A sequel to Haven.
Haven II: The Seven Levels
by Tamira K.
CHAPTER 1
There were many things Yvette Baudelaire loved about the bathroom in her L'île de la Paix mansion. Indeed, she had spent more time with the interior designer focussing on designs for this one room than any other. It was the perfect combination of classic and modern, with a dark, heated marble floor and a bespoke glass wall that curved seamlessly into a ceiling, which provided an uninterrupted view of the ocean and the South Pacific skies. The most difficult choice had been to decide whether to have it situated on the east or west side of the mansion, but in the end she plumbed for the side from which she could watch the sun set after a long day at work or play. On the east side she instead placed her en-suite luxury shower room.
As she lay in her deep, double-ended copper bath, covered in warm bubbles, with Liszt’s 6 Consolations playing delicately on the sound system and the third shooting star of the evening streaked through the cloudless sky, there was no doubt in her mind that every choice she had made that got her to this moment was the right one.
In her contentment, she hadn’t registered the discord in the music caused by the house doorbell a minute or so earlier.
There was a gentle knock at the bathroom door.
‘Oui, Celeste?’
‘A delivery for you, Madame,’ replied Celeste, her butler.
‘Merci.’
‘And, also, your guest has arrived.’
‘Oh… What time is it?’
‘8:04, Madame.’
‘Okay. No problem. Please let ‘er know I will be with her as soon as I can.’
She saw little point in contemplating the early arrival of her guest and pulled the bath plug. As the perfumed water lowered around her she lifted one smooth and toned leg above the surface of bubbles and admired how her smooth skin twinkled in the low lighting.
I still have “it”, she thought.
– – –
Yvette entered the living room in a flowing silk gown and pyjamas. The impressive figure of Kisi Baidoo, dressed in her usual loose-fitting cream cotton top and bottoms, with a flowing drape shrug and bamboo flip-flops, was standing by the hearth. She sipped a glass of water as she took her opportunity to enjoy the view of the ocean through the patio doors.
‘I was bathing,’ said Yvette.
‘You shouldn’t have let me disturb you, Madame.’
Yvette smiled. To her, Kisi’s smooth tone of voice and Ghanaian accent were a luxurious treat for the ears.
‘Please, call me Yvette.’
‘As you wish, Yvette.’
‘And it’s probably a good job you interrupted me – I am quite ‘appy to stay in ze bath until I am all “pruned up”.’
She was pleased to see Kisi appreciate this admission.
‘This is a lovely room,’ said Kisi. ‘Fireplace, grand piano, mini bar, a view of the sea…’
‘It’s not for sale,’ said Yvette. Her eye was then caught by a large flat parcel that rested against the wall. ‘Did you bring zis?’ she asked.
‘No. It was delivered by courier at the same time I arrived.’
‘Of course,’ said Yvette, snapping her fingers. As she stepped out from behind the sofa, Kisi noticed her extravagantly fluffy and heelless designer slippers and, as she picked up a silver letter opener and knelt to slice open the outer packaging, the slippers dropped to reveal much of her soles. Kisi did all she could to not take her work home with her, but there was no switching off her innate radar and a mental note of where the French woman looked to be most sensitive was made.
Yvette pulled open the packaging to reveal a frame, masked by layers of bubble wrap.
‘Ah, yes. I knew zis was due today.’
‘What is it?’ asked Kisi.
‘Myself and ze ozzer Founding Mozzers were honoured last week at a function organised by ze L'île de la Paix heads of industry. Actually, I sent you an invitation…?’
‘Yes, you did. I’m sorry, I could not attend.’
‘Zhey presented us with zis…’ she carefully pulled back the wrapping to reveal a vibrant and dynamic oil painting—an interpretation of the TIME Magazine cover photo of herself, Ngaire Brown, Lydia Goodman and Miss Zafirah Khalil—by Giuseppina Valentina Annunziata, one of Italy’s greatest contemporary painters, as well as being one of the first famous women to emigrate to the island. Yvette stood back in admiration.
‘It’s sensational,’ said Kisi.
‘Isn’t it? I love it. It will go over ze fireplace tomorrow. Let’s sit,’ said Yvette.
Kisi sat at the one end of the sofa as she moved to the other, flowing out her silken gown to cover it, like an exuberant parachute coming to rest. ‘Celeste…?’
Celeste arrived. ‘Yes, Madame?’
‘Aperitifs, please. I will ‘ave a champagne. And, for Director Baidoo…?’
‘I will have the same, thank you.’
Celeste nodded and went to get the drinks.
‘And, please, Yvette, call me Kisi.’
Yvette smiled. ‘May I ask you somefing personal?’
‘You may.’
‘Are you gay?’
Kisi didn’t have to consider her answer but took a moment to consider why she may be asked such a question. ’I do not label my sexuality.’
‘Zis would indicate zat you are not… just “straight”?’
‘For people to whom such labels matter, I would probably not be considered as such. No.’
Celeste returned with the drinks. ‘Chef has finished your meal, Madame. Should I ask her to serve?’
‘No. I can do it myself. Please just leave it covered in ze dining room. And you may go home for ze evening. Fank you, Celeste.’
Celeste politely nodded her goodbyes and closed the living room door behind her.
Kisi sipped her Armand de Brignac. ‘Does my sexuality somehow cause an issue? Or do you ask out of curiosity?’
‘Oh, no!’ said Yvette, ‘I fink you know me and ze principles of our island well enough to know zat you can be any sexuality you like here.’
‘And so…?’
‘And so, oui; you could say I am just… curious.’
‘I see,’ said Kisi. ‘May I be permitted to ask you something personal?’
‘Of course!’ said Yvette.
‘What is it like to be newly married and for your husband to not be allowed to live here?’
Yvette smirked. ’It is fine. I didn’t imagine I would marry again, but I ‘ave, and we both see ze benefits of times apart in between times togezzer. And we ‘ave personal and legal agreements in place to make sure I do not face ze same problems I faced in my last marriage.’ She leant forward and lowered her tone, ‘Zis husband will ‘ave no opportunity to rob from me!’
‘I don’t suppose that is on his mind. To him you are an attractive and beautiful older woman. He must worship the ground at your feet.’
‘I allow him to do zat sometimes,’ Yvette shrugged with a twinkle.
‘And what of sex?’ asked Kisi. ‘You have an open relationship?’
‘We do not,’ replied Yvette.
Kisi awaited an explanation. Yvette put down her glass.
‘I do not want to fuck you, Kisi.’
Kisi nodded, appreciative that there was no longer any subtext to the conversation.
‘From ze very first time I saw you work your magic on Lydia Goodman’s head of security, a curiosity was awoken in me.’
‘Curious to…?’
‘Experience what you do.’
‘You want me to teach you—?’
Yvette shook her head. ‘No, no. Maybe one day, but no. I want you to teekle me.’
Kisi’s lack of a discernible reaction was accompanied by the sounds of the ocean swishing against the cliffs below. The front door closed as Celeste left for the night.
‘Your husband…?’ asked Kisi.
‘He’s an expert at some fings. But not zis.’
‘Would you tell him?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s not sex, but it is physical. ‘e would not understand.’
Again there was a long pause as both women locked eyes with equal levels of inscrutability. ’I take my work seriously, Madame Yvette—’
‘I like zat about you.’
‘And so you want the Director of your national justice system to tickle you—one of the Founding Mothers—for your sexual gratification?’
‘I don’t know if it will gratify me. As I said: I am just curious.’
‘Would you ask Mozart to compose a concerto, or da Vinci to paint a portrait because you are curious?’
‘I might.’
As a globally respected business professional, Yvette was well-used to playing the “who speaks first loses” game but she had never before gone head-to-head with a former head of a National Intelligence Bureau and seasoned terrorist interrogator. Just as she thought she may need to say something, Kisi spoke:
‘I’ve never done it for pleasure.’
Yvette casually lifted her legs and crossed them onto the central cushions of the sofa in a way that would have tantalised any of the men—especially the foot fetishists—that she had come across in her life.
‘I only want it the way you know ‘ow to do it,’ said Yvette.
Kisi regarded her shapely ankles and several of her exquisitely pedicured toes, which protruded from the spray of white slipper fur that swayed gently with the slightest movement of air.
‘Turn over,’ said Kisi.
Yvette’s eyes glowed and she put down her glass. Her silky night attire allowed her to twist with ease and she was quickly on her front – resting her palms and chin on the soft sofa arm. A slipper was removed from one foot. A frisson of excitement ran through her torso.
‘I should let you know, I’m not easily tickled – you might ‘ave to get me into ze right frame of mind— YEEK!’
Yvette’s body left the sofa in a way that almost defied physics. ‘What ze ‘ell was zat!?’ she asked, suddenly nervous.
‘It was this…’ said Kisi displaying a circular claw with one hand. She encompassed Yvette’s exposed heel.
‘No! Wait! I’m not ready-yyyyyy!!!’
But Kisi didn’t wait – with a motion similar to that of a wire head massager, she twirled rapidly up and down Yvette’s smooth heel, while pinning her leg in place.
Yvette gripped the sofa arm and rocked from side-to-side as the shockingly effective technique caused laughter to erupt from deep within.
With an insistent pulsating motion, Kisi’s long fingers proceeded to engulf more of Yvette’s slender foot, producing spasms of movement throughout her body.
As Kisi had said, she had never tickled—or considered tickling—anyone for pleasure and, before now, she didn’t know if it would be possible for her to do so. She was an interrogator. A punisher. A torturer. She had discovered early on in life the power of being able to steal the strength from someone in this way and—while making it appear like play in front of every witness—getting them to give her what she wanted. It was a natural progression to experiment with how she could take that further behind closed doors. The rest was history. But, with this first ever venture into tickling someone who actually requested it, she recognised a sense of something that she had taken for granted for a very long time: intrigue.
Kisi then realised that she had been on automatic pilot, which was not an alien experience for her – several past partners could attest to the reality of what most would consider to be just a figure of speech: she could tickle someone in her sleep. Her fingernails had explored all of Yvette’s foot, infiltrated her mental and physical defences, and were now focussed with a simple two-fingered focus on a wrinkle just millimetres in length under the ball of her foot. This had taken her to what Kisi referred in her tutorials to as Level Three.
Even without the intent of a particular end goal, there was something very stimulating about seeing the ever-confident and composed world-famous businesswoman Yvette Baudelaire lose control by her hand. And, even though she requested it, Kisi could tell that there was a part of Yvette that believed this would be a challenge she could withstand. She was happy to prove her wrong so quickly and, for the first time in her life, Kisi Baidoo felt a tingle of arousal at what she was doing.
Yvette buried her face and sank her teeth into the sofa arm’s cushion, but nothing could stop the endless waves of laughter that swelled from within. It made no logical sense! She had been tickled in the past, obviously. But even when men had grabbed her waist with their huge hands and tickled her from behind, or buried their fingers into her armpits it had never had anywhere near the current effect of just two fingernails on a minute square of her foot skin.
Suddenly it was like her body was placed into the hands of an internal defence team and she began to struggle hard. She hammered her fists down onto the arm of the sofa, drew back her free leg and kicked back at Kisi, hitting her square in the thigh. Although she felt bad about it, she didn’t have the capacity to immediately apologise.
‘Oh, I see! We are doing it like that, are we?’ said Kisi and she reached for Yvette’s waist.
