The Cult of Tickle Assassins
The Cult of Tickle Assassins II
The Cult of Tickle Assassins III: Trainee Syra Rahul's Final Exam
The Cult of Tickle Assassins IV: Pereira vs. Rahul (F/F)
The Cult of Tickle Assassins
Episode 5: City of Angels
by Tamira K.
Chapter 1
‘Goodnight,’ said Syra as she let go of the electric stun-baton.
Paralysed, Rocco fell backward into the lift shaft, his cheeks illuminated from within by a mouthful of blue sparks.
‘Get me out of here!’ shouted Cheryl.
’Who are you?’ Syra asked the newcomer as they both prised open the clamps that secured Cheryl’s wrists and ankles.
‘I’m Donna,’ she replied over the echo of Rocco arriving on the ground floor.
‘Thank you, Donna,’ said Syra.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Cheryl. As she and Syra were both in just their underwear, as soon as she jumped free of the frame and spotted Giada Rosetti’s goon Hayley who, less than five minutes ago, had been tickling her feet with the intent of giving her a heart attack, but who now lay motionless on the floor with a bullet hole in her forehead. Judging her to be of a similar height, Cheryl immediately stripped her of her clothes.
Having been knocked unconscious by the stun-baton, Denise began to stir. Syra ran to her and helped her to sit up.
‘We have to get back to New York,’ said Syra.
‘I’m going nowhere!’ said Cheryl.
‘We have to—!’
‘That bitch has my mom’s address!’
Syra considered. ‘Okay.’
‘What about her?’ asked Donna, nodding at the television on the wall.
Giada Rosetti was still watching them and looking a lot less cocky than she had been while Syra and Cheryl were being tortured.
‘Oh… her…’ Cheryl picked up Hayley’s gun and fired. The tablet from which she was broadcasting exploded and the TV screen went blank. ‘I’ll deal with that gash soon enough.’
Denise looked to Patrick but had to turn away. He was obviously dead, as were Hayley and Petey. The other bodyguard, Danni, was still unconscious but could wake at any moment.
She then took a moment to regard the hero of the hour – a tall, African-American woman, dressed in a latex catsuit and with a funky afro decorated by a pink skunk-stripe down the centre.
’Where did you come from?’ asked Denise.
‘I’m local. I got a call from HQ – they asked me to get over here right away,’
‘You’re with RID?’
‘I used to be. Now I’m an associate.’
Cheryl hesitated, ‘An associate? I didn’t think RID allowed agents to leave!’
‘They make some exceptions.’
Cheryl threw Syra a furious look. Syra shrugged; this news was just as much of a surprise to her.
Cheryl stormed towards the exit but her legs gave way.
‘Whoa,’ said Donna, running to her and helping her up. ‘You can’t go nowhere; you’re exhausted.’
‘I don’t have a choice! That bitch Lorena is going straight to my mother’s house!’
‘Then I’ll go–‘
‘No! I need to go.’
‘Both of you go,’ said Syra in her capacity as senior agent. ‘We can deal with everything else later.’
Cheryl agreed.
‘Okay, but take this,’ said Donna as she scribbled something on the back of a card and handed it to Syra.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s my address. I need you to go there and take care of my business, quick as you can.’
Syra flipped the card – it was dark red with classy gold lettering. It read Goddess Donna. ‘You’re a dominatrix!? And you want me to… what?!’
‘Everyone’s gotta earn their money somehow, Honey. My apprentice, Lolly, will be there. She’ll give you the lowdown on what you gotta do – I’ve got a VIP client coming I don’t want to lose. She likes the tall, dark chocolate, but…’ she looked Syra up and down, ‘I think you may be able to satisfy her tastes with a little milk chocolate today, instead. You can’t say you don’t owe me!’
‘Can we get going!?’ called Cheryl as she threw open the doors and left.
‘Go on,’ Syra sighed.
‘Do her right!’ Donna winked and ran after Cheryl.
Syra and Denise helped each other up.
‘We’d better get her strapped down before she comes round,’ said Syra, indicating Danni, ‘but I’ll need her clothes.’
‘She’s taller that you.’
‘It’s better than walking around in my underwear, Denise.’
Denise wheeled Cheryl’s frame over as Syra stripped Danni of her clothes. Denise took hold under her armpits as Syra lifted from her knees. The move was a struggle and Syra nearly dropped her.
‘You look like you’re ready to fall over,’ said Denise.
‘I’m fine.’
Syra pulled on Danni’s clothes. They were baggy, to say the least, and the shoes were around four sizes too big. ‘Right, I’ve gotta go play dominatrix!’ said Syra, ‘This is one rare day…’
‘I need to get a clean-up squad here, right?’
‘Yeah. And if they somehow tracked us to send Donna here, there’s probably a team on the way. God only knows where our cell phones are but I’ll call HQ when I get to where I’m going. Just keep her quiet but don’t damage her – we may need to interrogate.’
‘Good luck,’ said Denise. She was clearly upset about Patrick.
‘Keep it together, agent. You did good.’
Denise nodded. Syra noticed a car fob half-out of Petey’s pocket. She picked it up and glanced toward Patrick’s body as she headed for the staircase.
Giada Rosetti needed to pay.
Chapter 2
Surrounding buildings reflected a brilliant sunset that cast a pink hue over everything as Cheryl and Donna burst from the front door.
A sleek black Kawasaki Z H2 was parked between a car and a van. Donna straddled the bike.
‘I need to tell my mother to get out,’ said Cheryl
Donna tossed her a cell phone. Cheryl dialled the house number – there was no answer. ‘Fuck!’ she said, ‘ I don’t know her cell.’
‘Let’s go,’ Donna handed her a crash helmet, ‘and hold on, Honey. I don’t wanna have to scrape your cute ass up off the road.’
Cheryl got on. Donna leaned forward and the bike sprayed the van with gravel as it span a U-turn and shot toward the exit. The g-force caught Cheryl off-guard and she clasped her arms around Donna’s waist.
When she looked up they were on Vine Street, whizzing through the traffic at a rate that felt unreal. While she had never been on a motorcycle before, let alone travelling at this speed, she felt a confidence in Donna’s handling of the bike – it was precise and skilful; she was fully in control.
They passed a cop car. The lights and siren immediately flashed to life. Donna didn’t hesitate to turn right onto Fountain Avenue and left on Cole, and within seconds the sirens were distant.
Cheryl was confident that, at this rate, they would arrive at her parents’ house before Lorena.
They turned onto Santa Monica Boulevard just as the lights at the next intersection turned red and screeched to a stop.
‘How long will this take?’ asked Cheryl.
‘It about a forty-five minute journey. I’ll get us there in fifteen,’ said Donna. ‘We may have to cut a few lights. It’ll be fine.’
Cheryl was about to speak again when the lights changed and Donna hit the throttle.
As they sped between vehicles and shot through amber lights, the rumble of the bike on the tarmac shook Cheryl’s sensitised body and reminded her of the hours of torture she had just endured. She wanted to spit out the memories of being overwhelmed by Lorena and her henchwomen. It had surprised her how well they managed to tickle her even though they hadn’t undergone specialist training. She would never divulge to anyone how close she had been to surrender.
A big-rig caused Donna to hit the brakes rather than risk running a red light. Cheryl shook away the memory of her ordeal and when she opened her eyes she found herself looking at Lorena Marcuzzi.
Susan Rosetti’s beautiful and fit younger sister was on her cell phone at the wheel of a black BMW, obviously still perturbed and furious about how her intended executions had not gone as planned. She had her eyes on the traffic lights.
Cheryl patted Donna on the shoulder.
Donna looked to where Cheryl was pointing.
Lorena sensed she was being watched and turned to see the two women with their eyes locked on her. She slammed her foot on the gas and narrowly avoided the final car crossing her path.
Donna revved the bike and gave chase.
Lorena swerved through the traffic as the bike approached fast in the rear-view mirror. She threw a hard right and found that she was going the wrong way on a one-way street. The bike was still on her tail.
She hit the brakes, forcing Donna to swerve into the path of a mail van. She propelled the bike onto the sidewalk – the van narrowly missing the back wheel.
Lorena span a U-turn, causing all traffic on the street to brake and blast on their horns.
Donna burned a donut on the sidewalk and revved the engine
‘Give me your gun!’ called Cheryl.
‘No! Too many people!’
‘I know how to shoot!’
In response Donna leant forward and pumped the accelerator. Cheryl was forced to hang on tight and they pulled level with Lorena.
Both women kicked out at the car windows, making Lorena swerve away from them.
‘I can shoot out the tyres!’ yelled Cheryl.
Donna yanked out the pistol and handed it over.
Lorena saw her take aim and sideswiped the bike into the path of oncoming traffic. Donna avoided one car but mounted the sidewalk…
Mr and Mrs Frederick Henderson were hosting a family barbecue when a speeding motorcycle crashed into their garden fence and upended, ejecting two women into the air. A woman dressed as Catwoman narrowly missed the barbecue and landed squarely in the centre of their backyard pool. The other was luckily wearing a crash helmet as she flew, head-first, through their newly-installed patio doors.
Donna breeched the surface of the water like a gothic mermaid.
‘Wow!’ exclaimed 11-year-old Justin Henderson. ‘Are you makin’ a movie?!’
‘Not today,’ said Donna as she made for the side and lifted herself out.
‘Are you okay?!’ exclaimed Mr Henderson.
‘I’m fine–’
‘Never mind about that!’ snapped Mrs Henderson, ‘Look at the goddamn doors!’
A look from Donna shut her up.
There were tinkles of glass as Cheryl staggered onto the patio. She fell to her knees and tried to pull off her helmet.
‘Don’t,’ said Donna. She opened the visor and looked into Cheryl’s eyes. ‘You’ve got one pupil like a pinhole and the other like a dinner plate. You need to rest, Honey.’
‘No! My mom!’ Cheryl’s words were slightly slurred.
‘I’ll handle it.’ She leant in close, ‘Where’s my gun?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Cheryl. ‘Hurry!’
Donna stood up straight. She towered over everyone at the barbecue and addressed Mr and Mrs Henderson: ‘This is official government business. Someone will be by to collect her, can she rest here in the meantime?’
‘Of course,’ said Mr Henderson as he helped Cheryl back indoors to a couch, accompanied by the rest of the party.
Justin Henderson was obviously enamoured with Donna – this superheroesque woman had livened up an otherwise dull-arsed party and gave him a story to tell at school.
‘Do you need any help?’ he asked as Donna lifted the Kawasaki.
She smirked and straddled the bike. ‘Maybe in about 10 years, kid,’ she was about to take off when she paused, ‘Oh… and if you find a gun in your garden – don’t play with it.’
Chapter 3
Syra pulled up in Petey’s van outside a stylish and contemporary black and white villa situated on a twist in the road on Hercules Drive, Mount Olympus. The night was clear and the view over the twinkling lights of LA was spectacular. She wondered how many people Donna needed to dominate per week to afford an abode like this.
The front door to the house opened and out stepped a very pretty and petite young white woman. Her peroxide hair was in messy bunches with pink tips. She was dressed in pink and white latex ballerina outfit with white fishnet stockings and pink platform pumps. The only parts of her that weren’t pink or white were the delicate tattoos that snaked around her arms and legs and crawled from her cleavage to her neck. She was taking out the trash when she spotted Syra.
‘Can I help you?’ the young woman asked in an unaffected pixieish voice.
‘You’re Lolly, I take it?’
‘Yeah…?’ She took in Syra’s baggy clothes and the big black van. ‘Are you here to fix the cable?’
