Ah, the sweet smell of victory is the only way to start the day. In this case, victory smells like a freshly printed e-mail authorising the hiring of a PFY to take some of the daily tasks off my hands, leaving me free to pursue more high-end, strategy orientated goals. Of course the chances of such a goal occurring that can't be completed down the local pub are somewhere between none and none but that's a minor detail in the grand scheme of things.
Unfortunately company policy dictates that the job must be advertised internally before hitting the slave traders, so I whack together a standard 'must know which wire is live' job spec and throw it to HR. As the minimum period for internal vacancies is 24 hours, I can’t pass the job out until tomorrow so I flick the big red switch, killing power to the lights, desktops, door lock and telephones in the ops centre, stretch out and grab some well deserved kip.
Only for the beeping of my PC to wake me up again barely an hour later. Much to my surprise it appears to be an e-mail application for the PFY job. My reputation must be slipping, normally everyone in here would know better than to even think of applying. Unfortunately, the e-mail's been forwarded from HR, so they know someone's applied, hence I'm actually going to have to take at least a superficial interest in the interview.
First things first, and a quick check for the name Liz Cleary on the user database gives me her username on our systems and a recent picture. Despite my best efforts not to look at any of my users as anything other than targets of opportunity, I have to admit she's cute, at least as far as can be seen from a passport photo. The username gets the honour of testing my latest bit of software and within two minutes I've got a list of every web site and e-mail she's ever sent, sorted by embarrassment factor. Sadly there's little of interest in the e-mail, I wonder if the masses are finally catching on hat this stuff can be read by pretty much anyone, or if they just aren't trying as hard these days.
The web log's a different story though, nothing too dodgy but one entry is flagged up in red, www.ticklingforum.com. It takes me a second or two to remember where I've seen the URL before, then my mind flashes back to the mystery of the wandering hard disk and that jogs the old brain cells into life. Curious I flick through the history and find, much to my surprise, that my potential employee is a regular contributor, not only to the usual general chat areas, but an active author as well. In fact, after an extensive research period I'm quite impressed, this lass has a genuine talent and I start to re-evaluate her potential for the job.
Fixing an interview appointment for the next day I grab a Pepsi and lean back to think for a while. Normally I wouldn't even consider doing an internal hire, but there's something about this one that's tripping the alarm bells that say maybe it's worth spending the time with her. Finally I get to my feet, decision made, and I start making preparations for what should be a truly memorable interview.
The next morning I scare the rest of the company silly by actually arriving before 9:00 and I see people casting nervous glances my way as I wander down the middle of the office. The effect is enhanced somewhat by the change from my normal jeans and t-shirt into a brand new black Armani suit, crisp white shirt and hand crafted Italian shoes. One of the secretaries looks up just as I past by her desk and actually whimpers, probably a sudden flashback to the last time she had reason to place a support call. As I recall it involved a potted plant on top of a monitor, a watering can and a series of unexplainable, and very unfortunate, incidents for the next month or so.
My prospective employee turns up right on time at 9:17 (never give them anything easy, not even the arrival time for the interview, BOFH Rule #226) and I'm taken a little by surprise. I know passport pictures are always awful, but I hadn't been expecting the dark haired beauty in a perfectly tailored black business jacket and shirt, white blouse, black stockings and boots that sits down on the other side of the desk and for a moment I could have sworn I actually felt my heart beat. A quick remote server reboot later and I'm pretty much back to normal. After the usual introductions I reel off some verbal questions, and am surprised at the barely concealed cynicism and outright hostility towards user kind that her answers reveal.
Moving on to the practical part of the interview I lead her over to a set of normally unused storerooms. In fact they were originally intended to be used as a hot backup for our server room and follow the same layout of one room leading to the next leading to the next, but after a rather nasty incident with a runaway goods lift (not to mention a large insurance cheque for the destroyed equipment that somehow never made it to the finance team) we never got the machines to make it live. Shame that.
The otherwise empty room has two tables set about six foot apart. On one is a PC with the case off and a fault note taped to it indicating a potential problem with the hard drive. On the other is a selection of tools common to all good system support operations worldwide. I watch with a critical eye as she reads through the problem, turns to the tools, casts a practiced eye over the vast array of weird and wonderful equipment on offer and wins the teddy bear by picking up the large rubber mallet. A couple of hefty whacks later there's nothing potential about the problem, the unit's a return-to-manufacturer job and there's no physical evidence left around. Not bad, not bad at all.