‘NO!’ Yvette screeched in panic and twisted herself right off the sofa. She landed on her backside and hit the coffee table, knocking her champagne onto the carpet.
‘Oh, my gosh!’ exclaimed Yvette, brushing strands of sweaty hair from her face. ‘I am so sorry I kicked you!’
Kisi rubbed her thigh. ‘That’s okay. But I charge extra for wrestling matches.’
‘No way!’ said Yvette emphatically. ‘You probably ‘ave several cheat manoeuvres vat would put me at a disadvantage.’
Yvette shook herself and went to the minibar to pour a glass of ice water. She was palpably disconcerted. She offered a drink to Kisi.
Kisi shook her head, accompanied by the elegant poise she had maintained throughout the experience. ‘Have we satisfied your curiosity, Yvette?’
Yvette finished her water and placed down the glass. Despite Kisi’s perpetually enigmatic state, there was an intentionally provocative gibe baked into her question.
‘We ‘ave not. There is a limit to what we can do on a couch, no?’
Kisi agreed.
CHAPTER 2
Zafirah Khalil watched as two custodians mounted her Giuseppina Valentina Annunziata painting on the wall of her office. She opened a package to find a leather-clad presentation booklet and a letter from the Chairwoman of the L'île de la Paix Heads of Industry Association. It thanked her for attending the recent ceremony in honour of the Founding Mothers and offered her the booklet with compliments.
The booklet contained a range of photos from the ceremony. She was delighted to see superbly-taken candid shots of Ngaire, Lydia, Yvette and herself interacting with the politicians, businesswomen and invited guests. One particular photo made her pause. She remembered the moment – over dinner she was telling an anecdote of how she had gone about raising her quarter of the finances necessary to buy the island and how her friends and associates did not believe that such a utopia would be possible. She shone in the photo. Those listening hung on her every word without any sense of sycophancy.
Tears appeared in her eyes as she saw the confidence in herself; the person she had become since the Founding of L'île de la Paix – unashamed, unrepressed, and finally without the shadow cast by her husband, which had stayed with her even after his death.
She couldn’t help but compare herself to her peers and knew she should feel proud. Lydia was 43, Ngaire was 38, Yvette was 35 and she was the youngest, at just 30. She had been forced into marriage at 15, widowed at 22, co-founded a country at 24, and since then had studied and practiced to become a successful—and ethical—trader on the global markets. All of this without the use of what was bequeathed to her by her husband, which she had donated to charity, including the proceeds raised by auctioning off his possessions, properties and businesses.
Among the perfection of the photo, she noticed a blemish and brushed at it with the edge of her little finger, but it stayed in place. Looking closer, she realised that it wasn’t a blemish on the photo; it was a scar on her jawline left by her husband’s ring.
A bark of frustration unexpectedly escaped her lips, causing the custodians to jump and look at her. She moved quickly to the window to conceal her emotion and pretended that something on her cell phone had caught her unawares, even though she was actually unlocking it as she went.
She looked out of the spectacular view of Ville d’Or, L’île de la Paix’s capital city, and took a deep breath to calm herself when she noticed a black speck in the sky, growing as it headed her way from the direction of Paix International Airport.
There was a knock at the door from her assistant, Refa. ‘A visitor to see you Miss Khalil.’
From the shadows of the corridor, in stepped Ngaire Brown. ‘’allo, Darlin!’
Zafirah was delighted to see her friend and they hugged a hello.
Ngaire noticed the glassiness in her eyes. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Yes. Just shadows.’
Ngaire shrugged to herself. ‘Yep. Bloody things are everywhere.’
‘All done, Miss Khalil,’ said one of the custodians.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Zafirah.
They bowed and left.
‘Aah, you have our little portrait up in here?’ said Ngaire. ‘I’ve got mine in me office too.’
‘Wonderful, isn’t it? I like how each of our paintings aren’t identical. It captures moments in time. Can Refa to bring you anything?’
‘No, it’s alright, love. I just stopped by to say ‘allo. I’m early for a meetin’ with the PM…. Who’s that?’ Ngaire went over to the window. The black speck had grown into a sleek black helicopter that was headed for the helipad on the roof of their building.
‘I think it’s my first appointment of the day,’ said Zafirah. ‘An English security expert: Allegra Volkov. You’ve heard of her?’
‘Nope.’
‘Neither have I. It may be a ruse but she was very adamant that I needed to see what she had to offer.’
‘Her company has potential?’
‘She’s secretive about it. But, as a wise woman once said, “You have to take a bloody punt sometimes, don’tcha?”’
Ngaire laughed. ‘Bloody oath, Zafirah.’
Zafirah’s brow furrowed at this expression. Her desk intercom sounded. ‘Yes, Refa?’
‘Your 9am appointment, Miss Khalil.’
‘Bring her through, please.’
One thing Ngaire knew of herself was that she was unapologetically down-to-earth; often to the dismay of those around her. She refused to plaster over the accent that advertised her outback upbringing and, although negotiation was an almost daily part of her lifestyle, she didn’t tiptoe around anyone. From the poorest and least educated in society to heads of state – she spoke on a level and expected the same from others.
In recent years she had become world-renowned by those with whom she had business dealings. The days when she was underestimated, treated with contempt, or outright ignored by people (generally men) were far behind her, but no less indelible despite the passing years. She had her own catalogue of anecdotes with which she could regale dinner party attendees that featured how she bested those who took her on – in and out of business.
The trickier opponents were those who had those feelings of dismissal towards her but tried their best to mask it. They believed that they only had to pay cursory deference and that she would accept it before giving them everything they wanted, but it never worked out that way for them. Still, those people existed and the higher up the ladder she climbed, the more they had to work to conceal their true feelings. And now, at the top of the ladder, there wasn’t anyone who could hold even the smallest glimmer of contempt without her detecting it.
She therefore instantly recognised the look in the eye of Allegra Volkov as she entered Zafirah’s office and decided not to immediately withdraw as she had planned.
Allegra stood around 6’2” in her high heels. Her pinstripe trouser suit and cobalt blue blouse were the definition of a power outfit. Her presentation and dyed-black feathered pixie haircut were flawless, despite having probably been in the air for around twenty-four hours. Ngaire suspected that her style was an evolution from teenage years spent dressed as a rebellious goth and, now in her early-30s, Ngaire had to admit she wore it well.
‘Zafirah Khalil? I’m Allegra Volkov,’ she said and held out her hand. Her English accent was so crisp, Ngaire thought she sounded like an overly-assertive Mary Poppins.
‘It’s nice to meet you,’ said Zafirah. Allegra tugged her almost off-balance as they shook hands. ’This is Miss Ngaire Brown—‘
‘Yes,’ said Allegra. ‘I didn’t expect such a welcoming party.’
‘Oh, you don’t have one,’ said Ngaire. ‘I was just passing by.’
‘A life of leisure here on the Isle of Peace.’
‘…on my way to see the Prime Minister.’
‘Ah, well, do send my regards,’ said Allegra, turning her back.
‘Would you like to take a seat?’ said Zafirah.
Zafirah and Ngaire shared a quick glance as Allegra went to the sofa by the window – if this woman was here in an attempt to establish a new business relationship, she was utilising the worst of tactics in the present company. Out of curiosity, Zafirah decided to give her a little more leeway before having her ejected from the building and the island.
‘You requested a meeting?’ said Zafirah.
‘Correct,’ she said, checking her nails and allowing one shoe to dangle from her toes.
Zafirah’s patience with Allegra’s impertinence was hanging by its last sinew. ’Why?’
‘My business is security. And I think you may be interested in what I have to show you.’
‘I trade on the stock market. I’m not an angel investor—‘
‘I’m not looking for investment.’
Ngaire could no longer hold her tongue. ‘Why don’t you stop the mysterious stranger routine and explain yourself?’
‘Is your niece still incarcerated here?’
Zafirah looked to Ngaire. ‘That’s not news.’
‘No, but it’s irony! The first convict on your little island and she’s related to the Australian “Founding Mother”!’ said Allegra.
‘I think it’s time you left,’ said Zafirah.
Allegra responded by slipping a hand inside her suit jacket and producing a silver device. She pointed it at the 72-inch flat screen TV on the wall behind Zafirah’s chair and it flashed to life. With the press of a button, the device was paired to the screen.
‘If you’re looking for Sesame Street, it’s on Channel 9,’ said Ngaire.
‘No thanks,’ said Allegra. ‘I much prefer this…’
On the screen appeared a high-angle shot from a security camera. Ngaire and Zafirah recognised the room it showed to be the Attitude Adjustment Therapy suite at Haven Correctional Facility. They watched as Ngaire’s niece, Olivia Jenson, was accompanied into the suite by two guards and shackled into a padded chair. The guards left and two therapists stepped into view.
Zafirah looked away. She knew what came next.
‘So, you hacked into the surveillance system from our correctional facility,’ said Ngaire. ‘Well done – you’ve broken the law.’
‘Oh, not just your correctional facility…’ said Allegra and the screen blinked onto a new scene.
Zafirah looked up. This time CCTV footage showed the upper landing inside a mansion. She and Ngaire recognised it and a moment later they knew why when they saw Yvette, dressed in flowing silk pyjamas and looking slightly flustered, lead Kisi into her bedroom.
The view cut to a high angle inside the bedroom where Yvette shed her clothes as she and Kisi talked. Allegra skipped the footage ahead by fifteen minutes.
‘Ya lilhul!’ exclaimed Zafirah, averting her eyes. Ngaire, on the other hand, couldn’t look away – she found herself watching Yvette tied, spread-eagle to her own bed in just her panties, thrashing wildly against her bonds as Kisi tickled her all over.
‘I almost forgot,’ said Allegra, ‘this one is better with sound!’
With another press of the button Yvette’s hysterics filled the room. ‘Mon dieu! Mon dieu! Mon dieu sur terre!’ she yelled through hearty torrents of laughter. ‘Ayez pitié de moi! HA HA HA HAAA!!!’
Zafirah closed her eyes and tried to block out what she was hearing.
‘I must say,’ said Allegra, ‘your French associate is rather fit, isn’t she?’
‘So you’ve hacked private systems too,’ said Ngaire.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Allegra. ‘Although I do wonder why someone would aim a security camera at their own bed? She is French, I suppose…’
‘Why don’t you get to the bloody point?’
‘My point is that one minute you’re on the cover of TIME Magazine and the next the world sees you rolling around in bed with the Director of your justice system.’
‘So you’re a common blackmailer,’ said Zafirah.
‘People are free to enjoy their sexuality in whatever way they please here, Ms Volkov,’ said Ngaire.
‘Of course they are!’ said Allegra, standing suddenly. ‘That’s what a “liberal” society promotes, isn’t it? Cheating on ones spouse within months of being married and discussing issues of national security while being recorded by ones own substandard security systems! I’m sure the world will see this as an asset to your agenda.’
‘What do you mean, “discussing issues of national security”?’ asked Ngaire.
‘If you had been patient, you would have found out…’ Allegra skipped the footage ahead by a couple of hours. Kisi was releasing Yvette from her bonds.
‘Mon dieu, mon dieu, mon dieu…’ muttered Yvette. Her voice was hoarse and her naked body shone with sweat. ‘I didn’t expect la petite mort…’
‘It happens from time to time,’ said Kisi. ‘Would you say you got what you wanted out of this?’