‘No. Donna sent me.’
‘She did?’
‘Yeah. I’m to fill in for her with the next client.’
Lolly stepped to the gate, clearly dubious. She looked Syra up and down. ‘Do you have a change of clothes in your van?’
‘No. It was a bit of a last-minute thing. I was hoping I could borrow something.’
‘I’m five foot and Goddess is over six. It’ll be a mish-mash.’ Lolly sounded like she was asking questions even when she was just stating facts.
‘Fine by me,’ said Syra.
Lolly tapped a code into a keypad on the gatepost and the gates parted. ‘You look tired,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’
‘The client is due in around twenty minutes. You don’t have much time.’
Lolly led Syra inside. The house was unsurprisingly impressive, with dynamic paintings and sculptures in just the right number. Donna certainly had taste.
‘I need to use a phone,’ said Syra.
Lolly pointed to a black landline on a nearby cabinet. The receiver was in the shape of a leopard with its spots painted gold.
Lolly hovered. ‘In private,’ said Syra.
‘Oh, okay. Wanna drink?’
‘Sure. Something cold, thanks.’
There was a skip in Lolly’s step as she headed to the kitchen. When she was out of sight, Syra dialled the encrypted line to RID HQ. An operator answered, ‘Yes?’
‘Aequinoctium communicationis.’
‘Code and voice recognition accepted. What can I do for you, Senior Agent Rahul?’
‘I need Director Zhang or M.I. Baker. Now.’
‘Oka–‘ the operator cut himself off as he transferred the call.
Mission Supervisor Baker answered. ‘Senior Agent Rahul. Our team is with Agent Jones. She updated me on the situation. Do you need us to collect you?’
‘I wasn’t aware we had associate members, Sir.’
There was a slight pause before Baker answered. ‘Yes. It’s not something we mention, or that we arrange very often. But sometimes, if the situation requires it, rather than cutting all ties with a good agent we can come to an arrangement.’
Syra said nothing.
‘I assume you are out of contact with Agent Pereira at this point?’
‘I am. She is with the associate agent on the way to her mother’s house. I feel I should be there too.’
‘No. From what Jones told me, you’ve been through an ordeal. You can relax. I’ll get other senior agents to take over–‘
‘No, Sir. I will finish whatever it is I need to do here and then I’ll be back in New York to complete the assignment.’
‘You’re not taking this personally are you, Senior Agent?’
‘No, Sir. I’m just very aware of how quickly this needs to be done and, after today, I feel like I have important insights into who we are dealing with.’ Syra’s answer was without hesitation and additional information that wasn’t strictly true – she wanted to be the one to take down the rest of the Rosetti family, which meant dealing with Giada herself. And, yes, having realised that without Donna’s intervention she could have been tickled to death, she did have a score to settle.
Lolly stepped from the kitchen with the drink. Syra spoke quickly so that Baker had no chance to question her previous statement: ‘I have to begin my work. I’ll call again when I can, Sir.’ She hung up.
‘Here,’ Lolly handed Syra a glass of mineral water. ‘I’ll take you to the dungeon.’
‘Thank you,’ said Syra and she followed. ‘What can you tell me about the client I’m meeting?’
‘She’s high maintenance. She’s got buckets of money but you’ll probably know that when you meet her–’
‘Why’s that?’ asked Syra as she followed Lolly up a winding staircase.
Lolly stopped, ‘Because she’s famous. By the way, if you recognise her, don’t say anything; she takes discretion very seriously. She wanted the best in LA and so tracked down Goddess.’ Her train of thought meandered as she looked Syra up and down. ‘I don’t know how she’ll react to Goddess not being here.’
‘Let me worry about that,’ said Syra and she urged for them to keep moving. ‘What about her tastes?’
‘She likes being forced into submission with pain and C.P. but dislikes humiliation–‘
‘How do those two things align?’ asked Syra. From her perspective, being forced into submission in any way was humiliating.
‘Just…y’know…’ Lolly shrugged, as though the answers were obvious.
They reached the top floor, which was unlike any dungeon Syra had seen before—the equipment was standard: an X-frame; a spanking bench; a padded table; an arsenal of whips and floggers hanging from the walls; an ornate black closet that inevitably housed all manner of sex and BDSM toys; and two cuffs on chains that hung from a runner that stretched the length of the room—but the windows were floor-to-ceiling two-way mirrors. Even with the lights on, from the outside one could see nothing more than a reflection of the sky; from indoors, you could see the sprawling lights of LA sliced to a stop at the coastline and beyond which was the blackness of the Pacific Ocean.
A door in the corner opened into a private suite with a dressing table, a walk-in wardrobe and a bathroom. ‘Hopefully you can find something to wear in here,’ said Lolly.
‘What about hard limits for this client?’
‘Goddess only works with people who don’t insist on hard limits. They sign off to agree to no safe words either. They have to accept whatever she wants to do. A true goddess is without limits.’
‘Is she going to see it that way with me?’
‘It depends: are you a Goddess, or just a woman with a cane?’
Syra could tell Lolly was quoting Donna. In her exhausted state, Syra momentarily contemplated that, as it wasn’t a session in which termination was the end goal, a degree of recognition might make the play more interesting. Would it be a movie star? A medal-winning Olympian?
‘Who is the client? You may as well tell me, I’m going to meet her anyway.’
‘It’s Tilda O'Keefe.’
Syra’s interest was piqued. She had little interest in movies and she liked sport, but meeting a serving congresswoman was very interesting to her, especially as Tilda O'Keefe sat on the opposite side of the aisle to most of the principles Syra held dear.
‘I can see why she wants to keep this secret; it doesn’t exactly fit with her public persona.’
Lolly’s blank expression indicated she wasn’t an avid follower of politics. ‘When she gets here I’ll tell her what’s goin’ on and if she still wants to stick around, I’ll send her up. Goddess doesn’t want to lose her, so I’ll tell her you’re really good.’
Syra was too tired to feel patronised or to prove where her skills lay. She just nodded and closed the suite door.
From the selection of clothes available she made do with a shimmering black mini-skirt and matching tube-top, which she guessed belonged to Lolly. Shoes were not as easy to find. They were either the size 11s that belonged to Donna, which would leave her looking like a little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s shoes, or the Barbie doll-sized selection that belonged to Lolly.
Syra decided to go barefoot. It wouldn’t help to make an impactful first-impression, especially as she perceived Tilda O’Keefe to be fairly tall, but there was no other credible option.
She searched the dressing table for some suitable make-up and found a deep plum lipstick and top-of-the-range mascara. When she was done she put the make-up away and searched for some perfume. She opened a deep drawer and found a collection of 100ml white bottles that she recognised. She lifted one out and her suspicions were confirmed – it was Sana – a solution that was being developed by the science laboratories at RID. The ultimate goal was to create a cream or ointment that rapidly increased the healing process for bruises or blemishes and therefore helped agents to evaporate any unsightly marks that they may have accidentally administered onto the target.
As far as Syra knew, experiments were ongoing although she had heard rumours of its success before she was handed the Clarissa Powell assignment. But for Donna to have such a supply indicated that she did more than the occasional job for RID, especially as she wouldn’t be permitted to use it on her BDSM clients.
The doorbell sounded.
Syra closed the drawer, looked into the mirror and took a deep sigh. ‘Here we go again,’ she said.
Chapter 4
Donna walked her bike the final street before turning a corner to see the Pereira residence – if Lorena was already there, she didn’t want the roar of the engine to give her away.
She peered round the corner of the last house on the street to find the BMW parked in front of Cheryl’s home. The front door was open and the lights were on. She flipped out the kickstand from her bike and trotted across the road, taking care not to be seen. As she approached the open door, she could hear banging inside.
‘Fuck!’ shouted Lorena from one of the upstairs rooms. ‘No, she’s not here … How the fuck would I know, Luca? She ain’t my mother! … No, I can’t just wait here for her to come back … Because those putanas could be just around the corner for all I know! … Look, the Galuzos have people out here and they owe us, Luca, ho bisogno di un nuovo equipaggio in fretta – a crew who knows the area. Get me a number so I can call them in now.’
Donna heard the tell-tale footsteps of Lorena descending the stairs and wondered how, short of a fight, she could take her without rousing the neighbours. The street was deserted. There was the jingle of keys as Lorena reached the last steps and approached the front door.
Donna looked around for something to swing, such as a plank of wood. There was no such thing in sight, but then something caught her eye…
Lorena paused at the bottom of the stairs. She had checked every possible hiding spot in the house but took one last look around the living room just in case. There was no hiding space in there. She spat on the floor and strode outside. Rustling leaves to her right made her look– BLAM! In a flash of light she was on the floor before she felt the throb of pain that told her she had been struck across the temple. She opened her eyes and found herself gawping across the front lawn at ground level as the decapitated plaster head of a garden gnome came to a stop like a gyroscope on its final spin, using his elongated nose as the pivot point. A high-heeled leather boot stepped between her and the gnome as her vision doubled and she passed out.
The street was still deserted. Donna quickly lifted Lorena and took her to the car. She was heavier than Donna expected her to be and, considering that her body was very firm, she could tell that Lorena must spend a lot of time lifting weights.
She dumped her onto the back seats of the BMW, zip-tying her wrists in case she woke up. She left the Pereira residence with the door open – there was no time to tidy up and so the mess would give the impression burglars had been disturbed and run away when Mrs Pereira came home.
As they drove away, Donna pulled out her cell phone to check in with MS Baker but the phone flashed intermittently and wouldn’t dial – it had been damaged by the pool water. She drove to Venice Beach, where the nearest safe-house was situated, but an upstairs yellow light signified it was currently in use.
She shook her phone and tried the RID encrypted app, which would let her know which safe-houses were available. It worked but displayed that all safe-houses were currently in use. ‘A busy night tonight,’ she muttered.
Lorena stirred on the back seat. It was time to improvise…
Chapter 5
Syra heard voices downstairs as Lolly explained the situation. Even though she couldn’t hear the exact words, from the tone of voice being used she could tell that the client wasn’t happy that Donna wasn’t there and if Syra didn’t come up to scratch she would take her business elsewhere.
A state-of-the-art music system sat in the corner. Syra pressed play and was pleasantly surprised at the calm but foreboding instrumental that emanated from the speakers.
Footsteps ascended the stairs. Syra prepared herself as Lolly opened the door and in stepped Tilda O’Keefe. It was somewhat surreal to see a woman she had only ever seen on television or in the newspapers in three dimensions, especially because she was dressed as though she was ready to make an announcement in Congress rather than participate, as a submissive, in a BDSM session – her long hair was tied up in a bun, she wore a jacket, suit pants and high heels and carried an expensive leather satchel.
She knew the congresswoman was in her late forties, but either healthy living, botox or genetic fortune gave her the complexion of a much younger woman. For some moments the three of them stood in silence. When it was obvious that Lolly wasn’t going to make the introductions Syra stepped forward and extended her hand, ‘I’m Mistress Equinox.’
Tilda shook her hand. ‘Hello,’ she said, but maintained a lofty manner.
Lolly curtsied and left them to it, closing the door behind her.
‘You’re experienced?’ asked Tilda.
‘I am,’ replied Syra.
‘I only accept the best.’
‘That’s all I give.’
‘Do you know what I want?’
‘Perhaps better than you do.’
‘That would require you to introduce me to something I’ve never experienced before.’
‘That’s entirely possible.’
Tilda’s eyes narrowed a whisker. She was intrigued enough to rest her satchel by the door. ’Did you forget your shoes?’
‘No.’
‘Then why are you barefoot?’
