C.A.B.
3rd Level White Feather
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C.A.B.'s Nightstand Companion ~ I
A tiny tome of tickle torture titillation treasures by C.A.B.
~ ~ ~
Not to worry... It's All in Your Mind
Dr. Rebecca Schuller, M.D. was a fast rising star in the psychiatric community. But if there was a reason, it was not for any insightful research or groundbreaking treatments, nor was it for any hint of intellectual acumen. She rose to fame because of an innate ability to charm the right people and be seen in all the right crowds, much the same way she glided through entire academic career. Everyone seemed to like and respect Rebecca, yet, if pressed, no one could quite say why.
Early on she had aligned herself with the giants in the field, most notably, the renowned Dr. Dimitar Jan of Brussels. Dr. Jan looked every bit the part of a senior man of science, almost a caricature; with a halo of wispy white hair and matching pointed goatee and mustache. His eyes seemingly missing behind the white reflection of his round, rimless glasses. When Rebecca had learned that he had established a semi-retired practice in the States she quickly moved to endear herself; feigning great admiration, making herself available for luncheons, and attending conferences which raised many eyebrows. The mature European Doctor of accomplishment and his young American arm candy. And eventually her name began to appear next to his on all his published works. Rebecca became famous by proxy... and some say, by "hand job."
In spite of her glad-handing and sterling public image, her own actual practice was populated by the most garden-variety of patients, which was just as well considering her lack of interest. But among these was a man that did catch her notice. A milquetoast fellow by the name of Tom Fellows. A chronic case of acute paranoia with a tendency to lock up in panic attacks, but not quite enough to warrant psychotropic drugs. What Tom lacked in an interesting life and personality he more than made up for in colorful rambling detail of his delusions.
According to Tom's lengthy canon, an international cabal of ruthless men sought to rule the world by infiltrating and manipulating all disciplines of science, thereby, slowly over centuries, rewrite what was fact to fit their own grand design. When pressed as to whether he felt endangered by these imaginary men, Tom would become uncharacteristically animated and physically shaken, insisting they were on the cusp of finding out that he knows all about them, and his cache of 2,231 single spaced, three-hole punched notebooks that he kept in his elderly mother's detached garage under an old horse blanket. Rebecca made it a point to see him, but only because he was amusing and paid his bills on time. She never bothered to take notes on his case nor offered help. She simply dangled a shoe from her shapely foot and imagined twisted sexual fantasies involving "a cabal of ruthless men." If Tom deviated from his psychotic soliloquy to fearfully beg understanding, Rebecca simply moved her fingers away from her moist lap and patronized, "Not to worry… It's all in your head."
Then Tom began to miss appointments, and it angered Rebecca that this funny little man was making her show up to work for no reason. She invoiced him all the same. After a time, she crossed his name from her thin list of clientele and focused on the next quick route to fortune. And as if by coincidence, the esteemed Dr. Jan made a rare visit to her home office that day. Tipping his hat in continental manner, the doctor's face looked grave as he introduced the two humorless men behind him, detectives assigned to the missing Tom Fellows case. Apparently their investigation had led them to Dr. Jan and sought his assistance locating who was treating Tom.
Rebecca, always one to snatch an opportunity to make the papers, was happy to help in anyway she could, barring doctor client privilege of course. She dismissed her secretary home for the weekend so that she could have privacy with her visitors. Retuning to her office she felt immediate unease as one of the detectives shut the door behind her. The other stood uncomfortably close. Dr. Jan had helped himself to a seat behind her desk. Some drawers were open. "So. You will tell us of this patient, this Mr. Fellows. If we are to help these gentlemen locate his… him, we must know the details of his neurosis. Yes?" Dr. Jan smiles a yellow grin of ancient European teeth. Rebecca buries her instinct and sits with smile. "Well… I can characterize him this way…" And she trails on in platitudes to their dull gazes.
"Enough!" Dr. Jan barks and he stands, "These notebooks of his… yes, we know all about them. Where are they?" Rebecca pauses in disbelief but then bolts for the door. A detective easily pushes he onto the therapy couch, the other has manacles ready. She protests and demands explanation. Dr. Jan draws a small ampoule from his jacket pocket, holding it to the light he inserts a syringe. The men secure her and begin to strip her clothing. She screams but there is no one to hear.
"Now, now, Rebecca… tsk tsk," Dr. Jan eases as he draws closer, "You may not see the humor in this, and neither do we. But, in a moment or two, you will be laughing all the same. Hold her." In an awkward thrash, they hold her down and the needle finds her buttocks, "This is one of mine, Rebecca. Designer Psychotropic, if you will. In moments you will feel very humorous and highly susceptible to touch. You will tell us where these note books are, Rebecca. You see, Mr. Fellows no longer can. These men here with me are ruthless, and the weekend is long. I suggest you talk."
Rebecca feels the rush of the drug finding her nerves, the world swims as the detectives take an ankle under each arm. She stammers, "No… I… I don't know! God help me I never listened to him that close!" she begins to laugh in spite of her fear, "Mostly I ignored him! Please! Don't!"
