discretion.’”

Monica’s eyes narrowed. “Emma, what the fuck do you mean by ‘encourage,’ and what are 'kit materials'?”

Emma rolled her chair back to the shelf at the foot of the table where she’d placed her valise. Then she opened the case with its lid toward Monica.

From her reclining position, Monica could now see Emma over the tops of her knees as they spoke, as if she were in counseling and Emma was her therapist.

Emma continued. “Basically, Monica, the mediation process is based on a far nicer version of – now don’t let this freak you out – military enhanced interrogation techniques. Don’t worry, it would be illegal and of course unethical for us to inflict pain or injury on a subject in any way. That’s why you’re so heavily restrained.”

Poker face, Monica thought. This is a bluff. Or a joke. There is no way she can actually do anything.

“We have two objectives here, Monica,” Emma explained. “The primary objective is to non-violently induce you to show remorse and sign the documents, even if you choose to ignore me. The second, which supports the first, is to passively encourage a compliant mindset.”

Monica gave Emma a thin, weary smile. “Compliant mindset,” she mimicked contemptuously. “Right.”

“I’m just glad we’re talking again, Monica. Some very smart people designed these stages…see how it’s working already?

Monica rolled her eyes.

“I just need to get a few things ready,” Emma explained, “and then we can start.”

In a flash, Emma flipped the straps off the backs of Monica’s heels and removed her shoes.

"HEY!!!" Monica cried out in shock. "What the FUCK?!" She frantically waved and kicked her suddenly bare feet.

"Monica, now Monica," Emma coaxed gently. "Please settle down. This is all part of Stage 1."

"FUCK YOU!!!" Monica strained furiously in the wraps, her face turning bright red as another tantrum took hold. "LET ME GO!!!"

"Of course I will," Emma replied. "As soon as you sign the forms."

"Gahhhh…" Monica sighed, calming herself through force of will. Emma was quietly impressed by both her client's temper and her ability to master herself under such insane conditions. However spoiled and privileged she might be, this was a formidable lady.

"Get it through your thick head, Emma." Monica seethed. "As a matter of personal principle I will never, under any circumstances, sign your ridiculous forms. This is an abuse of power and I will see you held accountable for it."

"That strikes me as a touch ironic," Emma observed. "Your views on being held accountable for abuses of power."

"I have no intention to debate you on the topic while strapped to this table." Monica replied.

"I wasn't inviting a debate, Monica," Emma countered. "This interaction is purely transactional."

Monica paused to reconsider her ‘case worker’. She looked and acted the prosaic bureaucrat, but occasionally, flashes of wit and intelligence showed through. And was that a touch of smugness in her attitude since this whole ‘Stage 1' nonsense had started?

“Oookay,” Emma breathed, back to the task at hand. “On with Stage 1.” Her eyes angled down to Monica’s bare feet and she thoughtfully bit her lip, as if sizing something up.

“Wow, you have really nice feet,” she observed absentmindedly. “What are you, a size nine? Maybe nine and a half?”

Monica fumed in silence.

Emma gave a small decisive nod and leaned in to tinker with something Monica couldn’t see. Then she reached over and pulled a tangle of dark wires from her valise. She fiddled with the wires for a bit and leaned back in.

Monica only caught glimpses of Emma’s tinkering and hadn’t the foggiest idea what she was doing, especially since she was feigning indifference. Maybe…YIKES!!!

Monica heard a zzzt! and abruptly her feet were held together fast, trussed by something binding her big toes. She yelped, but before she could react further, Emma leaned forward and with another zzzt! pushed her feet back into the shallow recesses of the apparatus above her ankles.

“STOP THIS!!!” Monica screamed, thrashing wildly. “Goddamn it!”

But now in addition to the wrappings, Monica’s feet were secured against the frame over her ankles by the ties around her toes. Her feet were neither stretched back nor pushed forward; they were simply forced upright and held comfortably but firmly in place.

Monica bucked and growled in frustration, wriggling her trapped toes. Emma seemed efficient and task focused as she busied herself at the end of the table, and as her plight became clear, Monica found it subtly humiliating that the young girl could see the bare soles of her feet tied and exposed this way.

At once Monica had an almost funny realization: her current dilemma seemed unprofessional, and left her feeling oddly vulnerable and self-conscious, as if she’d been dropped into the corner of a formal black tie power event wearing nothing but flimsy gym clothes.

She stopped her toe wiggling, imagining how it might look desperate or pitiful. And the last thing Monica wanted now was to appear weak or out of control to Emma. She needed to salvage whatever dignity she could to preserve any negotiating leverage at all with this girl.

Emma plugged something in and suddenly the LED display lit up, showing a bright red 00:10. It immediately began counting down, to 00:09, 00:08, 00:07… Monica found that she could trigger the timer to restart at 00:10 by tugging slightly on the toe cuffs. She did this a few times as Emma reached over and powered on a large screen at the nearby computer workstation. She angled it so Monica could see.