Yvette slowly massaged her own aching shoulders. ’Oui, certainement.’
‘Should I expect a call from any of the other Founding Mothers, requesting such treatment?’
‘I would not expect so. Especially not from Miss Khalil.’
Zafirah’s attention was piqued. She turned to the screen.
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Kisi as she unstrapped Yvette’s ankles.
‘I see ‘er physically respond to it whenever the topic comes up. And when you were tickling Zoe zat time – she spent ze whole time looking anywhere but at you. I fink she actually has a fear of being tickled.’
Allegra hit pause. ‘Is that right, Miss Khalil? Do you have a fear of being tickled? Not a great thing for this country’s enemies to be made aware of, is it? You’d never be safe anywhere again!’
Ngaire was trembling with rage. ‘What’re you tryin’ to get?’
‘I represent a group of interested parties, including several heads of state, who will remain anonymous for now and who do not appreciate L'île de la Paix’s human rights violations—’
‘What are you talking—?’
‘—which include, the right to have a family and children; the right to not have to leave the country if you dare to have a male child over the age of 17; and the people I represent think it only fair that you live up to the reputation you love to portray and open your country to allow men to emigrate here.’
‘So that’s it! Why are you fighting this cause?’ demanded Zafirah. ‘Money? Or is it that you’ve found an easy-in with the patriarchy? It’s always good to have a woman onside, isn’t it? A woman with no scruples who is willing to sacrifice others to further her own hideous self-interests! Who do you represent?’
Allegra retook her place on the sofa and responded with silence.
‘I’ve a question,’ said Ngaire.
‘Go ahead,’ said Allegra.
‘You’re openly threatening the national security of this country and blackmailing us. Why do you think we will let you get away with that, with your smug fuckin’ smile?’
‘Aw, Ngaire, stooping to profanity? That’s always a sign of last resort. To answer your main question, I’m here merely to open negotiations. When I leave this island, they can begin in earnest. And if I am in any way detained… well, footage can so easily get leaked onto the internet these days, can’t it? I’m sure Yvette Baudelaire wouldn’t thank you for destroying her marriage.’
Zafirah and Ngaire looked at one another.
‘Before I go, I did hear that you have a Michelin star restaurant on the top floor of this building?’ she stood and looked out over the city. ‘I trust it’s complimentary to guests?’ She smiled to herself; there was something immensely satisfying in insulting bigwigs so much that they became stunned into silence.
She faced them, ready to turn down their invitation for a meal and instead head back to her helicopter, and discovered the arrival of Zafirah’s assistant along with two armed policewomen.
Zafirah stood. ‘You are going nowhere, Allegra, until you tell us exactly who you are working for.’
CHAPTER 3
‘La putain! Let me in zere; I will fucking kill ‘er!’
‘Erm, I’m afraid we can’t let you do that, Mrs Baudelaire,’ said Michelle Brown, Director-General of the island’s National Security Council.
Along with Zafirah and Ngaire, they stood next to a two-way mirror, the opposite side of which sat Allegra Volkov. For three hours they had watched negotiators fail to get any information from her.
‘Apart from that, it won’t help the situation,’ said Ngaire. ‘We need her to talk.’
‘Well, zen, isn’t it obvious? We take her to HCF! Kisi is experienced in interrogation.’
‘The courts haven’t yet come to a conclusion on the use of physical techniques as a means of interrogation,’ said the Director-General.
‘In which case, zere is nossing to stop us!’
‘I will need the PM to sign off on allowing the transfer to happen.’
‘That’s handy,’ said Ngaire. ‘I was just on me way to see her. I’ll be in touch. In the meantime, get her to Haven Correctional.’
CHAPTER 4
Having been paged by security guards, Kisi arrived at the reception, intrigued to see Yvette waiting for her. This was not a line of work that commonly saw friends and associates popping in whenever they were in the area. A further layer of interest was due to how agitated Yvette appeared to be. Kisi guessed it must have something to do with their recent encounter.
‘Hello, Mrs Baudelaire. It’s nice to see you. Would you like to come somewhere where we can speak privately?’
‘Oui. Yes, please,’ said Yvette.
Kisi led the way to a cinema-like seminar room, which was mostly used for training staff. Yvette explained to Kisi what had taken place that morning.
‘You don’t have to remain poker-faced with me,’ said Yvette.
‘I’m just thinking.’
‘If zat footage gets out, my marriage and my reputation are kaput! We ‘ave to stop it!’
‘That footage exists now. Whether or not we find out who has it, I think you need to come to terms with the fact that it will come out at some point. The best you can do is talk to your husband for some damage mitigation.’
Yvette paced the room, shaking her head and clenching her fists. ‘Zis fucking woman!’
‘I know. But there’s a bigger picture here, Yvette. Someone, or some people, are trying to undermine the country. This is the first attack L'île de la Paix has experienced. And it won’t be the last.’
Kisi was correct, and seeing things from that perspective helped Yvette to calm a little.
‘We need to make a point.’
‘Yes, we do.’
‘Show zem we won’t be intimidated.’
Kisi nodded.
‘Okay. But I’m not taking a back seat.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I want to help you interrogate zis bitch.’
An officious air caused Kisi to straighten her—already perpendicular—posture. ‘I told you before – I am serious about my work. We do not have Try Your Hand at Torture Day here.’
‘Zis is no joke. I’m serious too. I’ll enlist as a member of staff. Where do I sign up?’
‘That’s not how this works—‘
‘Kisi, I ‘ave been targeted ‘ere. You may say I’m taking zis personally and it may be true, but time is a factor and I am best placed to spot fings zat could be clues to ze answers we need. Look at me – I’m as serious about zis as you are.’
Kisi contemplated a moment and Yvette could tell she was softening to the idea. She gently nodded acquiescence.
‘Bon. ‘ow do we proceed?’
‘You will accompany me and I will direct you.’
‘Ze ozzer day you mentioned somesing about “levels”? You said you kept me at Level Four?’
‘That is something I teach in class. We have no time for it now.’
‘Please,’ said Yvette. ‘I am a fast learner.’
‘Very well, take a seat.’ Kisi moved to a lectern at the front of the lecture hall and tapped some instructions into a tablet. The cinema screen glowed to life. Yvette watched as Kisi flicked through hundreds of presentation slides featuring all kinds of tables, diagrams, photos and lists of bullet points until she came to a slide entitled The Seven Levels. As Kisi spoke, annotations appeared on the screen.
‘There are seven basic levels of tickle response, although I will start with Level Zero.
‘At Level Zero, the person is not affected at all by tickling. I have been told that such people exist, and many people claim to not be ticklish, but in all my experience, I have never encountered such a person. As far as I’m concerned, everyone has their weakness – you just need to be expert enough to know how to locate or stimulate it.’
Even at school Yvette had never been good at sitting through presentations. She considered herself more of a practical learner and it had taken her years of practice to pretend she was listening when pixies were dancing round the campfire in her mind. It just took one spark to send her mind off on a trail of its own. In this instance it was because Kisi had just admitted that she too was ticklish.
‘Level One: The Struggle. This is an attempt to resist by the subject. This can take many forms – tensing up, holding her breath, pretending it doesn’t affect her, trying to distract herself. Our aim is to get past this level with surprise, persistence, or a combination of both.
‘Level Two: The Surrender. Here, the subject gives way to the sensations. The result can take many forms, but the most common is laughter and involuntary body movements.
'Level Three: Logical Endurance. While the subject still has her senses, she will try to ride back her responses or find ways to surf above them with mental and physical techniques. At this point we must ensure that we remain on top of the situation.
‘Level Four: Primal Panic…’
Yvette’s focus was sharpened. This was the level Kisi said she had reached on the night of their erotic exploration.
‘Primal Panic occurs when she realises that there is no way to escape or endure. She may cry, scream, and try any number of ways to lash out. Remember: just because she is tied down, doesn’t mean she cannot bite, or spit, unless we gag her. The preferred goal at this point is to aim for an escalating laughter response.’
Yvette recognised this description from what she experienced on that unforgettable night. Kisi had indeed found her weaknesses and exploited them; escalating them to the point where she was on the verge of finding them truly unbearable. There was a juvenile twinge of jealousy at the thought that Allegra would soon be the focus of Kisi’s attentions, but she batted the thought away like the irrational irritant it was. As Kisi continued to talk, Yvette’s erotic nostalgia became replaced by a sexless and sadistic urge to take revenge.
‘Level Five: Primal Resort – when the panic modes don’t have the effect of alleviating the torment. And, when she is tied, they will not. This is the level in which we want her to spend most of her time – unable to form coherent thought. Beyond logic. Pure suffering. In this way, we can allow her to dip back down to regular consciousness when we want her to. This is when we are most likely to get the answers we seek.
‘The line then blurs into Level Six: The Deeper Primal Resort. Some people’s internal safety mechanisms may cause them to do unexpected things, this includes humiliating bodily functions, or they may pass out. They will sense the demons within this level and they will fear it. Like the threat of holding someone’s head under water, we can dip them in and bring them back out.’
Kisi switched off the screen and rejoined Yvette.
‘What about Level Seven?’
‘Level Seven is Termination,’ said Kisi flatly as she headed for the exit. ‘We do not do that here,’
‘Oh, wow. No, of course not,’ said Yvette. She was tempted to ask whether Kisi had ever done it, but could tell she wouldn’t relinquish such information and, considering it for a moment, she realised she didn’t want to know the answer.
CHAPTER 5
‘I know who you are,’ said Allegra. ‘You are aware that what you’re doing here shows how panicked and desperate you are? Forget diplomatic negotiations!’
Just like the video clip of Olivia Jenson that she showed on the screen in Zafirah Khalil’s office, Allegra found herself locked by the wrists and ankles into to a padded chair, her arms out-straight to the side at shoulder height and her legs on two supports in front of her. Curved metal bars kept her knees and elbows in check so there was no room to manoeuvre. The only difference was that Olivia Jenson had been almost naked, whereas she was still fully dressed.
Before her stood Kisi and Yvette. Yvette’s clothes now resembled a cross between a nurses outfit and a navy service uniform.
‘We never considered these to be negotiations, Miss Volkov,’ said Kisi. ‘Our island is young but our methods are not. We do not bend to extortion and, on a personal note, I do not like bullies.’
‘Ha! “Bullies”,’ said Allegra. Despite her current physical predicament she spoke with such calm grandiloquence that Yvette could tell she really believed this to be an elaborate scare tactic. ‘You can pretend that you’re not unsophisticated, but you certainly talk like you’re in school! If you need any proof, you can look no further than your “correctional facilities” – you use the same methods here as you do when you commit adultery! And if you don’t let me go this instant, the world will see how much of a joke you are when they compare those two videos side-by-side. With you two as the main attraction, of course.’
‘You know what we want to know,’ said Kisi.
‘And in case your inept negotiating team didn’t pass on the message: I will never tell you.’
Allegra’s crystal blue eyes were resolute. Yvette had only been in her company for some minutes but she could tell that she was not to be underestimated. There was something about her that reminded her of Kisi – unbelievably calm under pressure, even in such rare circumstances. She was willing to bet she had a military background.
The thought made Yvette suddenly feel like a pre-schooler at university – how could she possibly be of use in this situation?
Without saying a word, Kisi moved to a chair in the corner of the room, leaving Yvette to make the first move. Allegra looked at her with undiluted contempt.
