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Gargalaphobia 2

TamiraK

TMF Poster
Joined
Jul 12, 2020
Messages
122
Points
18
Gargalaphobia 1


Gargalaphobia
(features sex, corporal punishment, BDSM and intense non-consensual tickling. 

Mostly */f, one instance of */m, nylon, feet + all over)​

CHAPTER IX

This was the first interrogation room Vanessa had ever been in and she did not appreciate the side of the table she was on. All the iterations she had seen on TV looked the same: a table, three chairs, a door, a two-way mirror and a couple of CCTV cameras. This room had all of that as well as a fresh lick of gun-metal grey paintwork.

The one aspect—the main worrying aspect—of the room that was different to anything she had seen before was her seat, which reminded her more of a 1930s electric chair. It sat on what looked like two metal rails that were flush to the floor and had steel binders that locked her wrists and ankles to the arms and legs.

The door opened. Officer Jackson, the arresting officer, made way for a ginger-haired and very rotund sergeant who took pride in his appearance despite his obvious inability to resist cheeseburgers and beer. His name badge read Bryce. He held a riding crop under one armpit and he was reading from a handheld tablet. He spoke out of one side of his mouth.

‘Mrs Holbrook,’ he said without looking up.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Vanessa.

‘Yes, Sergeant,’ said Jackson.

‘Yes, Sergeant,’ Vanessa repeated.

‘Driving under the influence…’ Bryce read from the screen.

‘Sergeant, I—‘

‘Did you know this is one of the safest cities in Florida, Mrs Holbrook?’ said Bryce.

‘I didn’t, but I can believe it. It’s a very nice place.’

Bryce looked up to detect whether she was mocking him and she saw the precise moment he realised how attractive she was. She was unnerved that it made his next statement noticeably more aggressive. ‘In which case you’ll understand why we don’t want out-of-towners comin’ down here and harrassin’ our congresswomen.’

‘I thought I was here for driving under the influence?’ If she could have moved her leg she would have literally kicked herself in the journalistic instinct; this was not the time to be clever.

‘That’s right, Mrs Holbrook,’ said Bryce as Jackson moved the table and the two other chairs to the corner of the room, ‘you’re here for two violations – driving under the influence and assault.’

‘Assault!? I’ve been interviewing—’

Bryce gestured to Jackson who opened a metal panel embedded in the wall and pressed a button.

Vanessa caught her breath as she felt her head swim with vertigo. She then realised that her chair was tipping backwards as the metal rails in the floor raised to form two robust steel quarter-circles and the back of Vanessa’s chair touched the floor.

‘I’m entitled to a phone call and a solicitor!’

‘You’re from New York, Mrs Holbrook – you don’t know what you’re entitled to down here. There are measures we can take when we believe that one of our elected politicians are under threat,’ said Bryce. ‘Officer Jackson…’

Vanessa could only watch as Jackson stepped forward. She had no idea what he would do next but detected a leering glance up her skirt as he hesitated between her legs. She jumped when he took hold of both of her stilettos and pulled them off.

Her palms and feet sweated when she was nervous, which made the air feel all the cooler as he stood back.

Bryce’s lip curled. ‘If you are going to have such large feet, I suggest you at least wash them, Mrs Holbrook.’

The insult over their size drew a blunt retort. ‘I do wash them. I was just walking on a lawn earlier—’

‘Sneakin’ around, huh?’

‘Gabby Calhoun’s lawn, because she invited me to be there.’

‘I don’t like your tone, Missy,’ said Bryce.

‘Maybe if you sat me up straight I’d sound different…’

Her assertive air faded as Bryce threw the tablet onto the table and took hold of the riding crop. He lifted it against the sole of her right foot. Her toes curled instinctively.

‘I want my phone call,’ she said.

Bryce said nothing but tapped the crop gently and rapidly up and down Vanessa’s bare sole. Aside from being surreal, this was easy to endure and Vanessa tried to ignore the thought that things could get worse. Soon her foot began to tingle.

Still at the same tempo, Bryce gradually increased the strength of each hit. Soon Vanessa felt her sole start to vibrate with heat. Sweat formed on her soles and palms and, as the sensation turned into an unignorable sting, her fingers and toes wriggled and she chewed on her cheek. Then she noticed Bryce grinning at her agitation and she forced herself to relax.

A quick swish-thwack! across the ball of her foot brought her back into the moment and she grasped the arms of the chair.

‘I wasn’t doing anything wrong,’ she said.

‘We’ll find out,’ said Bryce and hit the ball of her foot with several short, sharp strikes. She jumped with each hit.

‘That hurts!’ she said.

Bryce and Jackson looked at one another and snickered. ‘Well, of course it does, Mrs Holbrook – that’s the point,’ said Bryce and traversed her sensitive high arch to the heel. She grimaced with each strike.

She could see his enjoyment increase along with her level of distress. The strikes were getting sharper and the new, irregular timings in between each whisk of the crop was somehow making the eventual impacts worse.

Vanessa clenched her toes, gritted her teeth and held her breath but it didn’t help. Her fingertips slipped with sweat against the chair arm. The thought of this getting worse made tears form in the her eyes.

There was flash of sadistic victory in Bryce and the next crack across her sole caused the tears to roll into her ears.

‘Ow-w-w!’

‘I think we’ll give that foot a rest,’ said Bryce. Vanessa felt a brief relief, ‘and move on to the other one—‘

‘No!’ cried Vanessa, swallowing back tears. ‘I haven’t done anything!’

‘We’re still to find that out,’ said Bryce, ready to begin again when a digital buzzer sounded. He went to the panel by the door and lifted a receiver. Vanessa could hear a female voice at the other end of the line but couldn’t make out what she was saying.

‘Sergeant Bryce,’ he said. ‘Yep… Understood.’ He hung up the receiver and opened the door. ‘She’s free to go,’ he said to Jackson and left the room without looking at her again.

The wave of relief almost caused Vanessa to burst into sobs, but she held it together.

Jackson loomed between her legs. ‘Seems like we don’t need to hold you any longer.’ His leer up her skirt had lost all subtlety. His eyes were locked on her panties as he spoke. ‘See? You didn’t need your phone call or a solicitor. It’s a shame though – our policy is for corporal punishment until we are sure we have the truth. I’ve always thought there were much more creative ways of getting information from people.’

He slowly lifted his hands towards her feet. Vanessa stiffened in her restraints, expecting another pinch of pain. Instead he briskly ran the tip of each index finger down both soles. Vanessa’s body shuddered uncontrollably and the restraints rattled. She looked at him in nervous confusion.

‘See?’ he said. ‘So many other options.’


CHAPTER X

The floodgates opened as soon as the rental car left the Cape Coral PD HQ. So much so that Vanessa had to pull into a mall car park and cry it out. She called Ryan several times but only got his voicemail. She needed a hug from him immediately and so dried her face and put herself on autopilot all the way back to her hotel in Jacksonville, being careful not to give the cops any reason to pull her over again.

She collected her things, drove to the airport and paid over-the-odds for a ticket to New York. The whole time she felt a warm vibration in her right foot. There were several times on the journey when she almost broke down but made a deal with herself that she would wait until she was in Ryan’s arms.

It was almost 2am by the time the taxi dropped her home. The flat was in darkness, save for a bedside lamp in the bedroom. She dropped her luggage, went to the bedroom and was surprised to see Ryan awake, in just his boxer shorts, covered in sweat and lust in his eyes. She wanted to tell him about her ordeal but, at the same time, assumed he’d been working out and wanted to know how this transformation took place. She only spoke to him yesterday when he was still lethargic with Long Covid. The bed covers were a mess. Had he been thrashing in his sleep? He got up from the bed with the most prominent erection she could recall seeing in person. She needed a hug more than she needed sex, but it had been so long that when he grabbed her by the arms, she let herself be taken.

Ryan pulled her onto the bed without saying a word. They rolled over, he pinned her arms to the sheets and passionately kissed her neck. She loved his natural smell. It took her back to the first wild months of their relationship. He pulled her top apart and tore off her bra. Squeezing her breasts with his large hands, he buried his face between them. She gasped with delight as he kissed and nibbled at her nipples then roughly tossed her onto her front.

Tears of mixed emotions seeped silently onto the bedspread as Ryan yanked down her skirt and panties and parted her legs. He pulled her hips close, his hard cock sliding into her wetness with sublime ease. He was harder than she had ever felt him before. Slow, strong movements became faster and her firm buttocks slapped against his groin as he thrust faster and faster. They had never climaxed simultaneously before, but his huge pulsing dick was stimulating her in exactly the right way and her head tingled on the verge of ecstasy as he began the moan that she loved to hear. She felt the first spurt of pre-cum from him, one more and she would go over the edge…

‘Now it’s your turn!’ said Ryan.

The sparkles in Vanessa’s head stopped her from asking what he meant and, out of nowhere, Ryan’s fingers wriggled into the muscles of her waist.

A wave of sensation overwhelmed Vanessa and she collapsed face-first into the mattress. She clapped her elbows to her sides and tried to pull herself away, but he held her fast. She drew breath to scream with frustration and anger but was undermined by a burst of laughter.

‘Now… it’s… your… turn!’ Ryan shouted, erupting inside her more and more with each word. On the fifth thrust, he flopped on top of her.

Vanessa wriggled free and fell off the bed. She clambered to her feet and backed away, ‘What the hell, Ryan!?’

Ryan appeared confused as to whether Vanessa was serious or not.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

‘Why did you do that?’

‘I thought it’s what you wanted.’

‘Ruining my orgasm? Why would I want that?’

Ryan’s confusion was joined by irritation. ’Baby, I don’t understand. If you didn’t want me to do it, what was earlier all about?’

‘Earlier? I’ve just got back.’

A clack sound elsewhere in the apartment gave them both a start.

‘That was the front door,’ said Vanessa.

They went to the living room and turned on all the lights. There was nobody there.