‘“Why are you barefoot, Mistress Equinox?”.’
Tilda straightened her posture and raised an eyebrow.
Syra didn’t have the motivation for a power struggle. ‘I was raised to understand that, as a guest, it was polite to remove outdoor shoes when entering someone else’s house.’
Tilda bridled a little at being put in check. ‘But this is no ordinary situation, is it?’
‘It’s not extraordinary. To me.’
Without conceding, Tilda slipped off her shoes, rested them neatly next to her bag and stood in her white nylon-clad feet. The lofty expression remained, even though they were now the same height. Syra respected this. Not being too tall herself, she liked the fact that a person—a woman—didn’t permit her height to dictate her sense of power.
‘Is that all you’re taking off?’ asked Syra.
‘For now. I first need to have some sort of indication as to what you are capable of doing.’
Syra retained her exalted poise but felt her spirit slouch like an exasperated teenager. She had completed a high-profile mission, flown across the country, fought with Cheryl, been electrocuted, tickle-tortured for several hours that very day and this woman was asking her to prove herself?!
Annoyance gave her a boost of energy that would have been enough to cane Tilda O’Keefe into a whimpering mess, but she decided to channel it in a more calculated way…
‘Come here,’ said Syra, and she went over to the padded table.
The order caused a tiny thrill in the pit of Tilda’s stomach and she followed. ‘You want to tie me down? No. That comes after you’ve proved yourself.’
Syra was abrupt: ’Look, you’re used to people doing what you want and I am well-used to dealing with all varieties of brat – no matter which thousand-dollar suit they wear. I’m not demanding that you undress; you said you wanted me to show you what I can do. In order to do that, I’m asking you to lie down. Do you want me to wrestle you onto the table?’
Tilda acquiesced and climbed onto the table but the sigh she gave indicated she considered the exercise to be a waste of time.
She cuffed Tilda’s wrists with the leather restraints on the table. She then released the chained cuffs from the ties that held them to the wall and pulled them along the ceiling runner until they swung over Tilda O’Keefe’s legs. Syra lowered the restraints and secured them around her ankles, causing Tilda to watch with palpable dubiousness – why she didn’t simply use the ankle restraints attached to the table?
‘I have my reasons,’ said Syra.
Tilda was mildly impressed at her telepathic skills. Syra crossed the room and returned with a tall chrome and leather stool. She placed it at Tilda’s feet and took a seat.
‘Tired?’ asked Tilda; incredulous at Syra’s casual approach.
‘I have had a busy few days, as you ask. But don’t worry – I won’t be demanding a foot massage just yet.’
Tilda huffed at the suggestion.
Syra adjusted the chains, raising Tilda’s feet almost to the point where her bottom would lift from the table. The semi-transparent white nylon-clad soles swayed in front of her. She guessed them to be a size 5.
‘Unflattering, don’t you think? I mean, white nylon – it only really suits doctors and nurses. Not very attractive,’ said Syra.
‘I don’t wear them for the benefit of other people,’ replied Tilda, with a caustic edge.
‘I respect that. Still – it’s the truth.’
Syra casually swept a finger down the length of one sole. Tilda spasmed and cried out, then looked at Syra, irritated. ‘Don’t do that!’
‘You asked what I specialise in.’
‘That’s not a specialism! It’s irritating foolishness!’
Syra responded with a rippling touch of both soles. Again, Tilda jumped and cried out. ‘Aarh! Stoppit!’
‘I have been informed that you do not like safe words. I am glad to hear that.’
‘Stop this now! This is preposterous! Sto—‘
Her demands were cut short as Syra deftly tickled all over her soles with light and carefree touches. There was no resistance – Congresswoman Tilda O’Keefe was completely ticklish.
Syra sighed with relief – the woman was what RID agents referred to as an egg – someone who is easy to crack. She was twisted and bucked on the table, but these motions came solely from her body’s natural responses rather than any conscious intention to fight Syra off, and although her verbalised protests were those of a woman who clearly hated to be tickled, the laughter that was forced from her was pure – light and bereft of anger or the ability to resist.
Syra smiled. This was the most relaxing thing she had done in a long time. All she had to do was sway her hands in time with the dangling, exquisitely ticklish feet.
Chapter 6
Lorena was stirred from the blackness of unconsciousness by something firm and slippery lapping at her face like a bull’s tongue. It permeated her sleep and brought with it images of sunshine and a meadow, but when she breathed in there was no scent of freshly cut grass; instead she inhaled the faint aroma of diesel mixed with ocean air.
The throb Lorena felt on her face was strangely satisfying—much like the proud bruises she picked up when street-fighting for money in her teens—but it was accompanied by a less-than-satisfying pain in her neck. She opened her eyes and saw that she was standing in the centre of an ancient truck tyre with her ankles restrained by a network of ropes and spokes.
She lifted her head, which had been hanging awkwardly as she slept. She was in a huge, inadequately-lit and deserted shipyard warehouse with, among other things, the rotted hull of an old sloop and a flooded ship ramp. No doubt when the warehouse was built the water level wasn’t as high as it was now and the tide was still coming in.
Her wrists were tied and out-stretched at shoulder height to a metal bar that, at one time, had probably been the support for a heavy shelf on the corrugated iron wall.
A massive shutter door half-way down the building was propped open by a metal bar. She heard footsteps from outside and could just make out Donna’s leather boots. She ducked under the shutter and entered. ‘You’re awake! About time.’
‘You’re dead!’ shouted Lorena.
Donna paused and puffed out her cheeks. ‘Not yet, I’m not. You’re gonna be noisy, aren’tcha?’ She went behind the sloop, pulled out a strong chain and dragged it over to the metal pole that was propping up the shutter. She looped the chain around it and yanked. The pole fell away and the shutter gave a thunderous, metallic rattle and crashed shut.
Donna stepped over to Lorena and analysed the side of her face where she’d applied the Sana. The scuffed bruise, if you looked closely, retained the imprint of a garden gnome’s hair. She reached to move a strand of hair away from the area. ‘Don’t fucking touch me!’
‘I’m giving you medical attention, Honey. Be grateful,’ said Donna.
‘Get me out of here!’
‘Hey, you’ve just been on the other side of this situation. When were you about to cut my homegirls any slack?’
‘You don’t know who you’re fuckin’ with, putana!’ She spat at Donna’s feet but her mouth was too dry to produce the desired effect. ‘I’m tellin’ you nothin’!’
‘Darlin’, who said I wanted you to?’ Donna slowly strutted in front of Lorena, idly swinging her coiled whip like a conductor’s baton.
‘Shoot me then, bitch! I don’t give a fuck. My brother and my niece will feed you to the dog!’
’Shootin’ ain’t really my style; you forced my hand before. I like to take my time and, in this case, I’ve been hired to take you out in a very specific way. What that is shouldn’t come as any surprise to you…’
She placed the whip to one side and began trickling her fingernails over the soft skin of Lorena’s exposed wrists and forearms.
Lorena’s head fell back against the corrugated wall as she tried to control her breathing. Donna noticed Lorena’s fists clench as she travelled towards her underarms.
Obviously, delicate stroking was a way to sensitise those who claimed they were not ticklish or to increase the effect of stronger tickling on an already ticklish subject. For some, knismesis was more effective than the alternative but it bored Donna, who viewed it as foreplay. Even when what people regarded as “evil” tickling was done to her, she enjoyed it and it tended to do nothing more than turn her on.
Her natural tendency leaned towards painful sadism – one of the reasons she left RID but adored her life as a professional dominatrix. But, if she couldn’t inflict pain, she could at least vent her sadism in other ways…
‘Starting to feel that already, are ya?’
‘No!’
‘You will, trust me. I can tell you’re a ticklish one. It probably eats at you, huh? You wanna be tough Lorena Whatever-your-name-is, but deep down you know I’m gonna make you laugh yourself to death.’ Donna teased her inner elbows and stroked light, spider-like touches inside her biceps. ‘You seem like a strong girl. Did you ever imagine being taken apart with just this…?’
She lingered her teasing fingernails just outside Lorena’s cuffs, which were rolled to half-way up her upper arms. Lorena’s controlled breathing was shallow but she sneered at Donna, ‘Forget something, right? You didn’t strip me down. Good luck getting me back like this when you untie me!’
‘Sugar, thinking that your clothes are gonna save you is like pulling up a bedsheet to protect you from an axe-murderer.’ With that, Donna grabbed Lorena’s armpits and tickled.
The metal bar clanked against the iron wall as Lorena yanked and gritted her teeth.
‘There: see what I mean?’ said Donna, and she laughed with glee. The warehouse elevated the sound like a specially constructed auditorium. ‘I was a teeny bit worried that I’d tied you up with no access to your feet, but I don’t need ‘em if you’re already reacting like this!’
Donna clasped her hands around Lorena’s ribcage and jiggled her muscles. Lorena’s face contorted with confusion; a determination fuelled by anger was being undermined by the all-encompassing sensations. Donna’s hands felt almost like a giant’s as they rubbed vigorously over her ribs, skilfully stimulating every ticklish spot she knew of as well as a few she didn’t.
There was a demonic fervour to Donna’s expression as she watched the other woman’s internal struggle to contain her natural reactions. She relished that the struggle to hold it all inside was so intense that Lorena was turning a shade of mauve as veins spread up her forehead like vines slithering up a wall.
Unlike those she knew who loved to tickle people in order to see that moment when the target lost their battle and collapsed into laughter, Donna preferred those in-between times – the times when the victim was in turmoil; trying desperately not to let it happen. She enjoyed keeping her subject on the distressed precipice of inevitable defeat for as long as she could. For her, it was akin to the satisfaction she sometimes got in professional sessions when she performed three or more hours of orgasm denial – she knew that once they started laughing, they were on the final straight. That was because, when it came to tickling, Donna’s skill lay in not giving her target the opportunity to breathe.
In that respect, Lorena was assisting in her own downfall because her method of resistance was a combination of tensing her muscles and holding her breath – a combination that was finite in a way that took the person putting this method into practice by surprise.
‘You’re starting to feel the need to breathe now, ain’tcha?’ said Donna before giving Lorena’s sensitive spots an extra-rapid shake, which took Lorena by surprise. She gave a guttural strain and looked up at Donna with pure hatred.
Chapter 7
Lolly sat eating ice-cream in the kitchen, listening with curiosity to the cacophony of cachinnation upstairs that, for the first time ever, proved the dungeon’s soundproofing was not infallible.
She regretted that there were no cameras in the dungeon. She and Goddess only occasionally used tickling as occasional small parts of a session. From what had been taking place upstairs for the past half an hour, it sounded like it would be a lot of fun to make it the sole focus of a session.
Tilda O’Keefe’s trail of ticklish laughter remained unbroken. She was now doing all she could to evade Syra’s accomplished fingernails as they slid and tickled all over the nylon material that covered her soles, but it was no use.
‘Pl-pleeeeease!’ she begged amid her delightful sounds of helplessness.
The congresswoman’s clothes were ruffled, her long hair was a mess and her blouse soaked with sweat. Syra’s suspicions were correct – it was actually fun to do this to someone when she wasn’t intent on assassinating her.
‘Oh, my god!. Oh, my goodness…’ panted Tilda. ‘Okay, you proved your point: it’s torture. Please stop. I can’t tolerate it!’
As Syra replied, she ripped open the nylon feet of Tilda’s hose, ‘You see, when I meet someone who actively dislikes safe words, it makes me believe that any protest the might give is just part of the game.’
‘No! Please believe me! Please! I can’t resist – I’m so terribly ticklish!’