‘As a representative of several important organisations and as a British citizen, I suggest you let me go. Now.’
‘Now zat you mention it, before I came in ‘ere I ‘ad word zat our Prime Minister and yours ‘ave been talking. Your government denies you are working on their behalf—‘
‘I didn’t say I was acting on behalf of the British gov—’
‘I know what you said!’ shouted Yvette.
Allegra smirked and glanced at Kisi. Even without looking, Yvette knew Kisi would be concerned that she had already lost her temper.
She took a deep breath and stepped forward. Allegra was sitting at an elevated angle that placed her stilettoed feet level with her chest.
‘I like your shoes,’ said Yvette. ‘What size are zey?’
Allegra rolled her eyes. ‘Size nine, UK. Why? Can’t you get Gianvito Rossi to deliver here in the South Pacific?’
‘Non. I was going to take zem for myself, but my feet are a lot daintier zan yours,’ said Yvette and pulled both shoes off to reveal Allegra’s size nine feet in beige soft-sheen shoe liner socks.
Her toes waggled. ‘Oh, Christ. We’re not going to go through this nonsense, are we? I can save you the trouble – it won’t work on me.’
As Yvette gripped both socks at Allegra’s heels she took great care to deliberately tease the skin around her ankles without appearing to do so. This was a technique Kisi hadn’t used on her during their encounter and would have driven her crazy if she had. Unfortunately, the method didn’t seem to be working on Allegra, so she simply peeled off the socks. ‘What won’t work on you?’ asked Yvette.
‘Your play-school interrogation techniques! You’d have to be pretty bloody pathetic to find that torturous.’
Yvette looked at Allegra’s feet and felt completely impotent. They were bare. They were locked in place. They were large and smooth, with elegant long toes. But now the concept of tickling them to the point of obtaining information felt utterly abstract. She didn’t know where to start. If Yvette’s suspicions about Allegra’s past were correct, even if she hadn’t been captured and interrogated before, she was probably still more familiar with the concept than herself.
She took a moment to consider.
History had taught her that were two ways to go about facing a challenge – relying on ones own experience or blagging and hoping for the best. Whilst hope and luck paid off now and then, experience was always preferable. She had occasionally tickled friends and family members, but not for any length of time. The times when it had gone on for longer were the times she tickled her lovers. She remembered one time when she had tickled a gym-fit boyfriend’s tummy and was inspired to keep doing so because he had such a cute reaction to it. She recalled the particular feeling of his muscles under her fingertips and suspected this would work well on Allegra – she looked like a fit woman who would have well-developed abs.
But the most valuable experience she’d had was her recent torturous time with Kisi. And, while she was aware that everyone is different, she was also now aware of more ticklish spots on her own body than ever before. She almost wriggled at the physical memory of where and how Kisi tickled her and suddenly felt a light shine upon the answer; now that she was able to put herself in that frame of mind, she could visualise projecting a map of vulnerable areas from her own body onto Allegra’s and viewed her feet with a completely new outlook.
Without saying a word, she gripped Allegra’s left big toe with one hand and pulled it back; stretching her sole immobile.
‘Get off me,’ said Allegra, as if a coal dust-covered street urchin was tugging at her hem and begging for loose change.
Yvette didn’t answer but instead scurried two fingers onto the place on her own feet that were most ticklish – just under the ball of her foot and in line with the big toe. Allegra gave an exaggerated sigh.
Yvette recalled that Kisi’s technique didn’t stop in one place – she sought out spots that caused her to react. So, her scurrying fingers travelled steadily up and into the crease of Allegra’s big toe. Still there was no reaction and out of the corner of her eye she could sense Allegra’s bright blue eyes fixed on her with what seemed to be her trademark expression of undiluted arrogance.
Kisi watched from the corner of the room, allowing Yvette to explore and experiment as she would allow any other apprentice, but ready to take the lead in an instant. Allegra was unwavering in her look of disdain at the situation, but Kisi appreciated, despite this, the meticulous manner in which Yvette tested every square millimetre of the skin under Allegra’s toes—from big to little—while locking her foot in place. She was impressed with how patient she was. Most beginners dove in with arbitrary techniques more likely to invoke pain rather than cause laughter. She mused over whether there was a benefit in ensuring all trainees experience being tickled before they practiced being a tickler—
Her thoughts were interrupted when she noticed Yvette pause. There was a change in her posture and the one-way path that her fingernails were traversing along Allegra’s sole took a pace backward.
‘Everyfing okay?’ Yvette asked Allegra.
‘I’m not troubled, if that’s what you mean,’ said Allegra, her demeanour unchanged.
‘Are you sure about zat? I only ask because, when I touched zis little bit here…’ she said, tickling the centre of Allegra’s high arch, ‘…your skin became a little more slippery. You started to sweat.’
‘It’s hot in here.’
‘No, Allegra. It isn’t.’
Kisi’s eyes narrowed. She could see a thin sheen of sweat beginning to form on Allegra’s upper lip.
‘This is ridiculous,’ said Allegra, and glanced at Kisi, who responded with a knowing smirk.
Allegra licked her lips and tried to return to her previous haughty state.
‘Ooh, your large feet are quite sweaty now, aren’t zey? Why is zat?’
‘Typical French impertinence,’ said Allegra, now with the hint of a wobble in her voice.
Yvette shrugged off the insult and began to circle the spot on Allegra’s sole.
As Kisi watched intently, she saw it: the jump in Allegra’s chest that was akin to suppressing a hiccup. But it wasn’t a hiccup: she just gave her first tiny laugh.
Allegra tried to relax. Every fibre of her being was on edge and she felt an ocean of pent-up laughter mounting against her resistance. She had successfully remained unshaken this whole time and her hope was that if she could maintain it for longer, these women would get bored and at least attempt more endurable methods until calls were made and she was released. My facade is impenetrable, she thought. Isn’t it? Then why did that bloody African woman in the corner just smirk at me like she knew what I was thinking? She can’t see me sweating from here.
‘I quite like ze sweat, I ‘ave to say. It’s ‘elping my fingernails to glide a lot more easily,’ said Yvette.
Allegra felt her lips begin to quiver. She tried to relieve her compulsion to laugh by disguising it as an audible sneer and instantly regretted doing so – if her resistance was a dam, she had just allowed it to spring a leak.
A long hiss from Allegra was accompanied by a confused determination as she shut her eyes and struggled to contain the inevitable.
‘You’ll ‘ave to remind me,’ said Yvette, ‘didn’t you say you weren’t ticklish?’
Allegra looked at her, paralysed with a fixed grimace. She wanted to insult her again but the integrity of her defences were on the verge of collapse and any energy expended would send her over the edge. She sensed the glee that would be displayed in the eyes of these women if they defeated her and despised the thought. It had never happened before.
‘Perhaps if I were to tickle both of your feet at once…?’ said Yvette and, without giving Allegra a beat to prepare herself, she reached across and attacked both feet simultaneously.
A flicker of piteous disbelief evaporated as the dam of resistance exploded with the loudest scream of helpless laughter that Kisi had ever witnessed.
Yvette was almost startled to a stop, but she saw the expression on Allegra’s face that she could never have imagined and a rush of vindication unleashed from her an involuntary and victorious growl that she only previously recalled doing the moment she closed her first million-dollar deal. She quite forgot all about any techniques of precision and when she realised that all ten fingers were on autopilot she noticed the parts of Allegra’s soles that had previously appeared immune to tickling were now provoking just as much of a reaction as the “sweet spots”.
‘Who is “pathetic” now, you bitch?!’ shouted Yvette. ‘You’re gonna wreck my marriage? Fuck you! Putain!’
Allegra was so overwhelmed that she showed no recognition of the words hurled at her. With her mouth stretched wide, she shook her head fiercely in an illogical attempt to cope with the relentless attack on her soles and toes.
Yvette turned to Kisi, ‘I fink we’ve passed Level One!’
Kisi smiled. ‘Yes! And I forgot to mention: sometimes you can leapfrog levels – straight from One to Four, like now!’
Yvette was pleased to see how gratified Kisi was with her technique. She came to join her and rested a calming hand on her forearm. Yvette tempered the intensity of her onslaught and Allegra’s laughter diminished a little.
‘Who do you represent?’ asked Kisi.
Allegra gasped for air. ’I… I can’t tell you!’ she cried.
‘Yes you can!’ said Yvette and she tickled faster.
Allegra’s back arched and her toes scrunched in vain as she once again burst out laughing. ‘PLEEEEASE NO!’
‘We don’t endlessly repeat the same question here,’ said Kisi. ‘If you do not answer you will be tortured for hours. I will have my staff work shifts; you will not sleep, and I will ask you again in the morning. If you do not tell me then, I will have my staff tickle you until the following day.’
Yvette was once again lost in her desire for revenge and had subconsciously dialled up the intensity of her torture.
Kisi edged her aside. ‘Here, let me…’
Reluctantly, Yvette gave way, but quickly appreciated the opportunity to observe the master at work. Kisi’s fingernails deftly played every single part of Allegra’s feet; inducing greater and greater surges of hysterics. For almost an hour Allegra was speaking in tongues and sweat beaded and dripped steadily from the tips of her wet hair.
Just when Yvette thought Kisi must have no more use for her, she turned to her and said, ‘It’s time to ride the line between Levels Five and Six.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Yvette.
Kisi stopped tickling with one hand and gestured for Yvette to stand in front of her and between Allegra’s spread legs. ’Her upper body,’ she said.
Allegra was evidently still lucid enough to hear what had just been said as the tone of her laughter wailed as much of a protest as she was able to give. Her mascara-stained eyes could do no more than watch as Yvette arrived between her legs and Kisi resumed tickling both feet.
She saw the predicted look of sadistic glee on Yvette’s face and bawled with resentment and impotence as she felt nimble fingers creep under her blouse.
‘Soaking!’ Yvette taunted. She found Allegra’s sweat-covered abs and began to tease with excruciating gentleness at the sides of her tummy. The frustration and sensitivity combined to hurl Allegra into delirium. With her eyes and mouth stretched so wide that it appeared unnatural, Kisi varied the intensity on Allegra’s feet whilst everything that Yvette did kept her at the required level of hysteria.
As sweat ran over her hands, Yvette suddenly realised that she was incredibly turned on and must have been for quite some time. It caused a momentary rush of vertigo when she recognised her next thought was that she would have liked nothing more than for Kisi to grab her waist from behind and tickle her to the ground. She then felt a pang of regret that doing such things had probably ended her marriage.
Anger grew inside her and compelled her to lift her hands to find out exactly how ticklish Allegra’s armpits were. She was delighted to discover that tickling the slick hollows of Allegra’s underarms threw her into previously undiscovered depths of insanity. Her bulging eyes ran bloodshot and veins throbbed from her neck as a barrage of laughter erupted from her throat. She seemed about to pass out.
CHAPTER 6
Outside Attitude Adjustment Therapy Room 2, facility guards Martinez and Knowles stood guard. From inside the suite they could hear almost everything.
‘Who do you represent?!’ screamed Yvette.
‘I CAN’T SAYYY-HAY-HAY-HAYYY!’ howled Allegra.
Kisi’s voice was calmer: ‘That was your last chance to answer today.’
Martinez turned to Knowles. ‘This is going to be a long night.’
