The Reservoir Key
Chapter 1: The Client
The sun was beginning to set over the city skyline, casting a deep orange light into the Perfect Touch spa that made Samantha yearn to go home. But even on a slow day such as this, her professional duties as a pedicurist kept her here. With no customers to attend to and no appointments for the rest of the day, she busied herself with menial cleaning and organization. To keep her eyes off the painfully slow progress of the clock, Samantha cast her gaze to the sidewalk outside, and that was when she saw the woman.
She easily one of the tallest women Samantha had ever seen. At six and a half feet, she towered over the other men and women on the city street outside. Wearing a business suit that was tailored for a woman considerably smaller than herself, she looked even more out of place, like a gangster squeezed into respectable clothing. Perhaps the impression was intentional.
Samantha was surprised when the woman turned a sharp right at her door and entered the Perfect Touch Spa. It appears we have a customer, thought Samantha wearily as the bell signaling the door’s opening rang. At half an hour until closing she was the only pedicurist working, so this client would be hers. As she summoned a smile and greeted this new customer she was struck by her impressive figure, even more at close range. With rippling muscles over every inch of her body, she looked more like a professional wrestler than a gangster. Her blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail, a bizarre contrast to her business clothes. She wore no jewelry: only a grey pinstripe suit nearly straining at the buttons. Samantha smirked at the eighties-style shoulder pads, until she realized those were her actual shoulders.
“This is a foot spa, I understand?” asked her visitor in a deep voice. Her accent was oddly unplaceable. “I would like…treatment.”
“Treatment?” asked Samantha. “Are you suffering from a specific ailment? I’m trained in pedicure and a variety of foot massage techniques, to deal with muscles aches, stress, damaged skin…”
“Yes, damaged skin,” said the woman, as though this was as good an answer as she could expect. “Can you help me with that?”
“Certainly,” said Samantha. “Please, come in and have a seat. The wait shouldn’t be long.” She gestured around the empty room as she attempted her mild joke. The woman did not smile. “Please, take off your shoes.”
For the first time, the atmosphere went from formal to decidedly cold. The muscular woman, dwarfing the chair she was sitting in, eyed Samantha with distinct suspicion. She clearly realized the request was a reasonable one, and yet she was hesitant. Samantha noticed she shoes she wore were not fashionable heels, nor were they sensible work flats. The woman wore what almost looked like black combat boots, kept in place around the ankles with leather straps and buckles. An odd fashion choice, Samantha thought, but then there was much that was odd about this client.
“Would you like me to help you with your shoes?” Samantha asked.
“No.” The woman held up a hand, insistent to stop her. “I…I will do it myself.” The woman exhaled, as though she were steeling herself for an ordeal, and then undid the straps keeping her boots in place. Sliding them off her feet, she let them fall on the ground beside the spa chair. Judging from the sound they made when they impacted the tile floor, Samantha would have needed to use both hands to lift a single one.
She then turned her beautician’s eye towards her client’s soles. After her talk of skin restoration, she wasn’t sure what to expect: unhealthy dry skin of some sort, burns perhaps. But she certainly wasn’t expecting what she saw.
The woman’s soles were as close to perfect as Samantha had ever seen. Soft, pink skin without a single blemish, they were perfectly moisturized and looked as if they had been expertly taken care of. If Samantha had been asked, she would have guessed her client had just come from another pedicure. What on earth could be “damaged” about her skin? She surveyed them for several seconds, and there was a lot of area to survey: her long, shapely feet were about a size 12-13 with elongated toes.
“It would help if I knew what exactly was…wrong,” said Samantha, with mild professional embarrassment that she had to ask.
“My skin has become damaged. Repair it,” ordered the woman unhelpfully. No more stalling for time, Samantha thought. Maybe she suffered some sort of UV damage to her skin? At this time of year beachgoers were likely to lay too long in the sun. Not the best explanation, but it would have to do. There wasn’t much she could do except alleviate the pain. She reached over towards her table for a foot towel and put one hand gently on the top of the woman’s foot.
Samantha was nearly knocked backwards as the woman’s entire body shook violently. Had that touch hurt her, Samantha wondered worriedly? Her professional credibility was plummeting fast, she thought with a gulp. The woman in the chair was unmistakably upset, but her expression showed something more. She almost seemed to be smiling. It was a long and awkward moment before Samantha put the pieces together. Apparently her client was ticklish.