Onwards and upwards, in this case up onto a raised floor covered in odd metal tiles. The instructions for this room are in two parts, the first is by the door on the way in, and simply tells her to remove her (rather lethal looking) boots and go read the other instructions which are placed on the single white tile in the centre of a 4x4 grid of black. As she leans over to pick up the single sheet of A4 there's a small click sound from behind her. The instructions are simple enough: All bar two squares are electrified with a mostly harmless current, find a safe way out. I watch as she glances around, and am once again impressed as I can practically see the thought process going on. After only a few seconds she sighs, reaches into her jacket and pulls out a slim black wallet from an inner pocket. A quick flick through the contents sees a twenty-pound note held delicately in the air towards me, and shortly thereafter said twenty is nestling in the depths of my own wallet, the switch is off and everyone's happy. Well, maybe not happy but at least non-crispy.
Moving on before she's had a chance to realise she's still sans boots we arrive at the final hurdle between her and gainful employment in the IT industry. Of course such a sought after prize needs suitably tough entrance criteria, and today's entrance criteria is sitting not two feet inside the doorway. I'm actually quite proud of this, just as the army keeps coming up with new ways to simulate combat situations, so must the dedicated IT professional simulate the most hazardous of mission critical tasks in relative safety, in this case, laying cable through an already rather full cable duct.
The cable duct in question is rather unusual, mainly because it's made of chicken wire on three sides, with a long acrylic sheet for the base so the candidates don’t cheese grater themselves during the test. After all, what use is a test if I can't actually see what's going on? It's a narrow space, only just wide enough to fit inside and at about ten foot long it'll actually be a pretty demanding crawl. To add to the fun I've simulated the usual conditions found inside a cable duct with a host of old cat 5 cables strung through the mesh, including some that go between one wall and the ceiling or, in some cases, the other wall. Not being a totally heartless tester though I relented on adding the thin layer of assorted crud that usually builds up in these things, and resisted the temptation of adding suitable wildlife to the run (spiders, rats, all the usual stuff).
After she's finished reading the instruction sheet and has found the length of cable already attached to a floor port she scores more bonus points by not complaining as she gets down to the job at hand. Pausing only to ditch her jacket (revealing a very fetching loose white blouse in the process) she hunkers down and wraps the cable around her wrist a couple of times before starting to work her shoulders into the gap. I had to admire her concentration as she worked her way through the rat’s nest of cables hanging down like jungle vines in front of her. In fact, so intense was her concentration she didn’t even notice as I flicked a switch I’d spent a couple of hours the night before installing. Silently a couple of motors under the raised floor pulled down at the cables mounted about two feet from the start of the run, turning them from loose vines to steel shackles just behind Liz’s stocking clad feet. Preparations complete I turned my attention back to her as she neared the end of the run and managed, with a great deal of tugging and swearing to get enough slack on the cable to plug it in to the waiting port.
It was about now she realised what was wrong with the set-up of the test. The end of the run was almost flush to the wall, and to get out of the cable duct she’d have to crawl backwards to the end as there was no way she could turn around in the enclosed space. With a barely suppressed sigh of frustration she started to shuffle her way back, making good time much to my surprise. As her feet pushed through the now-tight cables I touched another switch and a second set started to tighten just in front of her head. The timing was perfect as the cables cinched tightly around her wrists just as her hips reached the rear cables and she found herself completely unable to move. After a few seconds of struggling I saw her visibly collect herself, lie still and look over towards me as I moved over towards her, a thick set of printouts under one arm. To her credit she didn’t say anything, no screams, no threats, just an acceptance that something was going on that she had no real control over.
“Well, the good news is you’ve passed the selection process, if you still want the job its yours.” I said, and to my slight surprise found I really didn’t mind the idea of working with her, there was definitely something there that had potential.
“Yeah, I still want it.” She replied, a slightly testy edge creeping into her voice. “Now where’s the catch?”
Definite potential. “The catch is you’ve got a slight problem with your disciplinary record, specifically the section on not using company web access for personal browsing.” I said, rifling slowly through the stack of page dumps in a position she could clearly see what was there. “Now normally, I wouldn’t mind, but HR has become rather strict of late in clamping down on this sort of thing, so it might cause a problem if you try and transfer over to IT. But, as I’m not exactly the world’s biggest fan of our human resources team I always prefer to deal with such lapses in discipline in house, so to speak.”