THE END
Haven II: The Seven Levels
by Tamira K.
CHAPTER 1
There were many things Yvette Baudelaire loved about the bathroom in her L'île de la Paix mansion. Indeed, she had spent more time with the interior designer focussing on designs for this one room than any other. It was the perfect combination of classic and modern, with a dark, heated marble floor and a bespoke glass wall that curved seamlessly into a ceiling, which provided an uninterrupted view of the ocean and the South Pacific skies. The most difficult choice had been to decide whether to have it situated on the east or west side of the mansion, but in the end she plumbed for the side from which she could watch the sun set after a long day at work or play. On the east side she instead placed her en-suite luxury shower room.
As she lay in her deep, double-ended copper bath, covered in warm bubbles, with Liszt’s 6 Consolations playing delicately on the sound system and the third shooting star of the evening streaked through the cloudless sky, there was no doubt in her mind that every choice she had made that got her to this moment was the right one.
In her contentment, she hadn’t registered the discord in the music caused by the house doorbell a minute or so earlier.
There was a gentle knock at the bathroom door.
‘Oui, Celeste?’
‘A delivery for you, Madame,’ replied Celeste, her butler.
‘Merci.’
‘And, also, your guest has arrived.’
‘Oh… What time is it?’
‘8:04, Madame.’
‘Okay. No problem. Please let ‘er know I will be with her as soon as I can.’
She saw little point in contemplating the early arrival of her guest and pulled the bath plug. As the perfumed water lowered around her she lifted one smooth and toned leg above the surface of bubbles and admired how her smooth skin twinkled in the low lighting.
I still have “it”, she thought.
– – –
Yvette entered the living room in a flowing silk gown and pyjamas. The impressive figure of Kisi Baidoo, dressed in her usual loose-fitting cream cotton top and bottoms, with a flowing drape shrug and bamboo flip-flops, was standing by the hearth. She sipped a glass of water as she took her opportunity to enjoy the view of the ocean through the patio doors.
‘I was bathing,’ said Yvette.
‘You shouldn’t have let me disturb you, Madame.’
Yvette smiled. To her, Kisi’s smooth tone of voice and Ghanaian accent were a luxurious treat for the ears.
‘Please, call me Yvette.’
‘As you wish, Yvette.’
‘And it’s probably a good job you interrupted me – I am quite ‘appy to stay in ze bath until I am all “pruned up”.’
She was pleased to see Kisi appreciate this admission.
‘This is a lovely room,’ said Kisi. ‘Fireplace, grand piano, mini bar, a view of the sea…’
‘It’s not for sale,’ said Yvette. Her eye was then caught by a large flat parcel that rested against the wall. ‘Did you bring zis?’ she asked.
‘No. It was delivered by courier at the same time I arrived.’
‘Of course,’ said Yvette, snapping her fingers. As she stepped out from behind the sofa, Kisi noticed her extravagantly fluffy and heelless designer slippers and, as she picked up a silver letter opener and knelt to slice open the outer packaging, the slippers dropped to reveal much of her soles. Kisi did all she could to not take her work home with her, but there was no switching off her innate radar and a mental note of where the French woman looked to be most sensitive was made.
Yvette pulled open the packaging to reveal a frame, masked by layers of bubble wrap.
‘Ah, yes. I knew zis was due today.’
‘What is it?’ asked Kisi.
‘Myself and ze ozzer Founding Mozzers were honoured last week at a function organised by ze L'île de la Paix heads of industry. Actually, I sent you an invitation…?’
‘Yes, you did. I’m sorry, I could not attend.’
‘Zhey presented us with zis…’ she carefully pulled back the wrapping to reveal a vibrant and dynamic oil painting—an interpretation of the TIME Magazine cover photo of herself, Ngaire Brown, Lydia Goodman and Miss Zafirah Khalil—by Giuseppina Valentina Annunziata, one of Italy’s greatest contemporary painters, as well as being one of the first famous women to emigrate to the island. Yvette stood back in admiration.
‘It’s sensational,’ said Kisi.
‘Isn’t it? I love it. It will go over ze fireplace tomorrow. Let’s sit,’ said Yvette.
Kisi sat at the one end of the sofa as she moved to the other, flowing out her silken gown to cover it, like an exuberant parachute coming to rest. ‘Celeste…?’
Celeste arrived. ‘Yes, Madame?’
‘Aperitifs, please. I will ‘ave a champagne. And, for Director Baidoo…?’
‘I will have the same, thank you.’
Celeste nodded and went to get the drinks.
‘And, please, Yvette, call me Kisi.’
Yvette smiled. ‘May I ask you somefing personal?’
‘You may.’
‘Are you gay?’
Kisi didn’t have to consider her answer but took a moment to consider why she may be asked such a question. ’I do not label my sexuality.’
‘Zis would indicate zat you are not… just “straight”?’
‘For people to whom such labels matter, I would probably not be considered as such. No.’
Celeste returned with the drinks. ‘Chef has finished your meal, Madame. Should I ask her to serve?’
‘No. I can do it myself. Please just leave it covered in ze dining room. And you may go home for ze evening. Fank you, Celeste.’
Celeste politely nodded her goodbyes and closed the living room door behind her.
Kisi sipped her Armand de Brignac. ‘Does my sexuality somehow cause an issue? Or do you ask out of curiosity?’
‘Oh, no!’ said Yvette, ‘I fink you know me and ze principles of our island well enough to know zat you can be any sexuality you like here.’
‘And so…?’
‘And so, oui; you could say I am just… curious.’
‘I see,’ said Kisi. ‘May I be permitted to ask you something personal?’
‘Of course!’ said Yvette.
‘What is it like to be newly married and for your husband to not be allowed to live here?’
Yvette smirked. ’It is fine. I didn’t imagine I would marry again, but I ‘ave, and we both see ze benefits of times apart in between times togezzer. And we ‘ave personal and legal agreements in place to make sure I do not face ze same problems I faced in my last marriage.’ She leant forward and lowered her tone, ‘Zis husband will ‘ave no opportunity to rob from me!’
‘I don’t suppose that is on his mind. To him you are an attractive and beautiful older woman. He must worship the ground at your feet.’
‘I allow him to do zat sometimes,’ Yvette shrugged with a twinkle.
‘And what of sex?’ asked Kisi. ‘You have an open relationship?’
‘We do not,’ replied Yvette.
Kisi awaited an explanation. Yvette put down her glass.
‘I do not want to fuck you, Kisi.’
Kisi nodded, appreciative that there was no longer any subtext to the conversation.
‘From ze very first time I saw you work your magic on Lydia Goodman’s head of security, a curiosity was awoken in me.’
‘Curious to…?’
‘Experience what you do.’
‘You want me to teach you—?’
Yvette shook her head. ‘No, no. Maybe one day, but no. I want you to teekle me.’
Kisi’s lack of a discernible reaction was accompanied by the sounds of the ocean swishing against the cliffs below. The front door closed as Celeste left for the night.
‘Your husband…?’ asked Kisi.
‘He’s an expert at some fings. But not zis.’
‘Would you tell him?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s not sex, but it is physical. ‘e would not understand.’
Again there was a long pause as both women locked eyes with equal levels of inscrutability. ’I take my work seriously, Madame Yvette—’
‘I like zat about you.’
‘And so you want the Director of your national justice system to tickle you—one of the Founding Mothers—for your sexual gratification?’
‘I don’t know if it will gratify me. As I said: I am just curious.’
‘Would you ask Mozart to compose a concerto, or da Vinci to paint a portrait because you are curious?’
‘I might.’
As a globally respected business professional, Yvette was well-used to playing the “who speaks first loses” game but she had never before gone head-to-head with a former head of a National Intelligence Bureau and seasoned terrorist interrogator. Just as she thought she may need to say something, Kisi spoke:
‘I’ve never done it for pleasure.’
Yvette casually lifted her legs and crossed them onto the central cushions of the sofa in a way that would have tantalised any of the men—especially the foot fetishists—that she had come across in her life.
‘I only want it the way you know ‘ow to do it,’ said Yvette.
Kisi regarded her shapely ankles and several of her exquisitely pedicured toes, which protruded from the spray of white slipper fur that swayed gently with the slightest movement of air.
‘Turn over,’ said Kisi.
Yvette’s eyes glowed and she put down her glass. Her silky night attire allowed her to twist with ease and she was quickly on her front – resting her palms and chin on the soft sofa arm. A slipper was removed from one foot. A frisson of excitement ran through her torso.
‘I should let you know, I’m not easily tickled – you might ‘ave to get me into ze right frame of mind— YEEK!’
Yvette’s body left the sofa in a way that almost defied physics. ‘What ze ‘ell was zat!?’ she asked, suddenly nervous.
‘It was this…’ said Kisi displaying a circular claw with one hand. She encompassed Yvette’s exposed heel.
‘No! Wait! I’m not ready-yyyyyy!!!’
But Kisi didn’t wait – with a motion similar to that of a wire head massager, she twirled rapidly up and down Yvette’s smooth heel, while pinning her leg in place.
Yvette gripped the sofa arm and rocked from side-to-side as the shockingly effective technique caused laughter to erupt from deep within.
With an insistent pulsating motion, Kisi’s long fingers proceeded to engulf more of Yvette’s slender foot, producing spasms of movement throughout her body.
As Kisi had said, she had never tickled—or considered tickling—anyone for pleasure and, before now, she didn’t know if it would be possible for her to do so. She was an interrogator. A punisher. A torturer. She had discovered early on in life the power of being able to steal the strength from someone in this way and—while making it appear like play in front of every witness—getting them to give her what she wanted. It was a natural progression to experiment with how she could take that further behind closed doors. The rest was history. But, with this first ever venture into tickling someone who actually requested it, she recognised a sense of something that she had taken for granted for a very long time: intrigue.
Kisi then realised that she had been on automatic pilot, which was not an alien experience for her – several past partners could attest to the reality of what most would consider to be just a figure of speech: she could tickle someone in her sleep. Her fingernails had explored all of Yvette’s foot, infiltrated her mental and physical defences, and were now focussed with a simple two-fingered focus on a wrinkle just millimetres in length under the ball of her foot. This had taken her to what Kisi referred in her tutorials to as Level Three.
Even without the intent of a particular end goal, there was something very stimulating about seeing the ever-confident and composed world-famous businesswoman Yvette Baudelaire lose control by her hand. And, even though she requested it, Kisi could tell that there was a part of Yvette that believed this would be a challenge she could withstand. She was happy to prove her wrong so quickly and, for the first time in her life, Kisi Baidoo felt a tingle of arousal at what she was doing.
Yvette buried her face and sank her teeth into the sofa arm’s cushion, but nothing could stop the endless waves of laughter that swelled from within. It made no logical sense! She had been tickled in the past, obviously. But even when men had grabbed her waist with their huge hands and tickled her from behind, or buried their fingers into her armpits it had never had anywhere near the current effect of just two fingernails on a minute square of her foot skin.
Suddenly it was like her body was placed into the hands of an internal defence team and she began to struggle hard. She hammered her fists down onto the arm of the sofa, drew back her free leg and kicked back at Kisi, hitting her square in the thigh. Although she felt bad about it, she didn’t have the capacity to immediately apologise.
‘Oh, I see! We are doing it like that, are we?’ said Kisi and she reached for Yvette’s waist.