As if she weren’t already humbled, Monica turned to find on the workstation’s display a larger-than-life, hi-res, live image of…her own feet. They were nice, as Emma had pointed out earlier. Like Monica herself, her feet were long and narrow, soft and pampered, and elegantly formed. It was odd to see her own foot bottoms like this. The screen’s detailed resolution showed fine webs of intricate creasing in the pale linen texture of her soles, suspended beneath the sharp black band pinning her toes into place.

Somehow her feet on the screen looked forlorn, disembodied and trapped as they were. She couldn’t help but wiggle her toes again, just a little. When she did, the timer reset.

With another flourish of keystrokes from Emma, Monica watched as a series of “picture in picture” images blinked to life along the bottom of the screen under her hapless soles. One showed her whole body on the table from above and to the side. Another showed only her head and shoulders. A third focused exclusively on her hands, and the fourth was shot from over Emma’s left shoulder showing the girl's workspace with Monica’s trapped feet flexing in the background. The fifth and final PIP image in the screen’s lower right corner showed the LED display.

“You’re recording this?” Monica asked Emma incredulously as the case worker leaned back in her seat.

“Of course,” Emma replied. “As legally required.”

“Well you’re doing me a big favor then, bright girl,” Monica chided, a slight quaver in her voice betraying her growing concern. “Get ready to produce these files in discovery. They'll be perfect for the trial. I can see the headlines now: ‘Has the City of Chicago Developed a Foot Fetish?’”

Emma smiled thinly. She reached into her valise again, and Monica watched on the video screen as she set what appeared to be two thin pencils on the table by her heels.

“I see you’ve already noticed the timer, and how to reset it,” Emma intoned. “It only takes a soft tug from your toes.”

Monica was shaking her head, incredulous. “This is the most fucked up…”

Emma went on. “The first step in Stage 1 is for me to ask you to voluntarily hold your feet still for 10 seconds, as the timer counts down to zero. In other words, please don’t tug your toes. Do you understand?”

Monica rolled her eyes and her voice, though tremulous, still dripped with scorn. “Is this to encourage my ‘compliant mindset’?”

Emma ignored her. “Do you understand, Monica?”

“Fuck you.”

Emma glanced at the LED readout on the screen, jumping back to 00:10 every second or two, and then looked meaningfully at Monica.

“You just need to Hold. Still.”

“Fuck. You.” Monica maintained her glare and rattled her feet in the toe cuffs. With some satisfaction, she saw the display simply stayed at 00:10 and flickered.

“Okay,” Emma said. “I guess that's the end of this step.” She looked up to find Monica regarding her contemptuously with a hint of smug satisfaction. Is that all you got? the look seemed to say.

Monica watched both Emma and the monitor as the young girl picked up the pencils she’d placed on the table earlier, one in each hand. What fresh hell is this? she wondered.

Whatever it was, she needed to stay on top of this girl. She would not give an inch.

Emma fixed her client with a patient look, waiting to catch Monica’s eye. Monica mastered her nerves and made Emma wait a few beats before meeting her gaze with a haughty tip of her head and a smirk, her third best glare. “Now what?” she asked contemptuously.

Emma smiled with a hint of mischief. "I have a question.”

“Of course you do,” Monica sneered. "What is it?”

Emma raised her eyebrows a fraction. “Are your feet very ticklish?”

Monica’s toes twitched, resetting the timer again, and her expression changed instantly from contempt to straight horror.

Gotcha, thought Emma. Defenses breached.

Monica’s mouth dropped into an O and she blushed, followed almost comically by two slow blinks. Finally she found her voice.

“WHAT??!?!”

Emma raised her hands where Monica could see, revealing that the pencils she held were in fact two small, pointy liner brushes. She waved them back and forth, an unmistakable sparkle in her eyes.

“I’m going to tickle your feet, Monica, and I’m wondering how sensitive they are. These little brushes are very stiff and it will help me get the pressure right.”

Monica's look was incredulous. “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND??!?!”

She began to squirm furiously in the wraps and against the toe ties, straining and grunting with the effort, her face reddening further, but she was trapped as securely as ever. Emma waited patiently for her to tire.

Finally, panting, Monica stopped and glared. Hate boiled off her like steam. “Do NOT do this, Emma,” she said. Her voice had that low and dangerous edge.

Emma smiled patiently. “Not an option, Monica. Now here are the new rules. The clock is programmed to count down from ten to zero so long as its reset is not triggered. Once it hits zero, it will flash for ten seconds, and then start over. Are you with me?”

Monica remained silent, almost quivering with rage. Never had Emma seen anyone look so furious, indignant, and shocked in equal measure. Her feet pulled restlessly at their ties.

“Your job,” Emma continued, “is to comply with my instructions and hold perfectly still, as I previously asked you to do politely and voluntarily. But now I will be tickling your feet, and I will continue tickling them until the timer hits zero, no matter how many times you reset it. So the more compliant you are, the less tickling you get. Clear?”

No reply. Emma could sense wheels turning, but Monica remained silent and fuming. Despite the coolness of the room, she could also see a light sheen of sweat glistening on Monica’s forehead.