Ryan went to the front door and looked through the peephole. The outside corridor was empty, but the door to the stairs was closing shut.

‘Somebody went down the stairs,’ he said.

‘Who?’ said Vanessa.

He gestured that he was naked and wasn’t going anywhere fast.

Irritated, Vanessa dashed to the bedroom, pulled on her skirt and blouse and ran to the stairwell. The sound of a door echoed several floors down. She went back to the flat. Ryan was now deflated on the sofa, sapped of all energy.

‘What’s goin’ on?’ demanded Vanessa.

‘I don’t know!’ said Ryan, perplexed. ‘All I know is that I finished looking for jobs and I went to the bedroom, laid down and fell asleep. Then I got woken up by… what I thought was you stroking my back.’

Vanessa’s mouth dropped open.

‘I thought you’d surprised me by coming home early! And you didn’t say anything, slipped a blindfold on me and slowly put your hands up my shirt, then reached round and undid the buttons—‘

‘Why do you keep saying I did it!?’

‘Because I thought it was you! Who else am I supposed to think comes into this flat and starts touching me?’

Vanessa shook her head in disbelief. ‘Then what?’

‘Then you took off my shirt and pants—’

‘Stop saying I did it!’

‘Okay, okay! Then they took off my shirt and pants and tied me to the bed.’

He indicated the proof; there were red marks around his wrists and ankles. Vanessa’s palms and soles instantly began to sweat as she recalled what happened to her just hours ago.

‘Then…’

What, Ryan?’

‘Then they started tickling me.’

The tiny hairs on Vanessa’s back stood on end. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

‘They grabbed me around the waist and I just lost it. I was laughing and laughing. I just couldn’t stop it. I’ve never been… I mean, maybe years ago, but I’ve never been tickled before. Not like that. I didn’t know I was so ticklish. It’s like they knew exactly where to go and I went berserk.’

‘They didn’t say anything?’

‘No. Even if they did I don’t think I could have heard them because I was laughing so loud. It was weird – like my laughing was the only thing I could hear, but I couldn’t turn it off or turn it down. They just straddled me and tickled my waist. I was laughing and trying to thrash about… but I couldn’t move because I was tied so tight.’

‘Straddled you? They were sitting on you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Were they light? Heavy? Male? Female? Tell me something, Ryan!’

‘I really don’t know, baby. Don’t get mad at me. I thought it was you, so I didn’t question who was on me. And I couldn’t see because you—they—put the blindfold on me.’

‘This is insane,’ said Vanessa, distraught. ‘Then what?’

‘Well, then they moved up to my armpits and…’

‘What, Ryan?’

‘I had no idea how ticklish I was there.’

Vanessa dropped her face into her hand.

‘Don’t do that! Have you ever been tied down and tickled? It’s torture! It makes the whole thing ten times worse! Whoever it was tickled my upper body for a long time and their hands were really strong, but, at the same time, they knew exactly how much pressure to use…’

Ryan’s tendency to raise a questioning inflection at the end of a sentence like a Californian teen seeking confirmation often irritated Vanessa, but right now she had the compulsion to punch him. This was not the time to discuss the wondrous mysteries of tickling techniques.

‘I thought it was over… But then they turned around and started teasing the backs of my knees. Oh, Christ, Vanessa, I thought I was going to lose my mind. It was such a light touch, but I was going crazy.

‘Then they crawled their fingers down my legs, over my ankles and… started tickling my feet. They got my heels and went all over the arches. I thought feet were just feet – I didn’t know different parts of your feet would be more ticklish than others. It’s when they went under my toes that I actually screamed, but with laughter, you know…’

Vanessa looked up. Ryan was staring into thin air and smirking.

‘What are you smiling about?’ she yelled.

‘I’m sorry, okay? It’s taking me a minute to get my head around the fact that it wasn’t you. I’ve just never had my feet tickled before. I’ve gotta say… it turned me on.’

‘What?’ said Vanessa. The “t” in the word could have cut glass, but Ryan was so lost in reminiscence that he failed to read the room.

‘I’ve never had it before. I’ve told you in the past that I wanted you to be more active in the bedroom and I thought this was you doing that. And I thought, after you saw me going crazy and thrusting against the mattress, that you were enjoying the effect it had on me.’

‘The effect it had on you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You thought I would get horny by seeing you, my husband—a grown-ass man—get turned on by having his feet tickled?’

‘Don’t talk down to me like that—’

‘Why the hell not? You lounge around for months on end and lose your job, you do virtually nothing in the bedroom and then get turned on by someone—could even be a guy—tickling your feet! You think your wife should find the bright side to this? Great! You’re a freak! Amazing…!’

‘I’m not a freak. I know you’ve got a thing against tickling because—’

‘Shut up!’ screamed Vanessa, screwing her eyes tight and covering her ears.

Ryan gave her a moment to calm down and then sat forward and took her hands. She was reluctant to let him have them. He waited as she kept her eyes shut and calmed her breathing.

‘Baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t know, okay. How was I to know? I mean, who hell would do this?’

Vanessa’s eyes popped open. She understood why she’d been detained in Florida.


CHAPTER XI

The next morning Vanessa arrived at Jaz’s flat so early that Jaz was still in her pyjamas. She was used to seeing Vanessa serious and composed so it was disconcerting to see her circling the kitchen in a fury.

‘I wanna nail this bitch to the wall,’ said Vanessa.

‘Okayyy…’ said Jaz. ‘Maybe we just need to calm down…’

‘She sexually tortured my husband, Jaz – for hours.’

‘I’m sure she didn’t personally do it—’

‘I know that. I mean she got someone else to do it to prove a point. Goddamn psycho.’

‘What I’m saying is, if she can co-ordinate getting you arrested in Florida with getting your husband tied up and tickled—’

Vanessa grimaced. ‘Don’t use that word!’

‘Okay… With getting your husband tied up and assaulted in New York, then we need to be careful.’

Vanessa sat at the kitchen table and picked up a half-empty cup of coffee. Jaz stopped her. ‘That’s from last night. I’ll make you a fresh one.’

‘What have you come up with?’ asked Vanessa.

‘Not a lot,’ said Jaz as she loaded a cappuccino maker. ‘I was kinda waiting on you to give me some leads.’

‘The lead is that Calhoun the Loon is a vindictive, botox-faced bitch. What does Brayden have?’

‘I think he’s avoiding my calls. It’s weird.’

‘“Weird”,’ Vanessa parroted.

Jaz took from the cupboard her favourite pink mug with a flamingo on it. ‘I mean, by the sounds of it, whoever tick—er—fooled with your husband knew what they were doing. How do you find someone like that so quick? It’s not like someone who’s got a phobia of that would know where to look.’

Vanessa chewed the inside of her cheek. It was a good point: whoever broke into the flat and pretended to be her was not the average person, or even the average gun for hire; they would need a very particular skillset.

‘Who is such a fanatic that they can do that to someone for hours…?’ asked Jaz as she placed the coffee in front of Vanessa with a knowing air.

‘No!’ said Vanessa. ‘I’m not going to see him!’

‘What choice do we have?’

‘Before asking the guy who attacked my sister and I got incarcerated for a favour? Plenty! This is New York, for God’s sake – you can find anyone here. Get on your laptop. Find people. And get photos of them.’

‘What for?’ asked Jaz.

Vanessa took up her jacket and Jaz’s favourite mug. Before Jaz could protest, she was gone.

- - -

Vanessa was astounded by her apartment building’s ancient closed-circuit television system.

‘Don’t you have anything more up-to-date? Like VHS?’ she asked.

The head of security, who she believed was installed at about the same time as the cameras, was as bad at spotting irony as he was eager to please a beautiful young resident. ‘I found this, Mrs Holbrook.’

He played footage of a strapping individual dashing down the stairwell just after 2:15am, dressed in black, wearing gloves and a baseball cap. The angle of the cameras meant that the only helpful factor they served to confirm was that the nose peaking from under the baseball cap was Caucasian… or possibly Asian.

‘What about the cameras at the front entrance?’ asked Vanessa.

‘They haven’t worked for a little while now, but they’re due to be replaced next week.’ The security guard’s token look of apology was several miles from satisfactory.

‘Superb,’ said Vanessa. ‘You really are terrific at your job.’

He drooped in his chair as she left the room.

- - -


Vanessa concluded that this was the most unproductive day she had ever experienced. Not because she hadn’t discovered anything new—there were plenty of days like that—but because she could not get her head to operate correctly. The hatred she felt for Gabby Calhoun, for subjecting her to the Cape Coral PD HQ ordeal and having her own husband molested, did not focus her thoughts as she hoped it would; it became a permanent distraction. Not least because Ryan’s comment, “I’ve just never had my feet tickled before. I’ve gotta say… it turned me on,” just about ended all respect she had for him.

She was turned on my alpha males. She had been clinging to the idea that the man she loved and desired would one day return. But now, even if he did, he would still be the man who got overpowered and turned on by… that.

She rattled her head, trying to Etch-a-Sketch the idea from her mind as she arrived outside Jaz’s apartment. She realised it wasn’t a nice thought as soon as she had it, but she figured she could take some of her frustration out on Jaz. She pressed Jaz’s number. The intercom was silent but the door buzzed open. The elevator was out of order – not a remedy for foul moods.

Vanessa walked up to the fifth floor and found Jaz’s door ajar. She went to push it open, then hesitated. Why hadn’t Jaz said anything before she let her in? She pulled a can of mace from her purse – buying the spray was the only constructive thing she had done that day. She held it ready and slid the door open.

All the lights were on. The only thing she could hear was the thump, thump, thump of bass from loud music playing in a neighbouring apartment. With a cat-like tread she went to the TV room and peeked towards the bedrooms.

A blast of laughter from behind made her jump and turn, ready to spray.

She found Jaz sitting at the kitchen table, where she’d left her that morning, hunched over her laptop.