Syra decided to give herself a challenge – up until now she hadn’t needed to take any great care to find any particular ticklish spot because Tilda was highly ticklish all over her feet. But now she analysed Tilda’s soles to see if she could maintain her “sixth sense success rate”.
Despite the fact that she wore high heels virtually every time she stepped outdoors, Tilda evidently took care of her feet. They were soft and smooth—obviously regularly pumiced—but there were some curiously symmetrical anomalies: in the centre of the ball of each foot were some noticeable vertical creases. They appeared to be hereditary, but possibly enhanced by years of wearing narrow 4-inch heels.
Syra wondered if the tiny sliver of skin on each foot that was concealed from the world and protected from the floor most of the time were the golden spots?
She leant forward intently and clasped hold of Tilda’s right foot. Tilda jumped. ‘No… Oh, God, please no…!’
Tilda trembled in anticipation of what was about to happen. Syra edged forward and ever-so-gently inserted the tip of one fingernail into the shallow crease…
‘Ohhhh, Gwwaaaaaddd…!’ Tilda’s laughter surged into an explosion of wild hysterics. Her pleading and laughter reached a pinnacle and remained there; shouting occasional incomprehensible sounds of primal panic.
Syra was loving this experience. Perhaps she had broken through a tiredness barrier, but she couldn’t remember feeling as satisfied by tickling someone as she did in that moment.
As she was contemplating this and still not moving her fingernail any more than a couple of millimetres one way then the other, her victim’s sounds of anguish changed in tone.
‘Ohhhh…! Oh, God…! Oh, God…! Oh, God, I’m……!’
Her back arched, her thighs clamped together and she erupted with a long, deep-throated orgasm.
Syra watched in wonder. Obviously she had seen this several times before. Even when people were in the process of being tickled to death, their bodies reacted in unpredictable ways. But, again, it was enchanting to do it to a woman without execution as the ultimate goal.
She stopped tickling and sat back. Tilda had not only climaxed, but also gushed. The evidence seeped through her pants and spread across the table and onto the floor.
There was a knock at the door. For a surreal moment, Syra assumed it would be a neighbour knocking to complain about the noise.
‘Yes?’ called Syra.
‘You have a phone call. Apparently it’s urgent.’ said Lolly. Both statements had the inflection of a question.
‘Thank you!’ She released Tilda’s ankles and gently lowered her legs. She then freed her wrists and helped her to sit on the edge of the table.
‘I must go,’ said Syra and she collected her things. ‘I trust you enjoyed yourself?’
Tilda nodded and cupped her face in her hands. Her mind was blown.
Syra opened the door to leave. ’You take your time, Ms O’Keefe. I’ll ask Lolly to bring you a drink.’
Tilda looked up through the strands of her matted hair. ’Thank you… Mistress.’
– – – – –
Syra collected the phone receiver. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s Baker. We were supposed to have had a check-in from Agent Pardus—‘
‘Pardus?’
‘You’re at her house.’
‘Okay.’
‘We have a rough idea of her location. We need you to get there – now.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
She hung up and made for the door. Lolly opened it for her.
‘Thanks,’ said Syra.
‘Nice to meet ya. Reckon you could teach me your techniques some day?’
Syra recalled how much Lolly had doubted her and liked the idea of teaching her a lesson or two. ‘Sure,’ she said.
Chapter 8
When they had arrived at the warehouse, the floor where Donna positioned Lorena was dusty and dry. After plenty of upper-body tickling accompanied by unhealthy straining to contain her reactions, Lorena’s sweat soaked her clothes and the wheel at her feet, as well as seeping into the surrounding concrete.
Donna switched methods and, using her thumbs, probed the front of Lorena’s ribs, just under her breasts. Two particular spots made her jolt and angrily push the compulsion to laugh back down.
‘Funny noises you’re making there, girl,’ said Donna. ‘Don’t shit yourself.’
‘Fuck you!’ Lorena snarled.
Donna pouted in contemplation. ‘Actually, I’ve never had anyone crap before… It’d be something to tick off the list, huh?’
Lorena’s head dropped forward. She squeezed her eyes tight, fighting to endure the maddeningly middling sensations as Donna’s thumbs massaged the perfect pressure to tickle her more effectively than she’d ever experienced before. ‘Fucking freak!’
‘Joking!’ Donna laughed, ‘I’m not gonna clear up that mess!’
Donna jumped her fingers to Lorena’s armpits again; she was amused by the little gasp that occurred each time she did so.
‘Do you think your sister shit herself when my girl fucked her up?’
The wall shook as Lorena jerked at the restraints like a chained fighting dog. Her lips peeled back with rage. ‘I’m gonna stomp your brains into the floor, you fucking c***!’
A thrill ran through Donna’s body as she felt the heat from the woman’s visceral reaction. She actually witnessed blood vessels pop in her eyes as she strained to get free.
Lorena saw her response – it was as though her reaction was turning Donna on. Incensed, the rage surged higher.
Donna beamed with satisfaction at the agony she was putting this woman through. Not only did it satisfy her sadistic desires to a T, but it also scratched an itch that Donna often ignored as it was way down the list of her reasons to do what she did – it was justice. Lorena was a homicidal criminal who had just executed a RID agent.
This then caused a disquiet in the pit of Donna’s stomach. She didn’t ever want to feel this was part of a job or as vengeance; she wanted to do it just for the enjoyment of the torture. Irritated, she jumped her fingers to the virgin territory she had been saving for her grande finale – Lorena’s waist.
Lorena’s obstinate insistence on tensing her muscles meant that the lean stomach she had cultivated via tens of thousands of sit-ups with her personal trainer/fuck-toy might as well now have a target painted on them.
Donna’s fingers pressed and vibrated into Lorena’s flanks. She jolted and a suppressed growl strained from her throat. Her complexion verged on purple as veins protruded from her neck and the sinews of her muscles were visible through her skin.
‘Oooooooh! This works very well, doesn’t it, Sugar?’ cried Donna with delight. She kept tickling with one hand, and with the other, she pulled Lorena’s shirt from her waistband. ’Let’s untuck you and see what happens with some skin-on-skin—‘
The bar that held Lorena in her crucified position ripped free of the wall, sending rusted fragments to the floor. Donna started in surprise but Lorena was too far gone to care – tunnel-visioned on her torturer, she lurched forward but was kept in place by the huge tyre.
Donna went to push her back but Lorena fell off-balance and the bar slipped sideways and out of the rope loop that held her right wrist.
Lorena lashed out, forcing Donna to evade and retreat. Lorena pulled her left hand free of the ropes and grabbed the bar like a baseball bat. Donna retreated further but the bar was long and Lorena’s fury lent her a surge of abnormal strength – the bar smashed into Donna’s thigh and she tumbled to the floor. Then Lorena raised the bar high and swung it down towards Donna’s head.
Donna was fast enough to prevent the bar connecting squarely in the centre of her skull, but unable to avoid it altogether – it glanced her above the ear and she was knocked out cold…
Chapter 9
Chilled…
Throttling…
Unable to breathe…
Realisation. A shot of adrenaline and Donna gasped herself awake.
‘You like suffering!? You’ll fuckin’ die suffering!’ Lorena spat with a rabid frenzy as she wrapped the chain around Donna’s neck and pulled tight. Donna grabbed it with both hands and managed to release the pressure until Lorena tossed both ends over her shoulder and dragged her the length of the warehouse. By the time they stopped, Donna was in the water of the boat ramp. Lorena twisted the chain and kicked her in the hip, planting her face-first in the water.
Donna felt the chain tug to one side. She pulled against it but it wouldn’t budge. She needed to breathe. She reached the ground and breached the surface by thrusting herself into an elevated press-up position. She choked out water but the coiled chain fell tight around her neck. Out the corner of her eye she could see that it was securely tied to a cleat that was bolted into the concrete floor.
The chain was yanked from the other side and her arms gave way. Her face plunged back into the saltwater.
The chain drew tight. The ground was further away this time and when she pushed herself up she only just managed to break the surface and gasp for breath. The chain was fixed at both ends, which were too far away for her to reach with hand or foot. She was trapped.
Lorena stood up straight. ’Drown, you fuckin’ bitch!’
A shallow wave lapped at Donna’s lips. She jump-stepped one knee to her chest. Then the other. She pushed but the thick chain was taut and she could only raise herself an extra inch.
Lorena’s phone vibrated in her pocket and she pulled it out. ‘G? Yeah, I’m good. I just took care of the interfering c*** from earlier… What’s the word on the Galuzos? … Okay, get them to call me…I’m gonna go find the other one – they can meet me there … Cool.’ She hung up and looked around for an exit. One door was heavily boarded up and the other was blocked by the collapsed sloop. She went to the large shutter and tried the geared handle. It was gunked up with congealed oil and dust. It turned once and then jammed, providing just six inches of space. She squatted to lift it.
‘Why run away?’ called Donna. ‘You squeamish, petal?’ She coughed the last word as the chain restricted her throat.
‘No!’ Lorena grunted as she attacked the shutter with the first part of her clean-and-jerk weightlifting routine. The shutter rolled up and she squatted underneath it, then pushed up into a standing position with the shutter at her face. ‘I’ll wait here, until I hear you beg.’ She then simultaneously thrust the shutter high, span on the spot and caught it in both hands.
Donna could see her, victorious and silhouetted by the floodlights of a nearby shipyard. A swell in the water covered her face and she choked again.
Though the door was heavy, Lorena didn’t care. She relished the sight of the woman who had tried to break her starting to drown.
She then heard footsteps and Syra stepped casually passed her and into the warehouse.
‘You in trouble now, Sugar!’ laughed Donna before another swell covered her face.
Concern hit Lorena and she suddenly felt the full weight of the shutter. She couldn’t drop it and run for fear of it crushing her legs if she wasn’t fast enough. As her personal trainer/fuck-toy used to tell her: “You’re built for strength, not speed.”
Syra and Lorena looked at one another in silence. Finally, Syra called out, ‘Does it work?’
Lorena was confused.
‘Oh, yeah!’ cried Donna.
Syra instantly tickled Lorena’s armpits.
Lorena yelped a surprised laugh and her knees buckled. She looked up, helpless to stop the shutter as it slammed straight down…
– – – – –
Syra released Donna and helped her from the water.
‘Thank you, Sister,’ she said and swept her clothes dry as they stepped back over to the shutter. She looked at Lorena’s crumpled body. ‘One things for sure: we’re gonna need a whole lot more Sana.’
Epilogue
The clean-up team arrived a short while later. Syra and Donna requisitioned one of their vehicles and left Rocco’s car and Petey’s van with them for disposal.
‘I’m sure glad I’m not the one who has to clean up after you,’ said Donna as they pulled up outside the Henderson residence, ‘chuckin’ people down elevator shafts and shit; concertina-ing this bitch’s head under a steel door… You didn’t leave my place in a mess, did ya?’
Syra shrugged. Not in the same way, she thought.
Mr Henderson answered the door.
‘Hi. I’m back!’ said Donna. ‘Is my associate still here?’
‘Er, no,’ said Mr Henderson. ‘She left five minutes after you did. On her own. Didn’t say where she was going.’
‘Okay. She must be back at the station. Thank you.’
As Mr Henderson closed the door, Mrs Henderson could be heard calling, ‘What about the Godforsaken patio windows…?!”
‘Where next?’ Donna asked Syra. ‘Her momma’s place?’
Syra shook her head. ‘If she went there, it would be to take her mom somewhere safe. And she’ll have done that by now. If I know Cheryl, she wants to do the same thing as I do: finish the job.’
