Takahane
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My Rei-sen shines in the moonlight, reflecting a pale glow from her silvery wings. What she lacks in protection, she more than makes up for in agility, allowing me to touch down on a tiny rice field as twilight descended on this little coastal village. With continued luck, I’ll be out of here in a few more hours -- should everything hold to plan.
I remind myself that things could be a lot worse. I wasn’t exactly holding a strong hand when the Imperial Command first "requested" my assistance -- as an American ex-patriate caught in Japan when the war broke out, my options became rather limited, rather quickly. I'm damn lucky I could fly a Type Zero, among my other ‘talents,’ or I surely would have outlived my usefulness a while ago.
Case in point: inside a small grass hut awaits my "special guest," mercifully ignorant of the ordeal she will soon face. She holds the final piece of a puzzle I’ve been trying to solve for months. At dawn, I’m off to Imperial regional HQ to report my findings. In the meantime, I have a job to do.
The special detachment, as usual, delivers as promised -- with brutal efficiency, sometimes, but unflinching compliance nonetheless. I can’t help but admire their thoroughness. As I have instructed, the subject has been captured unharmed. She is bound in the singularly peculiar method taught by my Sensei: her supine body lying atop a plank balanced between two stools, her arms at her sides, cocooned by a silken sheath wrapped snugly about her lithe form from shoulders to ankles. Poking out the end of the tight wrapping, her bare feet nervously twitch -- their slight movement further restricted by an intertwining network of lacings and cords secured to a wooden frame, serving to splay and restrain each of her ten toes. Her head lies upon a small pillow; eyes covered with a silk blindfold, she turns her head toward me when she hears me enter the room.
Pulling up a nearby chair, I place a leather flight pouch on the floor at her feet, reaching inside to withdraw one of the instruments I have brought along. Seating myself, I say nothing -- I don’t have the time to waste on a long, dramatic introduction. I have a job to do.
Wordlessly and without warning, I immediately begin attacking her helpless feet with the tip of my trusty, bristly calligraphy brush. I watch her face, first to see a surprised gasp escape her lips -- then she grimaces in an attempt to resist the irritating sensation I am producing on her soles. Repeatedly I apply the brushtip in long, slow stroking motions, scarcely outlining her obviously-sensitive arches as my raven-haired prisoner fights to remain composed. Surprisingly, I thought, she was managing rather well considering her extremely vulnerable position, which by now had to be apparent to my lovely Asian victim. Again, this was by design -- a proven, effective technique which I had studied hard, for several long months, to understand and eventually master. As I concentrated my efforts on her ticklish arches, stretched taut by the restraints, the gentle urgings of the insistent bristles finally forced a tiny giggle from her expressive mouth, which was undeniably beginning to form a slight smile.
My beautiful captive was a Japanese double agent. Trained as a geisha and classical dancer, she had been recruited by the Imperial Command to work undercover while touring occupied territories, entertaining foreign dignitaries and military officials. Eventually she attracted the attention of an Allied handler who turned her, tempting her with the promise of great wealth merely for reporting any sensitive information that she gathered before passing it along to her Japanese commanders. However, during her indoctrination the Command had mapped her greatest weakness -- in case such information was ever needed. An "insurance policy," if you will. Brutal efficiency, demonstrated once again. Which is where I come in. That’s why they called my number. I have a job to do.
I quickly shift the focus of my attack, deftly driving the brushtip along the base of my prisoner’s bound toes, as her tiny giggle grows louder, more insistent. The tender skin there proves to be even more sensitive than that along her arches. By the time I begin probing between her trembling digits, she is consumed by a giggling fit, all semblance of control nearly gone. Her body shakes in forced hysteria and she begins tossing her head from side to side as the minutes slowly pass, the brushtip relentlessly caressing the maddeningly-ticklish skin along the undersides of her barely-wiggling toes. The room is filled with her laughter as I silently and insistently tantalize the Japanese beauty’s bound, naked toes and the delightfully responsive skin between -- then I suddenly cease the exploration of the brush, allowing her a chance to catch her breath though she continues to giggle softly. I give her a moment to recover before breaking my silence.
“Ichi: doko desu ka? (One: where?)
Ni: nanji desu ka?" (Two: when?)
I resume the assault on her arches with the soft brush, working a series of short, light overlapping strokes along her insteps as she manages to squeal out a quick “IIYE! (No!)” before the giggles once again overwhelm her. I gently guide the brushtip over every square centimeter of both insteps for several long minutes before repeating the questions.
“Doko desu ka? Nanji desu ka?” I really don’t expect her to answer -- yet. I’m sure she's well-motivated to resist; I don’t particularly care, though. I know I’ve subverted resistance much tougher than what she has shown me so far -- and I’m confident that I can achieve my goal and break her. I have a job to do.