“Whenever the timer reaches zero, you will get a ten second break from the tickling before we begin a new cycle. You can end the process at any time by agreeing to sign the forms, or I can end it by moving to Stage 2. Do you understand? Your silence is still assent, by the way.”

Monica took a breath shaking with anger. “I understand that you’re enjoying this, you sadistic little bitch.” Monica snarled. “And I understand that this is state sanctioned torture, pure and simple, whatever you choose to call it. But you should understand that no matter what you do, or whatever ‘stage’ we’re in, hell will fucking freeze over before I sign your motherfucking forms.”

“Noted,” Emma replied. “So did you want to tell me how ticklish your feet are? Or should I just find out for myself?”

Emma watched as her words triggered the biggest tantrum yet. Monica flailed as if possessed, her hands and feet shaking and straining as she cried out in raging helplessness. Her fit ended with a loud angry scream, eyes boring furiously into her tormentor.

Monica was exhausted, and finally at a loss for words. “I don’t…you…you can’t…” Emma could now see dim flickers of uncertainty and panic as the attorney's eyes cut to her vulnerable feet displayed on the workstation's screen, and then back to Emma again.

“Remember,” Emma said helpfully, “you need to hold them still.”

Monica said "No...!" But whether in simple negation or helpless desperation, Emma was hard put to tell.

Emma settled into position. "Before we begin," she said, “I'm curious.” She held the tips of the two brushes close to but not touching Monica’s arches, looking her in the eye. “Have you ever in your life been in a position where you couldn’t get your way by bullying, threatening, bribing, or seducing someone?”

Monica glared fiercely and set her jaw.

“I didn’t think so,” Emma said. “Well, lady, welcome to the real world.”

To be continued…

 

[quinn65]

Monica head shot and foot pic illustrations

 

[quinn65]

Anger Management, Interlude 3

“Sir?” The receptionist leaned into Ben’s office. “I have George Dobos on the phone?”

“Ahhhh, shit,” Peyton fretted. Monica was still MIA, and the Chief Legal Counsel of Simons Strategic Systems would definitely want to speak with her.

“Can you, uhhh…” he faltered.

“He seems pretty anxious to speak, sir.”

“Ok, dammit, put him through.”

Ben felt a light sweat break out on his face. He wasn’t really up to speed on the Simons case, and Monica’s absence wouldn’t make anyone happy. He shouted down the hall.

“Cathy!”

“It’s Angie.”

“Right, sorry, get everyone looking for Monica right now and keep me posted!”

Everyone already was, but Angie shrugged and went to connect the call.

When Ben grabbed his phone Dobos didn’t waste any time. “Ben, where’s Monica? I need to talk to her about tomorrow.”

“Well George, she’s out at the moment and –”

“Right, I’ve been trying her cell, but nothing. She’s not there?”

“Uh, no. She had to go to the courthouse earlier and that place is death to cell signals. I’m sure she’ll surface any minute.” Ben looked anxiously down the hall.

“What about her security?” George asked.

“Her driver? He’s outside in the car, but he hasn’t seen her.”

George paused a beat. “You mean you sent her in alone?”

Ben scoffed. “Yeah George, sure. She can handle herself. She's a big girl. You've met Monica, right?”

His humor fell flat. “Jesus Christ, Ben," Dobos almost shouted. "You know who we’re suing, right?”

“I mean…”

George’s voice was insistent. “Mikhail Prokhorov’s company? You know, the guy who’s asshole buddies used to be Utkin and Prigozhin?”

“Utkin and…”

“The fucking Wagner Group? Ben, tell me you didn’t let our top litigator leave without a security detail the night before our primary trial prep against these guys!”

“Well…”

“Can you locate her? Is she tagged?”

“Tagged?”

“Are you in high school, you fucking moron?!”

The call was not going well. Ben tried to recover.

“Jesus, George, we don’t sue a lot of mercenaries. We’re more banker and doctor guys. I’ll call Monica’s driver and send him inside. What else can we do?”

“Pray,” George said. “And keep me posted. I’ll make some calls. And for all our sakes I hope you haven’t killed that young lady.”

More to come…

 

[quinn65]

Anger Management, Part 6

From Emma’s seat at the end of the table, Monica’s soles were suspended directly in front of her. Her heels hovered a few inches above the screen of Emma's laptop, which showed a smaller but very clear version of the workstation's full display.

Emma braced her elbows on the table to steady her hands, and ever so softly began tracing the brush tips up and down along the bottoms of Monica’s feet. She watched Monica’s face and soles carefully for her reactions, and was not disappointed.

Monica’s toes instantly clenched at the brushstrokes, resetting the timer repeatedly as her feet shook and flexed wildly to escape. The red numbers flickered stubbornly at 00:10 as the attorney fought in her bindings, nowhere close to holding still.

From the desperate mewling sounds Emma heard, it seemed that Monica's main objective was to control her voice and stifle her laughter.