"Pitiful, sad, little Rebecca. You showed so much promise. But a psychiatrist that ignores her patients? Such un-professionalism in a doctor of your stature? This I cannot believe." The men remove her heels and tear open her hosiery, but she is already laughing uncontrollably. Dr. Jan patronizes as he sits to watch, "They will torture you now, Rebecca. But not to worry... it's all in your mind."
"Tickle her."
~ ~ ~
The Dragon of Xiang
Deep amid the towering spires and jade mists of Zhang Jia Jie, the young nun is startled by a sudden crack of lighting as the sky grows angry with ashen torrents of rain. She dismounts her mule and pulls it from the dirt path winding deep into the otherworldly landscape of the remote Hunan territories. Half blind from the downpour, she spies the dark opening of a cave at the base of a great sandstone pillar. Though a bamboo thicket, she wrestles with the beast as her thin silk vestments now stick to her skin with revealing immodesty. Another fork of lightning and the mule bucks and trots away, disappearing into the gray sheets. She is left, small and abandoned at the great maw of the cave.
She calls after her mount to no avail, then retreats to her lucked-upon shelter and its eerie blackened depths. Are there animals in there? She cries in frustration. Alone and lost, trapped between the stinging cold rain and the dark unknown behind her. But then, quite low against the din of the storm, an echo from the depths. A human voice '85 voices. She rallies her thoughts, "Of course! A mine with men, they must be inside." Gathering her courage and covering her soaked-through breasts, she deftly makes her way deeper into the cave; her almond eyes growing large and black with adjustment.
Deeper and deeper, her delicate feet carefully navigate the inky darkness and jagged rocks. Her arms waving before her like a cricket. The voices echo strangely and the words are masculine, thick, and garbled. She pushes on, walls slimy and cold, something scurries past her ankles. She calls out. There is no reply but for the report of her own voice reverberating from impossible depths. And then, her eyes find a feint light, small and remote. To reach it, she must climb down a treacherous stair of stone, slick with a thousand years of dissolved minerals. Clutching stalagmites by their bones she descends on the decrepit broken teeth of the abyss.
At long last, there is sure footing. She cannot conceive of how deep she has submerged, but it is warmer now. She recalls a reading of Dante at the covenant, and the imagery disturbs her. But the glow of light is closer now, and there is hope. On occasion she hears gruff laughter and the clang of tools. So close.
Suddenly her wrist is grabbed from the shadows, rough and strong. She shrieks. An angry face looms in hers, foul breath and stern voice, "You here to spy our claim? Huh? Who you was sent?" The words are barely intelligible, a dialect of old Xiang unique to this wilderness. But she composes and calls upon her missionary studies to reply, "No. I am lost. Can you help me?" Without a word she is dragged gravely into the caverns. Swiftly they fall deeper into the mountain, the world above and the face of God never finds these depths, and hope is lost with every echoing footfall. They turn a craggy bend and her eyes grow wide; a great cathedral of stalactites and jade crystal yawns before them, its green splendor glinting from fire braziers like the jaws of a terrible dragon. Several burly men in tattered clothing stand in suspicious repose. Behind them a colossal slab of jade glows in wavy green splendor. Her young life is trained in the denial of earthly treasure, but she cannot look away from the seductive monstrous gem.
"She spy." her captor grunts. The miners drop their chisels and picks in metallic wrath. The tallest, most beastly man charges her and demands answers, his spittle smelling strong of rice beer. She efforts a denial between the painful, dusty grip on her mouth. "We make her tell," the leader spits, "Tie her to the dragon." Her frail body is manipulated easily against the backdrop of her pleas. The ropes are tight and burn as she is tautened on the great alter of jade. She appeals to their decency and confesses to be a sister of charity, sent to aide remote villages, but they do not heed. She is shamed beyond endurance as calloused, mine-hewn hands anxiously rip and tear the clothes from her body. Damp with rain and sweat her milky skin shimmers in the flickering firelight. She closes her eyes to the furor of rough hands and fingers hungrily kneading her flesh. Six men in all, all seething with months, perhaps years, of confined desire. Now she lay as a bountiful feast for their lust, well beyond the reach of grace.
"Tell us! And perhaps we will only have one turn each!" the grizzled miner drools. His hands find her breasts and ribs. She squeals in uncontrollable laughter. "She will tell in time, tickle her until she begs to speak truth." There is no escape from the flurry of hands and fingers. She gasps and rolls with unrelenting laughter. The sensations find her long repressed libido and she sins several times amid the horror. Dying a little with each shameful convulsion. The wicked men, spurred by the musk of her distress, violate her innocence, each in fevered turn. It is forever night in the belly of the dragon, and it is long. She never utters a word.
Later, tied to a boulder beyond the greedy eyes of the others, the youngest of the miners attends her. He is shamed, but did not take part in her suffering. Hand-feeding her cold rice, he begs forgiveness. She comforts him in turn, and implores him to help her escape. He moils and is torn, but unties her hands. She begs to show gratitude for his aide, and to his shock, begins to delicately caress his manhood. He slumps, speechless and distressed as she quiets him and takes him into her mouth. She draws his youthful frustration to a spastic release amid the surrounding damnation. He composes and secrets her away, through the labyrinth to the glory of light above. She thanks him as he nervously retreats back into his secret mine to face his brethren.