As she tries in vain to pull her soles away from the offending brushtip, her bound toes strain at the lacings -- which draws her arches even tauter, which increases the tickling sensation along her insteps, which subconsciously implores her to continue to try to pull away ... ah, yes! Sensei’s long-practiced techniques continue to prove as effective as when they were first employed, hundreds of years ago against the enemies of the Shogun. But my prisoner is hardly concerned with the historical significance of the technique -- between bouts of raucous laughter, she can barely manage to breathe enough to remain conscious. I realize I must now be extra-careful not to let her escape the torment by passing out. Occasionally I slightly lessen the intensity of the tickling I’m administering, backing off just enough to allow my captive to gasp a bit more for air until I’m certain she won’t faint. Once her lungs fill, I turn it back up a notch at a time, dragging the brushtip over her tightly-drawn, sensitive arches until she’s out-of-control with laughter again.
After what must have seemed an eternity of non-stop torment of her tender, ticklish insteps, she cries out her first intelligible phrase: “Yame
nasai !! Dozo -- yame nasai !! " (Stop! Please, stop it!)
“Doko desu ka? Nanji desu ka?” I ask again. I halt the tickling of her feet, lay the brush down and await her response.
It takes several moments before she is able, between lingering giggles, to gasp out, “Gommenasai -- wakarimasen." (I’m sorry -- I don’t understand.)
I stand and walk to the other end of the plank, reach down and remove her blindfold. Looking deeply into her almond eyes, I smile and tauntingly remark, “So desu ka?" (Is that so?) I let her read the look in my eyes, telling her that I know better. I decide to raise the ante. Not much time left -- I have a job to do.
Returning to her feet, I reach into my flight bag again and bring out a small bottle, the kind with a tiny glass dropper built into the cap. I unscrew it and fill the dropper with its contents then carefully deposit drops of the liquid on each of my victim’s upturned soles, on the skin along the base of her tethered toes. The oily liquid begins to slowly run down the bottoms of her feet, creating ticklish little rivulets as it travels toward her heels. “This is a mixture of soy oil, rice alcohol, and an extract of a little-known herb native to this area,” I explain. “The alcohol tightens the skin and helps the oil to penetrate more deeply. And,” I teasingly add, poising a small, stiff-bristled artist’s brush over her defenseless feet, “the herbal extract renders bare skin even MORE sensitive to touch within a few minutes of its application.”
I go to work with the short stiff brush, thoroughly spreading the slippery mixture over and between her twitching toes, across her high arches, along her smooth heels and all about the remainder of her soles -- all the while my helpless victim can only laugh hysterically, forced to accept my ministrations until her feet are uniformly coated with a light film of the mixture. After several more agonizing minutes, I finally lay down my implement. She gasps in relief; I stand and pace about for a few moments, waiting for the potion to take full effect.
Once she again regains her composure, she looks to me and inquires, “Why are you questioning me? The Allied headquarters is already aware of the time and place of the rendezvous. I passed that information to my contact last week!"
“Indeed, you have,” I reply, “but in this game, it seems you can’t tell the players without a scorecard. I’m working for the Imperial Command -- they know that you’ve double-crossed them. Now you're going to tell me the actual time and place of the meeting -- not the lies that you thought you could get away with.” I pull a strap gag out of my pocket and quickly affix it about her head. A look of concern appears on the Japanese agent’s face as her feet once again begin to wriggle ever so slightly against their bonds. She must be feeling a tingling sensation, a sure sign that the concoction placed on her feet is working. Time to get back to the job at hand.
I take my seat once again, then I lightly touch the tip of my index finger to the ball of her right foot and slowly draw a line along her sole to her heel. Before I can complete the path, she’s already giggling like a schoolgirl behind the gag. I backtrack along the same line, my fingertip traversing her sensitive arch on the way toward the base of her toes as she shrieks and dissolves into a fit of laughter. The potion has done its job -- a whisper of a touch is all it takes to ignite her frenzy. I repeat the circuit several times, occasionally lingering at her uncalloused heel or teasing the crease along the base of her toes before continuing on.
Since my single fingertip is having such a devastating effect, I decide to bring the rest into play, adding one at a time as each stroke slides across her helpless sole. She raises her head and vainly tries to scream a protest, but the gag prevents her words from being understandable -- and she suddenly realizes why I have her gagged. I’m not interested in her answers at this point; whatever she said would prolly be a lie. I’ll bet she’d say anything -- anything -- to get me to stop tickling her feet. But I can’t stop; I’m too close to my goal -- I must break her before she’ll willingly tell me what I need to know.