Emma kept tracing new patterns.

Monica’s mind was on fire. She had thought she might focus her will to endure the tickling or even ignore it, but that plan collapsed the moment Emma’s brushstrokes touched her soles.

For a woman whose entire self-concept was built around dominating others through fear, discipline, focus, and rigid self-control, this humiliating assault on her sanity while she lay bound and helpless was an apostasy. And worse yet, the person tormenting her -- by tickling her feet, of all things -- was a mousy, artsy, annoying, nobody of a young girl.

How fucking ridiculous is this? Monica thought. She had always likened her worth to her sense of personal independence and power. Being restrained was bad enough, but now it felt as if her whole personality was unraveling.

Emma had asked if she was ticklish. Well, there was a reason Monica’s pedicures were done in private, and that was in case she lost control. She couldn’t fathom the embarrassment of squirming and giggling helplessly in public, and no pedicurist she’d met could perform their job on her reliably without that happening. So she regularly paid for a closed session.

Yes, her feet were ticklish. Unbearably so. It was a failing and weakness that she carefully kept private.

However it was no secret now to Emma. Monica’s face burned scarlet at the indignity of being forced to struggle and whine so desperately, especially in front of someone she’d come to view as an adversary. And an unworthy one at that.

But Emma was on the cusp of overwhelming her.

Weakness was intolerable, and her control was crumbling fast.

Monica clung desperately to scraps of rational thought as her mind betrayed her. She knew she was thrashing shamefully; there was no helping that for now. But at least she’d managed not to scream in agony, and so far she was barely choking back the laughter insistently bubbling at the back of her throat. If she lost control of her voice, she thought the shame might break her.

That was it, then. Her life raft. Under no circumstances would Monica give Emma the satisfaction of hearing her laugh or scream, however torturous things became.

She set her mind to this and focused all of her will. The tickling went on.

Emma was fascinated. Among all of her colorful experiences, she had rarely seen a woman as fierce and intimidating as Monica, and had felt her power of command even while the attorney was tied and helpless. But the force of Monica’s personality was now in epic conflict with the cruelties Emma was delicately visiting upon the soles of her feet.

Emma had also never seen anyone so madly and helplessly ticklish. Both her experience in such things and her knowledge of Monica’s weaknesses was more than her client likely expected, but still, this was one for the history books. It was truly an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object.

And Monica's vocalizations as she fought to control herself were sublime.

But Emma’s instructions for now were to extract compliance, not deliver torture, so she dialed backed her stimulations further and further until Monica could almost tolerate it. This was an exquisitely sensitive exercise in edging, just with a slightly shifted focus.

Also, Monica hadn’t fully broken yet, so she still had something to hold onto. With many stages to go, Emma knew that was important.

Finally Emma found a level of tickling where Monica could becalm her feet for more than a few seconds. She perceived the attorney grasping frantically at the possibility of a break from the torment. And the whines and desperate outbursts Monica had let slip while choking back her laughter had now become rapid quiet moans, as if Monica were battling the early throes of an orgasm. This was about right.

“You’re almost there, Monica!” Emma encouraged, twirling the brush tips under her client’s toes. She had found the skin there particularly sensitive, and took it easy accordingly.

Emma noticed Monica’s eyes locked on the timer as she concentrated.

“Four! Three! Two! Oh no!!! Back to ten, but you’ve got this!” Emma felt like a fitness coach with her exhortations as Monica whimpered at the setbacks.

Finally, after nearly 40 seconds by Emma’s estimate, the clock made it to 00:00 and started flashing. Emma leaned back and shook out her hands. Monica was exhausted but no less furious than before.

“YOU FUCKING BITCH!!!” Monica yelled as she caught her breath. “This is pure torture! I will FIND you when this is over and BOY will you be sorry!”

“Aaand that’s ten,” Emma said as the clock stopped flashing. Having been called a bitch, she tickled Monica with a little extra gusto to get things rolling.

Monica screamed again, but mainly in anger before she clamped down her will on laughing. Emma enjoyed how Monica was trying to stare her down now as she suffered, growling, jaw clenched, hands and feet struggling spastically. But her eyes kept cutting to the clock, belying her desperation for another short break.

And eventually she got one, in a little under 30 more seconds. She was a bit more circumspect with her comments this time.

“Emma, Emma, Emma, we need to stop and talk for a minute!” Monica gasped.

“Are you agreeing to sign the forms?” Emma asked.

“No! No! But there has to be some kind of –”

“Aaand ten,” Emma announced, and resumed tickling.

Monica tripped over laughing for several adorable seconds this time as she fought to get on top of it. Emma thought it would be a sight to behold once she finally broke, but for now she was enjoying her client’s tenacious resistance.

After a couple more resets and much desperate lip biting, Monica earned her next break in under 20 seconds.

This time she only glared.

“Thinking about signing?” Emma asked.

The hateful look smoldered.

Emma smiled. “This is the easy stuff. I can make you laugh any time.”

Monica broke off the glare and looked down, reddening. She'd spoken something so softly that Emma couldn't hear.