“I…I’m sorry,” Samantha apologized, trying to placate this dangerous-looking client. She hadn’t even touched the soles: that level of ticklishness was something she had rarely seen even in her line of work. Her training had taught her how to deliver pedicures to even the most ticklish women, but this was going to be a challenge of a new magnitude. She had her tools in hand but was almost afraid to start again. Sooner of later she would have to touch those huge soles, and she didn’t know if her skill would be enough for the delicacy required. The fact that this woman looked as though she could tear her in half did nothing to calm her fears.
“Are you…ready to begin?” asked Samantha, stalling more for her own sake than her client’s.
“Yes. Yes, just get it over with. Do what you need to,” the woman answered brusquely. She was clearly embarrassed, but not giving up.
Samantha steeled herself, holding her file like an explosives expert using pliers to cut wires on a ticking bomb. She placed a hand on the top of the right foot again, and she felt the woman fight back the instinct to thrash. Slowly, she touched the woman’s soles with the file.
Again, the result was too fast for Samantha to register: she only found herself reeling from a blow, and suddenly her file was on the floor at the opposite end of the room. It took her a moment to recover from the daze and realize what happened: she had been kicked in the forehead. The echo of her client’s high-pitched squeal still rang in her ears, and she now saw the woman glowering down at her with anger and resentment.
“You clumsy fool!” she bellowed. “I didn’t come in here to be so poorly handled! You said you could heal me!”
“I apologize, please, calm down…” Samantha stuttered, with one hand on her forehead where she had been kicked. It still ached: she was certain the blow would leave a bruise. What was she expected to do?
“Why have you wasted my time?” the muscular woman thundered from her chair, distinctly threatening. “Are you incompetent or merely a liar?”
Either it was the long day weighing on Samantha’s shoulders, or the throbbing of the bruise on her forehead, or simply the indignity of being berated for failing at an impossible task. Whatever the reason, Samantha felt her last shred of patience disappear. A shiver of resignation ran through her body as she shed the vestiges of her professional courtesy. Muscles or no, she was going to give this woman exactly what she asked for.
With the speed of determination, Samantha reached over to the pedicure chair and flipped a switch. Immediately, padded cuffs sprung out from the bottom, wrapping around the woman’s ankles. She immediately began tugging at them, but even her impressive strength was not enough to break the metal.
“What is the meaning of this?” the woman demanded, her eyes cold with fury.
“This is a provision we have for some of our more ticklish guests,” answered Samantha. The euphoria of new-found confidence rushed through her and renewed her energy. “You wanted a pedicure? Well, you’re going to get one.”
“Release me this instant!” shouted the woman, with such strength that the possibility of her breaking the bonds suddenly seemed real. Luckily, they seemed to be holding. “When I get out of here, there won’t be enough left of you to fit in a handbag!”
“Then we’d better be sure you use that energy on something more productive,” Samantha answered, amazingly feeling as brave as she sounded. She kneeled in front of the chair and produced from her coat pocket a small soft-bristled makeup brush.
That was the first time she saw unbridled fear in the woman’s eyes. Her toes curled tightly and her eyes opened wide, unblinkingly staring at the tool. “You…you keep that away from me!” she warned. A trickle of sweat ran down her forehead.
“I think before we start you need some experience having those feet touched, dear,” said Samantha. “Now if I were you I’d brace myself, because this is really going to tickle.”
There was no fight for composure, no slow release of giggles. The moment those bristles touched the woman’s vast, sensitive soles the spa was filled with howling peals of unrestrained laughter. Her toes danced madly as the brush swept across those ticklish soles: going from heel to toe and back again, wreaking havoc with every inch.
“HAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!! STAAHAHAHAHAHAPPP!!” screamed the woman, already rendered helpless. She thrashed and turned in her chair, but the ankle cuffs kept her feet firmly in place as Samantha’s brush taught them a well-deserved lesson. Samantha didn’t even have to search out sensitive spots: every bit of her soles were so maddeningly ticklish that Samantha might have felt sorry for her. But now, every new burst of laughter that erupted was music to her ears.
“Oh, we’re not stopping any time soon,” taunted Samantha. “These big ticklish feet are going to see a lot of attention in the next few hours, that I can promise you.” She twirled the brush over the woman’s high arches, and barely noticed when her flailing arms knocked the beautician’s cart clear across the room. “We’re going to stay here and have a nice, long laugh.”