TO BE CONCLUDED…
The Cult of Tickle Assassins II
The Cult of Tickle Assassins III: Trainee Syra Rahul's Final Exam
The Cult of Tickle Assassins IV: Pereira vs. Rahul (F/F)
The Cult of Tickle Assassins
Episode 5: City of Angels
by Tamira K.
Chapter 1
‘Goodnight,’ said Syra as she let go of the electric stun-baton.
Paralysed, Rocco fell backward into the lift shaft, his cheeks illuminated from within by a mouthful of blue sparks.
‘Get me out of here!’ shouted Cheryl.
’Who are you?’ Syra asked the newcomer as they both prised open the clamps that secured Cheryl’s wrists and ankles.
‘I’m Donna,’ she replied over the echo of Rocco arriving on the ground floor.
‘Thank you, Donna,’ said Syra.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Cheryl. As she and Syra were both in just their underwear, as soon as she jumped free of the frame and spotted Giada Rosetti’s goon Hayley who, less than five minutes ago, had been tickling her feet with the intent of giving her a heart attack, but who now lay motionless on the floor with a bullet hole in her forehead. Judging her to be of a similar height, Cheryl immediately stripped her of her clothes.
Having been knocked unconscious by the stun-baton, Denise began to stir. Syra ran to her and helped her to sit up.
‘We have to get back to New York,’ said Syra.
‘I’m going nowhere!’ said Cheryl.
‘We have to—!’
‘That bitch has my mom’s address!’
Syra considered. ‘Okay.’
‘What about her?’ asked Donna, nodding at the television on the wall.
Giada Rosetti was still watching them and looking a lot less cocky than she had been while Syra and Cheryl were being tortured.
‘Oh… her…’ Cheryl picked up Hayley’s gun and fired. The tablet from which she was broadcasting exploded and the TV screen went blank. ‘I’ll deal with that gash soon enough.’
Denise looked to Patrick but had to turn away. He was obviously dead, as were Hayley and Petey. The other bodyguard, Danni, was still unconscious but could wake at any moment.
She then took a moment to regard the hero of the hour – a tall, African-American woman, dressed in a latex catsuit and with a funky afro decorated by a pink skunk-stripe down the centre.
’Where did you come from?’ asked Denise.
‘I’m local. I got a call from HQ – they asked me to get over here right away,’
‘You’re with RID?’
‘I used to be. Now I’m an associate.’
Cheryl hesitated, ‘An associate? I didn’t think RID allowed agents to leave!’
‘They make some exceptions.’
Cheryl threw Syra a furious look. Syra shrugged; this news was just as much of a surprise to her.
Cheryl stormed towards the exit but her legs gave way.
‘Whoa,’ said Donna, running to her and helping her up. ‘You can’t go nowhere; you’re exhausted.’
‘I don’t have a choice! That bitch Lorena is going straight to my mother’s house!’
‘Then I’ll go–‘
‘No! I need to go.’
‘Both of you go,’ said Syra in her capacity as senior agent. ‘We can deal with everything else later.’
Cheryl agreed.
‘Okay, but take this,’ said Donna as she scribbled something on the back of a card and handed it to Syra.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s my address. I need you to go there and take care of my business, quick as you can.’
Syra flipped the card – it was dark red with classy gold lettering. It read Goddess Donna. ‘You’re a dominatrix!? And you want me to… what?!’
‘Everyone’s gotta earn their money somehow, Honey. My apprentice, Lolly, will be there. She’ll give you the lowdown on what you gotta do – I’ve got a VIP client coming I don’t want to lose. She likes the tall, dark chocolate, but…’ she looked Syra up and down, ‘I think you may be able to satisfy her tastes with a little milk chocolate today, instead. You can’t say you don’t owe me!’
‘Can we get going!?’ called Cheryl as she threw open the doors and left.
‘Go on,’ Syra sighed.
‘Do her right!’ Donna winked and ran after Cheryl.
Syra and Denise helped each other up.
‘We’d better get her strapped down before she comes round,’ said Syra, indicating Danni, ‘but I’ll need her clothes.’
‘She’s taller that you.’
‘It’s better than walking around in my underwear, Denise.’
Denise wheeled Cheryl’s frame over as Syra stripped Danni of her clothes. Denise took hold under her armpits as Syra lifted from her knees. The move was a struggle and Syra nearly dropped her.
‘You look like you’re ready to fall over,’ said Denise.
‘I’m fine.’
Syra pulled on Danni’s clothes. They were baggy, to say the least, and the shoes were around four sizes too big. ‘Right, I’ve gotta go play dominatrix!’ said Syra, ‘This is one rare day…’
‘I need to get a clean-up squad here, right?’
‘Yeah. And if they somehow tracked us to send Donna here, there’s probably a team on the way. God only knows where our cell phones are but I’ll call HQ when I get to where I’m going. Just keep her quiet but don’t damage her – we may need to interrogate.’
‘Good luck,’ said Denise. She was clearly upset about Patrick.
‘Keep it together, agent. You did good.’
Denise nodded. Syra noticed a car fob half-out of Petey’s pocket. She picked it up and glanced toward Patrick’s body as she headed for the staircase.
Giada Rosetti needed to pay.
Chapter 2
Surrounding buildings reflected a brilliant sunset that cast a pink hue over everything as Cheryl and Donna burst from the front door.
A sleek black Kawasaki Z H2 was parked between a car and a van. Donna straddled the bike.
‘I need to tell my mother to get out,’ said Cheryl
Donna tossed her a cell phone. Cheryl dialled the house number – there was no answer. ‘Fuck!’ she said, ‘ I don’t know her cell.’
‘Let’s go,’ Donna handed her a crash helmet, ‘and hold on, Honey. I don’t wanna have to scrape your cute ass up off the road.’
Cheryl got on. Donna leaned forward and the bike sprayed the van with gravel as it span a U-turn and shot toward the exit. The g-force caught Cheryl off-guard and she clasped her arms around Donna’s waist.
When she looked up they were on Vine Street, whizzing through the traffic at a rate that felt unreal. While she had never been on a motorcycle before, let alone travelling at this speed, she felt a confidence in Donna’s handling of the bike – it was precise and skilful; she was fully in control.
They passed a cop car. The lights and siren immediately flashed to life. Donna didn’t hesitate to turn right onto Fountain Avenue and left on Cole, and within seconds the sirens were distant.
Cheryl was confident that, at this rate, they would arrive at her parents’ house before Lorena.
They turned onto Santa Monica Boulevard just as the lights at the next intersection turned red and screeched to a stop.
‘How long will this take?’ asked Cheryl.
‘It about a forty-five minute journey. I’ll get us there in fifteen,’ said Donna. ‘We may have to cut a few lights. It’ll be fine.’
Cheryl was about to speak again when the lights changed and Donna hit the throttle.
As they sped between vehicles and shot through amber lights, the rumble of the bike on the tarmac shook Cheryl’s sensitised body and reminded her of the hours of torture she had just endured. She wanted to spit out the memories of being overwhelmed by Lorena and her henchwomen. It had surprised her how well they managed to tickle her even though they hadn’t undergone specialist training. She would never divulge to anyone how close she had been to surrender.
A big-rig caused Donna to hit the brakes rather than risk running a red light. Cheryl shook away the memory of her ordeal and when she opened her eyes she found herself looking at Lorena Marcuzzi.
Susan Rosetti’s beautiful and fit younger sister was on her cell phone at the wheel of a black BMW, obviously still perturbed and furious about how her intended executions had not gone as planned. She had her eyes on the traffic lights.
Cheryl patted Donna on the shoulder.
Donna looked to where Cheryl was pointing.
Lorena sensed she was being watched and turned to see the two women with their eyes locked on her. She slammed her foot on the gas and narrowly avoided the final car crossing her path.
Donna revved the bike and gave chase.
Lorena swerved through the traffic as the bike approached fast in the rear-view mirror. She threw a hard right and found that she was going the wrong way on a one-way street. The bike was still on her tail.
She hit the brakes, forcing Donna to swerve into the path of a mail van. She propelled the bike onto the sidewalk – the van narrowly missing the back wheel.
Lorena span a U-turn, causing all traffic on the street to brake and blast on their horns.
Donna burned a donut on the sidewalk and revved the engine
‘Give me your gun!’ called Cheryl.
‘No! Too many people!’
‘I know how to shoot!’
In response Donna leant forward and pumped the accelerator. Cheryl was forced to hang on tight and they pulled level with Lorena.
Both women kicked out at the car windows, making Lorena swerve away from them.
‘I can shoot out the tyres!’ yelled Cheryl.
Donna yanked out the pistol and handed it over.
Lorena saw her take aim and sideswiped the bike into the path of oncoming traffic. Donna avoided one car but mounted the sidewalk…
Mr and Mrs Frederick Henderson were hosting a family barbecue when a speeding motorcycle crashed into their garden fence and upended, ejecting two women into the air. A woman dressed as Catwoman narrowly missed the barbecue and landed squarely in the centre of their backyard pool. The other was luckily wearing a crash helmet as she flew, head-first, through their newly-installed patio doors.
Donna breeched the surface of the water like a gothic mermaid.
‘Wow!’ exclaimed 11-year-old Justin Henderson. ‘Are you makin’ a movie?!’
‘Not today,’ said Donna as she made for the side and lifted herself out.
‘Are you okay?!’ exclaimed Mr Henderson.
‘I’m fine–’
‘Never mind about that!’ snapped Mrs Henderson, ‘Look at the goddamn doors!’
A look from Donna shut her up.
There were tinkles of glass as Cheryl staggered onto the patio. She fell to her knees and tried to pull off her helmet.
‘Don’t,’ said Donna. She opened the visor and looked into Cheryl’s eyes. ‘You’ve got one pupil like a pinhole and the other like a dinner plate. You need to rest, Honey.’
‘No! My mom!’ Cheryl’s words were slightly slurred.
‘I’ll handle it.’ She leant in close, ‘Where’s my gun?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Cheryl. ‘Hurry!’
Donna stood up straight. She towered over everyone at the barbecue and addressed Mr and Mrs Henderson: ‘This is official government business. Someone will be by to collect her, can she rest here in the meantime?’
‘Of course,’ said Mr Henderson as he helped Cheryl back indoors to a couch, accompanied by the rest of the party.
Justin Henderson was obviously enamoured with Donna – this superheroesque woman had livened up an otherwise dull-arsed party and gave him a story to tell at school.
‘Do you need any help?’ he asked as Donna lifted the Kawasaki.
She smirked and straddled the bike. ‘Maybe in about 10 years, kid,’ she was about to take off when she paused, ‘Oh… and if you find a gun in your garden – don’t play with it.’
Chapter 3
Syra pulled up in Petey’s van outside a stylish and contemporary black and white villa situated on a twist in the road on Hercules Drive, Mount Olympus. The night was clear and the view over the twinkling lights of LA was spectacular. She wondered how many people Donna needed to dominate per week to afford an abode like this.
The front door to the house opened and out stepped a very pretty and petite young white woman. Her peroxide hair was in messy bunches with pink tips. She was dressed in pink and white latex ballerina outfit with white fishnet stockings and pink platform pumps. The only parts of her that weren’t pink or white were the delicate tattoos that snaked around her arms and legs and crawled from her cleavage to her neck. She was taking out the trash when she spotted Syra.
‘Can I help you?’ the young woman asked in an unaffected pixieish voice.
‘You’re Lolly, I take it?’
‘Yeah…?’ She took in Syra’s baggy clothes and the big black van. ‘Are you here to fix the cable?’
‘No. Donna sent me.’