A full moon passes, and the miners toil is broken by the deafening report of black powder. The eldest falls dead. Filling the cave, a contingent of claim-jumpers; remorseless men with an eye for the riches of the dragon. The thieves fall on the miners without mercy, warm blood running over cold wet stone. The youngest miner turns a fading eye to see the nun, now, just a brigand. A thief hands her a jingling purse with a coy smile, "You have done well to find them for us. You will get a full share." What the young miner had mistaken as shamed piety was, all along, determined ruthlessness. A woman of faith that had fallen from grace long before they were ever doomed to meet.
~ ~ ~
The Case of the Feather Noir
I remember exactly when I first laid eyes on her. It was October 7th, 1938 at 5:35 p.m. I remember because I always make my alimony check out to my third ex-wife, Blanche, the first Friday of the month, and my secretary Miss Mabel goes home precisely at 5:30 and only she knows where the damned postage stamps are. So this dame steps into my crappy office with sexy heels attached to the longest set of gams I'd ever seen. She was all leg, and they went up for miles to her bottle-blond hair. I stared so long my Lucky Strike burnt my lip, which would now match the bandage on my broken nose I got from an irate longshoreman that wasn't too keen on a gumshoe nosing around the docks after hours. She tries to hold herself like she's got class, but its all baloney when I hear her brooklynese, "Are you Sam Splayed?"
Her little freckled nose scrunched up at the eau de cologne of my second story rented rat's nest; cigarettes, hard liquor, and me. But I wasn't do for a bath until Saturday night, so this dame would just have to grin and bear it, my windows don't open. When I saw tears in her eyes I thought it was my B.O. but it was about her sister. She asks to sit and I tell her to just throw my overcoat on the floor. She primps and crosses her legs wide enough to let a feller like me know there's more than one kind of compensation available. She dangles her heel from those delicate ruby red toes and I go cockeyed with one on her and the other bouncing with the shoe.
She sobs about her sister, some dizzy broad what got caught up in the wrong crowd. She was a showgirl at some snazzy uptown club called The Gay Top Hat until she got mixed up with the booze and gambling and things people don't talk about in polite company. Wasn't long before some shady characters took an interest in her and she wound up workin' at a real hole in the wall downtown, The Stinky Kitty, where real live girls cost a penny a dance. I know the joint well '97 don't bother askin'. Its operated by some unemployed Nazi goes by the name of Sheissehosen. Wasn't long after that the gal goes missing. I smell a rat. A big, sauerkraut eatin' rat.
So I ask this broad in my office her name. She says she prefers if I call her 'Joan', and leave it at that. Then she pulls a rock off her finger the size of Gibraltar and it skids to a stop next to my Saturday Night Special. If its real its gotta be worth a king's ransom. "Take it, Sam! Pawn it. It's all I have," she bats her baby blues under raccoon mascara, "Oh please, Sam. Find my sweet little Annie." I wipe some blackheads off my nose with my sleeve and consider the hunk of ice. "Yeah. I'll do it. I'll hate myself in the morning, but I can't stand to see a woman cry. Consider me your private dick."
Well it wasn't long before I was up to my neck in it. My first stop is The Gay Top Hat, and whatayaknow, there's that sawed-off runt Carlo running the joint. He aint to keen on me payin' a visit, since I had him sent up the river to Sing Sing a couple of years back. But he's a nervous little feller and it was easy to sweat him about the girl. I almost had the goods when these two gorilla's of his bounce me to the curb on my dignity, Carlo laughing like a little girl with his crooked teeth, bad breath, and Eddie Cantor eyes. Schmuck.
So now I'm off staking The Stinky Kitty and it stinks like yesterday's news down there. Fog's rolling in from the bay and there's a shadow trailing me. I duck into a doorway and jump the wise-guy when he passes. I'm about to give him a knuckle sandwich when, "Sam! It's me!" It's Joan, creeping around in her stockinged feet, she'd been following me all along. "Say, what's the big idea? This aint no place for a dame. Now go on, go home and knit something." I'm cross with her, but it's for her own good. "You got me dead to rights, Sam. I haven't been honest with you. My Sister and I, we work for the Office of Strategic Services. We were on the trail of a German Spy." I don't like roughing up dames but I grabbed her by her coat lapels, "Listen see, if your workin' with Uncle Sam that's your business, I'm sorry, baby, but his is no place for..." Then something in me just snapped, like a crack in the Hoover Dam. I kissed her. I kissed her hard like a man should. Her legs went wobbly and then she slapped me. Hard. So I slapped her. Hard. And we kissed again. "Oh Sam! Sam!" She was cheesecake and butter in my arms.
"That will be quite enough of that, Mr. Splayed. Now, please, if you will come with us." It was Carlo behind us with a couple of goons with heaters pointed at our backs. I get between Joan and the guns. "Carlo, you slippery little weasel, why I oughta..." And that was when one of his thugs slugged me. Broke my nose again. Everything went black.