“HAHAHAHAHAHA!! I’LL KILL YOUUUHOHOHOHOHOHO!!” the woman choked out between bursts of helpless laughter. Her face was red and her fierce eyes shed rivers of tears. Her ponytail whipped back and forth as she threw her head about, but the assault on her ticklish feet continued.
“What was that? Koochie koochie koo!” Samantha mocked, using the brush to dust beneath her toes. “If you can still threaten me, I think we have to get serious.” And with that, she cast the brush aside and sank all ten of her perfectly manicured fingernails into the soft flesh of the woman’s soles.
Samantha would not have believed the laughter could get any more intense, but as her nails touched those ticklish soles the laughter nearly doubled in volume. Blinded by tears, the woman could no longer talk, babbling ticklish nonsense as Samantha’s unyielding fingernails raked across those long, tender expanses. The mirrors shook in their frames from the sheer force of her screams. It seemed the woman was tapping new wells of energy, only to laugh it all away.
Samantha was lost in her work, scratching the balls of her feet and feeling the smooth perfection of those arches with her own fingers. The laughter was all-consuming: it was all Samantha could hear, and all she could think about was provoking more of it. Touching, prodding, and coaxing new spots, the woman was reduced to a mindless mess. The buttons of her suit jacket had burst open, and her shirt was tearing as her magnificent muscles struggled to save her from death by tickling. But her poor, abused feet stayed directly in harm’s way.
“PLEEHEHEHEHEHEASE!!! I GIVE UP!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!” screamed the huge woman, all of her resistance gone. But her pleas for mercy went unheeded.
Samantha continued her merciless work, aware that it was getting much warmer in the room. At first, she barely thought about it, but suddenly she felt a searing burst of heat. There was a loud clack, as of a hard object hitting the tile floor. Samantha had no difficulty seeing what it was: it was some sort of ivory globe, fallen out of the woman’s pocket as she writhed in ticklish agony. This was the source of the heat in the room, and it was getting warmer. It pulsed with a strange, red glow that seemed to be getting brighter. Suddenly Samantha became worried.
“What is th—“ she began.
But she never finished. A burst of blinding red light enveloped the room, blanking out everything. Samantha had no time to even move before darkness enveloped her.
Chapter 1: The Client
The sun was beginning to set over the city skyline, casting a deep orange light into the Perfect Touch spa that made Samantha yearn to go home. But even on a slow day such as this, her professional duties as a pedicurist kept her here. With no customers to attend to and no appointments for the rest of the day, she busied herself with menial cleaning and organization. To keep her eyes off the painfully slow progress of the clock, Samantha cast her gaze to the sidewalk outside, and that was when she saw the woman.
She easily one of the tallest women Samantha had ever seen. At six and a half feet, she towered over the other men and women on the city street outside. Wearing a business suit that was tailored for a woman considerably smaller than herself, she looked even more out of place, like a gangster squeezed into respectable clothing. Perhaps the impression was intentional.
Samantha was surprised when the woman turned a sharp right at her door and entered the Perfect Touch Spa. It appears we have a customer, thought Samantha wearily as the bell signaling the door’s opening rang. At half an hour until closing she was the only pedicurist working, so this client would be hers. As she summoned a smile and greeted this new customer she was struck by her impressive figure, even more at close range. With rippling muscles over every inch of her body, she looked more like a professional wrestler than a gangster. Her blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail, a bizarre contrast to her business clothes. She wore no jewelry: only a grey pinstripe suit nearly straining at the buttons. Samantha smirked at the eighties-style shoulder pads, until she realized those were her actual shoulders.
“This is a foot spa, I understand?” asked her visitor in a deep voice. Her accent was oddly unplaceable. “I would like…treatment.”
“Treatment?” asked Samantha. “Are you suffering from a specific ailment? I’m trained in pedicure and a variety of foot massage techniques, to deal with muscles aches, stress, damaged skin…”
“Yes, damaged skin,” said the woman, as though this was as good an answer as she could expect. “Can you help me with that?”
“Certainly,” said Samantha. “Please, come in and have a seat. The wait shouldn’t be long.” She gestured around the empty room as she attempted her mild joke. The woman did not smile. “Please, take off your shoes.”