‘Oh, hi!’ said Jaz, then she saw the can of mace. ‘What’s that?’

‘Pepper spray,’ said Vanessa, ‘and you nearly ate it. What are you doing?’

‘Research. Like you told me.’

‘Why didn’t say something on the intercom?’

‘I didn’t want to miss anything.’ Jaz indicated the screen.

Vanessa looked over her shoulder and saw an old-school web site. ‘What is it?’

‘As far as I can tell it’s the main web site for the worldwide tickling community. It’s been around for decades,’ said Jaz. ‘They’ve got everything you can imagine: tickling discussions, video clips, fantasy art, stories, a personals section and this—where I am now—a chat room. If you want to find someone who knows about tickling quick, this is the place to come.’ She made way for Vanessa to take her seat.

‘I had to register. My screen name’s JazzyToes,’ she said with a beaming smile.

‘Right,’ said Vanessa.

‘I’ve copy-pasted a bunch of conversations into a Word document so you could see.’

Jaz switched to text document. Conversations were sectioned under the screen name of each user. Vanessa skimmed the document, reading the first lines aloud, emphasising the phonetics of each one:

“hi have you been tickled lately at all?”

“hey. were u tiklish?”

“wanna rp?”


RP?’ she repeated to Jaz, who was refilling the coffee maker.

‘It means role play. It’s where people pretend—’

‘Yeah, I know what role play means, Jaz. Thanks.’

Vanessa read on:

“hi. u got tickelish feeet???”

‘Jesus. Have any of these people heard of spell check? And does it really need three question marks?’

As she spoke the computer made a plink sound.

‘That’s a new message – check it out,’ said Jaz.

Vanessa switched to the browser and found a new message from user named SupremeMasterTickleDom. It read:
how tall are you?

‘That’s one way to say “Hello”,’ muttered Vanessa. She typed:
5’11”

SupremeMasterTickleDom replied:
not bad.

JazzyToes replied:
Keep your objectifying opinions to yourself, you obtuse hick.

SupremeMasterTickleDom replied:
huh?

‘Jesus H. Christ,’ said Vanessa.

‘Fun, yeah?’ said Jaz, handing her a coffee.

‘Have you found anything worthwhile today, Jaz?’

‘Oh, yeah. I’ve messaged with a bunch of guys in New York. They were all pretty cagey about sending out their photos, though.’

‘Never mind,’ said Vanessa. As the security video was such a wash-out she had nothing to compare the photos to anyway. ‘What have you got?’

‘There’s a fetish club called Hades in Midtown West, which is on tonight,’ said Jaz.

‘It’s a… tickling club night?’ there was no other way to ask the question so Vanessa hurried the word.

‘It’s for all fetish and BDSM lovers, but the guys I spoke to all said they’d be there when I said I was interested in checking it out.’

‘Alright then,’ said Vanessa, getting to her feet. ‘Get dressed – we’re going to Hades.’


CHAPTER XII

Since its inception, the New York fetish scene had experienced periods of popularity and abatement. Movements that brought what many referred to as alternative lifestyles to the fore, or the occasional book, TV show or movie that broke through into mainstream pop culture, often inspired a carpe diem attitude that increased the footfall of a previously tentative population to attend BDSM clubs, gatherings and private parties.

On the flip side, there were times when club promoters struggled to get people through the doors. This was one of those times. The current lull in attendance was caused by the heatwave; many felt it was just too hot to get dressed up in their usual rubber or leather gear and so preferred to play at home.

At the same time, there was a reliable core of individuals for whom it would take nothing short of a natural disaster to keep them away from the chance to play with a stranger. These were single men.

And so it was that Club Hades, with its three floors, four doormen, twelve bar staff and red and blue neon, which cast splashes of purple light over a plentiful array of quality bondage furniture, attracted patrons consisting of thirty-three straight males and one straight couple. That is, until Vanessa and Jaz arrived.

Prior to leaving the flat, Vanessa borrowed Jaz’s plum lipstick, accentuated her eyes with a smokey mascara and fixed her hair to make it high and wild. They passed by a fetish shop on West 34th Street that was open until midnight and, with no attention paid to the price tags, Vanessa picked up a tall top hat; a black leather, lace & purple silk steel-boned corset; a stylish leather miniskirt; and a pair of designer thigh-high black leather boots with six-inch heels and lacing front & back – from her ankles to the tops of her thighs. She appeared in the main doorway, silhouetted by a combination of the venue’s entrance corridor strip lighting and dry ice. Towering over Jaz and everybody else in the venue, she turned the heads of dominants and submissives alike – each with a sudden hope that this could be the best night of their lives.

Jaz—wearing a pair of her own high-heeled Dr Marten boots, whale net tights and (via Vanessa’s credit card) an all-in-one strapless rubber zip-fronted shaper basque & miniskirt—was used to being ignored in Vanessa’s company. As a lesbian, this was a grateful reprieve from the day-to-day unwanted and feeble approaches she got from men. She was, however, disappointed that the only other women in the place were the cloakroom attendant and a submissive in the roped-off play area who was bent over a leather bench and receiving an unnecessarily harsh paddling from her show-off Master.

Vanessa surveyed the room. ‘What’s his name?’ she said over the house music that had no business being as loud as it was.

‘He called himself TheTickleGod07’, said Jaz.

‘Of course he did.’

There’s nothing like an arbitrary number to seal your position as the definitive deity, thought Vanessa when a short, pudgy man in a leather jockstrap and a studded collar threw himself at her feet.

‘Hello, Mistress,’ he said.

‘Erm… yes?’

‘Can I lick your boots?’

‘What would I get out of it?’ she asked.

‘You can call me slave,’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ said Vanessa, unconvinced. ‘Do you think women like to feel special?’

‘Yes, Mistress!’

‘How special do you think it feels that you call someone Mistress at the drop of a hat?’

An inane smile demonstrated that he didn’t understand her point. She stepped over him and went to the bar. He shuffled on his knees to block Jaz’s path.

‘Hello, Mistress—’

‘Go away,’ said Jaz and joined Vanessa.

Vanessa bought the drinks while thirty-three pairs of eyes gawked at them from the shadows. ‘What does this “god” look like?’

‘I didn’t ask,’ said Jaz.

‘Stellar journalism there, girl,’ Vanessa sighed.

‘Hi,’ interrupted a voice at her elbow. A stern man in a long leather trench coat had appeared out of nowhere. A curled bullwhip hung from his belt and he sipped an orange juice. He rested against the bar and gazed out at the playroom as if there was more to observe than one couple and their monotonous spanking activities. ‘Lots of potential…’ he mused.

‘Really?’ replied Vanessa.

‘Yes,’ he said, matching her disinterest, but his cavalier attitude was undermined by a leather-trench-coat-in-a-heatwave-induced sweat.

‘This is your first time here,’ he said.

‘Correct,’ said Vanessa.

He faced her square-on. ’That’s: “Correct, Sir.” And you should say it on your knees with my hand at your throat.’

Vanessa coolly placed down her drink and leant to whisper in his ear. Jaz watched as his misplaced confidence withered like a deflating balloon. He straightened to his full height, which was still a full foot shorter than Vanessa, and paraded out of the room to explore one of the unpopulated floors; his whip somehow more floppy than it was before his approach.

Then Jaz noticed two young men watching from a shadowy corner next to the exit. She got the impression that shyness might cause them to run away at any moment. One tentatively lifted a hand and waved. She beckoned him over. He encouraged his friend to follow.

‘Hi,’ said the first. He carried a leather sports bag and obviously worked out but had the wispy beard of a guy who hadn’t shaved since the first spring of puberty.

Vanessa rolled her eyes.

‘TheTickleGod07?’ asked Jaz.

‘Yeah. Are you JazzyToes?’ he asked with a glance up at Vanessa, hoping she was the lady he had been chatting with that afternoon.

‘That’s me,’ said Jaz. She turned to the second young man, who was so skinny that his skin-tight rubber T-shirt was a loose fit: ‘And you are…?’

Sadist-underscore-Tickler69,’ he said.

‘You do know that means you tickle sadists, rather than being a sadistic tickler?’ said Vanessa.

‘Yeah, but the nickname Sadistic_Tickler69 was already taken,’ he said.

‘Right,’ said Vanessa. ‘Of course.’

‘So…’ said TheTickleGod07 as he cast an eye over the unused equipment, ‘what made you want to meet us here tonight?’

‘Curiosity,’ said Jaz. ‘Do you know know of any tickling experts? Who might, like, get paid to do it?’

‘Any real expert would do it for the love of doing it. They wouldn’t have to be paid,’ said Sadist_Tickler69 with conviction.

TheTickleGod07 nodded agreement.

‘Have you ever been asked to do that by someone?’ asked Vanessa.

‘Oh, God, no, but that would be perfect!’ said TheTickleGod07.

‘Yeah,’ said Sadist_Tickler69, joining in, ‘Real life non-consent, like what Jake Valentine did.’

Vanessa glared at the two boys.

‘Not that we’d do it for real,’ said TheTickleGod07, rolling back his enthusiasm in a hurry. ‘Non-con is never alright – only a fantasy, you know?’

This was followed by an awkward silence. As irritated as Vanessa was to hear admiration of the man who attacked Faith and pigeon-holed her career, she recognised that these two hadn’t given straightforward answers to their questions, and the statement, “Any real expert would do it for the love of doing it. They wouldn’t have to be paid,” rang a note of truth. Were they speaking from experience? It was the kind of thing someone cocky says when he feels safe enough to hide in plain sight and she hated the idea of overlooking the guilty party. Just because they were geeks, it didn’t mean they weren’t capable. She eyed TheTickleGod07 – he was a similar height and build to the figure on the CCTV footage. Was that his nose she saw? As much as she didn’t want to witness it, it would be good to know if his style of tickling matched what Ryan described.

