Anger Management, Part 7
“What was that, Monica? I couldn’t quite make it out.” There was almost a taunt in Emma’s voice, and it immediately got under Monica’s skin. Her anger and frustration sizzled right on the surface.
“I didn’t say anything,” she snapped.
“It almost sounded like ‘Please don’t’,” Emma mused. “But that couldn't be. Not from you. That would be almost like begging.”
Monica’s eyes flared hot. “I did NOT beg,” she growled, temper firing.
Emma looked skeptical. “Well, maybe you begged just a little,” she countered with a grin.
That did it.
“FUCK YOU!!!” Monica erupted, straining forward in her wraps. “FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU!!!”
Emma thought it was fascinating how easily she could goad Monica into a tantrum, given how cool and collected she'd been under surveillance. In fact, aside from occasional flashes of irritation or smug satisfaction, Monica had rarely shown any emotion in her workaday life. Ironically, given the current circumstances, Emma had never even seen or heard her laugh.
If Emma were to admit to a kink, it would be torturing narcissistic clients with violent, hair-trigger tempers. Especially if they were entitled assholes. Preferably American entitled assholes. Being tormented so offended their pampered egos, as if they wanted to speak to the manager, or post a negative review.
Monica was quickly becoming one of her all time favorites; tickling was just so perfect for her. Emma had used tickling to humiliate other clients a few times before, but never as enjoyably.
She was having a great time.
Mmmm, she thought, I can use Monica's temper to amp things up. It wasn't in the plan, but knowing what she'd learned, Emma realized if Monica knew the real story now instead of later it could make the evening far, far sweeter.
Nothing ventured…Emma shot a wink toward the main camera. She’d decided to improvise a little.
With a deep sigh, she shook her head sadly at Monica and put a weary rebuke into her voice. “These displays of anger are inappropriate, Monica, and frankly embarrassing. And the language, is it really necessary?”
The goading worked. Monica’s gaze went murderous.
“Inappro…? YOU BITCH!!! THIS IS RI-DIC-U-LOUS!!! YOU ARE TOR-TUR-ING ME!!! THIS IS BATTERY!!! Don't you dare scold me!”
It was cute to watch her feet strain in the toe ties while she raged.
“And what, you’re taking a moral stand?” Emma asked, the rebuke sharpening. “Got the high ground now? What about those people you pushed around and injured to get here in the first place?”
Lacking a snappy comeback, Monica fumed. Maybe she’d never been called out before. Certainly not while wrapped up for tickle torture. “You–”
“No YOU,” Emma interrupted, “need to realize that the world doesn’t bow to your every whim. Actions have consequences, and you can’t always expect to lord your superiority over everyone.”
Monica blinked.
“Feel superior now?” Emma went on. “Where’s the haughtiness while you’re wrapped to a table, red-faced and thrashing like a landed shark, screaming obscenities like a child because you want something and no one’s tripping over themselves to make it happen?”
For once, Monica was speechless.
“This isn’t ‘ri-dic-u-lous’,” Emma continued, waving a hand at Monica’s predicament. “You are ridiculous. This torture suits you perfectly! I mean, look at you. Monica Seever, queen of Chicago, power and control oozing from your pores." Emma stood from her chair. "Yet here you are, no power, no control, strapped to my table. And what did it take to make you beg?"
"I did NOT beg!" Monica liked to make her paid escorts beg and whimper, but never dared think of herself in such a position. It was too...
Emma went on, interrupting her thought. "You begged. And you'll beg again. So what epic unbearable trauma did it take to bring down the fortress of righteous willpower that is Monica Seever?"
Emma reached up and skittered her nails quickly across Monica's soles. Monica convulsed as if electrocuted and yelped before she caught herself.
"GAHHHH!"
"Annoying, isn't it?" Emma teased. "I'm tickling your feet like you're a child and I'm a mean babysitter, and you can't stand it. Why? Not because it's painful. Pain is real torture, for serious people. No, only because it controls you – I control you – and it shows how soft and weak you are."
Monica’s voice dropped into a new menacing register Emma hadn’t heard before, far scarier than screaming. “You can’t keep me in here forever, bitch. And when I get out, I’m not going to sue you. I’m going to fucking erase you.”