I still have a job to do.
*****
(Author: "Takahane." Written and first posted, July 1998.)
I remind myself that things could be a lot worse. I wasn’t exactly holding a strong hand when the Imperial Command first "requested" my assistance -- as an American ex-patriate caught in Japan when the war broke out, my options became rather limited, rather quickly. I'm damn lucky I could fly a Type Zero, among my other ‘talents,’ or I surely would have outlived my usefulness a while ago.
Case in point: inside a small grass hut awaits my "special guest," mercifully ignorant of the ordeal she will soon face. She holds the final piece of a puzzle I’ve been trying to solve for months. At dawn, I’m off to Imperial regional HQ to report my findings. In the meantime, I have a job to do.
The special detachment, as usual, delivers as promised -- with brutal efficiency, sometimes, but unflinching compliance nonetheless. I can’t help but admire their thoroughness. As I have instructed, the subject has been captured unharmed. She is bound in the singularly peculiar method taught by my Sensei: her supine body lying atop a plank balanced between two stools, her arms at her sides, cocooned by a silken sheath wrapped snugly about her lithe form from shoulders to ankles. Poking out the end of the tight wrapping, her bare feet nervously twitch -- their slight movement further restricted by an intertwining network of lacings and cords secured to a wooden frame, serving to splay and restrain each of her ten toes. Her head lies upon a small pillow; eyes covered with a silk blindfold, she turns her head toward me when she hears me enter the room.
Pulling up a nearby chair, I place a leather flight pouch on the floor at her feet, reaching inside to withdraw one of the instruments I have brought along. Seating myself, I say nothing -- I don’t have the time to waste on a long, dramatic introduction. I have a job to do.
Wordlessly and without warning, I immediately begin attacking her helpless feet with the tip of my trusty, bristly calligraphy brush. I watch her face, first to see a surprised gasp escape her lips -- then she grimaces in an attempt to resist the irritating sensation I am producing on her soles. Repeatedly I apply the brushtip in long, slow stroking motions, scarcely outlining her obviously-sensitive arches as my raven-haired prisoner fights to remain composed. Surprisingly, I thought, she was managing rather well considering her extremely vulnerable position, which by now had to be apparent to my lovely Asian victim. Again, this was by design -- a proven, effective technique which I had studied hard, for several long months, to understand and eventually master. As I concentrated my efforts on her ticklish arches, stretched taut by the restraints, the gentle urgings of the insistent bristles finally forced a tiny giggle from her expressive mouth, which was undeniably beginning to form a slight smile.
My beautiful captive was a Japanese double agent. Trained as a geisha and classical dancer, she had been recruited by the Imperial Command to work undercover while touring occupied territories, entertaining foreign dignitaries and military officials. Eventually she attracted the attention of an Allied handler who turned her, tempting her with the promise of great wealth merely for reporting any sensitive information that she gathered before passing it along to her Japanese commanders. However, during her indoctrination the Command had mapped her greatest weakness -- in case such information was ever needed. An "insurance policy," if you will. Brutal efficiency, demonstrated once again. Which is where I come in. That’s why they called my number. I have a job to do.
I quickly shift the focus of my attack, deftly driving the brushtip along the base of my prisoner’s bound toes, as her tiny giggle grows louder, more insistent. The tender skin there proves to be even more sensitive than that along her arches. By the time I begin probing between her trembling digits, she is consumed by a giggling fit, all semblance of control nearly gone. Her body shakes in forced hysteria and she begins tossing her head from side to side as the minutes slowly pass, the brushtip relentlessly caressing the maddeningly-ticklish skin along the undersides of her barely-wiggling toes. The room is filled with her laughter as I silently and insistently tantalize the Japanese beauty’s bound, naked toes and the delightfully responsive skin between -- then I suddenly cease the exploration of the brush, allowing her a chance to catch her breath though she continues to giggle softly. I give her a moment to recover before breaking my silence.
“Ichi: doko desu ka? (One: where?)
Ni: nanji desu ka?" (Two: when?)
I resume the assault on her arches with the soft brush, working a series of short, light overlapping strokes along her insteps as she manages to squeal out a quick “IIYE! (No!)” before the giggles once again overwhelm her. I gently guide the brushtip over every square centimeter of both insteps for several long minutes before repeating the questions.
“Doko desu ka? Nanji desu ka?” I really don’t expect her to answer -- yet. I’m sure she's well-motivated to resist; I don’t particularly care, though. I know I’ve subverted resistance much tougher than what she has shown me so far -- and I’m confident that I can achieve my goal and break her. I have a job to do.