For the first time, the atmosphere went from formal to decidedly cold. The muscular woman, dwarfing the chair she was sitting in, eyed Samantha with distinct suspicion. She clearly realized the request was a reasonable one, and yet she was hesitant. Samantha noticed she shoes she wore were not fashionable heels, nor were they sensible work flats. The woman wore what almost looked like black combat boots, kept in place around the ankles with leather straps and buckles. An odd fashion choice, Samantha thought, but then there was much that was odd about this client.
“Would you like me to help you with your shoes?” Samantha asked.
“No.” The woman held up a hand, insistent to stop her. “I…I will do it myself.” The woman exhaled, as though she were steeling herself for an ordeal, and then undid the straps keeping her boots in place. Sliding them off her feet, she let them fall on the ground beside the spa chair. Judging from the sound they made when they impacted the tile floor, Samantha would have needed to use both hands to lift a single one.
She then turned her beautician’s eye towards her client’s soles. After her talk of skin restoration, she wasn’t sure what to expect: unhealthy dry skin of some sort, burns perhaps. But she certainly wasn’t expecting what she saw.
The woman’s soles were as close to perfect as Samantha had ever seen. Soft, pink skin without a single blemish, they were perfectly moisturized and looked as if they had been expertly taken care of. If Samantha had been asked, she would have guessed her client had just come from another pedicure. What on earth could be “damaged” about her skin? She surveyed them for several seconds, and there was a lot of area to survey: her long, shapely feet were about a size 12-13 with elongated toes.
“It would help if I knew what exactly was…wrong,” said Samantha, with mild professional embarrassment that she had to ask.
“My skin has become damaged. Repair it,” ordered the woman unhelpfully. No more stalling for time, Samantha thought. Maybe she suffered some sort of UV damage to her skin? At this time of year beachgoers were likely to lay too long in the sun. Not the best explanation, but it would have to do. There wasn’t much she could do except alleviate the pain. She reached over towards her table for a foot towel and put one hand gently on the top of the woman’s foot.
Samantha was nearly knocked backwards as the woman’s entire body shook violently. Had that touch hurt her, Samantha wondered worriedly? Her professional credibility was plummeting fast, she thought with a gulp. The woman in the chair was unmistakably upset, but her expression showed something more. She almost seemed to be smiling. It was a long and awkward moment before Samantha put the pieces together. Apparently her client was ticklish.
“I…I’m sorry,” Samantha apologized, trying to placate this dangerous-looking client. She hadn’t even touched the soles: that level of ticklishness was something she had rarely seen even in her line of work. Her training had taught her how to deliver pedicures to even the most ticklish women, but this was going to be a challenge of a new magnitude. She had her tools in hand but was almost afraid to start again. Sooner of later she would have to touch those huge soles, and she didn’t know if her skill would be enough for the delicacy required. The fact that this woman looked as though she could tear her in half did nothing to calm her fears.
“Are you…ready to begin?” asked Samantha, stalling more for her own sake than her client’s.
“Yes. Yes, just get it over with. Do what you need to,” the woman answered brusquely. She was clearly embarrassed, but not giving up.
Samantha steeled herself, holding her file like an explosives expert using pliers to cut wires on a ticking bomb. She placed a hand on the top of the right foot again, and she felt the woman fight back the instinct to thrash. Slowly, she touched the woman’s soles with the file.
Again, the result was too fast for Samantha to register: she only found herself reeling from a blow, and suddenly her file was on the floor at the opposite end of the room. It took her a moment to recover from the daze and realize what happened: she had been kicked in the forehead. The echo of her client’s high-pitched squeal still rang in her ears, and she now saw the woman glowering down at her with anger and resentment.
“You clumsy fool!” she bellowed. “I didn’t come in here to be so poorly handled! You said you could heal me!”
“I apologize, please, calm down…” Samantha stuttered, with one hand on her forehead where she had been kicked. It still ached: she was certain the blow would leave a bruise. What was she expected to do?
“Why have you wasted my time?” the muscular woman thundered from her chair, distinctly threatening. “Are you incompetent or merely a liar?”
Either it was the long day weighing on Samantha’s shoulders, or the throbbing of the bruise on her forehead, or simply the indignity of being berated for failing at an impossible task. Whatever the reason, Samantha felt her last shred of patience disappear. A shiver of resignation ran through her body as she shed the vestiges of her professional courtesy. Muscles or no, she was going to give this woman exactly what she asked for.
With the speed of determination, Samantha reached over to the pedicure chair and flipped a switch. Immediately, padded cuffs sprung out from the bottom, wrapping around the woman’s ankles. She immediately began tugging at them, but even her impressive strength was not enough to break the metal.