‘NO!’ Yvette screeched in panic and twisted herself right off the sofa. She landed on her backside and hit the coffee table, knocking her champagne onto the carpet.
‘Oh, my gosh!’ exclaimed Yvette, brushing strands of sweaty hair from her face. ‘I am so sorry I kicked you!’
Kisi rubbed her thigh. ‘That’s okay. But I charge extra for wrestling matches.’
‘No way!’ said Yvette emphatically. ‘You probably ‘ave several cheat manoeuvres vat would put me at a disadvantage.’
Yvette shook herself and went to the minibar to pour a glass of ice water. She was palpably disconcerted. She offered a drink to Kisi.
Kisi shook her head, accompanied by the elegant poise she had maintained throughout the experience. ‘Have we satisfied your curiosity, Yvette?’
Yvette finished her water and placed down the glass. Despite Kisi’s perpetually enigmatic state, there was an intentionally provocative gibe baked into her question.
‘We ‘ave not. There is a limit to what we can do on a couch, no?’
Kisi agreed.
CHAPTER 2
Zafirah Khalil watched as two custodians mounted her Giuseppina Valentina Annunziata painting on the wall of her office. She opened a package to find a leather-clad presentation booklet and a letter from the Chairwoman of the L'île de la Paix Heads of Industry Association. It thanked her for attending the recent ceremony in honour of the Founding Mothers and offered her the booklet with compliments.
The booklet contained a range of photos from the ceremony. She was delighted to see superbly-taken candid shots of Ngaire, Lydia, Yvette and herself interacting with the politicians, businesswomen and invited guests. One particular photo made her pause. She remembered the moment – over dinner she was telling an anecdote of how she had gone about raising her quarter of the finances necessary to buy the island and how her friends and associates did not believe that such a utopia would be possible. She shone in the photo. Those listening hung on her every word without any sense of sycophancy.
Tears appeared in her eyes as she saw the confidence in herself; the person she had become since the Founding of L'île de la Paix – unashamed, unrepressed, and finally without the shadow cast by her husband, which had stayed with her even after his death.
She couldn’t help but compare herself to her peers and knew she should feel proud. Lydia was 43, Ngaire was 38, Yvette was 35 and she was the youngest, at just 30. She had been forced into marriage at 15, widowed at 22, co-founded a country at 24, and since then had studied and practiced to become a successful—and ethical—trader on the global markets. All of this without the use of what was bequeathed to her by her husband, which she had donated to charity, including the proceeds raised by auctioning off his possessions, properties and businesses.
Among the perfection of the photo, she noticed a blemish and brushed at it with the edge of her little finger, but it stayed in place. Looking closer, she realised that it wasn’t a blemish on the photo; it was a scar on her jawline left by her husband’s ring.
A bark of frustration unexpectedly escaped her lips, causing the custodians to jump and look at her. She moved quickly to the window to conceal her emotion and pretended that something on her cell phone had caught her unawares, even though she was actually unlocking it as she went.
She looked out of the spectacular view of Ville d’Or, L’île de la Paix’s capital city, and took a deep breath to calm herself when she noticed a black speck in the sky, growing as it headed her way from the direction of Paix International Airport.
There was a knock at the door from her assistant, Refa. ‘A visitor to see you Miss Khalil.’
From the shadows of the corridor, in stepped Ngaire Brown. ‘’allo, Darlin!’
Zafirah was delighted to see her friend and they hugged a hello.
Ngaire noticed the glassiness in her eyes. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Yes. Just shadows.’
Ngaire shrugged to herself. ‘Yep. Bloody things are everywhere.’
‘All done, Miss Khalil,’ said one of the custodians.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Zafirah.
They bowed and left.
‘Aah, you have our little portrait up in here?’ said Ngaire. ‘I’ve got mine in me office too.’
‘Wonderful, isn’t it? I like how each of our paintings aren’t identical. It captures moments in time. Can Refa to bring you anything?’
‘No, it’s alright, love. I just stopped by to say ‘allo. I’m early for a meetin’ with the PM…. Who’s that?’ Ngaire went over to the window. The black speck had grown into a sleek black helicopter that was headed for the helipad on the roof of their building.
‘I think it’s my first appointment of the day,’ said Zafirah. ‘An English security expert: Allegra Volkov. You’ve heard of her?’
‘Nope.’
‘Neither have I. It may be a ruse but she was very adamant that I needed to see what she had to offer.’
‘Her company has potential?’
‘She’s secretive about it. But, as a wise woman once said, “You have to take a bloody punt sometimes, don’tcha?”’
Ngaire laughed. ‘Bloody oath, Zafirah.’
Zafirah’s brow furrowed at this expression. Her desk intercom sounded. ‘Yes, Refa?’
‘Your 9am appointment, Miss Khalil.’
‘Bring her through, please.’
One thing Ngaire knew of herself was that she was unapologetically down-to-earth; often to the dismay of those around her. She refused to plaster over the accent that advertised her outback upbringing and, although negotiation was an almost daily part of her lifestyle, she didn’t tiptoe around anyone. From the poorest and least educated in society to heads of state – she spoke on a level and expected the same from others.
In recent years she had become world-renowned by those with whom she had business dealings. The days when she was underestimated, treated with contempt, or outright ignored by people (generally men) were far behind her, but no less indelible despite the passing years. She had her own catalogue of anecdotes with which she could regale dinner party attendees that featured how she bested those who took her on – in and out of business.
The trickier opponents were those who had those feelings of dismissal towards her but tried their best to mask it. They believed that they only had to pay cursory deference and that she would accept it before giving them everything they wanted, but it never worked out that way for them. Still, those people existed and the higher up the ladder she climbed, the more they had to work to conceal their true feelings. And now, at the top of the ladder, there wasn’t anyone who could hold even the smallest glimmer of contempt without her detecting it.
She therefore instantly recognised the look in the eye of Allegra Volkov as she entered Zafirah’s office and decided not to immediately withdraw as she had planned.
Allegra stood around 6’2” in her high heels. Her pinstripe trouser suit and cobalt blue blouse were the definition of a power outfit. Her presentation and dyed-black feathered pixie haircut were flawless, despite having probably been in the air for around twenty-four hours. Ngaire suspected that her style was an evolution from teenage years spent dressed as a rebellious goth and, now in her early-30s, Ngaire had to admit she wore it well.
‘Zafirah Khalil? I’m Allegra Volkov,’ she said and held out her hand. Her English accent was so crisp, Ngaire thought she sounded like an overly-assertive Mary Poppins.
‘It’s nice to meet you,’ said Zafirah. Allegra tugged her almost off-balance as they shook hands. ’This is Miss Ngaire Brown—‘
‘Yes,’ said Allegra. ‘I didn’t expect such a welcoming party.’
‘Oh, you don’t have one,’ said Ngaire. ‘I was just passing by.’
‘A life of leisure here on the Isle of Peace.’
‘…on my way to see the Prime Minister.’
‘Ah, well, do send my regards,’ said Allegra, turning her back.
‘Would you like to take a seat?’ said Zafirah.
Zafirah and Ngaire shared a quick glance as Allegra went to the sofa by the window – if this woman was here in an attempt to establish a new business relationship, she was utilising the worst of tactics in the present company. Out of curiosity, Zafirah decided to give her a little more leeway before having her ejected from the building and the island.
‘You requested a meeting?’ said Zafirah.
‘Correct,’ she said, checking her nails and allowing one shoe to dangle from her toes.
Zafirah’s patience with Allegra’s impertinence was hanging by its last sinew. ’Why?’
‘My business is security. And I think you may be interested in what I have to show you.’
‘I trade on the stock market. I’m not an angel investor—‘
‘I’m not looking for investment.’
Ngaire could no longer hold her tongue. ‘Why don’t you stop the mysterious stranger routine and explain yourself?’
‘Is your niece still incarcerated here?’
Zafirah looked to Ngaire. ‘That’s not news.’
‘No, but it’s irony! The first convict on your little island and she’s related to the Australian “Founding Mother”!’ said Allegra.
‘I think it’s time you left,’ said Zafirah.
Allegra responded by slipping a hand inside her suit jacket and producing a silver device. She pointed it at the 72-inch flat screen TV on the wall behind Zafirah’s chair and it flashed to life. With the press of a button, the device was paired to the screen.
‘If you’re looking for Sesame Street, it’s on Channel 9,’ said Ngaire.
‘No thanks,’ said Allegra. ‘I much prefer this…’
On the screen appeared a high-angle shot from a security camera. Ngaire and Zafirah recognised the room it showed to be the Attitude Adjustment Therapy suite at Haven Correctional Facility. They watched as Ngaire’s niece, Olivia Jenson, was accompanied into the suite by two guards and shackled into a padded chair. The guards left and two therapists stepped into view.
Zafirah looked away. She knew what came next.
‘So, you hacked into the surveillance system from our correctional facility,’ said Ngaire. ‘Well done – you’ve broken the law.’
‘Oh, not just your correctional facility…’ said Allegra and the screen blinked onto a new scene.
Zafirah looked up. This time CCTV footage showed the upper landing inside a mansion. She and Ngaire recognised it and a moment later they knew why when they saw Yvette, dressed in flowing silk pyjamas and looking slightly flustered, lead Kisi into her bedroom.
The view cut to a high angle inside the bedroom where Yvette shed her clothes as she and Kisi talked. Allegra skipped the footage ahead by fifteen minutes.
‘Ya lilhul!’ exclaimed Zafirah, averting her eyes. Ngaire, on the other hand, couldn’t look away – she found herself watching Yvette tied, spread-eagle to her own bed in just her panties, thrashing wildly against her bonds as Kisi tickled her all over.
‘I almost forgot,’ said Allegra, ‘this one is better with sound!’
With another press of the button Yvette’s hysterics filled the room. ‘Mon dieu! Mon dieu! Mon dieu sur terre!’ she yelled through hearty torrents of laughter. ‘Ayez pitié de moi! HA HA HA HAAA!!!’
Zafirah closed her eyes and tried to block out what she was hearing.
‘I must say,’ said Allegra, ‘your French associate is rather fit, isn’t she?’
‘So you’ve hacked private systems too,’ said Ngaire.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Allegra. ‘Although I do wonder why someone would aim a security camera at their own bed? She is French, I suppose…’
‘Why don’t you get to the bloody point?’
‘My point is that one minute you’re on the cover of TIME Magazine and the next the world sees you rolling around in bed with the Director of your justice system.’
‘So you’re a common blackmailer,’ said Zafirah.
‘People are free to enjoy their sexuality in whatever way they please here, Ms Volkov,’ said Ngaire.
‘Of course they are!’ said Allegra, standing suddenly. ‘That’s what a “liberal” society promotes, isn’t it? Cheating on ones spouse within months of being married and discussing issues of national security while being recorded by ones own substandard security systems! I’m sure the world will see this as an asset to your agenda.’
‘What do you mean, “discussing issues of national security”?’ asked Ngaire.
‘If you had been patient, you would have found out…’ Allegra skipped the footage ahead by a couple of hours. Kisi was releasing Yvette from her bonds.
‘Mon dieu, mon dieu, mon dieu…’ muttered Yvette. Her voice was hoarse and her naked body shone with sweat. ‘I didn’t expect la petite mort…’
‘It happens from time to time,’ said Kisi. ‘Would you say you got what you wanted out of this?’