When I came to, I was tied to a pole in an old warehouse behind The Stinky Kitty. I recognized the smell. Carlo and his boys were tying Joan to a chair next to her Sister. Then they tied their bare feet up on some old crates. The girls mumbled in their handkerchief gags as their little toes wiggled in the dank, moldy air. That's when Scheissehosen wobbled in, pinstripes and spats, and a cheap, dime-store walking stick. "Gut evening meine Damen... und ze ubiquitous and unwashed Mr. Splayed. I trust you are all comfortable?" I struggled against my bonds, but I was stuck like a pig to slaughter, "Skip the pleasantries, fat man, and let the women go. It's me you want." He pops his monocle. "On ze contrary, Mr. Splayed, it is they that I want. Or more precisely, it is Die Schwarze Feder... The Feather Noir, that I desire. For with its power before our armies, das Vaterland will conquer Poland. Und den, Europe. Und den ze WORLD!" He laughs like a bowl of jelly, "What do you sink of zat, Mr. Splayed?"
"I think you're screwy, that's what you are, fat man. The cops will be here any minute." But he ain't buyin it. He drags an old chair over to the gals' feet and pulls out a turkey feather, "Und now, meine liebchen, you will please excuse ze irony, but you will now tell me where ze Feather Noir is!" Then the evil bastard starts to run the feather between their toes and strokes the soles of their feet. The poor girls start laughing and they can't stop. Tears make those baby-blues all mascara runny again. The Nazi is merciless, and I'm as helpless as a kitten. But to be honest, it was the kinda thing that aint hard on the eyes of a foot guy like me. So I bum a smoke from a goon and watch. Fat man eventually got what he wanted and let us go. And that's pretty much it. Life aint always a bowl of cherries.
~ ~ ~
Finishing School
The headmaster cleared something from his ancient throat and spoke aloud to the student body, "As you may or may not be aware, but I am quite sure you are, every three years or so, two senior students are selected to complete their studies abroad as representatives and ambassadors of our fine academic institution. This is such a year. The Turlington School for Young Women has chosen the following student's to attend the Ch 'e2teau Mont-Effroi Finishing School in Switzerland... if you will please stand when
your name is called..."
There is a hushed buzz of excitement among the students, and the headmaster clears his throat once again, "Miss Faren Chalk."
A rise in the buzzing and some hand-stifled squeals. "Please, please," the headmaster raises a claw for composure, "And..." he peeks over his crusty bifocals, "Miss Whitney Upton." The room of girls can no longer contain themselves and clamor to congratulate their lucky classmates. But by the beginning of their second week away in the strange foreign school, Faren and Whitney realized something was very, very wrong.They were not only isolated from the world, with no means to phone or contact family, but also,
very oddly, the only two students to be found within the gray and ice battered ramparts of the Ch 'e2teau school.
It had started with their arrival in Helvetica, their parents were not permitted to go any farther and a private driver grinned crooked
as he drove away with the girls into a white snowfall, deep into the groin of the Alps. Hours later after a slow and arduous climb over snaking tenuous roads, the driver delivered them to the base hut of a funicular, whose tracks disappeared up into the mountain mists, almost vertically. There, the lone attendant, a prune of a man, huffed and looked them over with his one good eye and shushed them onto the creaking cog-driven car and it wrenched and lurched up into the maw of a tunnel carved into the solid cold stone of Mont Effroi. When they emerged from the darkness the Ch 'e2teau school loomed cold, gray and dead before them like skeletal remains of an ancient climber that had fallen into this rocky crag; for all round there was nothing but walls of ice and granite reaching to the white-out of the sky. The only other structure, an ancient hunting club tucked to the side, its mounted sheepshead jutting snow-covered
and rotting in the wild, alpine wind.
Frau H 'e4sslich, the headmistress of the school met them at the gates, her own visage set in ice and granite. There was no welcome nor affection on the woman, but she ushered them into the polished dark wood of silent halls with all the calculated efficiency of a ex-Nazi commandant. If there was warmth to be found anywhere within the Ch 'e2teau, the least of it would be under the gaze of this erect and pinched woman. Weeks turned to months in the silent Ch 'e2teau, the mildewy monotony only broken by the excruciatingly slow ticking of wooden clocks. The girl's only respite from boredom and strict rules was to play games at night; quietly, so as to not earn the wrath of Frau H 'e4sslich's spanking rod. Inevitably the young women's games turned to mutual affection and petting, eventually finding curious warmth and comfort in each others arms '85 and legs.
One morning, Faren reports to class to find that her classmate is absent. She raises her hand until Frau H 'e4sslich recognizes her;
which takes some time. "Frau H 'e4sslich, where is Whitney?" The headmistress rises like a ghost and glides toward her, rod in hand, "Miss Upton has graduated to her next class. As will you if you have you completed your assignment." "Yes, Ma'am." "Gut! Place it on my desk and follow me closely. Be quick!" Frau H 'e4sslich unlocks a heavy door and leads the girl down a wood paneled corridor, one she was not permitted to see before. There another latch is unlocked and the descend stony stairs down into the darker, colder, catacomb beneath. They walk past rows of heavy oaken doors, and Faren believes her imagination hears distant crying and laughter '85 and screaming. "There," Frau H 'e4sslich motions with her rod to a open stone parlor, "Present yourself. Quickly now. Step! Schnell!"