‘She did?’
‘Yeah. I’m to fill in for her with the next client.’
Lolly stepped to the gate, clearly dubious. She looked Syra up and down. ‘Do you have a change of clothes in your van?’
‘No. It was a bit of a last-minute thing. I was hoping I could borrow something.’
‘I’m five foot and Goddess is over six. It’ll be a mish-mash.’ Lolly sounded like she was asking questions even when she was just stating facts.
‘Fine by me,’ said Syra.
Lolly tapped a code into a keypad on the gatepost and the gates parted. ‘You look tired,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’
‘The client is due in around twenty minutes. You don’t have much time.’
Lolly led Syra inside. The house was unsurprisingly impressive, with dynamic paintings and sculptures in just the right number. Donna certainly had taste.
‘I need to use a phone,’ said Syra.
Lolly pointed to a black landline on a nearby cabinet. The receiver was in the shape of a leopard with its spots painted gold.
Lolly hovered. ‘In private,’ said Syra.
‘Oh, okay. Wanna drink?’
‘Sure. Something cold, thanks.’
There was a skip in Lolly’s step as she headed to the kitchen. When she was out of sight, Syra dialled the encrypted line to RID HQ. An operator answered, ‘Yes?’
‘Aequinoctium communicationis.’
‘Code and voice recognition accepted. What can I do for you, Senior Agent Rahul?’
‘I need Director Zhang or M.I. Baker. Now.’
‘Oka–‘ the operator cut himself off as he transferred the call.
Mission Supervisor Baker answered. ‘Senior Agent Rahul. Our team is with Agent Jones. She updated me on the situation. Do you need us to collect you?’
‘I wasn’t aware we had associate members, Sir.’
There was a slight pause before Baker answered. ‘Yes. It’s not something we mention, or that we arrange very often. But sometimes, if the situation requires it, rather than cutting all ties with a good agent we can come to an arrangement.’
Syra said nothing.
‘I assume you are out of contact with Agent Pereira at this point?’
‘I am. She is with the associate agent on the way to her mother’s house. I feel I should be there too.’
‘No. From what Jones told me, you’ve been through an ordeal. You can relax. I’ll get other senior agents to take over–‘
‘No, Sir. I will finish whatever it is I need to do here and then I’ll be back in New York to complete the assignment.’
‘You’re not taking this personally are you, Senior Agent?’
‘No, Sir. I’m just very aware of how quickly this needs to be done and, after today, I feel like I have important insights into who we are dealing with.’ Syra’s answer was without hesitation and additional information that wasn’t strictly true – she wanted to be the one to take down the rest of the Rosetti family, which meant dealing with Giada herself. And, yes, having realised that without Donna’s intervention she could have been tickled to death, she did have a score to settle.
Lolly stepped from the kitchen with the drink. Syra spoke quickly so that Baker had no chance to question her previous statement: ‘I have to begin my work. I’ll call again when I can, Sir.’ She hung up.
‘Here,’ Lolly handed Syra a glass of mineral water. ‘I’ll take you to the dungeon.’
‘Thank you,’ said Syra and she followed. ‘What can you tell me about the client I’m meeting?’
‘She’s high maintenance. She’s got buckets of money but you’ll probably know that when you meet her–’
‘Why’s that?’ asked Syra as she followed Lolly up a winding staircase.
Lolly stopped, ‘Because she’s famous. By the way, if you recognise her, don’t say anything; she takes discretion very seriously. She wanted the best in LA and so tracked down Goddess.’ Her train of thought meandered as she looked Syra up and down. ‘I don’t know how she’ll react to Goddess not being here.’
‘Let me worry about that,’ said Syra and she urged for them to keep moving. ‘What about her tastes?’
‘She likes being forced into submission with pain and C.P. but dislikes humiliation–‘
‘How do those two things align?’ asked Syra. From her perspective, being forced into submission in any way was humiliating.
‘Just…y’know…’ Lolly shrugged, as though the answers were obvious.
They reached the top floor, which was unlike any dungeon Syra had seen before—the equipment was standard: an X-frame; a spanking bench; a padded table; an arsenal of whips and floggers hanging from the walls; an ornate black closet that inevitably housed all manner of sex and BDSM toys; and two cuffs on chains that hung from a runner that stretched the length of the room—but the windows were floor-to-ceiling two-way mirrors. Even with the lights on, from the outside one could see nothing more than a reflection of the sky; from indoors, you could see the sprawling lights of LA sliced to a stop at the coastline and beyond which was the blackness of the Pacific Ocean.
A door in the corner opened into a private suite with a dressing table, a walk-in wardrobe and a bathroom. ‘Hopefully you can find something to wear in here,’ said Lolly.
‘What about hard limits for this client?’
‘Goddess only works with people who don’t insist on hard limits. They sign off to agree to no safe words either. They have to accept whatever she wants to do. A true goddess is without limits.’
‘Is she going to see it that way with me?’
‘It depends: are you a Goddess, or just a woman with a cane?’
Syra could tell Lolly was quoting Donna. In her exhausted state, Syra momentarily contemplated that, as it wasn’t a session in which termination was the end goal, a degree of recognition might make the play more interesting. Would it be a movie star? A medal-winning Olympian?
‘Who is the client? You may as well tell me, I’m going to meet her anyway.’
‘It’s Tilda O'Keefe.’
Syra’s interest was piqued. She had little interest in movies and she liked sport, but meeting a serving congresswoman was very interesting to her, especially as Tilda O'Keefe sat on the opposite side of the aisle to most of the principles Syra held dear.
‘I can see why she wants to keep this secret; it doesn’t exactly fit with her public persona.’
Lolly’s blank expression indicated she wasn’t an avid follower of politics. ‘When she gets here I’ll tell her what’s goin’ on and if she still wants to stick around, I’ll send her up. Goddess doesn’t want to lose her, so I’ll tell her you’re really good.’
Syra was too tired to feel patronised or to prove where her skills lay. She just nodded and closed the suite door.
From the selection of clothes available she made do with a shimmering black mini-skirt and matching tube-top, which she guessed belonged to Lolly. Shoes were not as easy to find. They were either the size 11s that belonged to Donna, which would leave her looking like a little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s shoes, or the Barbie doll-sized selection that belonged to Lolly.
Syra decided to go barefoot. It wouldn’t help to make an impactful first-impression, especially as she perceived Tilda O’Keefe to be fairly tall, but there was no other credible option.
She searched the dressing table for some suitable make-up and found a deep plum lipstick and top-of-the-range mascara. When she was done she put the make-up away and searched for some perfume. She opened a deep drawer and found a collection of 100ml white bottles that she recognised. She lifted one out and her suspicions were confirmed – it was Sana – a solution that was being developed by the science laboratories at RID. The ultimate goal was to create a cream or ointment that rapidly increased the healing process for bruises or blemishes and therefore helped agents to evaporate any unsightly marks that they may have accidentally administered onto the target.
As far as Syra knew, experiments were ongoing although she had heard rumours of its success before she was handed the Clarissa Powell assignment. But for Donna to have such a supply indicated that she did more than the occasional job for RID, especially as she wouldn’t be permitted to use it on her BDSM clients.
The doorbell sounded.
Syra closed the drawer, looked into the mirror and took a deep sigh. ‘Here we go again,’ she said.
Chapter 4
Donna walked her bike the final street before turning a corner to see the Pereira residence – if Lorena was already there, she didn’t want the roar of the engine to give her away.
She peered round the corner of the last house on the street to find the BMW parked in front of Cheryl’s home. The front door was open and the lights were on. She flipped out the kickstand from her bike and trotted across the road, taking care not to be seen. As she approached the open door, she could hear banging inside.
‘Fuck!’ shouted Lorena from one of the upstairs rooms. ‘No, she’s not here … How the fuck would I know, Luca? She ain’t my mother! … No, I can’t just wait here for her to come back … Because those putanas could be just around the corner for all I know! … Look, the Galuzos have people out here and they owe us, Luca, ho bisogno di un nuovo equipaggio in fretta – a crew who knows the area. Get me a number so I can call them in now.’
Donna heard the tell-tale footsteps of Lorena descending the stairs and wondered how, short of a fight, she could take her without rousing the neighbours. The street was deserted. There was the jingle of keys as Lorena reached the last steps and approached the front door.
Donna looked around for something to swing, such as a plank of wood. There was no such thing in sight, but then something caught her eye…
Lorena paused at the bottom of the stairs. She had checked every possible hiding spot in the house but took one last look around the living room just in case. There was no hiding space in there. She spat on the floor and strode outside. Rustling leaves to her right made her look– BLAM! In a flash of light she was on the floor before she felt the throb of pain that told her she had been struck across the temple. She opened her eyes and found herself gawping across the front lawn at ground level as the decapitated plaster head of a garden gnome came to a stop like a gyroscope on its final spin, using his elongated nose as the pivot point. A high-heeled leather boot stepped between her and the gnome as her vision doubled and she passed out.
The street was still deserted. Donna quickly lifted Lorena and took her to the car. She was heavier than Donna expected her to be and, considering that her body was very firm, she could tell that Lorena must spend a lot of time lifting weights.
She dumped her onto the back seats of the BMW, zip-tying her wrists in case she woke up. She left the Pereira residence with the door open – there was no time to tidy up and so the mess would give the impression burglars had been disturbed and run away when Mrs Pereira came home.
As they drove away, Donna pulled out her cell phone to check in with MS Baker but the phone flashed intermittently and wouldn’t dial – it had been damaged by the pool water. She drove to Venice Beach, where the nearest safe-house was situated, but an upstairs yellow light signified it was currently in use.
She shook her phone and tried the RID encrypted app, which would let her know which safe-houses were available. It worked but displayed that all safe-houses were currently in use. ‘A busy night tonight,’ she muttered.
Lorena stirred on the back seat. It was time to improvise…
Chapter 5
Syra heard voices downstairs as Lolly explained the situation. Even though she couldn’t hear the exact words, from the tone of voice being used she could tell that the client wasn’t happy that Donna wasn’t there and if Syra didn’t come up to scratch she would take her business elsewhere.
A state-of-the-art music system sat in the corner. Syra pressed play and was pleasantly surprised at the calm but foreboding instrumental that emanated from the speakers.
Footsteps ascended the stairs. Syra prepared herself as Lolly opened the door and in stepped Tilda O’Keefe. It was somewhat surreal to see a woman she had only ever seen on television or in the newspapers in three dimensions, especially because she was dressed as though she was ready to make an announcement in Congress rather than participate, as a submissive, in a BDSM session – her long hair was tied up in a bun, she wore a jacket, suit pants and high heels and carried an expensive leather satchel.
She knew the congresswoman was in her late forties, but either healthy living, botox or genetic fortune gave her the complexion of a much younger woman. For some moments the three of them stood in silence. When it was obvious that Lolly wasn’t going to make the introductions Syra stepped forward and extended her hand, ‘I’m Mistress Equinox.’
Tilda shook her hand. ‘Hello,’ she said, but maintained a lofty manner.
Lolly curtsied and left them to it, closing the door behind her.
‘You’re experienced?’ asked Tilda.
‘I am,’ replied Syra.
‘I only accept the best.’
‘That’s all I give.’
‘Do you know what I want?’
‘Perhaps better than you do.’
‘That would require you to introduce me to something I’ve never experienced before.’
‘That’s entirely possible.’
Tilda’s eyes narrowed a whisker. She was intrigued enough to rest her satchel by the door. ’Did you forget your shoes?’
‘No.’
‘Then why are you barefoot?’
‘“Why are you barefoot, Mistress Equinox?”.’