I move slowly down her side, folding myself into a comfortable position sat next to her feet that poked out helplessly from their wire prison. “And I’ve always been a great believer in letting the crime determine the punishment.” So saying I reached down and started to run my fingers along her soles, enjoying the feeling of her smooth stockings under my nails as her feet started to jerk and spasm in my hands. Encouraged that I’d guessed right I sped up my touch on her soles, angling my fingers so just the tips of my nails was touching her and raking gently, but infuriatingly, up and down every inch of skin.
To my surprise she wasn’t laughing, although a quick glance showed the reason for that quite clearly. Her head was held high, every muscle in her neck and arms tensed as she screwed her eyes closed and fought the ticklish torment being unleashed on her trapped body, her mouth was a thin line as she held the laughter at bay, her body trembled as it fought her mind, her will, in a battle that was only ever going to have one winner as my fingers switch over to a swirling motion, again just using the nails, a warm up for things to come. That quickly shifts into a fuller contact as I brush my fingers seemingly at random across her soles, knowing that it must be a torment all of its own not to know where the next stroke will fall.
Still she’s holding out, and I mentally add that toughness and determination to my assessment of the woman as I switch to something a little more devious, fingers swirling up to the base of her toes, pitter-pattering my way across this delicate area with a grace that I suspect surprises her. Once more her feet writhe under my touch and bend up in a futile effort to escape, but there really is nowhere to go. Her entire body shudders and I hear a slight gasp fall from her lips, the first sign of a crack developing in her armour. It’s only a matter of time now, and I think I’ve had enough of waiting.
Reaching over I grab my secret weapon and point the nozzle at the gap between her biggest toe and it’s neighbour on the right foot. A quick press of the plunger, a blast of air and the first laugh is pulled from her bucking body as she reacts as if she’d been electrocuted. “What the fuck is that?” she yells, composure now well and truly gone. I don’t answer of course, but line up and take another shot between the next toes on her right foot. Again she howls, absolutely howls at the touch, laughter rising to a scream in one seamless motion as her whole body trembles. This time I don’t give her a chance to recover or ask questions but set about the remaining toes on both feet with a vengeance.
My ‘secret weapon’ in this case is an air duster, a pretty common bit of kit around most computer rooms, and it’s pretty simple. Basically it’s a can of compressed air that works like a deodorant, in fact I’ve seen people with too much blood in their caffeine stream get the two mixed up. Hit the button and you get a concentrated blast of very cold air powerful enough to blow most dirt and general crud off a computer motherboard without damaging anything important. Or, in this case, a kind of vapour version of an ice cube being delivered with devastating precision to an area normally difficult to touch with that sort of thing.
I’m a little shocked at just how well this is working, and start blasting random jets of ice-cold air all over her feet. While her toes, and the gaps in between them in particular, are the most responsive to this treatment, her soles aren’t far behind and twist violently away from the jets as they play over her feet. I let her have about two minutes of this treatment, not wanting to desensitise her to it this early, then drop the can and resume the finger tickling. Now she has no hope of holding back, and the laughter starts in earnest. A full, throaty laugh that seems to be targeted straight at the libido as she looses herself in the moment, surrendering to the inevitable as my fingers race over her stocking-clad feet. But I think she’s had it easy long enough.
With one motion I dig my fingers down through the stockings and pull, the silk splitting easily under the force of the movement as I expose her bare soles to my wandering fingers. Once again I dive to the attack, concentrating hard as I try and vary what I’m doing on each foot, one moment a slow, leisurely tickle on her right while racing all over her left, the next scrabbling over her soles on the left and poking and prodding in between her toes on the right. By now she’s getting desperate as her laughter becomes more forced, occasionally her voice fails her altogether and her laughter becomes silent as her body fights for oxygen.
Sensing the end of her endurance is rapidly approaching I back off for a minute, letting her catch her breath and admiring her heaving curves as she battles to suck much need oxygen into her lungs, certain that this isn’t over yet. As soon as I think she’s on the road to recovery, I prove her right by once again reaching for the air duster, adding a second can to the attack. This time the cans discharge directly against her bare skin and the response is electric as she thrashes hard enough to actually move her prison a fraction to the right . A second blast and the action is repeated, with not even enough energy to swear at me she simply lies there, head down as she pants for breath.
A third blast and a change seems to come over her as she writhes, a focus of energy that was missing earlier. A fourth shot and, ears straining, I catch the slight moan at the end of her shriek of laughter. Watching carefully I position both cans against the smallest toe on each foot and press the buttons. This time I’m sure of it as I see her hips jump upwards from the torment visited upon her feet, only for her to grind back against one of the cables that’s worked itself tight between her legs. Grinning to myself I set about her feet in earnest with the cans, delighting in the insane mix of laughter, shrieks, screams and groans coming from this attractive woman, while making a mental note to not turn my back any time soon once she’s free of this little trap.