As she tries in vain to pull her soles away from the offending brushtip, her bound toes strain at the lacings -- which draws her arches even tauter, which increases the tickling sensation along her insteps, which subconsciously implores her to continue to try to pull away ... ah, yes! Sensei’s long-practiced techniques continue to prove as effective as when they were first employed, hundreds of years ago against the enemies of the Shogun. But my prisoner is hardly concerned with the historical significance of the technique -- between bouts of raucous laughter, she can barely manage to breathe enough to remain conscious. I realize I must now be extra-careful not to let her escape the torment by passing out. Occasionally I slightly lessen the intensity of the tickling I’m administering, backing off just enough to allow my captive to gasp a bit more for air until I’m certain she won’t faint. Once her lungs fill, I turn it back up a notch at a time, dragging the brushtip over her tightly-drawn, sensitive arches until she’s out-of-control with laughter again.
After what must have seemed an eternity of non-stop torment of her tender, ticklish insteps, she cries out her first intelligible phrase: “Yame
nasai !! Dozo -- yame nasai !! " (Stop! Please, stop it!)
“Doko desu ka? Nanji desu ka?” I ask again. I halt the tickling of her feet, lay the brush down and await her response.
It takes several moments before she is able, between lingering giggles, to gasp out, “Gommenasai -- wakarimasen." (I’m sorry -- I don’t understand.)
I stand and walk to the other end of the plank, reach down and remove her blindfold. Looking deeply into her almond eyes, I smile and tauntingly remark, “So desu ka?" (Is that so?) I let her read the look in my eyes, telling her that I know better. I decide to raise the ante. Not much time left -- I have a job to do.
Returning to her feet, I reach into my flight bag again and bring out a small bottle, the kind with a tiny glass dropper built into the cap. I unscrew it and fill the dropper with its contents then carefully deposit drops of the liquid on each of my victim’s upturned soles, on the skin along the base of her tethered toes. The oily liquid begins to slowly run down the bottoms of her feet, creating ticklish little rivulets as it travels toward her heels. “This is a mixture of soy oil, rice alcohol, and an extract of a little-known herb native to this area,” I explain. “The alcohol tightens the skin and helps the oil to penetrate more deeply. And,” I teasingly add, poising a small, stiff-bristled artist’s brush over her defenseless feet, “the herbal extract renders bare skin even MORE sensitive to touch within a few minutes of its application.”
I go to work with the short stiff brush, thoroughly spreading the slippery mixture over and between her twitching toes, across her high arches, along her smooth heels and all about the remainder of her soles -- all the while my helpless victim can only laugh hysterically, forced to accept my ministrations until her feet are uniformly coated with a light film of the mixture. After several more agonizing minutes, I finally lay down my implement. She gasps in relief; I stand and pace about for a few moments, waiting for the potion to take full effect.
Once she again regains her composure, she looks to me and inquires, “Why are you questioning me? The Allied headquarters is already aware of the time and place of the rendezvous. I passed that information to my contact last week!"
“Indeed, you have,” I reply, “but in this game, it seems you can’t tell the players without a scorecard. I’m working for the Imperial Command -- they know that you’ve double-crossed them. Now you're going to tell me the actual time and place of the meeting -- not the lies that you thought you could get away with.” I pull a strap gag out of my pocket and quickly affix it about her head. A look of concern appears on the Japanese agent’s face as her feet once again begin to wriggle ever so slightly against their bonds. She must be feeling a tingling sensation, a sure sign that the concoction placed on her feet is working. Time to get back to the job at hand.
I take my seat once again, then I lightly touch the tip of my index finger to the ball of her right foot and slowly draw a line along her sole to her heel. Before I can complete the path, she’s already giggling like a schoolgirl behind the gag. I backtrack along the same line, my fingertip traversing her sensitive arch on the way toward the base of her toes as she shrieks and dissolves into a fit of laughter. The potion has done its job -- a whisper of a touch is all it takes to ignite her frenzy. I repeat the circuit several times, occasionally lingering at her uncalloused heel or teasing the crease along the base of her toes before continuing on.
Since my single fingertip is having such a devastating effect, I decide to bring the rest into play, adding one at a time as each stroke slides across her helpless sole. She raises her head and vainly tries to scream a protest, but the gag prevents her words from being understandable -- and she suddenly realizes why I have her gagged. I’m not interested in her answers at this point; whatever she said would prolly be a lie. I’ll bet she’d say anything -- anything -- to get me to stop tickling her feet. But I can’t stop; I’m too close to my goal -- I must break her before she’ll willingly tell me what I need to know.
I still have a job to do.
*****
(Author: "Takahane." Written and first posted, July 1998.)
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