Dutifully, with worried eyes, Faren enters the room to find a man standing before her in a strange breathing mask and goggles. She frightens and turns a glance back only to be met with Frau H 'e4sslich burning stern eyes, "Now is the time when you sign your adult papers, Yes? Your eighteenth bithday was three weeks ago like your friend. Sign." The breathing man in his rubber gowns thrusts papers and and pen at her. She signs shakily. "Gut. Now so has your friend, Miss Upton." Upon these words the man opens a set of double doors and horrified, Faren backs away unconsciously into the iron bony grip of Frau H 'e4sslich.
There stretched upon an ungodly ancient and cruel device is her friend. Another man in a breathing mask is tickling Whitney's naked form and she is red-faced with forced laughter from the torment. She can barely see Faren through her tears but cannot speak as she
is fitted with her own breathing apparatus. Her eyes plead as if to say 'This can not be so!'
"Do not be alarmed," Frau H 'e4sslich hisses, "The masks provide good air in this deep cavern, a necessity after a time. Congratulations to the both of you, having graduated to this honored position, as did most of the young women before you. Here you will be trained for sexual servitude to the elite classes of Europe. Your embattled will to be broken through systematic reward and punishment. These men of the hunting club, they will instruct you. They will torture you with prolonged and maddening tickling until you learn to comply. Do well, and you will be trained in the art of deep orgasmic pleasure. And so now you will join your friend '85 take off your clothes, sit in that chair and watch. For you are next."
Faren, her face as ashen as the white howling winds outside, dutifully begins to remove her school blouse, so conditioned is she to obey. All the while she anguishes at the sight of her friends breathless torture; the man now scratching at her imprisoned bare feet, grinning at her suffering under his own black-hosed mask.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Enjoy more short stories of tickle torture in C.A.B.'s Nightstand Companion ~ II
A tiny tome of tickle torture titillation treasures by C.A.B.
~ ~ ~
Not to worry... It's All in Your Mind
Dr. Rebecca Schuller, M.D. was a fast rising star in the psychiatric community. But if there was a reason, it was not for any insightful research or groundbreaking treatments, nor was it for any hint of intellectual acumen. She rose to fame because of an innate ability to charm the right people and be seen in all the right crowds, much the same way she glided through entire academic career. Everyone seemed to like and respect Rebecca, yet, if pressed, no one could quite say why.
Early on she had aligned herself with the giants in the field, most notably, the renowned Dr. Dimitar Jan of Brussels. Dr. Jan looked every bit the part of a senior man of science, almost a caricature; with a halo of wispy white hair and matching pointed goatee and mustache. His eyes seemingly missing behind the white reflection of his round, rimless glasses. When Rebecca had learned that he had established a semi-retired practice in the States she quickly moved to endear herself; feigning great admiration, making herself available for luncheons, and attending conferences which raised many eyebrows. The mature European Doctor of accomplishment and his young American arm candy. And eventually her name began to appear next to his on all his published works. Rebecca became famous by proxy... and some say, by "hand job."
In spite of her glad-handing and sterling public image, her own actual practice was populated by the most garden-variety of patients, which was just as well considering her lack of interest. But among these was a man that did catch her notice. A milquetoast fellow by the name of Tom Fellows. A chronic case of acute paranoia with a tendency to lock up in panic attacks, but not quite enough to warrant psychotropic drugs. What Tom lacked in an interesting life and personality he more than made up for in colorful rambling detail of his delusions.
According to Tom's lengthy canon, an international cabal of ruthless men sought to rule the world by infiltrating and manipulating all disciplines of science, thereby, slowly over centuries, rewrite what was fact to fit their own grand design. When pressed as to whether he felt endangered by these imaginary men, Tom would become uncharacteristically animated and physically shaken, insisting they were on the cusp of finding out that he knows all about them, and his cache of 2,231 single spaced, three-hole punched notebooks that he kept in his elderly mother's detached garage under an old horse blanket. Rebecca made it a point to see him, but only because he was amusing and paid his bills on time. She never bothered to take notes on his case nor offered help. She simply dangled a shoe from her shapely foot and imagined twisted sexual fantasies involving "a cabal of ruthless men." If Tom deviated from his psychotic soliloquy to fearfully beg understanding, Rebecca simply moved her fingers away from her moist lap and patronized, "Not to worry… It's all in your head."
Then Tom began to miss appointments, and it angered Rebecca that this funny little man was making her show up to work for no reason. She invoiced him all the same. After a time, she crossed his name from her thin list of clientele and focused on the next quick route to fortune. And as if by coincidence, the esteemed Dr. Jan made a rare visit to her home office that day. Tipping his hat in continental manner, the doctor's face looked grave as he introduced the two humorless men behind him, detectives assigned to the missing Tom Fellows case. Apparently their investigation had led them to Dr. Jan and sought his assistance locating who was treating Tom.
Rebecca, always one to snatch an opportunity to make the papers, was happy to help in anyway she could, barring doctor client privilege of course. She dismissed her secretary home for the weekend so that she could have privacy with her visitors. Retuning to her office she felt immediate unease as one of the detectives shut the door behind her. The other stood uncomfortably close. Dr. Jan had helped himself to a seat behind her desk. Some drawers were open. "So. You will tell us of this patient, this Mr. Fellows. If we are to help these gentlemen locate his… him, we must know the details of his neurosis. Yes?" Dr. Jan smiles a yellow grin of ancient European teeth. Rebecca buries her instinct and sits with smile. "Well… I can characterize him this way…" And she trails on in platitudes to their dull gazes.