Unfortunately company policy dictates that the job must be advertised internally before hitting the slave traders, so I whack together a standard 'must know which wire is live' job spec and throw it to HR. As the minimum period for internal vacancies is 24 hours, I can’t pass the job out until tomorrow so I flick the big red switch, killing power to the lights, desktops, door lock and telephones in the ops centre, stretch out and grab some well deserved kip.
Only for the beeping of my PC to wake me up again barely an hour later. Much to my surprise it appears to be an e-mail application for the PFY job. My reputation must be slipping, normally everyone in here would know better than to even think of applying. Unfortunately, the e-mail's been forwarded from HR, so they know someone's applied, hence I'm actually going to have to take at least a superficial interest in the interview.
First things first, and a quick check for the name Liz Cleary on the user database gives me her username on our systems and a recent picture. Despite my best efforts not to look at any of my users as anything other than targets of opportunity, I have to admit she's cute, at least as far as can be seen from a passport photo. The username gets the honour of testing my latest bit of software and within two minutes I've got a list of every web site and e-mail she's ever sent, sorted by embarrassment factor. Sadly there's little of interest in the e-mail, I wonder if the masses are finally catching on hat this stuff can be read by pretty much anyone, or if they just aren't trying as hard these days.
The web log's a different story though, nothing too dodgy but one entry is flagged up in red, www.ticklingforum.com. It takes me a second or two to remember where I've seen the URL before, then my mind flashes back to the mystery of the wandering hard disk and that jogs the old brain cells into life. Curious I flick through the history and find, much to my surprise, that my potential employee is a regular contributor, not only to the usual general chat areas, but an active author as well. In fact, after an extensive research period I'm quite impressed, this lass has a genuine talent and I start to re-evaluate her potential for the job.
Fixing an interview appointment for the next day I grab a Pepsi and lean back to think for a while. Normally I wouldn't even consider doing an internal hire, but there's something about this one that's tripping the alarm bells that say maybe it's worth spending the time with her. Finally I get to my feet, decision made, and I start making preparations for what should be a truly memorable interview.
The next morning I scare the rest of the company silly by actually arriving before 9:00 and I see people casting nervous glances my way as I wander down the middle of the office. The effect is enhanced somewhat by the change from my normal jeans and t-shirt into a brand new black Armani suit, crisp white shirt and hand crafted Italian shoes. One of the secretaries looks up just as I past by her desk and actually whimpers, probably a sudden flashback to the last time she had reason to place a support call. As I recall it involved a potted plant on top of a monitor, a watering can and a series of unexplainable, and very unfortunate, incidents for the next month or so.
My prospective employee turns up right on time at 9:17 (never give them anything easy, not even the arrival time for the interview, BOFH Rule #226) and I'm taken a little by surprise. I know passport pictures are always awful, but I hadn't been expecting the dark haired beauty in a perfectly tailored black business jacket and shirt, white blouse, black stockings and boots that sits down on the other side of the desk and for a moment I could have sworn I actually felt my heart beat. A quick remote server reboot later and I'm pretty much back to normal. After the usual introductions I reel off some verbal questions, and am surprised at the barely concealed cynicism and outright hostility towards user kind that her answers reveal.
Moving on to the practical part of the interview I lead her over to a set of normally unused storerooms. In fact they were originally intended to be used as a hot backup for our server room and follow the same layout of one room leading to the next leading to the next, but after a rather nasty incident with a runaway goods lift (not to mention a large insurance cheque for the destroyed equipment that somehow never made it to the finance team) we never got the machines to make it live. Shame that.
The otherwise empty room has two tables set about six foot apart. On one is a PC with the case off and a fault note taped to it indicating a potential problem with the hard drive. On the other is a selection of tools common to all good system support operations worldwide. I watch with a critical eye as she reads through the problem, turns to the tools, casts a practiced eye over the vast array of weird and wonderful equipment on offer and wins the teddy bear by picking up the large rubber mallet. A couple of hefty whacks later there's nothing potential about the problem, the unit's a return-to-manufacturer job and there's no physical evidence left around. Not bad, not bad at all.