But Emma could read lips.

Monica had barely whispered, "Please don't..."

To be continued…

 

[quinn65]

I keep finding little corrections and tweaking the words...

Anyway, I probably won't get far on Stage 2 til the end of the month. Fun stuff to think about while killing travel time on my trip.

So if you're on a plane in the next few weeks and see the guy next to you sketching out some really unusual story notes, please say hello.

 

[zillman]

travelling mid month, ill keep my eye out.

 

[shamantick]

Very well written thus far, can’t imagine how amazing these various stages will be!

 

[NemoJihad]

Damn, i'm rooting for you and for this story

 

[THEDARKTECHIE]

I need more of this!!! Stage 2 3 and 4

 

[quinn65]

Fyi, I just rewrote the last few lines of Part 6 based on how I want to start Part 7. This writing on the fly can get a little dicey.

Thanks for the feedback, glad you're enjoying the story.

 

[strokerace]

Great writing! Thank you for sharing!

 

[quinn65]

Ok, I've gone back through the story and retouched some details, in case you'd like to reread up to this point before starting Part 7. I'm starting to appreciate how real authors must struggle with long novels.

Part 7 is pretty long...

 

[quinn65]

Anger Management, Part 7

“What was that, Monica? I couldn’t quite make it out.” There was almost a taunt in Emma’s voice, and it immediately got under Monica’s skin. Her anger and frustration sizzled right on the surface.

“I didn’t say anything,” she snapped.

“It almost sounded like ‘Please don’t’,” Emma mused. “But that couldn't be. Not from you. That would be almost like begging.”

Monica’s eyes flared hot. “I did NOT beg,” she growled, temper firing.

Emma looked skeptical. “Well, maybe you begged just a little,” she countered with a grin.

That did it.

“FUCK YOU!!!” Monica erupted, straining forward in her wraps. “FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU!!!”

Emma thought it was fascinating how easily she could goad Monica into a tantrum, given how cool and collected she'd been under surveillance. In fact, aside from occasional flashes of irritation or smug satisfaction, Monica had rarely shown any emotion in her workaday life. Ironically, given the current circumstances, Emma had never even seen or heard her laugh.

If Emma were to admit to a kink, it would be torturing narcissistic clients with violent, hair-trigger tempers. Especially if they were entitled assholes. Preferably American entitled assholes. Being tormented so offended their pampered egos, as if they wanted to speak to the manager, or post a negative review.

Monica was quickly becoming one of her all time favorites; tickling was just so perfect for her. Emma had used tickling to humiliate other clients a few times before, but never as enjoyably.

She was having a great time.

Mmmm, she thought, I can use Monica's temper to amp things up. It wasn't in the plan, but knowing what she'd learned, Emma realized if Monica knew the real story now instead of later it could make the evening far, far sweeter.

Nothing ventured…Emma shot a wink toward the main camera. She’d decided to improvise a little.

With a deep sigh, she shook her head sadly at Monica and put a weary rebuke into her voice. “These displays of anger are inappropriate, Monica, and frankly embarrassing. And the language, is it really necessary?”

The goading worked. Monica’s gaze went murderous.

“Inappro…? YOU BITCH!!! THIS IS RI-DIC-U-LOUS!!! YOU ARE TOR-TUR-ING ME!!! THIS IS BATTERY!!! Don't you dare scold me!”

It was cute to watch her feet strain in the toe ties while she raged.

“And what, you’re taking a moral stand?” Emma asked, the rebuke sharpening. “Got the high ground now? What about those people you pushed around and injured to get here in the first place?”

Lacking a snappy comeback, Monica fumed. Maybe she’d never been called out before. Certainly not while wrapped up for tickle torture. “You–”

“No YOU,” Emma interrupted, “need to realize that the world doesn’t bow to your every whim. Actions have consequences, and you can’t always expect to lord your superiority over everyone.”

Monica blinked.

“Feel superior now?” Emma went on. “Where’s the haughtiness while you’re wrapped to a table, red-faced and thrashing like a landed shark, screaming obscenities like a child because you want something and no one’s tripping over themselves to make it happen?”

For once, Monica was speechless.

“This isn’t ‘ri-dic-u-lous’,” Emma continued, waving a hand at Monica’s predicament. “You are ridiculous. This torture suits you perfectly! I mean, look at you. Monica Seever, queen of Chicago, power and control oozing from your pores." Emma stood from her chair. "Yet here you are, no power, no control, strapped to my table. And what did it take to make you beg?"

"I did NOT beg!" Monica liked to make her paid escorts beg and whimper, but never dared think of herself in such a position. It was too...

Emma went on, interrupting her thought. "You begged. And you'll beg again. So what epic unbearable trauma did it take to bring down the fortress of righteous willpower that is Monica Seever?"

Emma reached up and skittered her nails quickly across Monica's soles. Monica convulsed as if electrocuted and yelped before she caught herself.

"GAHHHH!"