Tilda straightened her posture and raised an eyebrow.
Syra didn’t have the motivation for a power struggle. ‘I was raised to understand that, as a guest, it was polite to remove outdoor shoes when entering someone else’s house.’
Tilda bridled a little at being put in check. ‘But this is no ordinary situation, is it?’
‘It’s not extraordinary. To me.’
Without conceding, Tilda slipped off her shoes, rested them neatly next to her bag and stood in her white nylon-clad feet. The lofty expression remained, even though they were now the same height. Syra respected this. Not being too tall herself, she liked the fact that a person—a woman—didn’t permit her height to dictate her sense of power.
‘Is that all you’re taking off?’ asked Syra.
‘For now. I first need to have some sort of indication as to what you are capable of doing.’
Syra retained her exalted poise but felt her spirit slouch like an exasperated teenager. She had completed a high-profile mission, flown across the country, fought with Cheryl, been electrocuted, tickle-tortured for several hours that very day and this woman was asking her to prove herself?!
Annoyance gave her a boost of energy that would have been enough to cane Tilda O’Keefe into a whimpering mess, but she decided to channel it in a more calculated way…
‘Come here,’ said Syra, and she went over to the padded table.
The order caused a tiny thrill in the pit of Tilda’s stomach and she followed. ‘You want to tie me down? No. That comes after you’ve proved yourself.’
Syra was abrupt: ’Look, you’re used to people doing what you want and I am well-used to dealing with all varieties of brat – no matter which thousand-dollar suit they wear. I’m not demanding that you undress; you said you wanted me to show you what I can do. In order to do that, I’m asking you to lie down. Do you want me to wrestle you onto the table?’
Tilda acquiesced and climbed onto the table but the sigh she gave indicated she considered the exercise to be a waste of time.
She cuffed Tilda’s wrists with the leather restraints on the table. She then released the chained cuffs from the ties that held them to the wall and pulled them along the ceiling runner until they swung over Tilda O’Keefe’s legs. Syra lowered the restraints and secured them around her ankles, causing Tilda to watch with palpable dubiousness – why she didn’t simply use the ankle restraints attached to the table?
‘I have my reasons,’ said Syra.
Tilda was mildly impressed at her telepathic skills. Syra crossed the room and returned with a tall chrome and leather stool. She placed it at Tilda’s feet and took a seat.
‘Tired?’ asked Tilda; incredulous at Syra’s casual approach.
‘I have had a busy few days, as you ask. But don’t worry – I won’t be demanding a foot massage just yet.’
Tilda huffed at the suggestion.
Syra adjusted the chains, raising Tilda’s feet almost to the point where her bottom would lift from the table. The semi-transparent white nylon-clad soles swayed in front of her. She guessed them to be a size 5.
‘Unflattering, don’t you think? I mean, white nylon – it only really suits doctors and nurses. Not very attractive,’ said Syra.
‘I don’t wear them for the benefit of other people,’ replied Tilda, with a caustic edge.
‘I respect that. Still – it’s the truth.’
Syra casually swept a finger down the length of one sole. Tilda spasmed and cried out, then looked at Syra, irritated. ‘Don’t do that!’
‘You asked what I specialise in.’
‘That’s not a specialism! It’s irritating foolishness!’
Syra responded with a rippling touch of both soles. Again, Tilda jumped and cried out. ‘Aarh! Stoppit!’
‘I have been informed that you do not like safe words. I am glad to hear that.’
‘Stop this now! This is preposterous! Sto—‘
Her demands were cut short as Syra deftly tickled all over her soles with light and carefree touches. There was no resistance – Congresswoman Tilda O’Keefe was completely ticklish.
Syra sighed with relief – the woman was what RID agents referred to as an egg – someone who is easy to crack. She was twisted and bucked on the table, but these motions came solely from her body’s natural responses rather than any conscious intention to fight Syra off, and although her verbalised protests were those of a woman who clearly hated to be tickled, the laughter that was forced from her was pure – light and bereft of anger or the ability to resist.
Syra smiled. This was the most relaxing thing she had done in a long time. All she had to do was sway her hands in time with the dangling, exquisitely ticklish feet.
Chapter 6
Lorena was stirred from the blackness of unconsciousness by something firm and slippery lapping at her face like a bull’s tongue. It permeated her sleep and brought with it images of sunshine and a meadow, but when she breathed in there was no scent of freshly cut grass; instead she inhaled the faint aroma of diesel mixed with ocean air.
The throb Lorena felt on her face was strangely satisfying—much like the proud bruises she picked up when street-fighting for money in her teens—but it was accompanied by a less-than-satisfying pain in her neck. She opened her eyes and saw that she was standing in the centre of an ancient truck tyre with her ankles restrained by a network of ropes and spokes.
She lifted her head, which had been hanging awkwardly as she slept. She was in a huge, inadequately-lit and deserted shipyard warehouse with, among other things, the rotted hull of an old sloop and a flooded ship ramp. No doubt when the warehouse was built the water level wasn’t as high as it was now and the tide was still coming in.
Her wrists were tied and out-stretched at shoulder height to a metal bar that, at one time, had probably been the support for a heavy shelf on the corrugated iron wall.
A massive shutter door half-way down the building was propped open by a metal bar. She heard footsteps from outside and could just make out Donna’s leather boots. She ducked under the shutter and entered. ‘You’re awake! About time.’
‘You’re dead!’ shouted Lorena.
Donna paused and puffed out her cheeks. ‘Not yet, I’m not. You’re gonna be noisy, aren’tcha?’ She went behind the sloop, pulled out a strong chain and dragged it over to the metal pole that was propping up the shutter. She looped the chain around it and yanked. The pole fell away and the shutter gave a thunderous, metallic rattle and crashed shut.
Donna stepped over to Lorena and analysed the side of her face where she’d applied the Sana. The scuffed bruise, if you looked closely, retained the imprint of a garden gnome’s hair. She reached to move a strand of hair away from the area. ‘Don’t fucking touch me!’
‘I’m giving you medical attention, Honey. Be grateful,’ said Donna.
‘Get me out of here!’
‘Hey, you’ve just been on the other side of this situation. When were you about to cut my homegirls any slack?’
‘You don’t know who you’re fuckin’ with, putana!’ She spat at Donna’s feet but her mouth was too dry to produce the desired effect. ‘I’m tellin’ you nothin’!’
‘Darlin’, who said I wanted you to?’ Donna slowly strutted in front of Lorena, idly swinging her coiled whip like a conductor’s baton.
‘Shoot me then, bitch! I don’t give a fuck. My brother and my niece will feed you to the dog!’
’Shootin’ ain’t really my style; you forced my hand before. I like to take my time and, in this case, I’ve been hired to take you out in a very specific way. What that is shouldn’t come as any surprise to you…’
She placed the whip to one side and began trickling her fingernails over the soft skin of Lorena’s exposed wrists and forearms.
Lorena’s head fell back against the corrugated wall as she tried to control her breathing. Donna noticed Lorena’s fists clench as she travelled towards her underarms.
Obviously, delicate stroking was a way to sensitise those who claimed they were not ticklish or to increase the effect of stronger tickling on an already ticklish subject. For some, knismesis was more effective than the alternative but it bored Donna, who viewed it as foreplay. Even when what people regarded as “evil” tickling was done to her, she enjoyed it and it tended to do nothing more than turn her on.
Her natural tendency leaned towards painful sadism – one of the reasons she left RID but adored her life as a professional dominatrix. But, if she couldn’t inflict pain, she could at least vent her sadism in other ways…
‘Starting to feel that already, are ya?’
‘No!’
‘You will, trust me. I can tell you’re a ticklish one. It probably eats at you, huh? You wanna be tough Lorena Whatever-your-name-is, but deep down you know I’m gonna make you laugh yourself to death.’ Donna teased her inner elbows and stroked light, spider-like touches inside her biceps. ‘You seem like a strong girl. Did you ever imagine being taken apart with just this…?’
She lingered her teasing fingernails just outside Lorena’s cuffs, which were rolled to half-way up her upper arms. Lorena’s controlled breathing was shallow but she sneered at Donna, ‘Forget something, right? You didn’t strip me down. Good luck getting me back like this when you untie me!’
‘Sugar, thinking that your clothes are gonna save you is like pulling up a bedsheet to protect you from an axe-murderer.’ With that, Donna grabbed Lorena’s armpits and tickled.
The metal bar clanked against the iron wall as Lorena yanked and gritted her teeth.
‘There: see what I mean?’ said Donna, and she laughed with glee. The warehouse elevated the sound like a specially constructed auditorium. ‘I was a teeny bit worried that I’d tied you up with no access to your feet, but I don’t need ‘em if you’re already reacting like this!’
Donna clasped her hands around Lorena’s ribcage and jiggled her muscles. Lorena’s face contorted with confusion; a determination fuelled by anger was being undermined by the all-encompassing sensations. Donna’s hands felt almost like a giant’s as they rubbed vigorously over her ribs, skilfully stimulating every ticklish spot she knew of as well as a few she didn’t.
There was a demonic fervour to Donna’s expression as she watched the other woman’s internal struggle to contain her natural reactions. She relished that the struggle to hold it all inside was so intense that Lorena was turning a shade of mauve as veins spread up her forehead like vines slithering up a wall.
Unlike those she knew who loved to tickle people in order to see that moment when the target lost their battle and collapsed into laughter, Donna preferred those in-between times – the times when the victim was in turmoil; trying desperately not to let it happen. She enjoyed keeping her subject on the distressed precipice of inevitable defeat for as long as she could. For her, it was akin to the satisfaction she sometimes got in professional sessions when she performed three or more hours of orgasm denial – she knew that once they started laughing, they were on the final straight. That was because, when it came to tickling, Donna’s skill lay in not giving her target the opportunity to breathe.
In that respect, Lorena was assisting in her own downfall because her method of resistance was a combination of tensing her muscles and holding her breath – a combination that was finite in a way that took the person putting this method into practice by surprise.
‘You’re starting to feel the need to breathe now, ain’tcha?’ said Donna before giving Lorena’s sensitive spots an extra-rapid shake, which took Lorena by surprise. She gave a guttural strain and looked up at Donna with pure hatred.
Chapter 7
Lolly sat eating ice-cream in the kitchen, listening with curiosity to the cacophony of cachinnation upstairs that, for the first time ever, proved the dungeon’s soundproofing was not infallible.
She regretted that there were no cameras in the dungeon. She and Goddess only occasionally used tickling as occasional small parts of a session. From what had been taking place upstairs for the past half an hour, it sounded like it would be a lot of fun to make it the sole focus of a session.
Tilda O’Keefe’s trail of ticklish laughter remained unbroken. She was now doing all she could to evade Syra’s accomplished fingernails as they slid and tickled all over the nylon material that covered her soles, but it was no use.
‘Pl-pleeeeease!’ she begged amid her delightful sounds of helplessness.
The congresswoman’s clothes were ruffled, her long hair was a mess and her blouse soaked with sweat. Syra’s suspicions were correct – it was actually fun to do this to someone when she wasn’t intent on assassinating her.
‘Oh, my god!. Oh, my goodness…’ panted Tilda. ‘Okay, you proved your point: it’s torture. Please stop. I can’t tolerate it!’
As Syra replied, she ripped open the nylon feet of Tilda’s hose, ‘You see, when I meet someone who actively dislikes safe words, it makes me believe that any protest the might give is just part of the game.’
‘No! Please believe me! Please! I can’t resist – I’m so terribly ticklish!’