"Enough!" Dr. Jan barks and he stands, "These notebooks of his… yes, we know all about them. Where are they?" Rebecca pauses in disbelief but then bolts for the door. A detective easily pushes he onto the therapy couch, the other has manacles ready. She protests and demands explanation. Dr. Jan draws a small ampoule from his jacket pocket, holding it to the light he inserts a syringe. The men secure her and begin to strip her clothing. She screams but there is no one to hear.
"Now, now, Rebecca… tsk tsk," Dr. Jan eases as he draws closer, "You may not see the humor in this, and neither do we. But, in a moment or two, you will be laughing all the same. Hold her." In an awkward thrash, they hold her down and the needle finds her buttocks, "This is one of mine, Rebecca. Designer Psychotropic, if you will. In moments you will feel very humorous and highly susceptible to touch. You will tell us where these note books are, Rebecca. You see, Mr. Fellows no longer can. These men here with me are ruthless, and the weekend is long. I suggest you talk."
Rebecca feels the rush of the drug finding her nerves, the world swims as the detectives take an ankle under each arm. She stammers, "No… I… I don't know! God help me I never listened to him that close!" she begins to laugh in spite of her fear, "Mostly I ignored him! Please! Don't!"
"Pitiful, sad, little Rebecca. You showed so much promise. But a psychiatrist that ignores her patients? Such un-professionalism in a doctor of your stature? This I cannot believe." The men remove her heels and tear open her hosiery, but she is already laughing uncontrollably. Dr. Jan patronizes as he sits to watch, "They will torture you now, Rebecca. But not to worry... it's all in your mind."
"Tickle her."
~ ~ ~
The Dragon of Xiang
Deep amid the towering spires and jade mists of Zhang Jia Jie, the young nun is startled by a sudden crack of lighting as the sky grows angry with ashen torrents of rain. She dismounts her mule and pulls it from the dirt path winding deep into the otherworldly landscape of the remote Hunan territories. Half blind from the downpour, she spies the dark opening of a cave at the base of a great sandstone pillar. Though a bamboo thicket, she wrestles with the beast as her thin silk vestments now stick to her skin with revealing immodesty. Another fork of lightning and the mule bucks and trots away, disappearing into the gray sheets. She is left, small and abandoned at the great maw of the cave.
She calls after her mount to no avail, then retreats to her lucked-upon shelter and its eerie blackened depths. Are there animals in there? She cries in frustration. Alone and lost, trapped between the stinging cold rain and the dark unknown behind her. But then, quite low against the din of the storm, an echo from the depths. A human voice '85 voices. She rallies her thoughts, "Of course! A mine with men, they must be inside." Gathering her courage and covering her soaked-through breasts, she deftly makes her way deeper into the cave; her almond eyes growing large and black with adjustment.
Deeper and deeper, her delicate feet carefully navigate the inky darkness and jagged rocks. Her arms waving before her like a cricket. The voices echo strangely and the words are masculine, thick, and garbled. She pushes on, walls slimy and cold, something scurries past her ankles. She calls out. There is no reply but for the report of her own voice reverberating from impossible depths. And then, her eyes find a feint light, small and remote. To reach it, she must climb down a treacherous stair of stone, slick with a thousand years of dissolved minerals. Clutching stalagmites by their bones she descends on the decrepit broken teeth of the abyss.
At long last, there is sure footing. She cannot conceive of how deep she has submerged, but it is warmer now. She recalls a reading of Dante at the covenant, and the imagery disturbs her. But the glow of light is closer now, and there is hope. On occasion she hears gruff laughter and the clang of tools. So close.
Suddenly her wrist is grabbed from the shadows, rough and strong. She shrieks. An angry face looms in hers, foul breath and stern voice, "You here to spy our claim? Huh? Who you was sent?" The words are barely intelligible, a dialect of old Xiang unique to this wilderness. But she composes and calls upon her missionary studies to reply, "No. I am lost. Can you help me?" Without a word she is dragged gravely into the caverns. Swiftly they fall deeper into the mountain, the world above and the face of God never finds these depths, and hope is lost with every echoing footfall. They turn a craggy bend and her eyes grow wide; a great cathedral of stalactites and jade crystal yawns before them, its green splendor glinting from fire braziers like the jaws of a terrible dragon. Several burly men in tattered clothing stand in suspicious repose. Behind them a colossal slab of jade glows in wavy green splendor. Her young life is trained in the denial of earthly treasure, but she cannot look away from the seductive monstrous gem.
"She spy." her captor grunts. The miners drop their chisels and picks in metallic wrath. The tallest, most beastly man charges her and demands answers, his spittle smelling strong of rice beer. She efforts a denial between the painful, dusty grip on her mouth. "We make her tell," the leader spits, "Tie her to the dragon." Her frail body is manipulated easily against the backdrop of her pleas. The ropes are tight and burn as she is tautened on the great alter of jade. She appeals to their decency and confesses to be a sister of charity, sent to aide remote villages, but they do not heed. She is shamed beyond endurance as calloused, mine-hewn hands anxiously rip and tear the clothes from her body. Damp with rain and sweat her milky skin shimmers in the flickering firelight. She closes her eyes to the furor of rough hands and fingers hungrily kneading her flesh. Six men in all, all seething with months, perhaps years, of confined desire. Now she lay as a bountiful feast for their lust, well beyond the reach of grace.