"Annoying, isn't it?" Emma teased. "I'm tickling your feet like you're a child and I'm a mean babysitter, and you can't stand it. Why? Not because it's painful. Pain is real torture, for serious people. No, only because it controls you – I control you – and it shows how soft and weak you are."

Monica’s voice dropped into a new menacing register Emma hadn’t heard before, far scarier than screaming. “You can’t keep me in here forever, bitch. And when I get out, I’m not going to sue you. I’m going to fucking erase you.”

Maybe this is the real her, Emma thought.

“I don’t know what's really going on," Monica went on, "but you’re no city functionary and this isn’t about any forms. So if you're so high and mighty, why don't you own up to why we're really here?”

Smart girl. As Emma considered her response, an incoming call alert suddenly popped in the corner of the workstation's display.

Emma’s eyebrows arched "I think you're about to find out," she said, tapping a key on her laptop.

The face of an older man, maybe sixty, appeared on the screen. He was gray-bearded, buzz cut, square-jawed and fit, world-weary, and unconventionally handsome in the manner of a certain class of predator.

In an open-collared dress shirt with the sleeves rolled over his scarred, heavy forearms, it looked like he was relaxing after a long hard day of murdering people on a global scale.

"Mikhail Prokhorov," Monica said, forcing calm into her voice. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Beautiful Monica!" he replied. "It has been too long!" Prokhorov’s smile seemed genuine, but he had a corpse's eyes, flat and lifeless.

Monica had met the primary defendant in the Simons case many times over the last several months during trial prep; twice in person. An ex-Soviet field commander who had risen quickly through both military and political ranks, Prokhorov was forged from combat, cunning, and malice. His arc eventually landed him at the top of one of Russia's largest defense contractors, where he now rubbed elbows regularly with the likes of Vladimir Putin and his cronies.

Prokhorov had flirted with Monica, both lightly and heavily, during her visits to Russia. Although intrigued and flattered, she had rebuffed his advances.

"You never struck me as a stupid man, Mikhail, until now," Monica observed. "Tell me, what is it that's brought you to the brink of suicide?"

Prokhorov leaned back and laughed, lifting a heavy glass of smoky clear liquid to his lips and then tipping it in a toast to the camera.

"Ahhh, such a brave helpless girl to speak to me this way! You have some balls on you, I'll give you that!" He leaned close and dropped his voice. "Especially for someone who's been putting on such a show!"

His hand stretched toward the screen, and in a moment Monica's view whirled to what looked like the main hall of a hunting lodge. Fit young men in dark suits stood around its edges, surrounding a cluster of couches seating what appeared to be a well-dressed gathering of Prokhorov’s contemporaries: aging, formal looking men and even a few severe, matronly women. Several impossibly beautiful younger girls circulated and sat among them. Vodka and plates of food were scattered about in abundance.

It wasn’t lost on Monica that one old warhorse sat on a couch with a beautiful smiling young woman next to him, her bare feet wriggling in his lap.

Along the left wall, a huge fireplace burned vigorously under a wall of mounted weapons and hunting trophies. To the right Monica caught a glimpse of large windows looking out over a vast snow-swept plain.

And directly ahead, a wall of oversize monitors showed every angle of the room where Monica was being tortured. Closeups of her face, feet, hands, and Emma's worktable surrounded several screens devoted to her full-body view.

Monica blushed deeply, and immediately realized that not only was her embarrassment visible on the hi-res screens, but her reaction also drew an approving murmur from the crowd.

Mortified, Monica exerted her will to keep her head clear and her voice steady. "What possible motive could you have for this, Mikhail?" she asked evenly. "I'm failing to see any upside for you."

The view spun back to his face as Prokhorov replaced the camera. "Well, Monica, of course the upside is you are going to lose your case against me! But you are going to make it look close."

Monica shook her head. "I will do no such thing."

This caused a stir in the gallery. Monica heard laughter along with cheers and applause.

"Excellent!" Prokhorov replied. "That is my brave girl! I said once that you came from Vikings, no? Do you remember?"

"Do you think you can actually tickle me into throwing a court case?" Monica asked.

"No, no Monica! No, of course not." He leaned toward the camera again, and the killer's smile returned. "But Emma can."

Monica snapped her gaze to the young girl, who twiddled her fingers with a smile and mouthed "Hi!"

More cheers for Emma.

"Emma may be the world's top expert on you, Monica." Prokhorov explained. "I've been reading her reports for months. And what a stoic you are! Our Monica, who works all hours and never jokes or laughs, even socially, or even when she's bedding her paid escorts in the evenings. Monica, whose tastes in pornography run to…how did you say it Emma?"

"She likes Dom/sub stuff," Emma clarified, now with a faint eastern European accent. Monica heard whistles and cheers in the background. "I just can't tell which one she is."

"Yes! 'Dom/sub.' And that was all we had for the longest time. Pah! Escorts and porn. So disappointing. That was, at least, until the second time you booked a private room during your spa day. Pretty unremarkable, until Emma found out why."