Maybe this is the real her, Emma thought.
“I don’t know what's really going on," Monica went on, "but you’re no city functionary and this isn’t about any forms. So if you're so high and mighty, why don't you own up to why we're really here?”
Smart girl. As Emma considered her response, an incoming call alert suddenly popped in the corner of the workstation's display.
Emma’s eyebrows arched "I think you're about to find out," she said, tapping a key on her laptop.
The face of an older man, maybe sixty, appeared on the screen. He was gray-bearded, buzz cut, square-jawed and fit, world-weary, and unconventionally handsome in the manner of a certain class of predator.
In an open-collared dress shirt with the sleeves rolled over his scarred, heavy forearms, it looked like he was relaxing after a long hard day of murdering people on a global scale.
"Mikhail Prokhorov," Monica said, forcing calm into her voice. "Why am I not surprised?"
"Beautiful Monica!" he replied. "It has been too long!" Prokhorov’s smile seemed genuine, but he had a corpse's eyes, flat and lifeless.
Monica had met the primary defendant in the Simons case many times over the last several months during trial prep; twice in person. An ex-Soviet field commander who had risen quickly through both military and political ranks, Prokhorov was forged from combat, cunning, and malice. His arc eventually landed him at the top of one of Russia's largest defense contractors, where he now rubbed elbows regularly with the likes of Vladimir Putin and his cronies.
Prokhorov had flirted with Monica, both lightly and heavily, during her visits to Russia. Although intrigued and flattered, she had rebuffed his advances.
"You never struck me as a stupid man, Mikhail, until now," Monica observed. "Tell me, what is it that's brought you to the brink of suicide?"
Prokhorov leaned back and laughed, lifting a heavy glass of smoky clear liquid to his lips and then tipping it in a toast to the camera.
"Ahhh, such a brave helpless girl to speak to me this way! You have some balls on you, I'll give you that!" He leaned close and dropped his voice. "Especially for someone who's been putting on such a show!"
His hand stretched toward the screen, and in a moment Monica's view whirled to what looked like the main hall of a hunting lodge. Fit young men in dark suits stood around its edges, surrounding a cluster of couches seating what appeared to be a well-dressed gathering of Prokhorov’s contemporaries: aging, formal looking men and even a few severe, matronly women. Several impossibly beautiful younger girls circulated and sat among them. Vodka and plates of food were scattered about in abundance.
It wasn’t lost on Monica that one old warhorse sat on a couch with a beautiful smiling young woman next to him, her bare feet wriggling in his lap.
Along the left wall, a huge fireplace burned vigorously under a wall of mounted weapons and hunting trophies. To the right Monica caught a glimpse of large windows looking out over a vast snow-swept plain.
And directly ahead, a wall of oversize monitors showed every angle of the room where Monica was being tortured. Closeups of her face, feet, hands, and Emma's worktable surrounded several screens devoted to her full-body view.
Monica blushed deeply, and immediately realized that not only was her embarrassment visible on the hi-res screens, but her reaction also drew an approving murmur from the crowd.
Mortified, Monica exerted her will to keep her head clear and her voice steady. "What possible motive could you have for this, Mikhail?" she asked evenly. "I'm failing to see any upside for you."
The view spun back to his face as Prokhorov replaced the camera. "Well, Monica, of course the upside is you are going to lose your case against me! But you are going to make it look close."
Monica shook her head. "I will do no such thing."
This caused a stir in the gallery. Monica heard laughter along with cheers and applause.
"Excellent!" Prokhorov replied. "That is my brave girl! I said once that you came from Vikings, no? Do you remember?"
"Do you think you can actually tickle me into throwing a court case?" Monica asked.
"No, no Monica! No, of course not." He leaned toward the camera again, and the killer's smile returned. "But Emma can."
Monica snapped her gaze to the young girl, who twiddled her fingers with a smile and mouthed "Hi!"
More cheers for Emma.