‘So… would you like to play? We could take one each,’ said Sadist_Tickler69 to TheTickleGod07.

They both looked eagerly at Vanessa.

‘Not. A. Chance,’ she said.

Then all three looked at Jaz.

- - -

The two young men selected a long, padded leather bench and began to unpack ropes and restraints from TheTickleGod07’s bag. From where she stood, Vanessa could just make out their conversation.

‘What do I do?’ asked Jaz.

‘You can get undressed,’ said TheTickleGod07.

‘How much do I need to undress?’ she asked, unzipping her boots.

‘Well, your boots and tights, definitely. It would be good if you could remove your basque too,’ he said, shying away.

Jaz looked uncertain. ‘I’ll be back in a sec,’ she said and crossed the boundary rope to join Vanessa. ‘They want me to take off my all-in-one.’

Vanessa shrugged.

‘I don’t have anything on underneath. You said it didn’t look right with a bra.’

‘Are you wearing panties?’ asked Vanessa.

‘Yes.’

‘Then what are you worried about? This is a bondage club – you’re never going to see these people again and if they can’t touch your upper body, we won’t learn anything.’

Vanessa handed Jaz her drink.

‘Don’t think about it; just do it.’

Jaz sank the drink and returned to the guys, who were tying restraints to the both ends of the bench’s frame. She kept her back to the room as she unzipped her basque and laid it on a spanking bench next to them. Her naked back attracted men from the shadows like curious meerkats, who sauntered over to the play area. Now in just her panties, Jaz turned with her fists meekly together, as if she was holding rosary beads, and covered her breasts with her forearms. She sat on the bench, put her legs up and allowed the young men to cuff her ankles. Both were now more than pleased to have Jaz as their plaything, with their gazes palpably drawn to her feet.

It stood to reason, Vanessa thought, that if someone liked tickling they would also have an attraction to feet, and Jaz’s feet were objectively very nice – dainty, smooth and well-kept with cute, even toes. Vanessa was not a foot fan or a lesbian, but she could imagine someone being unable to resist a nibble under the right circumstances.

‘Now we need to tie your hands,’ said Sadist_Tickler69.

Jaz lowered her arms then laid down. Vanessa saw the mouths of several spectators fall open. She shook her head at how predictable men were, yet had to admit that Jaz’s breasts were a work of art: large, pert and all natural. It would have been easy to overlook the rest of her body, which was impressively toned and highlighted beautifully by the neon lights. Vanessa suddenly felt affronted that every man in the place now had their back to her and told herself she didn’t care. When the tying was complete, Jaz was stretched tight on the bench.

TheTickleGod07 and Sadist_Tickler69 stood either side of Jaz and smiled at one another. TheTickleGod07 lifted two long, stiff turkey feathers from his bag and handed one to his counterpart.

Jaz’s eyes opened wide. ‘Oh, no…’ she said, as though she was only suddenly aware of what was about to happen. Her eyes flicked between the feathers as they drifted slowly towards her exposed underarms. Giggles infiltrated her speech and her pitch raised in anticipation: ‘Oh, no, ohh, no, ohhh, no…!’ Then the tips of the feathers made contact and she broke into laughter, ’Ohhhh, naaaa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!’

Despite trying her best, Vanessa couldn’t ignore Jaz’s reactions. She found something unnerving about anyone’s reactions to tickling. It was like seeing someone tortured with pain – responses are primal and in spite of oneself and the last thing you want to do is react in a way that satisfies your torturer. Screaming in pain is one thing – it’s unpleasant but it matches the situation, but tickling… there’s something twisted about a method of torture that makes the victim laugh. And it’s worse to see it happen to someone you know. She couldn’t help but watch Jaz—her eyes agog and her mouth stretched wide—an expression on her face that she hadn’t seen in all the time they had spent together.

She shook the analysis from her mind and distracted herself by viewing it from a research point-of-view. She observed a look of triumph that boosted the young men’s demeanour after the application of the feathers. Whilst making a ticklish girl laugh was hardly something Vanessa would consider a triumph, she recognised the feeling of control it produced, and empathising with the men made her wince.

The turkey feathers twiddled in circles around Jaz’s armpits, making her laugh without reservation. She jiggled her legs in torment as much as they would move, slapping the backs of her knees against the leather. She was trying to throw her head back but, as both wrists were tied tightly together, her movement was contained by her upper arms, making her squash her own face against her biceps in a series of unflattering gurns.

Sadist_Tickler69 put down his feather. TheTickleGod07 followed suit and they both adjusted position – TheTickleGod07 stood at the head of the bench and stroked his fingertips up and down the lengths of Jaz’s arms. He paid particular attention to her wrists and inner elbows, which were noticeably more sensitive to touch. She gave a long spate of giggles and tried, unsuccessfully, to evade by twisting. Then she realised Sadist_Tickler69 was trickling his fingers from her armpits down towards her ribs and threw herself forward in panic.

‘Nahhhh…! Nahhhh…!’ she tried to protest but he began plucking at her lower ribs and laughter squeezed all the air from her voice. As both attacks flowed she writhed on the table in a fit of loud giggles.

The audience at the rope watched, unblinking. Even the couple stopped because the submissive found what was happening on the neighbouring bench to be more intriguing than what was happening to her. Soon a curious doorman and several members of the bar staff made their way onto the floor to spectate, which Vanessa considered most unprofessional. Then Vanessa noticed something strange: everyone in the room was smiling.

She noted subtle differences to the smiles—the couple were smiling in light-hearted appreciation, the bar staff were smiling at the bizarrely playful nature of Jaz’s torment and those hiding erections had a distinctive leer to their smile—but everyone, with the exception of herself, was smiling. She couldn’t understand it, but then she noticed something else…

The young men moved to Jaz’s legs, treating her thighs and kneecaps to a series of mischievous squeezes that made Jaz break out into an array of shrieking, hissing and burbling noises as she thrashed on the bench. ‘Mercy! Mercy! Mercy! Ha ha ha ha haaa!’ she cried before losing it once again and there was something unexpected about Jaz’s laughter – even though she was being tickled ostensibly against her will, she sounded like she was enjoying it. In Vanessa’s experience, tickling was accompanied by laughter, but it was a laughter of protest and any cries for mercy were heartfelt. Jaz’s cries, on the other hand, sounded like they were part of a game in which she was a willing participant.

‘Not the toes!’ Jaz shrieked, her voice reverberating with giggles.

TheTickleGod07 and Sadist_Tickler69 were at Jaz’s feet and revelling in gently tickling them all over. Vanessa marvelled at how thorough they were – they weren’t just tickling all over Jaz’s cute, spasming soles, they were also exploring the tops of her feet and her toes – one at a time.

“I didn’t know different parts of your feet would be more ticklish than others,” Ryan had said. Was this something all ticklers knew? Or was it specialist knowledge? As she thought of her husband, it occurred to her that these guys probably weren’t involved in his assault. Ryan said his attacker was strong and these two were gentle without variation. Also, Ryan was swiftly tied to the bed, which would indicate a proficiency with bondage, whereas these two tied Jaz’s bonds to the bench with approximately 15,000 overhand knots.

The evening was raising more questions than answers.

The only thing Vanessa knew for sure was that Jaz’s laughter would echo in her mind for some time to come.

- - -

It was 2:04am as Vanessa and Jaz stood on the sidewalk, highlighted by the glow of several big screen TVs displayed in a department store window. They were waiting for cabs around the corner from Hades, having moved to avoid the crass chat-up lines being tossed their way by the doormen.

Vanessa eyed Jaz, who was staring serenely into space.

‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you enjoyed that,’ said Vanessa.

Jaz’s tried to hide a grin but then gave into it. ‘Yeah, I did. It’s fun and one heck of a workout!’

‘Fun?’ Vanessa repeated.

Jaz shrugged and ran her fingers through her already ruffled hair. She knew there was no way to explain it that would make Vanessa understand.

‘It was also not the best use of our time,’ said Vanessa. ‘I don’t think those guys had enough assertion between them to break into a flat and tie up a stranger, let alone just one of them.’

‘It was a pretty narrow shot, Vani,’ said Jaz, her lips apparently loosened by three vodkas and forty minutes of non-stop laughter. ‘Did you really think we’d find the one who did it?’

‘What would you suggest?’

‘I told you, but you didn’t want to listen.’

A white Prius turned the corner and Jaz waved it down. Vanessa expected the driver to stare at them but instead he yawned – this was New York.

‘What did you tell me?’

‘There’s one person who is a real expert and who you already have a “relationship” with: Jake Valentine.’ Vanessa was already shaking her head. Jaz got into the cab. ‘…or don’t, but I don’t know what else we can do. G’night!’

Jaz slumped onto the back seat with a contented smirk and the cab pulled away.

Vanessa turned to see the department store TVs displaying Jackal News’s coverage of a Gabby Calhoun rally above the caption: CALHOUN ANNOUNCES PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION RUN.

The ticker underneath read, Republican favorites Dean and Richards withdraw…

‘Oh yeah?’ said Vanessa. ‘What the hell would make them do that?’ A bitter taste crossed her tongue as she watched a rejoicing Gabby Calhoun receive adulation from her cohorts while surrounded by flags.

Vanessa chewed her cheek. She had to stop this bitch and, once again, Jaz was right.


CHAPTER XIII

Fishkill Correctional Facility was constructed in 1896, originally as a hospital for the criminally insane. It was recently upgraded from a medium to a maximum security facility, although still maintained the services that helped to treat the incarcerated individuals, including alcohol and substance abuse treatment, counselling services, anger management and sex offender treatment programs.

Jake Valentine attended all of these.

Vanessa Holbrook paced the interview room that, to her contrary mind, was painted such an obvious shade of appeasing green that it served to have the opposite effect. Although her chair was separated from the prisoners’ side by a bulletproof perspex wall, she was still agitated; she had only come face-to-face with Valentine in court, but he had a way of getting under her skin, even from a distance.