"Ticklish feet!" Emma said triumphantly, and Monica distinctly heard squealing laughter over the call. The old guy on the couch must have gotten inspired.

"Yes!" Prokhorov crowed. "Of all things, private pedicures to hide your ticklish feet! And as it happens, that is not only one of my good comrade's favorite diversions, but also a perfect torture for your personality, according to Emma."

Monica cut her eyes again to Emma, who smiled and raised her eyebrows innocently.

Prokhorov picked up a file. "Emma tells us you are a narcissist, Monica. You have a superiority complex, delusions of grandeur, and you are obsessed with power and control." He looked meaningfully into the camera. "This leaves me baffled about your past refusals of me, my dear," he said in a teasingly offended tone. "I am power and control. You must think me ugly."

He went on. "You treat common people like servants, yet you are deeply concerned about how those in power see you. You see yourself as the center of everything. 'We are all,' Emma tells me, 'merely characters in your play.'"

Monica scoffed. "I hope you didn't pay anyone for that psychobabble, Mikhail." She looked at Emma. "All you?"

Emma smiled and nodded. "I really do have a master’s degree," she said. "And thou dost protest too much, methinks."

"So, Monica! Emma!" Prokhorov shouted. "Shall we get back to the show?"

Monica heard claps and whistles at the lodge. She was now all too aware that everything she did was streaming as the evening’s entertainment for Prokhorov and his entourage of Russian elite.

The LED countdown kept cycling, resetting occasionally whenever Monica twitched her toes.

Emma pushed off the counter where she'd been leaning and cracked her knuckles.

Monica had to think of something fast! If Emma started tickling her again, she would quite literally lose control of the situation. And if the girl got her to break down and laugh in front of Prokhorov and his gang, the humiliation would be intolerable.

Her heart raced as Emma settled back into the seat across from her tied feet. C'mon Monica, she thought. Now or never!

"Ooh," Emma cooed. "Look at those toes wiggle!" Monica hadn’t realized they were squirming as she fretted. She stopped immediately.

"Now you're catching on!" encouraged Emma in her new accent. "Ten seconds like that and you get a break! I'm leaving the timer on, by the way. I love it when you try to hold yourself." She tapped some keys and once again the soles of Monica's feet filled the workstation's screen. "Might as well let you watch the fun!"

The picture-in-picture of Monica’s hands had now been replaced by a wide shot of her audience. On the couch she could just make out the old guy playfully plucking at the toes of his escort.

"Shchekotat' yeye!" someone shouted over the call to a round of lusty cheers.

Monica tensed as Emma turned back to her feet.

"Emma, wait." She said it as calmly as she could, hoping something useful would follow.

Emma looked up and raised her eyebrows.

"What…um…" Say something! "What is Stage 2?"

"Ah! Good question. It has the same rules as Stage 1, except now I can use my fingernails." To underscore this, Emma raised the backs of her hands to Monica and waggled her neatly manicured red nails in the air.

Monica's body tensed and the soles of her feet instantly surged with awareness, in anticipation of being touched.

She had to stall! This could NOT happen!

"Why, Emma? Why are you doing this? Why tickling?"

"Well, first because of the pedicures, and second because of who you are. Remember my 'psychobabble'? You see yourself as superior, almost superhuman. You stage-manage your life to appear cool and composed in front of powerful people. Holding all this together means you need to have absolute control of every situation. Your whole self-concept demands it."

Just Keep talking, you arrogant little twat, Monica thought as she listened. Every minute that went by was a minute something might save her.

Emma went on. "If my profile is right, and I think it is, then the worst torture for you isn't something impressive like flogging or the rack. It's something frivolous that makes you lose control and look silly in front of powerful people."

Deep down, Monica knew she was right.

"Mikhail was happy to provide the audience, I only needed to arrange the setting. And you're about to look quite silly, Monica."

Prokhorov's voice came over the feed. "Emma! People are falling asleep!" There was laughter, and then a few voices piped up in Russian. "But you do have your supporters!" More laughter. "Just don't take too long!"

Emma nodded. "Everyone's watching you, Monica. You're the center of attention. But you're not in control of yourself. I am. You're helpless. You're useless. There's nothing you can do but react to me. That alone probably drives you crazier than the tickling."

Emma watched Monica's expression as the color rose in her cheeks. Call it psychobabble, she thought, but I know how to get inside your head, lady.

"I'm about to break you by tickling your feet." Emma said. "And while it happens, you won't look brave or noble. You'll look ridiculous and weak. Red-faced and embarrassed like a helpless little girl falling for a sleepover prank."

Monica's jaw clenched, her temper rising. Emma watched her blush deepen as the pressure built.

"So this is what you do with all your authenticity and insight," Monica seethed. "You torture other women to entertain a roomful of perverted old men."

Tinny laughter came over the conference line, infuriating Monica further. What am I, she thought, a goddamn toy?!

Emma sat back and shook her head knowingly. "Oh no, don't even go there Monica. Don't play the sister card on me. We're barely the same species, you and I. In fact, we're opposites, which is why I annoy you so much."