“What is the meaning of this?” the woman demanded, her eyes cold with fury.
“This is a provision we have for some of our more ticklish guests,” answered Samantha. The euphoria of new-found confidence rushed through her and renewed her energy. “You wanted a pedicure? Well, you’re going to get one.”
“Release me this instant!” shouted the woman, with such strength that the possibility of her breaking the bonds suddenly seemed real. Luckily, they seemed to be holding. “When I get out of here, there won’t be enough left of you to fit in a handbag!”
“Then we’d better be sure you use that energy on something more productive,” Samantha answered, amazingly feeling as brave as she sounded. She kneeled in front of the chair and produced from her coat pocket a small soft-bristled makeup brush.
That was the first time she saw unbridled fear in the woman’s eyes. Her toes curled tightly and her eyes opened wide, unblinkingly staring at the tool. “You…you keep that away from me!” she warned. A trickle of sweat ran down her forehead.
“I think before we start you need some experience having those feet touched, dear,” said Samantha. “Now if I were you I’d brace myself, because this is really going to tickle.”
There was no fight for composure, no slow release of giggles. The moment those bristles touched the woman’s vast, sensitive soles the spa was filled with howling peals of unrestrained laughter. Her toes danced madly as the brush swept across those ticklish soles: going from heel to toe and back again, wreaking havoc with every inch.
“HAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!! STAAHAHAHAHAHAPPP!!” screamed the woman, already rendered helpless. She thrashed and turned in her chair, but the ankle cuffs kept her feet firmly in place as Samantha’s brush taught them a well-deserved lesson. Samantha didn’t even have to search out sensitive spots: every bit of her soles were so maddeningly ticklish that Samantha might have felt sorry for her. But now, every new burst of laughter that erupted was music to her ears.
“Oh, we’re not stopping any time soon,” taunted Samantha. “These big ticklish feet are going to see a lot of attention in the next few hours, that I can promise you.” She twirled the brush over the woman’s high arches, and barely noticed when her flailing arms knocked the beautician’s cart clear across the room. “We’re going to stay here and have a nice, long laugh.”
“HAHAHAHAHAHA!! I’LL KILL YOUUUHOHOHOHOHOHO!!” the woman choked out between bursts of helpless laughter. Her face was red and her fierce eyes shed rivers of tears. Her ponytail whipped back and forth as she threw her head about, but the assault on her ticklish feet continued.
“What was that? Koochie koochie koo!” Samantha mocked, using the brush to dust beneath her toes. “If you can still threaten me, I think we have to get serious.” And with that, she cast the brush aside and sank all ten of her perfectly manicured fingernails into the soft flesh of the woman’s soles.
Samantha would not have believed the laughter could get any more intense, but as her nails touched those ticklish soles the laughter nearly doubled in volume. Blinded by tears, the woman could no longer talk, babbling ticklish nonsense as Samantha’s unyielding fingernails raked across those long, tender expanses. The mirrors shook in their frames from the sheer force of her screams. It seemed the woman was tapping new wells of energy, only to laugh it all away.
Samantha was lost in her work, scratching the balls of her feet and feeling the smooth perfection of those arches with her own fingers. The laughter was all-consuming: it was all Samantha could hear, and all she could think about was provoking more of it. Touching, prodding, and coaxing new spots, the woman was reduced to a mindless mess. The buttons of her suit jacket had burst open, and her shirt was tearing as her magnificent muscles struggled to save her from death by tickling. But her poor, abused feet stayed directly in harm’s way.
“PLEEHEHEHEHEHEASE!!! I GIVE UP!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!” screamed the huge woman, all of her resistance gone. But her pleas for mercy went unheeded.
Samantha continued her merciless work, aware that it was getting much warmer in the room. At first, she barely thought about it, but suddenly she felt a searing burst of heat. There was a loud clack, as of a hard object hitting the tile floor. Samantha had no difficulty seeing what it was: it was some sort of ivory globe, fallen out of the woman’s pocket as she writhed in ticklish agony. This was the source of the heat in the room, and it was getting warmer. It pulsed with a strange, red glow that seemed to be getting brighter. Suddenly Samantha became worried.
“What is th—“ she began.
But she never finished. A burst of blinding red light enveloped the room, blanking out everything. Samantha had no time to even move before darkness enveloped her.