She heard voices from the outer corridor, went to her seat, flattened her skirt and took a deep breath. It was vital that he didn’t sense one iota of timidity on her part and she reminded herself that she wasn’t intimidated by anyone.

On the other side of the divide a guard opened the door and Jake Valentine entered carrying a cup of water. It was surreal to see him again. He had grown designer stubble and his hair was longer than when she last saw him – he was a natural loner but wouldn’t look out of place as part of a biker gang. As she noted at the trial, his most striking features were his eyes, which were alluring despite having the dark-ringed evidence of insomnia. When he saw her, a smile spread across his face, revealing teeth that were clean and natural, yet with a peculiar blue tint, like he had just been sucking on a fountain pen.

‘Hello, Vanessahhh,’ he said, sliding onto his seat without taking his eyes from hers. He over-emphasised certain words, seemingly without affectation.

‘Valentine,’ she acknowledged.

He checked to ensure the guard had left them alone. ‘You managed to get a media interview quickly and without any supervision? You must have friends with sway.’

He was right – she had asked a favour from Ryan’s brother, who worked at the Department of Justice.

‘I have some questions,’ said Vanessa.

‘Has little sister been naughty? Does she need to be taught a lesson? Do you want me to tell you how best to do it?’

She ignored his provocations. ‘Do you—?’

‘I was beginning to worry you’d never answer my letters,’ he said.

‘I haven’t opened them.’

‘Why not? Scared they might excite you?’

‘I don’t imagine they contain anything worth reading.’

‘Yet, here you are. Plus, you haven’t thrown them away, have you?’

‘Not yet,’ said Vanessa.

‘Well, now that you’re here, I can tell you what’s in them: I want to thank you.’

‘Thank me?’ she said, dubiously.

‘Absolutely. I thought I was living the dream; finding unsuspecting sexy women—college students, professionals, MILFs, girls-next-door—tying them up and tickling them against their will… Do you know how sublime that is?’

Vanessa hid her disgust.

‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘when you got the evidence to put me in here I was disappointed at first, but I wasn’t aware of how many people appreciated my adventures,’ his eyes shone with inspiration. ‘I’m now the first world-famous tickle celebrity! I’ve had correspondence from all over the world: fellow ticklers praise me; stunning women beg to see me; and followers say they would do anything to please me.’ He leant closer to the divide, ‘There is even a guard in here who shares my passion and gives me private use of the internet and a player where I can watch home-made tickling scenes filmed by my most devoted fans. What more could I want? So, while I am here, I’m loving the experience and, when I get out…’

He spread his arms and waggled his fingers.

‘When you get out is a long, long time away.’

‘According to the initial sentence. But I’m behaving myself in here and you’d never guess how many brilliant legal minds appreciate my work. Some say I can get my sentence substantially reduced. Anyway, that’s why I want to thank you: my life is almost complete. I almost want for nothing.’ He paused, before reiterating: ‘Almost.’

Vanessa stomped on her curiosity, but despite her calm exterior he knew she was curious to know what he was thinking. He smiled and sat up with a mocking primness.

‘Before you ask me your questions, I have one for you,’ he said.

‘Go on.’

‘What do I get out of helping you?’

‘The chance to prove yourself – to show me that you are lord of your domain.’

‘I’m not vain, Vanessahhh. I already have what you’re offering.’

Vanessa anticipated this obstacle. ‘With all that’s waiting for you in the outside world, I’m sure you’d like to get out as soon as possible?’

‘And you think information I might have—a tickling fetishist convicted for federal kidnapping and sexual offences—would be so valuable that a judge would significantly reduce my sentence?’

‘Yes.’

He chortled doubtfully. ’What’s your question?’

‘If someone wanted to hire someone with your… skill set, where might they go?’

‘Ha! Until I grant someone the privilege of being my apprentice, there is no one with my skill set!’

‘And you say you’re not vain,’ Vanessa taunted.

‘There’s a difference between vanity and full awareness of one’s gift,’ said Valentine, his smile faltering for the first time. ‘It’s not just about whipping out a hairbrush and baby oil, Mrs Holbrook – I have far more knowledge than that.’

‘Yet you won’t prove it,’ said Vanessa, and she stood up. Whether he helped her or not, at least she came out on top.

‘I’ll prove it,’ said Valentine, ‘I’ll tell you something about yourself that only you and I know.’

‘Sure you will,’ she said, taking up her purse.

‘Gargalaphobia is a rare condition,’ he said

There was a vacuum of silence in the room.

The tiny hairs on Vanessa’s back stood on end. Jake Valentine’s dark eyes were locked on hers and there was no disguising her reaction.

‘And?’ she said.

Valentine got comfortable in his seat. ‘There are a lot of fantasies that ticklers have. Common ones often involve a predicament – an unwitting beauty is buried in sand with just her head and feet exposed; or some brattish babe crawls under a bed and get stuck with her feet sticking out; or a damsel gets her legs trapped under a roller shutter in a storage unit just as a guy or gal with a tickling fetish comes wandering by… If only these things really happened, Vanessa, there would be no need for me to take things into my own hands.’

She retook her seat as he sipped at his water.

‘I found a cheerleader, a nun, a cop, a teacher, a body builder… Well, you know the list,’ he raised a drink to himself. ‘Each one fulfilled a different fantasy, each of them was gorgeous and each of them was perfectly and uniquely ticklish.’ He took a long, nostalgic sigh. Vanessa felt herself getting more irritated with each passing moment.

‘But while I was crossing off my wishlist, I never in my deepest fantasies expected one of my most prized ambitions—the cute nurse—to also be a golden ticket: a gargalaphobic woman.’

Vanessa’s teeth briefly chattered with simmering fury as she spoke: ‘Don’t talk about my sister.’

He ignored her: ‘I mean, how would you find someone like that? It’s not like I have access to psychiatric records. And even if I did, what are the chances of finding someone diagnosed with it? And of that person being an attractive woman? And a nurse!?’

He chuckled at the memory of winning the one-in-a-zillion lottery and Vanessa slammed her hand onto the bulletproof screen between them.

‘Don’t talk about her!’ she screamed, a vein bulging on her forehead.

Jake Valentine resented the violence of her outburst. He held his tongue until he was sure he could speak with composure.

‘You’re angry with me, Vanessa? Or with yourself? Guilt can be a heavy burden, can’t it?’

‘I’m not the one who kidnapped and molested nine women, you sick freak!’

‘If you believe I am mentally ill, you shouldn’t insult me – it’s unbecoming. People who are scarred can’t help it. For instance, do you know that those with gargalaphobia generally have it because of early experiences? Usually it’s because someone tormented them so excessively that it caused a lifelong trauma; a trauma that means they can’t have physical contact with anyone in case it turns into what they fear. Who wants to have a relationship with a person who never wants to be touched? And who would inflict such a curse? A bullying older sister, perhaps…?’

Vanessa’s vision blurred with tears.

Valentine continued, ‘I had to wonder why you went after me with such vengeance. It didn’t take me long to figure out: you’re seeking redemption. Did it work?’

Tears fell from Vanessa’s eyes and she quickly wiped them away with her sleeve.

‘Aw, don’t cry, Vanessa.’

‘Don’t you patronise me.’

‘I’m not. And you should know I’m authentic. That’s why I got 18 years rather than 30 – I told the truth. Not because I was aiming for a reduced sentence, but because I never lie.’

‘What do you want, a cookie?’ said Vanessa, sniffing back tears. ‘Why the hell should I care that you don’t lie?’

‘Because, Vanessahhh, it means that when I tell you I know who tickled your husband…’

Vanessa’s mouth dropped open.

‘…you know I’m telling the truth.’

‘How do you know that?’ she demanded.

‘Like I said: my knowledge is unsurpassed.’

They sat in silence while Jake Valentine’s grin grew in slow motion. Both knew the answer she wanted and both knew he would have conditions before giving it to her.

He broke the silence. ‘When I was caught I was not even half way through my list. I had eleven targets left. If I’d achieved “Mission 20”, I’d have disappeared forever and right up until the trial I was still only focussed on the remaining eleven. But now I have twelve. Do you want to know why?’

Vanessa sat with her arms folded. She had no intention of giving him any more control of the conversation.

‘It’s because,’ he said, ‘even though Faith was such a pinnacle for me, I really wasn’t expecting her to be the less attractive sisterrr.’

Vanessa’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you want?’

‘More than anything? To see you tickled mercilessly, Vanessa. Tickled until you cry. Tickled until you pee yourself. I want to see you tickled so much that you truly believe you will go insane.’

‘Not in a thousand lifetimes,’ she said.

Jake Valentine showed his disapproval. ‘Is your ego that precious to you? I don’t mean you need to come in and give a live stage show to the whole prison; you can just send a digital copy for me to watch in private.’

‘You’ve taken enough from my family,’ said Vanessa. ‘You will get nothing more.’

She held back tears of frustration as he shrugged and prepared to leave.

Then he paused. ‘I’ll give you one other option, Mrs Twenty-One,’ he said and saw the glimmer of hope rise within her. ‘You need to show me Miss Ten.’

‘What—?’

‘Count yourself lucky – of the remaining eleven, she is one of the easiest because you won’t need to hire the camera equipment, set it up, record it, send it to me…’ he said, as though this was a laborious and mundane slog, ‘…because she’s already on TV.’


CHAPTER XIV

Jackal News was the proudest accomplishment of Mr Oswald Bilger, who was born into one of the wealthiest families in the United States and studied Law & Social Change at Harvard. His parents died when he was in his early thirties, at which point he was handed the reigns to the family business and chose to diversify. Previous generations of Bilgers had deliberately stayed out of the limelight, but Oswald sought recognition for his efforts and public appreciation was his favourite kind.