Yvette slowly massaged her own aching shoulders. ’Oui, certainement.’
‘Should I expect a call from any of the other Founding Mothers, requesting such treatment?’
‘I would not expect so. Especially not from Miss Khalil.’
Zafirah’s attention was piqued. She turned to the screen.
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Kisi as she unstrapped Yvette’s ankles.
‘I see ‘er physically respond to it whenever the topic comes up. And when you were tickling Zoe zat time – she spent ze whole time looking anywhere but at you. I fink she actually has a fear of being tickled.’
Allegra hit pause. ‘Is that right, Miss Khalil? Do you have a fear of being tickled? Not a great thing for this country’s enemies to be made aware of, is it? You’d never be safe anywhere again!’
Ngaire was trembling with rage. ‘What’re you tryin’ to get?’
‘I represent a group of interested parties, including several heads of state, who will remain anonymous for now and who do not appreciate L'île de la Paix’s human rights violations—’
‘What are you talking—?’
‘—which include, the right to have a family and children; the right to not have to leave the country if you dare to have a male child over the age of 17; and the people I represent think it only fair that you live up to the reputation you love to portray and open your country to allow men to emigrate here.’
‘So that’s it! Why are you fighting this cause?’ demanded Zafirah. ‘Money? Or is it that you’ve found an easy-in with the patriarchy? It’s always good to have a woman onside, isn’t it? A woman with no scruples who is willing to sacrifice others to further her own hideous self-interests! Who do you represent?’
Allegra retook her place on the sofa and responded with silence.
‘I’ve a question,’ said Ngaire.
‘Go ahead,’ said Allegra.
‘You’re openly threatening the national security of this country and blackmailing us. Why do you think we will let you get away with that, with your smug fuckin’ smile?’
‘Aw, Ngaire, stooping to profanity? That’s always a sign of last resort. To answer your main question, I’m here merely to open negotiations. When I leave this island, they can begin in earnest. And if I am in any way detained… well, footage can so easily get leaked onto the internet these days, can’t it? I’m sure Yvette Baudelaire wouldn’t thank you for destroying her marriage.’
Zafirah and Ngaire looked at one another.
‘Before I go, I did hear that you have a Michelin star restaurant on the top floor of this building?’ she stood and looked out over the city. ‘I trust it’s complimentary to guests?’ She smiled to herself; there was something immensely satisfying in insulting bigwigs so much that they became stunned into silence.
She faced them, ready to turn down their invitation for a meal and instead head back to her helicopter, and discovered the arrival of Zafirah’s assistant along with two armed policewomen.
Zafirah stood. ‘You are going nowhere, Allegra, until you tell us exactly who you are working for.’
CHAPTER 3
‘La putain! Let me in zere; I will fucking kill ‘er!’
‘Erm, I’m afraid we can’t let you do that, Mrs Baudelaire,’ said Michelle Brown, Director-General of the island’s National Security Council.
Along with Zafirah and Ngaire, they stood next to a two-way mirror, the opposite side of which sat Allegra Volkov. For three hours they had watched negotiators fail to get any information from her.
‘Apart from that, it won’t help the situation,’ said Ngaire. ‘We need her to talk.’
‘Well, zen, isn’t it obvious? We take her to HCF! Kisi is experienced in interrogation.’
‘The courts haven’t yet come to a conclusion on the use of physical techniques as a means of interrogation,’ said the Director-General.
‘In which case, zere is nossing to stop us!’
‘I will need the PM to sign off on allowing the transfer to happen.’
‘That’s handy,’ said Ngaire. ‘I was just on me way to see her. I’ll be in touch. In the meantime, get her to Haven Correctional.’
CHAPTER 4
Having been paged by security guards, Kisi arrived at the reception, intrigued to see Yvette waiting for her. This was not a line of work that commonly saw friends and associates popping in whenever they were in the area. A further layer of interest was due to how agitated Yvette appeared to be. Kisi guessed it must have something to do with their recent encounter.
‘Hello, Mrs Baudelaire. It’s nice to see you. Would you like to come somewhere where we can speak privately?’
‘Oui. Yes, please,’ said Yvette.
Kisi led the way to a cinema-like seminar room, which was mostly used for training staff. Yvette explained to Kisi what had taken place that morning.
‘You don’t have to remain poker-faced with me,’ said Yvette.
‘I’m just thinking.’
‘If zat footage gets out, my marriage and my reputation are kaput! We ‘ave to stop it!’
‘That footage exists now. Whether or not we find out who has it, I think you need to come to terms with the fact that it will come out at some point. The best you can do is talk to your husband for some damage mitigation.’
Yvette paced the room, shaking her head and clenching her fists. ‘Zis fucking woman!’
‘I know. But there’s a bigger picture here, Yvette. Someone, or some people, are trying to undermine the country. This is the first attack L'île de la Paix has experienced. And it won’t be the last.’
Kisi was correct, and seeing things from that perspective helped Yvette to calm a little.
‘We need to make a point.’
‘Yes, we do.’
‘Show zem we won’t be intimidated.’
Kisi nodded.
‘Okay. But I’m not taking a back seat.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I want to help you interrogate zis bitch.’
An officious air caused Kisi to straighten her—already perpendicular—posture. ‘I told you before – I am serious about my work. We do not have Try Your Hand at Torture Day here.’
‘Zis is no joke. I’m serious too. I’ll enlist as a member of staff. Where do I sign up?’
‘That’s not how this works—‘
‘Kisi, I ‘ave been targeted ‘ere. You may say I’m taking zis personally and it may be true, but time is a factor and I am best placed to spot fings zat could be clues to ze answers we need. Look at me – I’m as serious about zis as you are.’
Kisi contemplated a moment and Yvette could tell she was softening to the idea. She gently nodded acquiescence.
‘Bon. ‘ow do we proceed?’
‘You will accompany me and I will direct you.’
‘Ze ozzer day you mentioned somesing about “levels”? You said you kept me at Level Four?’
‘That is something I teach in class. We have no time for it now.’
‘Please,’ said Yvette. ‘I am a fast learner.’
‘Very well, take a seat.’ Kisi moved to a lectern at the front of the lecture hall and tapped some instructions into a tablet. The cinema screen glowed to life. Yvette watched as Kisi flicked through hundreds of presentation slides featuring all kinds of tables, diagrams, photos and lists of bullet points until she came to a slide entitled The Seven Levels. As Kisi spoke, annotations appeared on the screen.
‘There are seven basic levels of tickle response, although I will start with Level Zero.
‘At Level Zero, the person is not affected at all by tickling. I have been told that such people exist, and many people claim to not be ticklish, but in all my experience, I have never encountered such a person. As far as I’m concerned, everyone has their weakness – you just need to be expert enough to know how to locate or stimulate it.’
Even at school Yvette had never been good at sitting through presentations. She considered herself more of a practical learner and it had taken her years of practice to pretend she was listening when pixies were dancing round the campfire in her mind. It just took one spark to send her mind off on a trail of its own. In this instance it was because Kisi had just admitted that she too was ticklish.
‘Level One: The Struggle. This is an attempt to resist by the subject. This can take many forms – tensing up, holding her breath, pretending it doesn’t affect her, trying to distract herself. Our aim is to get past this level with surprise, persistence, or a combination of both.
‘Level Two: The Surrender. Here, the subject gives way to the sensations. The result can take many forms, but the most common is laughter and involuntary body movements.
'Level Three: Logical Endurance. While the subject still has her senses, she will try to ride back her responses or find ways to surf above them with mental and physical techniques. At this point we must ensure that we remain on top of the situation.
‘Level Four: Primal Panic…’
Yvette’s focus was sharpened. This was the level Kisi said she had reached on the night of their erotic exploration.
‘Primal Panic occurs when she realises that there is no way to escape or endure. She may cry, scream, and try any number of ways to lash out. Remember: just because she is tied down, doesn’t mean she cannot bite, or spit, unless we gag her. The preferred goal at this point is to aim for an escalating laughter response.’
Yvette recognised this description from what she experienced on that unforgettable night. Kisi had indeed found her weaknesses and exploited them; escalating them to the point where she was on the verge of finding them truly unbearable. There was a juvenile twinge of jealousy at the thought that Allegra would soon be the focus of Kisi’s attentions, but she batted the thought away like the irrational irritant it was. As Kisi continued to talk, Yvette’s erotic nostalgia became replaced by a sexless and sadistic urge to take revenge.
‘Level Five: Primal Resort – when the panic modes don’t have the effect of alleviating the torment. And, when she is tied, they will not. This is the level in which we want her to spend most of her time – unable to form coherent thought. Beyond logic. Pure suffering. In this way, we can allow her to dip back down to regular consciousness when we want her to. This is when we are most likely to get the answers we seek.
‘The line then blurs into Level Six: The Deeper Primal Resort. Some people’s internal safety mechanisms may cause them to do unexpected things, this includes humiliating bodily functions, or they may pass out. They will sense the demons within this level and they will fear it. Like the threat of holding someone’s head under water, we can dip them in and bring them back out.’
Kisi switched off the screen and rejoined Yvette.
‘What about Level Seven?’
‘Level Seven is Termination,’ said Kisi flatly as she headed for the exit. ‘We do not do that here,’
‘Oh, wow. No, of course not,’ said Yvette. She was tempted to ask whether Kisi had ever done it, but could tell she wouldn’t relinquish such information and, considering it for a moment, she realised she didn’t want to know the answer.
CHAPTER 5
‘I know who you are,’ said Allegra. ‘You are aware that what you’re doing here shows how panicked and desperate you are? Forget diplomatic negotiations!’
Just like the video clip of Olivia Jenson that she showed on the screen in Zafirah Khalil’s office, Allegra found herself locked by the wrists and ankles into to a padded chair, her arms out-straight to the side at shoulder height and her legs on two supports in front of her. Curved metal bars kept her knees and elbows in check so there was no room to manoeuvre. The only difference was that Olivia Jenson had been almost naked, whereas she was still fully dressed.
Before her stood Kisi and Yvette. Yvette’s clothes now resembled a cross between a nurses outfit and a navy service uniform.
‘We never considered these to be negotiations, Miss Volkov,’ said Kisi. ‘Our island is young but our methods are not. We do not bend to extortion and, on a personal note, I do not like bullies.’
‘Ha! “Bullies”,’ said Allegra. Despite her current physical predicament she spoke with such calm grandiloquence that Yvette could tell she really believed this to be an elaborate scare tactic. ‘You can pretend that you’re not unsophisticated, but you certainly talk like you’re in school! If you need any proof, you can look no further than your “correctional facilities” – you use the same methods here as you do when you commit adultery! And if you don’t let me go this instant, the world will see how much of a joke you are when they compare those two videos side-by-side. With you two as the main attraction, of course.’
‘You know what we want to know,’ said Kisi.
‘And in case your inept negotiating team didn’t pass on the message: I will never tell you.’
Allegra’s crystal blue eyes were resolute. Yvette had only been in her company for some minutes but she could tell that she was not to be underestimated. There was something about her that reminded her of Kisi – unbelievably calm under pressure, even in such rare circumstances. She was willing to bet she had a military background.
The thought made Yvette suddenly feel like a pre-schooler at university – how could she possibly be of use in this situation?
Without saying a word, Kisi moved to a chair in the corner of the room, leaving Yvette to make the first move. Allegra looked at her with undiluted contempt.