Syra decided to give herself a challenge – up until now she hadn’t needed to take any great care to find any particular ticklish spot because Tilda was highly ticklish all over her feet. But now she analysed Tilda’s soles to see if she could maintain her “sixth sense success rate”.
Despite the fact that she wore high heels virtually every time she stepped outdoors, Tilda evidently took care of her feet. They were soft and smooth—obviously regularly pumiced—but there were some curiously symmetrical anomalies: in the centre of the ball of each foot were some noticeable vertical creases. They appeared to be hereditary, but possibly enhanced by years of wearing narrow 4-inch heels.
Syra wondered if the tiny sliver of skin on each foot that was concealed from the world and protected from the floor most of the time were the golden spots?
She leant forward intently and clasped hold of Tilda’s right foot. Tilda jumped. ‘No… Oh, God, please no…!’
Tilda trembled in anticipation of what was about to happen. Syra edged forward and ever-so-gently inserted the tip of one fingernail into the shallow crease…
‘Ohhhh, Gwwaaaaaddd…!’ Tilda’s laughter surged into an explosion of wild hysterics. Her pleading and laughter reached a pinnacle and remained there; shouting occasional incomprehensible sounds of primal panic.
Syra was loving this experience. Perhaps she had broken through a tiredness barrier, but she couldn’t remember feeling as satisfied by tickling someone as she did in that moment.
As she was contemplating this and still not moving her fingernail any more than a couple of millimetres one way then the other, her victim’s sounds of anguish changed in tone.
‘Ohhhh…! Oh, God…! Oh, God…! Oh, God, I’m……!’
Her back arched, her thighs clamped together and she erupted with a long, deep-throated orgasm.
Syra watched in wonder. Obviously she had seen this several times before. Even when people were in the process of being tickled to death, their bodies reacted in unpredictable ways. But, again, it was enchanting to do it to a woman without execution as the ultimate goal.
She stopped tickling and sat back. Tilda had not only climaxed, but also gushed. The evidence seeped through her pants and spread across the table and onto the floor.
There was a knock at the door. For a surreal moment, Syra assumed it would be a neighbour knocking to complain about the noise.
‘Yes?’ called Syra.
‘You have a phone call. Apparently it’s urgent.’ said Lolly. Both statements had the inflection of a question.
‘Thank you!’ She released Tilda’s ankles and gently lowered her legs. She then freed her wrists and helped her to sit on the edge of the table.
‘I must go,’ said Syra and she collected her things. ‘I trust you enjoyed yourself?’
Tilda nodded and cupped her face in her hands. Her mind was blown.
Syra opened the door to leave. ’You take your time, Ms O’Keefe. I’ll ask Lolly to bring you a drink.’
Tilda looked up through the strands of her matted hair. ’Thank you… Mistress.’
– – – – –
Syra collected the phone receiver. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s Baker. We were supposed to have had a check-in from Agent Pardus—‘
‘Pardus?’
‘You’re at her house.’
‘Okay.’
‘We have a rough idea of her location. We need you to get there – now.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
She hung up and made for the door. Lolly opened it for her.
‘Thanks,’ said Syra.
‘Nice to meet ya. Reckon you could teach me your techniques some day?’
Syra recalled how much Lolly had doubted her and liked the idea of teaching her a lesson or two. ‘Sure,’ she said.
Chapter 8
When they had arrived at the warehouse, the floor where Donna positioned Lorena was dusty and dry. After plenty of upper-body tickling accompanied by unhealthy straining to contain her reactions, Lorena’s sweat soaked her clothes and the wheel at her feet, as well as seeping into the surrounding concrete.
Donna switched methods and, using her thumbs, probed the front of Lorena’s ribs, just under her breasts. Two particular spots made her jolt and angrily push the compulsion to laugh back down.
‘Funny noises you’re making there, girl,’ said Donna. ‘Don’t shit yourself.’
‘Fuck you!’ Lorena snarled.
Donna pouted in contemplation. ‘Actually, I’ve never had anyone crap before… It’d be something to tick off the list, huh?’
Lorena’s head dropped forward. She squeezed her eyes tight, fighting to endure the maddeningly middling sensations as Donna’s thumbs massaged the perfect pressure to tickle her more effectively than she’d ever experienced before. ‘Fucking freak!’
‘Joking!’ Donna laughed, ‘I’m not gonna clear up that mess!’
Donna jumped her fingers to Lorena’s armpits again; she was amused by the little gasp that occurred each time she did so.
‘Do you think your sister shit herself when my girl fucked her up?’
The wall shook as Lorena jerked at the restraints like a chained fighting dog. Her lips peeled back with rage. ‘I’m gonna stomp your brains into the floor, you fucking c***!’
A thrill ran through Donna’s body as she felt the heat from the woman’s visceral reaction. She actually witnessed blood vessels pop in her eyes as she strained to get free.
Lorena saw her response – it was as though her reaction was turning Donna on. Incensed, the rage surged higher.
Donna beamed with satisfaction at the agony she was putting this woman through. Not only did it satisfy her sadistic desires to a T, but it also scratched an itch that Donna often ignored as it was way down the list of her reasons to do what she did – it was justice. Lorena was a homicidal criminal who had just executed a RID agent.
This then caused a disquiet in the pit of Donna’s stomach. She didn’t ever want to feel this was part of a job or as vengeance; she wanted to do it just for the enjoyment of the torture. Irritated, she jumped her fingers to the virgin territory she had been saving for her grande finale – Lorena’s waist.
Lorena’s obstinate insistence on tensing her muscles meant that the lean stomach she had cultivated via tens of thousands of sit-ups with her personal trainer/fuck-toy might as well now have a target painted on them.
Donna’s fingers pressed and vibrated into Lorena’s flanks. She jolted and a suppressed growl strained from her throat. Her complexion verged on purple as veins protruded from her neck and the sinews of her muscles were visible through her skin.
‘Oooooooh! This works very well, doesn’t it, Sugar?’ cried Donna with delight. She kept tickling with one hand, and with the other, she pulled Lorena’s shirt from her waistband. ’Let’s untuck you and see what happens with some skin-on-skin—‘
The bar that held Lorena in her crucified position ripped free of the wall, sending rusted fragments to the floor. Donna started in surprise but Lorena was too far gone to care – tunnel-visioned on her torturer, she lurched forward but was kept in place by the huge tyre.
Donna went to push her back but Lorena fell off-balance and the bar slipped sideways and out of the rope loop that held her right wrist.
Lorena lashed out, forcing Donna to evade and retreat. Lorena pulled her left hand free of the ropes and grabbed the bar like a baseball bat. Donna retreated further but the bar was long and Lorena’s fury lent her a surge of abnormal strength – the bar smashed into Donna’s thigh and she tumbled to the floor. Then Lorena raised the bar high and swung it down towards Donna’s head.
Donna was fast enough to prevent the bar connecting squarely in the centre of her skull, but unable to avoid it altogether – it glanced her above the ear and she was knocked out cold…
Chapter 9
Chilled…
Throttling…
Unable to breathe…
Realisation. A shot of adrenaline and Donna gasped herself awake.
‘You like suffering!? You’ll fuckin’ die suffering!’ Lorena spat with a rabid frenzy as she wrapped the chain around Donna’s neck and pulled tight. Donna grabbed it with both hands and managed to release the pressure until Lorena tossed both ends over her shoulder and dragged her the length of the warehouse. By the time they stopped, Donna was in the water of the boat ramp. Lorena twisted the chain and kicked her in the hip, planting her face-first in the water.
Donna felt the chain tug to one side. She pulled against it but it wouldn’t budge. She needed to breathe. She reached the ground and breached the surface by thrusting herself into an elevated press-up position. She choked out water but the coiled chain fell tight around her neck. Out the corner of her eye she could see that it was securely tied to a cleat that was bolted into the concrete floor.
The chain was yanked from the other side and her arms gave way. Her face plunged back into the saltwater.
The chain drew tight. The ground was further away this time and when she pushed herself up she only just managed to break the surface and gasp for breath. The chain was fixed at both ends, which were too far away for her to reach with hand or foot. She was trapped.
Lorena stood up straight. ’Drown, you fuckin’ bitch!’
A shallow wave lapped at Donna’s lips. She jump-stepped one knee to her chest. Then the other. She pushed but the thick chain was taut and she could only raise herself an extra inch.
Lorena’s phone vibrated in her pocket and she pulled it out. ‘G? Yeah, I’m good. I just took care of the interfering c*** from earlier… What’s the word on the Galuzos? … Okay, get them to call me…I’m gonna go find the other one – they can meet me there … Cool.’ She hung up and looked around for an exit. One door was heavily boarded up and the other was blocked by the collapsed sloop. She went to the large shutter and tried the geared handle. It was gunked up with congealed oil and dust. It turned once and then jammed, providing just six inches of space. She squatted to lift it.
‘Why run away?’ called Donna. ‘You squeamish, petal?’ She coughed the last word as the chain restricted her throat.
‘No!’ Lorena grunted as she attacked the shutter with the first part of her clean-and-jerk weightlifting routine. The shutter rolled up and she squatted underneath it, then pushed up into a standing position with the shutter at her face. ‘I’ll wait here, until I hear you beg.’ She then simultaneously thrust the shutter high, span on the spot and caught it in both hands.
Donna could see her, victorious and silhouetted by the floodlights of a nearby shipyard. A swell in the water covered her face and she choked again.
Though the door was heavy, Lorena didn’t care. She relished the sight of the woman who had tried to break her starting to drown.
She then heard footsteps and Syra stepped casually passed her and into the warehouse.
‘You in trouble now, Sugar!’ laughed Donna before another swell covered her face.
Concern hit Lorena and she suddenly felt the full weight of the shutter. She couldn’t drop it and run for fear of it crushing her legs if she wasn’t fast enough. As her personal trainer/fuck-toy used to tell her: “You’re built for strength, not speed.”
Syra and Lorena looked at one another in silence. Finally, Syra called out, ‘Does it work?’
Lorena was confused.
‘Oh, yeah!’ cried Donna.
Syra instantly tickled Lorena’s armpits.
Lorena yelped a surprised laugh and her knees buckled. She looked up, helpless to stop the shutter as it slammed straight down…
– – – – –
Syra released Donna and helped her from the water.
‘Thank you, Sister,’ she said and swept her clothes dry as they stepped back over to the shutter. She looked at Lorena’s crumpled body. ‘One things for sure: we’re gonna need a whole lot more Sana.’
Epilogue
The clean-up team arrived a short while later. Syra and Donna requisitioned one of their vehicles and left Rocco’s car and Petey’s van with them for disposal.
‘I’m sure glad I’m not the one who has to clean up after you,’ said Donna as they pulled up outside the Henderson residence, ‘chuckin’ people down elevator shafts and shit; concertina-ing this bitch’s head under a steel door… You didn’t leave my place in a mess, did ya?’
Syra shrugged. Not in the same way, she thought.
Mr Henderson answered the door.
‘Hi. I’m back!’ said Donna. ‘Is my associate still here?’
‘Er, no,’ said Mr Henderson. ‘She left five minutes after you did. On her own. Didn’t say where she was going.’
‘Okay. She must be back at the station. Thank you.’
As Mr Henderson closed the door, Mrs Henderson could be heard calling, ‘What about the Godforsaken patio windows…?!”
‘Where next?’ Donna asked Syra. ‘Her momma’s place?’
Syra shook her head. ‘If she went there, it would be to take her mom somewhere safe. And she’ll have done that by now. If I know Cheryl, she wants to do the same thing as I do: finish the job.’
TO BE CONCLUDED…
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