He created Jackal News to plug the gap deserted by the broadcasting networks that didn’t cater for views like his own. Corporations that were relied on since the 1980s to carry right-wing rhetoric lost their nerve after repeating Republican talking points and false claims that verged on the treasonous and which put them on the losing side of several multi-million dollar law suits.

As chairman and CEO of Jackal, and with a budget that dwarfed the competition, Bilger accumulated the best people behind the scenes. In front of the camera, he recruited established household names and—as a firm believer that sex sells—a tranche of talented up-and-coming presenters who could have easily moonlighted as cover models.

Without doubt the most popular presenter on the network was Erina Tysinger, the opinionated and indomitable British journalist who proved her ambition when she broke YouTube records for the number of global viewers who tuned in daily to see her self-produced opinion pieces and interviews. Many were drawn by her extraordinary English rose beauty, but nobody failed to acknowledge her utmost professionalism and comprehensive knowledge of the US political sphere.

As someone who could never pass up the opportunity to speak with a stunning woman, Oswald Bilger personally flew to England and signed her to a six-year contract for a fast-tracked green card and a seven-figure salary. Her popularity was confirmed by the TV viewership and she was rapidly elevated to the weekday evenings prime time slot where she stole audiences from all other news stations—left and right.

Outside of her journalistic skill and beauty, Erina Tysinger had a unique quality that endeared her to the audience: how seriously she treated the subject matter. Even audiences loyal to other right-leaning news outlets were tired of the fawning and disingenuous styles of presenting from previously popular presenters who chased viewers just to confirm their prejudices. Their transparent agendas were old hat and their presenting styles had become like kindergarten teachers humouring pupils.

Erina, on the other hand, was completely sincere and she never smiled, which became an intrinsic part of her appeal; she never faked approval or smeared on the appearance of being charmed by a slippery interviewee. The long-range candid photos from the gutter press who followed her when she was at a restaurant or on the beach never managed to capture her smiling. Frustrated Photoshop artists did their best to digitally airbrush fake smiles onto her countenance but none achieved a convincing portrayal. Theories spread that she had a neurological problem that left her unable to smile and, enjoying this kind of mystique, she avoided the question even when interviewed by several of the late night talk show hosts who competed to make her laugh at their jokes but, one after the other, had to concede defeat.

She very quickly earned the nickname Lady Di-amond because she was ravishing, English and seen as the hardest woman on television – stony-faced was her signature expression. People expected it and, as a result, her career depended on it.

Vanessa never wanted to be a TV presenter, but that didn’t prevent her from holding a tacit resentment toward Erina Tysinger similar to the resentment that provokes sniping from innominate bozos on social media towards anyone with a modicum of success. Vanessa never voiced her feelings because she would hate to admit she was envious of anyone. Yes, Vanessa was beautiful and proud of her work, but Erina Tysinger was stunning and intelligent and successful and famous and admired and very, very well paid. All for toeing the line on principles of hate and prejudice. Oh, and she was only 26.


CHAPTER XV

It was early evening as Vanessa and Jaz arrived at the press entrance of the Daughters of the American Revolution Constitution Hall in Washington DC. Media folk from across the country queued ahead of them as security guards checked the credentials of each before letting them in.

‘Can I just go on record as saying this doesn’t feel like a great idea?’ said Jaz. It wasn’t every day you entered a building across the road from The White House with the intent of committing a crime.

‘Noted,’ said Vanessa, without even a cursory eye contact, ‘for the third time.’

Among the security stood Brayden Sneed, surveying the crowd, fiddling with his laminated Access All Areas lanyard and perspiring more than anyone else in the vicinity. He spotted Vanessa and stood tall.

Vanessa was tempted to jump the queue when she recognised Jaz’s old boss, Lyle Hughes, a few places ahead of them and decided to wait their turn – the fewer opportunities they had to be recognised today, the better. When they eventually reached the front of the queue they had their credentials checked and were given press passes. They were about to be led to the press room by a member of staff when Brayden stepped forward with an excessively casual demeanour, ‘I’ll take them,’ he said, flashing his badge. Vanessa considered that if they were shooting a movie, she would pull him to one side and demand a more subtle performance.

‘Think you could look more nervous, Brayden?’ asked Vanessa, as they followed him down a corridor.

‘Don’t give me that,’ he said, turning to them. ‘I don’t know why I’m doing this.’ A glance betrayed him as he saw Vanessa was wearing the stilettos he requested, which showed her exquisite toe cleavage and high arches.

‘You do know,’ she said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Now, what have you found for us?’

Members of the press and security milled past. Brayden wiped his upper lip and refused to answer. ‘Follow me,’ he said.

He took them to a top tier entrance of the concert hall where they stood in the shadows. Over 3,700 seats in the impressive neoclassical auditorium were ready for the audience queuing outside. Television production crews made final lighting adjustments and on the stage stood five Republican primary candidates completing a sound check. Standing proud in the centre was Gabby Calhoun in her poppy red suit. Vanessa felt the impulse to storm down and smack her straight through the Jackal News branded digital scenery.

‘You see her?’ whispered Brayden.

‘Yeah,’ said Vanessa, momentarily absent-minded. ‘Huh? Who?’

‘Tysinger – she’s down there,’ said Jaz.

At the front of the stage was a sleek black semi-circular desk and perched on it, in conversation with a sound technician who was fastening a microphone to her violet designer skirt-suit lapel, was Erina Tysinger.

Jaz inadvertently let slip a hum of appreciation. Vanessa and Brayden looked at her. ‘Sorry,’ said Jaz, who was not particularly sorry. ‘She’s hot!’

‘One blessing you have here is that nobody can see what’s going on under the desk because of the TVs, there…’ said Brayden, indicating a wall of Jackal-branded screens at the edge of the stage, which encased the presenter’s chair between the back of them and the desk and blocked the view of the bottom of the desk. ‘Plus, when the lights are down, it’s real dark.’

As if on cue, the auditorium lights lowered and the nominees were illuminated, casting a pitch black shadow under the semi-circular desk.

‘Good,’ said Vanessa. ‘Let’s move.’

Brayden led the way out of the auditorium to an elevator that took them into the basement. They walked some sparsely populated corridors with an air of purpose that repelled any suspicion. As they arrived at their destination, the door was opened by a middle-aged electrician carrying a toolbox.

‘All yours,’ he said, his eyes on the floor as he shuffled past them.

‘Er… thanks,’ said Brayden, holding the door.

‘Just don’t pull out any plugs or I’ll have to get down here quick,’ said the electrician. ‘And I’m no sprinter!’

As he walked away Vanessa mouthed, Who was that?

Brayden shrugged and ushered Vanessa and Jaz inside.

They found themselves in a long, dimly-lit room surrounded by support columns, pneumatic structures and electric wiring. The ceiling above them creaked with a multitude of footsteps.

‘We’re under the stage,’ whispered Brayden.

Vanessa looked around. ‘And where…?’

In response, Brayden pointed to a 12x18 inch hole in the ceiling, above which was a panel. ‘That’s sometimes used for electrical access,’ he said, then smiled, ‘but not today.’

‘How the hell am I supposed to get up there?’ asked Vanessa.

Brayden’s smile dropped. He beckoned them over to a dark corner in which were propped two tall ladders and a plank of wood. They put the ladders in place and Brayden carried the plank to the top to sit as a bridge between them; under the panel.

He pulled a screwdriver from his pocket. ‘Just unscrew the panel with this but not until the questions are under way, otherwise she might see it,’ he went to hand the screwdriver to Jaz.

‘I don’t want it!’ said Jaz, raising her hands. ‘Give it to her.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Vanessa. ‘You’re doing this.’

‘I am not!’ said Jaz. ‘This is way outside my job description. You want to grab the feet of the USA’s most famous news anchor during a presidential primary debate on a live nationwide broadcast? It’s your show, Vani – I did the Hades job.’

Vanessa looked to Brayden. ‘What about you? You’d love to do this.’

Even though he was standing, Brayden managed to squirm his thighs together, obviously turned on by the prospect. ‘In fantasy, yes. In reality – you’ll be lucky not to get stun-gunned and thrown in the slammer. Besides, Gabby is definitely asking where I am already. And, you still haven’t repaid me for the last favour I did you.’

Vanessa snatched the screwdriver from him. ‘I’ll do it myself. Leave.’

Brayden leaned in to Vanessa, as though doing so prevented Jaz from hearing what he was saying, ‘Don’t forget – you owe me two footjobs—’

‘A-shush-ush-ush!’ said Vanessa, trying to drown out his words and dismissing him with a flick of her hand.

Brayden opened the door and gave one last glance at Vanessa’s stilettoed feet. ‘I’ve set this to TiVo. Good luck!’ he said and left.

‘Juvenile,’ muttered Vanessa as she regarded the panel.

‘Sounds like the place is filling up,’ said Jaz. Vanessa didn’t respond. ‘You nervous?’

‘Only when you ask questions like that.’

‘Sorry… If it helps, I’m nervous.’

‘It doesn’t,’ said Vanessa with a nonchalant air. ‘Let’s wait.’

She indicated two foldable chairs. Jaz noticed a small, portable television on a nearby bench and switched it on. It was tuned in to Jackal News. She muted the sound.

The auditorium was soon full and the hubbub of thousands of voices were raised to compete with—and occasionally sing along with— a mix of “patriotic” rock and country music. Vanessa pondered whether the compilation was called Now That’s What I Call Jingoism, volume 1, but at least it distracted her from the task. She was just being informed that folks from Muskogee don’t let their hair grow long and shaggy when Jaz interrupted: ‘I know I’ve asked a thousand times, but are you sure this is the only way?’

‘Yes, Jaz, unless you have any better suggestions? You suggested I visit Jake Valentine. This is the result.’

‘But what if it has no effect on her? There’ll be no reaction and he could accuse you of not actually doing it.’

Vanessa shrugged. There were no assurances.