"Emma may be the world's top expert on you, Monica." Prokhorov explained. "I've been reading her reports for months. And what a stoic you are! Our Monica, who works all hours and never jokes or laughs, even socially, or even when she's bedding her paid escorts in the evenings. Monica, whose tastes in pornography run to…how did you say it Emma?"
"She likes Dom/sub stuff," Emma clarified, now with a faint eastern European accent. Monica heard whistles and cheers in the background. "I just can't tell which one she is."
"Yes! 'Dom/sub.' And that was all we had for the longest time. Pah! Escorts and porn. So disappointing. That was, at least, until the second time you booked a private room during your spa day. Pretty unremarkable, until Emma found out why."
"Ticklish feet!" Emma said triumphantly, and Monica distinctly heard squealing laughter over the call. The old guy on the couch must have gotten inspired.
"Yes!" Prokhorov crowed. "Of all things, private pedicures to hide your ticklish feet! And as it happens, that is not only one of my good comrade's favorite diversions, but also a perfect torture for your personality, according to Emma."
Monica cut her eyes again to Emma, who smiled and raised her eyebrows innocently.
Prokhorov picked up a file. "Emma tells us you are a narcissist, Monica. You have a superiority complex, delusions of grandeur, and you are obsessed with power and control." He looked meaningfully into the camera. "This leaves me baffled about your past refusals of me, my dear," he said in a teasingly offended tone. "I am power and control. You must think me ugly."
He went on. "You treat common people like servants, yet you are deeply concerned about how those in power see you. You see yourself as the center of everything. 'We are all,' Emma tells me, 'merely characters in your play.'"
Monica scoffed. "I hope you didn't pay anyone for that psychobabble, Mikhail." She looked at Emma. "All you?"
Emma smiled and nodded. "I really do have a master’s degree," she said. "And thou dost protest too much, methinks."
"So, Monica! Emma!" Prokhorov shouted. "Shall we get back to the show?"
Monica heard claps and whistles at the lodge. She was now all too aware that everything she did was streaming as the evening’s entertainment for Prokhorov and his entourage of Russian elite.
The LED countdown kept cycling, resetting occasionally whenever Monica twitched her toes.
Emma pushed off the counter where she'd been leaning and cracked her knuckles.
Monica had to think of something fast! If Emma started tickling her again, she would quite literally lose control of the situation. And if the girl got her to break down and laugh in front of Prokhorov and his gang, the humiliation would be intolerable.
Her heart raced as Emma settled back into the seat across from her tied feet. C'mon Monica, she thought. Now or never!
"Ooh," Emma cooed. "Look at those toes wiggle!" Monica hadn’t realized they were squirming as she fretted. She stopped immediately.
"Now you're catching on!" encouraged Emma in her new accent. "Ten seconds like that and you get a break! I'm leaving the timer on, by the way. I love it when you try to hold yourself." She tapped some keys and once again the soles of Monica's feet filled the workstation's screen. "Might as well let you watch the fun!"
The picture-in-picture of Monica’s hands had now been replaced by a wide shot of her audience. On the couch she could just make out the old guy playfully plucking at the toes of his escort.
"Shchekotat' yeye!" someone shouted over the call to a round of lusty cheers.
Monica tensed as Emma turned back to her feet.
"Emma, wait." She said it as calmly as she could, hoping something useful would follow.
Emma looked up and raised her eyebrows.
"What…um…" Say something! "What is Stage 2?"
"Ah! Good question. It has the same rules as Stage 1, except now I can use my fingernails." To underscore this, Emma raised the backs of her hands to Monica and waggled her neatly manicured red nails in the air.
Monica's body tensed and the soles of her feet instantly surged with awareness, in anticipation of being touched.
She had to stall! This could NOT happen!
"Why, Emma? Why are you doing this? Why tickling?"
"Well, first because of the pedicures, and second because of who you are. Remember my 'psychobabble'? You see yourself as superior, almost superhuman. You stage-manage your life to appear cool and composed in front of powerful people. Holding all this together means you need to have absolute control of every situation. Your whole self-concept demands it."
Just Keep talking, you arrogant little twat, Monica thought as she listened. Every minute that went by was a minute something might save her.