"Tell us! And perhaps we will only have one turn each!" the grizzled miner drools. His hands find her breasts and ribs. She squeals in uncontrollable laughter. "She will tell in time, tickle her until she begs to speak truth." There is no escape from the flurry of hands and fingers. She gasps and rolls with unrelenting laughter. The sensations find her long repressed libido and she sins several times amid the horror. Dying a little with each shameful convulsion. The wicked men, spurred by the musk of her distress, violate her innocence, each in fevered turn. It is forever night in the belly of the dragon, and it is long. She never utters a word.
Later, tied to a boulder beyond the greedy eyes of the others, the youngest of the miners attends her. He is shamed, but did not take part in her suffering. Hand-feeding her cold rice, he begs forgiveness. She comforts him in turn, and implores him to help her escape. He moils and is torn, but unties her hands. She begs to show gratitude for his aide, and to his shock, begins to delicately caress his manhood. He slumps, speechless and distressed as she quiets him and takes him into her mouth. She draws his youthful frustration to a spastic release amid the surrounding damnation. He composes and secrets her away, through the labyrinth to the glory of light above. She thanks him as he nervously retreats back into his secret mine to face his brethren.
A full moon passes, and the miners toil is broken by the deafening report of black powder. The eldest falls dead. Filling the cave, a contingent of claim-jumpers; remorseless men with an eye for the riches of the dragon. The thieves fall on the miners without mercy, warm blood running over cold wet stone. The youngest miner turns a fading eye to see the nun, now, just a brigand. A thief hands her a jingling purse with a coy smile, "You have done well to find them for us. You will get a full share." What the young miner had mistaken as shamed piety was, all along, determined ruthlessness. A woman of faith that had fallen from grace long before they were ever doomed to meet.
~ ~ ~
The Case of the Feather Noir
I remember exactly when I first laid eyes on her. It was October 7th, 1938 at 5:35 p.m. I remember because I always make my alimony check out to my third ex-wife, Blanche, the first Friday of the month, and my secretary Miss Mabel goes home precisely at 5:30 and only she knows where the damned postage stamps are. So this dame steps into my crappy office with sexy heels attached to the longest set of gams I'd ever seen. She was all leg, and they went up for miles to her bottle-blond hair. I stared so long my Lucky Strike burnt my lip, which would now match the bandage on my broken nose I got from an irate longshoreman that wasn't too keen on a gumshoe nosing around the docks after hours. She tries to hold herself like she's got class, but its all baloney when I hear her brooklynese, "Are you Sam Splayed?"
Her little freckled nose scrunched up at the eau de cologne of my second story rented rat's nest; cigarettes, hard liquor, and me. But I wasn't do for a bath until Saturday night, so this dame would just have to grin and bear it, my windows don't open. When I saw tears in her eyes I thought it was my B.O. but it was about her sister. She asks to sit and I tell her to just throw my overcoat on the floor. She primps and crosses her legs wide enough to let a feller like me know there's more than one kind of compensation available. She dangles her heel from those delicate ruby red toes and I go cockeyed with one on her and the other bouncing with the shoe.
She sobs about her sister, some dizzy broad what got caught up in the wrong crowd. She was a showgirl at some snazzy uptown club called The Gay Top Hat until she got mixed up with the booze and gambling and things people don't talk about in polite company. Wasn't long before some shady characters took an interest in her and she wound up workin' at a real hole in the wall downtown, The Stinky Kitty, where real live girls cost a penny a dance. I know the joint well '97 don't bother askin'. Its operated by some unemployed Nazi goes by the name of Sheissehosen. Wasn't long after that the gal goes missing. I smell a rat. A big, sauerkraut eatin' rat.
So I ask this broad in my office her name. She says she prefers if I call her 'Joan', and leave it at that. Then she pulls a rock off her finger the size of Gibraltar and it skids to a stop next to my Saturday Night Special. If its real its gotta be worth a king's ransom. "Take it, Sam! Pawn it. It's all I have," she bats her baby blues under raccoon mascara, "Oh please, Sam. Find my sweet little Annie." I wipe some blackheads off my nose with my sleeve and consider the hunk of ice. "Yeah. I'll do it. I'll hate myself in the morning, but I can't stand to see a woman cry. Consider me your private dick."
Well it wasn't long before I was up to my neck in it. My first stop is The Gay Top Hat, and whatayaknow, there's that sawed-off runt Carlo running the joint. He aint to keen on me payin' a visit, since I had him sent up the river to Sing Sing a couple of years back. But he's a nervous little feller and it was easy to sweat him about the girl. I almost had the goods when these two gorilla's of his bounce me to the curb on my dignity, Carlo laughing like a little girl with his crooked teeth, bad breath, and Eddie Cantor eyes. Schmuck.