The music from the auditorium faded and an announcer declared: ‘LLLLLLadies and gentlemen! Welcome to the Daughters of the American Revolution Constitution Hall in Washington DC and the first Republican Presidential Primary debate, hosted by Jackal News! Please welcome your host, Erina Tysingerrrrrrrrrrr!’

Via the portable TV, they watched Erina sashay onto the stage to a roar of applause and whoops of appreciation. At the same time they could just about make out the accompanying sound of high heels clacking downstage above them.

‘Good evening, everybody!’ said Erina. Her English accent sounded all the more English in contrast to the compare and every other aspect of the event. ‘What a great crowd! Are you ready for a debate?’

More cheers and whoops. Vanessa observed how Erina made these statements sound sincere without even a trace of a smile and while still looking knock-out gorgeous.

Vanessa took a deep breath of resolve, slipped off her stilettos, took off her suit jacket and went to a ladder.

‘What do we do if she just freaks out and announces to the world, “There’s someone touching my feet!”?’ asked Jaz.

‘Well, at least Valentine will know I did it,’ said Vanessa. ‘What do you want me to say?! Just get ready to haul ass out of here.’

‘Vani, is this about the story any more, or about you wanting to get revenge for what happened to Ryan?’ asked Jaz.

Vanessa hesitated. They both knew the answer. ‘Hold the ladder,’ she said.

She gripped the screwdriver between her lips and climbed to the top where she found the gap between the plank and the ceiling barely left any room to manoeuvre. She was ready to curse Brayden when she realised it probably had to be that way for her to reach what she needed to reach. She crawled awkwardly onto the plank and twisted to lay down, then shuffled until she was in position under the panel and her bare feet rested over the end of the plank.

‘Hey, I’d better not tickle you, huh?’ said Jaz.

Vanessa quickly tried to retract her feet and banged her knees on the ceiling. She swallowed any exclamation and looked down at Jaz, who covered her mouth.

‘Sorry. I was only joking,’ said Jaz.

Vanessa pulled the screwdriver from her lips. ‘Just hold the goddamn ladder! Can you just do that?!’

Jaz nodded sullenly.

Vanessa’s attention returned to the clacking of heels above, which stopped over her face and was followed by the roll of chair wheels. She looked down at the portable TV – Erina Tysinger was at the desk.


CHAPTER XVI

At Fishkill Correctional Facility, Jake Valentine was alone in a cell usually reserved for those ordered into solitary confinement. In this case, the evening was a gift to him from the prison guard who was a fan of his “work”. Providing Valentine with a television and some privacy for one evening in return for the awesome sight that would await him when he returned home to watch and re-watch a recording of the debate was a meagre payment. He also aimed to be the first to upload the clip to all of his favourite message boards.

Jake Valentine lay on his bed with the blue light of the screen reflected in his unblinking eyes. Just the sight of the indescribably dazzling Erina Tysinger, as she introduced the five Republican candidates, stimulated him without assistance.

It was over two years since he’d felt the warm, soft skin of a woman, but he could recollect the sight and physical memory of every woman from whom he had elicited laughter. In particular, he recalled the soles of their feet and—whether petite or large, narrow or wide—what stayed in his mind the most was their texture. Some were flawlessly smooth. Others were delightfully wrinkled. Some had a sexy firmness that he believed indicated worldliness, while others were incredibly—possibly naively—soft. But, to him, they were all wonderfully unique and he had a savant-like ability to recall them each in intricate detail.

His mind drifted to the possibility of identifying women’s soles in a line-up and whether that ability could establish him as an FBI consultant, but he brought his attention back to the night’s entertainment. His one regret was that he had not demanded Vanessa Holbrook take a close-up photo of Erina Tysinger’s soles before the action commenced. Perhaps another time.

He tried to picture what Vanessa might be doing at that moment…

- - -

Vanessa reached into the gap in the ceiling and began to unscrew the panel. As she did so, she could feel the occasional thump through the surface and hear Erina Tysinger’s introduction.

‘…and this is how tonight’s show will work: we will have two minutes for answers and thirty seconds for follow-ups. If a candidate speaks beyond their allotted time you will hear this sound…’

A loud brrring! reverberated over the stage speakers, almost causing Vanessa to drop the screwdriver. ‘Goddamn it!’ she muttered aloud.

Erina continued, ‘…but hopefully we won’t hear that sound because, due to the number of candidates who withdrew from the race this week alone—three on Wednesday and one just this morning—the remaining candidates have double the expected time to speak.’

Yeah. And why don’t you and Calhoun the Maniac have a cosy chat about why they withdrew, Erina? thought Vanessa. She dropped six screws down to Jaz, who managed to catch none of them. The remaining two screws kept the panel in place; wobbling under the weight of Erina’s foot.

‘Our first question goes to Senator Bombardo. Senator, you have spoken many times about scrapping the current Sustainable Green Energy Deal…’

Vanessa eventually found the penultimate screw, which was hidden in the shadows, and unscrewed it quickly. The panel gave way and snapped off the final screw. She saw a foot move away and looked at the portable TV – there was no sign from Erina that anything was out-of-the-ordinary. Vanessa carefully handed the panel down to Jaz.

As she looked back a stage light dazzled her but was then blocked by Erina’s legs. She knew what she was doing was wrong, but it felt extra-wrong to virtually see up Erina Tysinger’s skirt. Thankfully, she had her legs crossed. As well as her violet skirt-suit, she wore high-class 20 denier sheer black nylon tights and of a pair of Christian Louboutin black suede pumps. As her legs were crossed towards Vanessa, she noted that the imprint in the distinctive red leather soles showed Erina to be a European size 41, which she subconsciously recognised to be 9.5 US.

On TV Erina looked perfectly still and professional as she asked her next question. The only thing that was moving—invisible to everyone in the building except Vanessa—was her foot, which jigged up and down as she dangled one shoe from her toes, the fibres of her tights accentuating the curves of her beautifully-formed foot. Vanessa felt a swell in her chest akin to the first signs of a panic attack – now that all preparations were complete and there was nothing left to do but the task itself, it felt overwhelmingly real. Various experiences taught her that hesitation propagates the instinct to quit and so, without thinking, she reached up and batted the heel of the shoe. It slid straight off Erina’s toes and fell into the hole. Vanessa dodged just in time for the spiked heel to bounce of the plank and it clattered onto the basement floor.

Erina remained unmoved, dissecting one candidate’s response as her toes sought her shoe like a sniffer dog trying to locate a scent. There was a moment of hesitation as she found the unexpected hole in the floor. Fearful that if Erina retracted her foot she might not get another chance to reach it, Vanessa quickly seized her ankle.

Vanessa and Jaz held their breath and looked to the TV.

The second candidate finished answering his question and the whole place seemed to fall silent.

There was a pause of expectation from everyone on stage.

Erina tried to pull back, but the adrenaline rushing through Vanessa’s arm kept her in place.

The camera held on Erina. Despite her hesitation, her expression didn’t alter in the slightest.

Vanessa and Jaz looked at one another then back to the TV, primed to cut-and-run.

Finally, Erina said, ‘Congresswoman Calhoun…’

Vanessa and Jaz breathed relief.

Despite the pitch black shadows under the desk, the light from the basement illuminated the bottom of Erina’s shimmering nylon-clad foot. Through the semi-transparent nylon material Vanessa could see that the skin of her sole featured a distinctive natural crease that ran up the centre and made her somehow more three-dimensional – she wasn’t a flawless British Barbie doll after all.

Vanessa moved her free hand towards the vulnerable sole then stopped just centimetres away. A drip of nervous sweat left her armpit and ran to her back, making her shiver.

‘…you have said that, if elected, you will make it legal for all Republican voters to purchase automatic and semi-automatic assault rifles. Do you still stand by that pledge?’

Vanessa looked to the television and saw Gabby Calhoun lift her chin with pride at the cheer of approval she received from the crowd.

‘Two hundred percent!’ said Gabby in her distinctive rasp. This was followed by another cheer. ‘When you’re on the verge of civil war, you make sure that the folks who stand for justice and the one true America are ready to fight for it!’

A louder cheer.

‘And, if anybody can…’ she said, and held a cupped hand to her ear.

Calhoun Can!’ chanted the audience.

This clunky shoehorn-in of her campaign slogan prompted a smug look on Gabby's face that sparked a hot rush of blood through Vanessa’s entire body. The immense support for this woman could make her the next President. Untouchable. Vanessa had to find out who attacked Ryan now.

Strengthening her grip on Erina’s ankle, she placed her fingernails on the silken material and scrabbled her fingers quickly.

- - -

Millions of TV screens across the United States and the world displayed what happened next.

Gabby Calhoun strutted onto centre-stage and continued to pronounce her plans to rapturous appreciation. ‘…it’s time to dominate every aspect of foreign and domestic life and get rid of the things the Democrats are deliberately hiding from us! When I am in the oval office—’

A cry of, ‘HA-YIP!’ blasted from the speakers, catching Gabby Calhoun by surprise and flattening one of her most rehearsed applause-worthy statements. As the sound echoed around the auditorium, it took several moments for everyone to realise where it had come from. Gabby frowned and her eyes locked on something at the front of the stage.

The camera cut to Erina Tysinger. She was gripping the desk with both hands and pushing herself back into her chair. Anyone who looked closely could see her body was trembling, as though her seat was suddenly electrified – a prospect that was supported by her clenched jaw muscles. Her lips were firmly closed and her eyebrows formed her stock expression of seriousness but the outer edges of her nostrils quivered. Without saying a word she gestured with one hand for Gabby Calhoun to continue.

‘When I’m in the oval office,’ said Gabby, retrieving her train of thought, ‘I’ll order the closure of every radical left business, from liberal law firms to farms that put brain-changing chemicals in our lettuce—’

A loud snort interrupted again.

Gabby threw a glare at Erina but this time the camera found her first – she was signalling to someone off-screen but quickly realised Gabby had stopped. She whimpered with her eyebrows raised slightly in the middle and a suppressed smirk on her lips.