‘As a representative of several important organisations and as a British citizen, I suggest you let me go. Now.’
‘Now zat you mention it, before I came in ‘ere I ‘ad word zat our Prime Minister and yours ‘ave been talking. Your government denies you are working on their behalf—‘
‘I didn’t say I was acting on behalf of the British gov—’
‘I know what you said!’ shouted Yvette.
Allegra smirked and glanced at Kisi. Even without looking, Yvette knew Kisi would be concerned that she had already lost her temper.
She took a deep breath and stepped forward. Allegra was sitting at an elevated angle that placed her stilettoed feet level with her chest.
‘I like your shoes,’ said Yvette. ‘What size are zey?’
Allegra rolled her eyes. ‘Size nine, UK. Why? Can’t you get Gianvito Rossi to deliver here in the South Pacific?’
‘Non. I was going to take zem for myself, but my feet are a lot daintier zan yours,’ said Yvette and pulled both shoes off to reveal Allegra’s size nine feet in beige soft-sheen shoe liner socks.
Her toes waggled. ‘Oh, Christ. We’re not going to go through this nonsense, are we? I can save you the trouble – it won’t work on me.’
As Yvette gripped both socks at Allegra’s heels she took great care to deliberately tease the skin around her ankles without appearing to do so. This was a technique Kisi hadn’t used on her during their encounter and would have driven her crazy if she had. Unfortunately, the method didn’t seem to be working on Allegra, so she simply peeled off the socks. ‘What won’t work on you?’ asked Yvette.
‘Your play-school interrogation techniques! You’d have to be pretty bloody pathetic to find that torturous.’
Yvette looked at Allegra’s feet and felt completely impotent. They were bare. They were locked in place. They were large and smooth, with elegant long toes. But now the concept of tickling them to the point of obtaining information felt utterly abstract. She didn’t know where to start. If Yvette’s suspicions about Allegra’s past were correct, even if she hadn’t been captured and interrogated before, she was probably still more familiar with the concept than herself.
She took a moment to consider.
History had taught her that were two ways to go about facing a challenge – relying on ones own experience or blagging and hoping for the best. Whilst hope and luck paid off now and then, experience was always preferable. She had occasionally tickled friends and family members, but not for any length of time. The times when it had gone on for longer were the times she tickled her lovers. She remembered one time when she had tickled a gym-fit boyfriend’s tummy and was inspired to keep doing so because he had such a cute reaction to it. She recalled the particular feeling of his muscles under her fingertips and suspected this would work well on Allegra – she looked like a fit woman who would have well-developed abs.
But the most valuable experience she’d had was her recent torturous time with Kisi. And, while she was aware that everyone is different, she was also now aware of more ticklish spots on her own body than ever before. She almost wriggled at the physical memory of where and how Kisi tickled her and suddenly felt a light shine upon the answer; now that she was able to put herself in that frame of mind, she could visualise projecting a map of vulnerable areas from her own body onto Allegra’s and viewed her feet with a completely new outlook.
Without saying a word, she gripped Allegra’s left big toe with one hand and pulled it back; stretching her sole immobile.
‘Get off me,’ said Allegra, as if a coal dust-covered street urchin was tugging at her hem and begging for loose change.
Yvette didn’t answer but instead scurried two fingers onto the place on her own feet that were most ticklish – just under the ball of her foot and in line with the big toe. Allegra gave an exaggerated sigh.
Yvette recalled that Kisi’s technique didn’t stop in one place – she sought out spots that caused her to react. So, her scurrying fingers travelled steadily up and into the crease of Allegra’s big toe. Still there was no reaction and out of the corner of her eye she could sense Allegra’s bright blue eyes fixed on her with what seemed to be her trademark expression of undiluted arrogance.
Kisi watched from the corner of the room, allowing Yvette to explore and experiment as she would allow any other apprentice, but ready to take the lead in an instant. Allegra was unwavering in her look of disdain at the situation, but Kisi appreciated, despite this, the meticulous manner in which Yvette tested every square millimetre of the skin under Allegra’s toes—from big to little—while locking her foot in place. She was impressed with how patient she was. Most beginners dove in with arbitrary techniques more likely to invoke pain rather than cause laughter. She mused over whether there was a benefit in ensuring all trainees experience being tickled before they practiced being a tickler—
Her thoughts were interrupted when she noticed Yvette pause. There was a change in her posture and the one-way path that her fingernails were traversing along Allegra’s sole took a pace backward.
‘Everyfing okay?’ Yvette asked Allegra.
‘I’m not troubled, if that’s what you mean,’ said Allegra, her demeanour unchanged.
‘Are you sure about zat? I only ask because, when I touched zis little bit here…’ she said, tickling the centre of Allegra’s high arch, ‘…your skin became a little more slippery. You started to sweat.’
‘It’s hot in here.’
‘No, Allegra. It isn’t.’
Kisi’s eyes narrowed. She could see a thin sheen of sweat beginning to form on Allegra’s upper lip.
‘This is ridiculous,’ said Allegra, and glanced at Kisi, who responded with a knowing smirk.
Allegra licked her lips and tried to return to her previous haughty state.
‘Ooh, your large feet are quite sweaty now, aren’t zey? Why is zat?’
‘Typical French impertinence,’ said Allegra, now with the hint of a wobble in her voice.
Yvette shrugged off the insult and began to circle the spot on Allegra’s sole.
As Kisi watched intently, she saw it: the jump in Allegra’s chest that was akin to suppressing a hiccup. But it wasn’t a hiccup: she just gave her first tiny laugh.
Allegra tried to relax. Every fibre of her being was on edge and she felt an ocean of pent-up laughter mounting against her resistance. She had successfully remained unshaken this whole time and her hope was that if she could maintain it for longer, these women would get bored and at least attempt more endurable methods until calls were made and she was released. My facade is impenetrable, she thought. Isn’t it? Then why did that bloody African woman in the corner just smirk at me like she knew what I was thinking? She can’t see me sweating from here.
‘I quite like ze sweat, I ‘ave to say. It’s ‘elping my fingernails to glide a lot more easily,’ said Yvette.
Allegra felt her lips begin to quiver. She tried to relieve her compulsion to laugh by disguising it as an audible sneer and instantly regretted doing so – if her resistance was a dam, she had just allowed it to spring a leak.
A long hiss from Allegra was accompanied by a confused determination as she shut her eyes and struggled to contain the inevitable.
‘You’ll ‘ave to remind me,’ said Yvette, ‘didn’t you say you weren’t ticklish?’
Allegra looked at her, paralysed with a fixed grimace. She wanted to insult her again but the integrity of her defences were on the verge of collapse and any energy expended would send her over the edge. She sensed the glee that would be displayed in the eyes of these women if they defeated her and despised the thought. It had never happened before.
‘Perhaps if I were to tickle both of your feet at once…?’ said Yvette and, without giving Allegra a beat to prepare herself, she reached across and attacked both feet simultaneously.
A flicker of piteous disbelief evaporated as the dam of resistance exploded with the loudest scream of helpless laughter that Kisi had ever witnessed.
Yvette was almost startled to a stop, but she saw the expression on Allegra’s face that she could never have imagined and a rush of vindication unleashed from her an involuntary and victorious growl that she only previously recalled doing the moment she closed her first million-dollar deal. She quite forgot all about any techniques of precision and when she realised that all ten fingers were on autopilot she noticed the parts of Allegra’s soles that had previously appeared immune to tickling were now provoking just as much of a reaction as the “sweet spots”.
‘Who is “pathetic” now, you bitch?!’ shouted Yvette. ‘You’re gonna wreck my marriage? Fuck you! Putain!’
Allegra was so overwhelmed that she showed no recognition of the words hurled at her. With her mouth stretched wide, she shook her head fiercely in an illogical attempt to cope with the relentless attack on her soles and toes.
Yvette turned to Kisi, ‘I fink we’ve passed Level One!’
Kisi smiled. ‘Yes! And I forgot to mention: sometimes you can leapfrog levels – straight from One to Four, like now!’
Yvette was pleased to see how gratified Kisi was with her technique. She came to join her and rested a calming hand on her forearm. Yvette tempered the intensity of her onslaught and Allegra’s laughter diminished a little.
‘Who do you represent?’ asked Kisi.
Allegra gasped for air. ’I… I can’t tell you!’ she cried.
‘Yes you can!’ said Yvette and she tickled faster.
Allegra’s back arched and her toes scrunched in vain as she once again burst out laughing. ‘PLEEEEASE NO!’
‘We don’t endlessly repeat the same question here,’ said Kisi. ‘If you do not answer you will be tortured for hours. I will have my staff work shifts; you will not sleep, and I will ask you again in the morning. If you do not tell me then, I will have my staff tickle you until the following day.’
Yvette was once again lost in her desire for revenge and had subconsciously dialled up the intensity of her torture.
Kisi edged her aside. ‘Here, let me…’
Reluctantly, Yvette gave way, but quickly appreciated the opportunity to observe the master at work. Kisi’s fingernails deftly played every single part of Allegra’s feet; inducing greater and greater surges of hysterics. For almost an hour Allegra was speaking in tongues and sweat beaded and dripped steadily from the tips of her wet hair.
Just when Yvette thought Kisi must have no more use for her, she turned to her and said, ‘It’s time to ride the line between Levels Five and Six.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Yvette.
Kisi stopped tickling with one hand and gestured for Yvette to stand in front of her and between Allegra’s spread legs. ’Her upper body,’ she said.
Allegra was evidently still lucid enough to hear what had just been said as the tone of her laughter wailed as much of a protest as she was able to give. Her mascara-stained eyes could do no more than watch as Yvette arrived between her legs and Kisi resumed tickling both feet.
She saw the predicted look of sadistic glee on Yvette’s face and bawled with resentment and impotence as she felt nimble fingers creep under her blouse.
‘Soaking!’ Yvette taunted. She found Allegra’s sweat-covered abs and began to tease with excruciating gentleness at the sides of her tummy. The frustration and sensitivity combined to hurl Allegra into delirium. With her eyes and mouth stretched so wide that it appeared unnatural, Kisi varied the intensity on Allegra’s feet whilst everything that Yvette did kept her at the required level of hysteria.
As sweat ran over her hands, Yvette suddenly realised that she was incredibly turned on and must have been for quite some time. It caused a momentary rush of vertigo when she recognised her next thought was that she would have liked nothing more than for Kisi to grab her waist from behind and tickle her to the ground. She then felt a pang of regret that doing such things had probably ended her marriage.
Anger grew inside her and compelled her to lift her hands to find out exactly how ticklish Allegra’s armpits were. She was delighted to discover that tickling the slick hollows of Allegra’s underarms threw her into previously undiscovered depths of insanity. Her bulging eyes ran bloodshot and veins throbbed from her neck as a barrage of laughter erupted from her throat. She seemed about to pass out.
CHAPTER 6
Outside Attitude Adjustment Therapy Room 2, facility guards Martinez and Knowles stood guard. From inside the suite they could hear almost everything.
‘Who do you represent?!’ screamed Yvette.
‘I CAN’T SAYYY-HAY-HAY-HAYYY!’ howled Allegra.
Kisi’s voice was calmer: ‘That was your last chance to answer today.’
Martinez turned to Knowles. ‘This is going to be a long night.’
THE END
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