Onwards and upwards, in this case up onto a raised floor covered in odd metal tiles. The instructions for this room are in two parts, the first is by the door on the way in, and simply tells her to remove her (rather lethal looking) boots and go read the other instructions which are placed on the single white tile in the centre of a 4x4 grid of black. As she leans over to pick up the single sheet of A4 there's a small click sound from behind her. The instructions are simple enough: All bar two squares are electrified with a mostly harmless current, find a safe way out. I watch as she glances around, and am once again impressed as I can practically see the thought process going on. After only a few seconds she sighs, reaches into her jacket and pulls out a slim black wallet from an inner pocket. A quick flick through the contents sees a twenty-pound note held delicately in the air towards me, and shortly thereafter said twenty is nestling in the depths of my own wallet, the switch is off and everyone's happy. Well, maybe not happy but at least non-crispy.
Moving on before she's had a chance to realise she's still sans boots we arrive at the final hurdle between her and gainful employment in the IT industry. Of course such a sought after prize needs suitably tough entrance criteria, and today's entrance criteria is sitting not two feet inside the doorway. I'm actually quite proud of this, just as the army keeps coming up with new ways to simulate combat situations, so must the dedicated IT professional simulate the most hazardous of mission critical tasks in relative safety, in this case, laying cable through an already rather full cable duct.
The cable duct in question is rather unusual, mainly because it's made of chicken wire on three sides, with a long acrylic sheet for the base so the candidates don’t cheese grater themselves during the test. After all, what use is a test if I can't actually see what's going on? It's a narrow space, only just wide enough to fit inside and at about ten foot long it'll actually be a pretty demanding crawl. To add to the fun I've simulated the usual conditions found inside a cable duct with a host of old cat 5 cables strung through the mesh, including some that go between one wall and the ceiling or, in some cases, the other wall. Not being a totally heartless tester though I relented on adding the thin layer of assorted crud that usually builds up in these things, and resisted the temptation of adding suitable wildlife to the run (spiders, rats, all the usual stuff).
After she's finished reading the instruction sheet and has found the length of cable already attached to a floor port she scores more bonus points by not complaining as she gets down to the job at hand. Pausing only to ditch her jacket (revealing a very fetching loose white blouse in the process) she hunkers down and wraps the cable around her wrist a couple of times before starting to work her shoulders into the gap. I had to admire her concentration as she worked her way through the rat’s nest of cables hanging down like jungle vines in front of her. In fact, so intense was her concentration she didn’t even notice as I flicked a switch I’d spent a couple of hours the night before installing. Silently a couple of motors under the raised floor pulled down at the cables mounted about two feet from the start of the run, turning them from loose vines to steel shackles just behind Liz’s stocking clad feet. Preparations complete I turned my attention back to her as she neared the end of the run and managed, with a great deal of tugging and swearing to get enough slack on the cable to plug it in to the waiting port.
It was about now she realised what was wrong with the set-up of the test. The end of the run was almost flush to the wall, and to get out of the cable duct she’d have to crawl backwards to the end as there was no way she could turn around in the enclosed space. With a barely suppressed sigh of frustration she started to shuffle her way back, making good time much to my surprise. As her feet pushed through the now-tight cables I touched another switch and a second set started to tighten just in front of her head. The timing was perfect as the cables cinched tightly around her wrists just as her hips reached the rear cables and she found herself completely unable to move. After a few seconds of struggling I saw her visibly collect herself, lie still and look over towards me as I moved over towards her, a thick set of printouts under one arm. To her credit she didn’t say anything, no screams, no threats, just an acceptance that something was going on that she had no real control over.
“Well, the good news is you’ve passed the selection process, if you still want the job its yours.” I said, and to my slight surprise found I really didn’t mind the idea of working with her, there was definitely something there that had potential.
“Yeah, I still want it.” She replied, a slightly testy edge creeping into her voice. “Now where’s the catch?”
Definite potential. “The catch is you’ve got a slight problem with your disciplinary record, specifically the section on not using company web access for personal browsing.” I said, rifling slowly through the stack of page dumps in a position she could clearly see what was there. “Now normally, I wouldn’t mind, but HR has become rather strict of late in clamping down on this sort of thing, so it might cause a problem if you try and transfer over to IT. But, as I’m not exactly the world’s biggest fan of our human resources team I always prefer to deal with such lapses in discipline in house, so to speak.”
I move slowly down her side, folding myself into a comfortable position sat next to her feet that poked out helplessly from their wire prison. “And I’ve always been a great believer in letting the crime determine the punishment.” So saying I reached down and started to run my fingers along her soles, enjoying the feeling of her smooth stockings under my nails as her feet started to jerk and spasm in my hands. Encouraged that I’d guessed right I sped up my touch on her soles, angling my fingers so just the tips of my nails was touching her and raking gently, but infuriatingly, up and down every inch of skin.