Emma went on. "If my profile is right, and I think it is, then the worst torture for you isn't something impressive like flogging or the rack. It's something frivolous that makes you lose control and look silly in front of powerful people."
Deep down, Monica knew she was right.
"Mikhail was happy to provide the audience, I only needed to arrange the setting. And you're about to look quite silly, Monica."
Prokhorov's voice came over the feed. "Emma! People are falling asleep!" There was laughter, and then a few voices piped up in Russian. "But you do have your supporters!" More laughter. "Just don't take too long!"
Emma nodded. "Everyone's watching you, Monica. You're the center of attention. But you're not in control of yourself. I am. You're helpless. You're useless. There's nothing you can do but react to me. That alone probably drives you crazier than the tickling."
Emma watched Monica's expression as the color rose in her cheeks. Call it psychobabble, she thought, but I know how to get inside your head, lady.
"I'm about to break you by tickling your feet." Emma said. "And while it happens, you won't look brave or noble. You'll look ridiculous and weak. Red-faced and embarrassed like a helpless little girl falling for a sleepover prank."
Monica's jaw clenched, her temper rising. Emma watched her blush deepen as the pressure built.
"So this is what you do with all your authenticity and insight," Monica seethed. "You torture other women to entertain a roomful of perverted old men."
Tinny laughter came over the conference line, infuriating Monica further. What am I, she thought, a goddamn toy?!
Emma sat back and shook her head knowingly. "Oh no, don't even go there Monica. Don't play the sister card on me. We're barely the same species, you and I. In fact, we're opposites, which is why I annoy you so much."
Monica slowly shook her head as Emma went on.
"You are all about you and you alone. You shine and stand out everywhere you go. I am everyone else. I blend in and disappear. I live in other people's heads. And reading the room right now, I would say that makes me – and what I'm about to do – your kryptonite."
Monica tensed as Emma leaned toward her feet. "DON'T DO THIS!!!"
Emma smiled. "Or what, Monica?"
Her plaything thrashed wildly. "GAAAAAH!!! GODDAMNIT THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING!!!"
"There is nothing you can do to stop me."
"I WILL KILL YOU! I WILL FIND YOU AND FUCKING KILL YOU!!!"
Emma's smile was smug. "Is this you being a badass, Monica?"
"STOOOOOOP!!!" Monica was in a full-blown tantrum now, screaming and straining against the straps with furious energy. But in front of Emma, her straining feet couldn't move.
At once, Monica went rigid and drove all her rage into her glare, locking eyes with her tormentor.
Emma didn't flinch. "Ooh, there she is," she said. "Now that's a look of hate."
She leaned into it.
"That's right, hate me Monica. It makes things so much sexier after all this time. And do you know what occurs to me? Months of surveillance – months – and I've never heard you laugh, not even once."
"I won't!"
Emma smiled. "Oh really? How about we play 'this little piggy'?"
Monica braced. Emma softly pinched each of her big toes, making the attorney’s lips tighten. Then she began walking her fingers along Monica's remaining toes as she spoke, forcing the severe blonde's stern countenance to crack and tremble as her struggling grew more frantic.
"This little piggy went to market…"
"Don't do this."
"This little piggy stayed home…"
"Stop it!"
"This little piggy had roast beef…"
"STOP, dammit!"
"But this little piggy had none."
"EMMA!!!"
"And this little piggy went…"
"EMMA DON’T!!!"
"...weee weee weee weee all the way home!"
The touch of Emma's nails skittering across her soles was so soft and light that Monica was almost able to stay quiet. But with her feet already primed for contact, the sensation cut directly through her resistance to the laugh center of her brain.
"Mnmph!!! Geeheeheegah…nah…NO! NO! NOOO!!!"
Emma didn't let up. Monica felt herself slipping, and experienced the horror of knowing she would not be able to recover.
"Wah-hahaha!! Emma stopstopSTOP!!!"
But Emma didn't, and the avalanche had begun.
"WOAH-HOHOHO!!! WHA-HAHAHA!!! GAAAHAHAHAHA!!! PLEEHEEAAASE!!!"
Just before she tipped into madness, Monica heard cheering from the lodge.
To be continued...