The unfamiliar sight at the precise time she was delivering her signature message incensed Gabby. ‘Are you laughin’ at me, Miss Tysinger?!’

Erina shook her head and started to struggle, as though one ankle was snared in a bear trap. The unstoppable need to explain met her immovable principle to remain stoical. An unexpected overwhelming attack between her toes made her do the one thing she knew she should not: she opened her mouth to speak. Her words of explanation were engulfed in an uncontrollable explosion of laughter.

Gabby stepped back in surprise and a confused murmur spread throughout the audience. Across the country Jackal News viewers asked, ‘What the hell…?’

In a moment of disarray, the camera feed switched between Gabby Calhoun, Erina Tysinger, the other confused candidates and the audience.

‘Miss Tysinger…!’ Gabby began, but was cut short when Erina twisted desperately in her chair, threw back her head and laughed hysterically.

Gabby backed away with a look of recognition that was caught by the cameras – it was as if she expected Godzilla to crash through the floorboards. She knew what was happening to Erina Tysinger and, even through several layers of bronzer, the realisation drained the colour from her cheeks.

Then came the moment that would remain online forever and bring an end to Erina Tysinger’s reign as the country’s number one news anchor:

‘HHHA-HHHA-HHHELLLP!’ she shouted, before releasing an undignified snort that bounced around the great hall. ‘Ssssssomeone’s t-tickling my ffffffooooottt!’

Gabby backed into her podium, knocking it over. One of her opponents saved her from tripping over. She stared at him in a confusion of terror and looked back at Erina who released a shriek, followed by a high-pitched gale of laughter. Gabby shuddered and had to avert her eyes, then hurried off-stage.

‘Pl-please help meeee!’ Erina cried before the high-pitched girlish squeal that became the internet meme emphasising her previously hidden fallibility, and relegated her from Jackal News to a lifetime of self-produced podcasts.

Several members of security and Jackal News production staff dove under the desk while others raced for the exits.

- - -

‘Time to go!’ said Jaz.

But Vanessa was stuck in a tug-of-war with Erina’s ankle. Her taut calf muscle displayed dedication to private tennis lessons, but Vanessa quickly deduced that her obvious strength was quickly sapped away by tickling certain spots on her foot. The ease with which her fingers glided over the silky nylon surface that covered Erina’s extremely ticklish foot was a novel consideration that meant Jaz’s words didn’t quite penetrate her psyche.

It was only when Erina’s ankle was whisked from her grasp by the strength of several people heaving her away that she slid down the plank at speed. One half-second later and her eyes would have met those of a bodyguard who snatched for her collar her. She twisted off the end of the plank and Jaz grabbed the ladder to stop the whole structure falling over.

Vanessa jumped to the ground, took up her jacket and shoes and they ran for the door.

‘Freeze!’ shouted the bodyguard whose head and arm hung clumsily through the hole. He propped his weight on the plank causing both ladders to topple and crash into an electricity locker.

‘What do we do now!?’ said Jaz pulling off her shoes and getting ready to run.

‘This way,’ said Vanessa and they raced barefoot along the basement corridor.

They skidded to a stop at the elevator and heard a number of footsteps thundering down the nearby stairwell. Vanessa threw open the door to a nearby ladies’ room and yanked Jaz in with her. She pulled on her shoes, grabbed a paper towel and turned to face the door.

‘Laugh,’ said Vanessa.

‘What?’

Vanessa pretended to dry her hands and laughed as if she had just cracked a joke. Jaz joined in as the door blew open, almost hitting them. They recoiled and shrieked. A broad-shouldered security guard filled the doorway and left a boot-sized scuff mark on the door.

‘What the hell are you doing!?’ shouted Vanessa.

‘Sorry, Ma’am, but there’s a security breach.’

‘In this restroom?!’

The security guard appeared embarrassed.

Vanessa needed to play the role of her life; the humiliation of being arrested for this was not something she intended to deal with. Jaz followed her lead as she dialled herself up to maximum disgruntlement and held out her security pass.

‘Let us past – if there’s something happening we need to cover it!’

The security guard stepped aside; the attitude directed his way from Vanessa distracted him from questioning why members of the press would be in a basement restroom during the debate.

This was not an episode he would recount to his supervisors later that evening.


CHAPTER XVII

On the whole, the general public assume when the unexpected happens those in authority have a smooth plan of response. This would have probably been the case if a terrorist walked into the DAR Constitution Hall wearing a bomb vest or a left-wing extremist made an attempt on the life of any of the candidates. But, amid the general confusion she was witnessing, Vanessa concluded that she had given the authorities an extra situation for which they needed to devise an emergency response: aggravated tickling of a much-adored news anchor on live television.

Jaz followed Vanessa through a rush of journalists and civilians, all headed for the main exit. They passed the open door of a Jackal News production suite and saw the broadcast feed was now coming from the main studio. Shaky footage of Erina Tysinger breaking into laughter was accompanied by a breaking news ticker that read, PRIMARY DEBATE CANCELLED – ERINA TYSINGER ATTACKED.

Jaz trotted to keep up with Vanessa and said, ‘At least Valentine can’t say it didn’t happ—’

‘Shhh!’ Vanessa responded, attracting the attention of a portly woman with rosey cheeks and a Calhoun Can! baseball cap. Vanessa flitted a smile at her and walked faster. If she could be arrested and have her feet tortured for a suspected DUI in Butthole, Florida, she did not want to consider what would happen to her in the nation’s capital.

Outside, the exodus of attendees verged on a stampede.

‘Let’s get the hell out of here,’ said Vanessa, stepping onto 18th Street and into the path of a limousine.

‘Wait!’ cried Jaz, grabbing her arm. The limousine screeched to a halt.

Vanessa backed onto the sidewalk and signalled an apology to the driver who she could only just make out through the tinted windows. At the same time, muffled yells came from inside the limousine and the rear window purred down. Brayden’s voice said, ‘We can’t stop here, Ma’am – it’s not safe!’

As the limousine pulled away, Gabby Calhoun sat in the back seat, clearly shocked and livid, pointing at Vanessa.

You…!’ she yelled.

‘Move it!’ Brayden commanded the driver.

Gabby’s ranting was audible all the way until the car turned onto East Street and sped towards Pennsylvania Avenue.

‘Think I’ll go home now,’ said Jaz.


CHAPTER XVIII

Later that night Vanessa stood at her living room windows with the apartment lights off and her second triple gin & tonic in hand. Ryan was on the sofa, asleep in front of the TV. When she arrived home Vanessa muted the sound but kept the set on for company. In the top-left of the screen Jackal News were showing the same laughing clip as before intercut with Gabby running off-stage, while the main focus was an interview with a very pissed off Erina Tysinger.

Vanessa’s attention swapped between the silent movie activities visible in the apartment blocks closest to hers and the taillights of cars in the street. If she could, she would have gone straight to Fishkill and demanded answers from Jake Valentine, but she had to wait for visiting hours the following morning. She downed her drink and went to the kitchen to pour herself another, knowing it would help the morning come quicker. Illuminated by the open fridge, she heard her phone vibrate on the kitchen surface as it received a text message. She saw it was from an unknown number, unlocked the phone with her little finger and proceeded to slice a lemon as the message loaded.

What she saw evaporated her alcohol buzz in an instant: a low-light photo of Faith unlocking her front door, taken across the street from her home.

Vanessa’s heart thumped in her ears. She immediately called the unknown number, but it was turned off.

‘That bitch Gabby!’ she said through gritted teeth, causing Ryan to stir on the sofa.

Fraught, Vanessa messed up three times before she managed to call Faith – it went to voicemail.

She tried again with the same result.

‘Goddamn it!’ she said and grabbed her car keys on the way to the front door.

‘Baby!’ Ryan called sleepily from the sofa. ‘You’re here. What’s goin’ on?’

‘Nothing I don’t have to handle all by myself again,’ she said and left.

- - -

She drove from Tribeca to Richmond Hill, praying she wouldn’t get pulled over and breathalysed but ready to fight anyone who wanted to try. Nothing was going to stop her from saving Faith. One thing she would have to consciously resist was killing whoever sent the photo.

She screeched to a stop between two cars that did not have room for a third between them, and left the rear half of her car protruding into the street. She checked for signs of life on the street and saw nothing except a grey cat who watched her from the comfort of a window sill.

She sprinted up Faith’s front steps and hammered on the door. ‘Faith!’ she shouted.

She pulled out her phone and called for the twenty-first time that evening, hoping to hear the ring of a phone indoors. For the twenty-first time, it went to voicemail.

‘Faith!’ Vanessa shouted and pounded on the door again.

A neighbouring upstairs window opened and a shirtless Italian-American man leant out.
‘Ohh!’

‘My sister lives here. Have you seen her this evening?’

‘No – my wife don’t like it when I spy on da neighbours! Keep it down, uh?’

Vanessa was ready to tell him where to go when the door opened to reveal a very sleepy Faith. ‘Nessy?’

Vanessa stepped inside. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah, just dog-tired. What’s happening?’

‘Has anyone touched you this evening?’

‘Touched me?’ said Faith, suddenly wide awake. ‘No, why?’

Vanessa didn’t want to panic her sister. ‘Oh, no reason. I just got a little spooked.’

‘Jesus, Nessy. You scared me! Have you been drinking?’

‘No,’ said Vanessa and turned to leave before Faith smelt gin. ‘I’ll go home and call you soon. Get some sleep.’

‘Okay,’ said Faith yawning, and she shut the door behind her sister.

Vanessa sat in her car seething and tried to gather her thoughts.

Gabby ordered the attack on Ryan and now threatened her sister. The repercussions and therapy Faith had to go through after Jake Valentine were still not over. Who knew when Calhoun the Loon would change her mind and send an even clearer message?

Vanessa couldn’t risk waiting to find out.


continued in Gargalaphobia 3
 
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