To my surprise she wasn’t laughing, although a quick glance showed the reason for that quite clearly. Her head was held high, every muscle in her neck and arms tensed as she screwed her eyes closed and fought the ticklish torment being unleashed on her trapped body, her mouth was a thin line as she held the laughter at bay, her body trembled as it fought her mind, her will, in a battle that was only ever going to have one winner as my fingers switch over to a swirling motion, again just using the nails, a warm up for things to come. That quickly shifts into a fuller contact as I brush my fingers seemingly at random across her soles, knowing that it must be a torment all of its own not to know where the next stroke will fall.
Still she’s holding out, and I mentally add that toughness and determination to my assessment of the woman as I switch to something a little more devious, fingers swirling up to the base of her toes, pitter-pattering my way across this delicate area with a grace that I suspect surprises her. Once more her feet writhe under my touch and bend up in a futile effort to escape, but there really is nowhere to go. Her entire body shudders and I hear a slight gasp fall from her lips, the first sign of a crack developing in her armour. It’s only a matter of time now, and I think I’ve had enough of waiting.
Reaching over I grab my secret weapon and point the nozzle at the gap between her biggest toe and it’s neighbour on the right foot. A quick press of the plunger, a blast of air and the first laugh is pulled from her bucking body as she reacts as if she’d been electrocuted. “What the fuck is that?” she yells, composure now well and truly gone. I don’t answer of course, but line up and take another shot between the next toes on her right foot. Again she howls, absolutely howls at the touch, laughter rising to a scream in one seamless motion as her whole body trembles. This time I don’t give her a chance to recover or ask questions but set about the remaining toes on both feet with a vengeance.
My ‘secret weapon’ in this case is an air duster, a pretty common bit of kit around most computer rooms, and it’s pretty simple. Basically it’s a can of compressed air that works like a deodorant, in fact I’ve seen people with too much blood in their caffeine stream get the two mixed up. Hit the button and you get a concentrated blast of very cold air powerful enough to blow most dirt and general crud off a computer motherboard without damaging anything important. Or, in this case, a kind of vapour version of an ice cube being delivered with devastating precision to an area normally difficult to touch with that sort of thing.
I’m a little shocked at just how well this is working, and start blasting random jets of ice-cold air all over her feet. While her toes, and the gaps in between them in particular, are the most responsive to this treatment, her soles aren’t far behind and twist violently away from the jets as they play over her feet. I let her have about two minutes of this treatment, not wanting to desensitise her to it this early, then drop the can and resume the finger tickling. Now she has no hope of holding back, and the laughter starts in earnest. A full, throaty laugh that seems to be targeted straight at the libido as she looses herself in the moment, surrendering to the inevitable as my fingers race over her stocking-clad feet. But I think she’s had it easy long enough.
With one motion I dig my fingers down through the stockings and pull, the silk splitting easily under the force of the movement as I expose her bare soles to my wandering fingers. Once again I dive to the attack, concentrating hard as I try and vary what I’m doing on each foot, one moment a slow, leisurely tickle on her right while racing all over her left, the next scrabbling over her soles on the left and poking and prodding in between her toes on the right. By now she’s getting desperate as her laughter becomes more forced, occasionally her voice fails her altogether and her laughter becomes silent as her body fights for oxygen.
Sensing the end of her endurance is rapidly approaching I back off for a minute, letting her catch her breath and admiring her heaving curves as she battles to suck much need oxygen into her lungs, certain that this isn’t over yet. As soon as I think she’s on the road to recovery, I prove her right by once again reaching for the air duster, adding a second can to the attack. This time the cans discharge directly against her bare skin and the response is electric as she thrashes hard enough to actually move her prison a fraction to the right . A second blast and the action is repeated, with not even enough energy to swear at me she simply lies there, head down as she pants for breath.
A third blast and a change seems to come over her as she writhes, a focus of energy that was missing earlier. A fourth shot and, ears straining, I catch the slight moan at the end of her shriek of laughter. Watching carefully I position both cans against the smallest toe on each foot and press the buttons. This time I’m sure of it as I see her hips jump upwards from the torment visited upon her feet, only for her to grind back against one of the cables that’s worked itself tight between her legs. Grinning to myself I set about her feet in earnest with the cans, delighting in the insane mix of laughter, shrieks, screams and groans coming from this attractive woman, while making a mental note to not turn my back any time soon once she’s free of this little trap.