Monica slowly shook her head as Emma went on.

"You are all about you and you alone. You shine and stand out everywhere you go. I am everyone else. I blend in and disappear. I live in other people's heads. And reading the room right now, I would say that makes me – and what I'm about to do – your kryptonite."

Monica tensed as Emma leaned toward her feet. "DON'T DO THIS!!!"

Emma smiled. "Or what, Monica?"

Her plaything thrashed wildly. "GAAAAAH!!! GODDAMNIT THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING!!!"

"There is nothing you can do to stop me."

"I WILL KILL YOU! I WILL FIND YOU AND FUCKING KILL YOU!!!"

Emma's smile was smug. "Is this you being a badass, Monica?"

"STOOOOOOP!!!" Monica was in a full-blown tantrum now, screaming and straining against the straps with furious energy. But in front of Emma, her straining feet couldn't move.

At once, Monica went rigid and drove all her rage into her glare, locking eyes with her tormentor.

Emma didn't flinch. "Ooh, there she is," she said. "Now that's a look of hate."

She leaned into it.

"That's right, hate me Monica. It makes things so much sexier after all this time. And do you know what occurs to me? Months of surveillance – months – and I've never heard you laugh, not even once."

"I won't!"

Emma smiled. "Oh really? How about we play 'this little piggy'?"

Monica braced. Emma softly pinched each of her big toes, making the attorney’s lips tighten. Then she began walking her fingers along Monica's remaining toes as she spoke, forcing the severe blonde's stern countenance to crack and tremble as her struggling grew more frantic.

"This little piggy went to market…"

"Don't do this."

"This little piggy stayed home…"

"Stop it!"

"This little piggy had roast beef…"

"STOP, dammit!"

"But this little piggy had none."

"EMMA!!!"

"And this little piggy went…"

"EMMA DON’T!!!"

"...weee weee weee weee all the way home!"

The touch of Emma's nails skittering across her soles was so soft and light that Monica was almost able to stay quiet. But with her feet already primed for contact, the sensation cut directly through her resistance to the laugh center of her brain.

"Mnmph!!! Geeheeheegah…nah…NO! NO! NOOO!!!"

Emma didn't let up. Monica felt herself slipping, and experienced the horror of knowing she would not be able to recover.

"Wah-hahaha!! Emma stopstopSTOP!!!"

But Emma didn't, and the avalanche had begun.

"WOAH-HOHOHO!!! WHA-HAHAHA!!! GAAAHAHAHAHA!!! PLEEHEEAAASE!!!"

Just before she tipped into madness, Monica heard cheering from the lodge.

To be continued...

 

[alicrl]

Amazing story so far, please keep it going!

 

[quinn65]

Anger Management, Interlude 4

Mikhail watched from his desk as the lovely, untouchable Monica Seever slowly came undone, her frenzied screams and uncontrolled horselaughs leaving her dignity in a shambles. Monica had always been so cool and elegant, her aloofness and feminine wiles much like he imagined the famed allied spies from his father's stories of the Great Patriotic War. It was odd in a way to see this refined, beautiful woman suffering so furiously under such a childish means of torment.

But whatever strengths Monica’s icy reserve might have mustered, she was no match for Emma. Trained since childhood, Emma was a wickedly skilled and subtle torturer. Her special gift was insight. When you wanted more than brute suffering from a subject – when the need was to tap someone's greatest fears and desires to subvert their spirit – Emma was the agent you called.

And so he had. It hadn't taken Emma long to ascertain that robbing Monica of her poise and control in public was the lever to her soul, and it could be done without leaving a mark.

Surveying the scene, as a man driven by power himself, Prokhorov could empathize with the shame of Monica's predicament. His fetishist comrade Bakhin had been oddly specific about her bindings, with the form-fitting wraps holding her securely to the narrow table but emphasizing the size and defenselessness of the ticklish feet she took such pains to conceal. Emma had delivered precisely to his specifications, and with stunning effect. For someone so obsessed with appearances, Monica now found herself trapped in a carefully engineered mockery of her dignity, her greatest weakness on mortifying display.

And Emma kept exploiting that weakness relentlessly. Mikhail could tell she was using Monica’s ticklishness to keep her on the edge of control, letting her almost gather her wits before driving her into freefall gales of laughter and madness again and again.

His eyes passed over every camera view of Monica's unraveling. Her hands opened and clenched, shaking spastically against the black wrappings around her hips. Her toe-tied bare feet struggled and writhed under Emma's tickling fingers. Her face, red with exertion and embarrassment, was a rictus of both hilarity and mortification as she howled with helpless abandon.

Occasionally Monica would shout Emma's name or scream at her to stop. But aside from a reflexive 'please' when the torture started, and despite Emma's merciless verbal taunting, she had steadfastly refused to beg.

Mikhail knew Emma wanted Monica broken and begging, and he also knew why. He had strictly instructed that before Emma was allowed to finish, Monica had to ask for Stage 4.

More to come…