So now I'm off staking The Stinky Kitty and it stinks like yesterday's news down there. Fog's rolling in from the bay and there's a shadow trailing me. I duck into a doorway and jump the wise-guy when he passes. I'm about to give him a knuckle sandwich when, "Sam! It's me!" It's Joan, creeping around in her stockinged feet, she'd been following me all along. "Say, what's the big idea? This aint no place for a dame. Now go on, go home and knit something." I'm cross with her, but it's for her own good. "You got me dead to rights, Sam. I haven't been honest with you. My Sister and I, we work for the Office of Strategic Services. We were on the trail of a German Spy." I don't like roughing up dames but I grabbed her by her coat lapels, "Listen see, if your workin' with Uncle Sam that's your business, I'm sorry, baby, but his is no place for..." Then something in me just snapped, like a crack in the Hoover Dam. I kissed her. I kissed her hard like a man should. Her legs went wobbly and then she slapped me. Hard. So I slapped her. Hard. And we kissed again. "Oh Sam! Sam!" She was cheesecake and butter in my arms.
"That will be quite enough of that, Mr. Splayed. Now, please, if you will come with us." It was Carlo behind us with a couple of goons with heaters pointed at our backs. I get between Joan and the guns. "Carlo, you slippery little weasel, why I oughta..." And that was when one of his thugs slugged me. Broke my nose again. Everything went black.
When I came to, I was tied to a pole in an old warehouse behind The Stinky Kitty. I recognized the smell. Carlo and his boys were tying Joan to a chair next to her Sister. Then they tied their bare feet up on some old crates. The girls mumbled in their handkerchief gags as their little toes wiggled in the dank, moldy air. That's when Scheissehosen wobbled in, pinstripes and spats, and a cheap, dime-store walking stick. "Gut evening meine Damen... und ze ubiquitous and unwashed Mr. Splayed. I trust you are all comfortable?" I struggled against my bonds, but I was stuck like a pig to slaughter, "Skip the pleasantries, fat man, and let the women go. It's me you want." He pops his monocle. "On ze contrary, Mr. Splayed, it is they that I want. Or more precisely, it is Die Schwarze Feder... The Feather Noir, that I desire. For with its power before our armies, das Vaterland will conquer Poland. Und den, Europe. Und den ze WORLD!" He laughs like a bowl of jelly, "What do you sink of zat, Mr. Splayed?"
"I think you're screwy, that's what you are, fat man. The cops will be here any minute." But he ain't buyin it. He drags an old chair over to the gals' feet and pulls out a turkey feather, "Und now, meine liebchen, you will please excuse ze irony, but you will now tell me where ze Feather Noir is!" Then the evil bastard starts to run the feather between their toes and strokes the soles of their feet. The poor girls start laughing and they can't stop. Tears make those baby-blues all mascara runny again. The Nazi is merciless, and I'm as helpless as a kitten. But to be honest, it was the kinda thing that aint hard on the eyes of a foot guy like me. So I bum a smoke from a goon and watch. Fat man eventually got what he wanted and let us go. And that's pretty much it. Life aint always a bowl of cherries.
~ ~ ~
Finishing School
The headmaster cleared something from his ancient throat and spoke aloud to the student body, "As you may or may not be aware, but I am quite sure you are, every three years or so, two senior students are selected to complete their studies abroad as representatives and ambassadors of our fine academic institution. This is such a year. The Turlington School for Young Women has chosen the following student's to attend the Ch 'e2teau Mont-Effroi Finishing School in Switzerland... if you will please stand when
your name is called..."
There is a hushed buzz of excitement among the students, and the headmaster clears his throat once again, "Miss Faren Chalk."
A rise in the buzzing and some hand-stifled squeals. "Please, please," the headmaster raises a claw for composure, "And..." he peeks over his crusty bifocals, "Miss Whitney Upton." The room of girls can no longer contain themselves and clamor to congratulate their lucky classmates. But by the beginning of their second week away in the strange foreign school, Faren and Whitney realized something was very, very wrong.They were not only isolated from the world, with no means to phone or contact family, but also,
very oddly, the only two students to be found within the gray and ice battered ramparts of the Ch 'e2teau school.
It had started with their arrival in Helvetica, their parents were not permitted to go any farther and a private driver grinned crooked
as he drove away with the girls into a white snowfall, deep into the groin of the Alps. Hours later after a slow and arduous climb over snaking tenuous roads, the driver delivered them to the base hut of a funicular, whose tracks disappeared up into the mountain mists, almost vertically. There, the lone attendant, a prune of a man, huffed and looked them over with his one good eye and shushed them onto the creaking cog-driven car and it wrenched and lurched up into the maw of a tunnel carved into the solid cold stone of Mont Effroi. When they emerged from the darkness the Ch 'e2teau school loomed cold, gray and dead before them like skeletal remains of an ancient climber that had fallen into this rocky crag; for all round there was nothing but walls of ice and granite reaching to the white-out of the sky. The only other structure, an ancient hunting club tucked to the side, its mounted sheepshead jutting snow-covered
and rotting in the wild, alpine wind.
Frau H 'e4sslich, the headmistress of the school met them at the gates, her own visage set in ice and granite. There was no welcome nor affection on the woman, but she ushered them into the polished dark wood of silent halls with all the calculated efficiency of a ex-Nazi commandant. If there was warmth to be found anywhere within the Ch 'e2teau, the least of it would be under the gaze of this erect and pinched woman. Weeks turned to months in the silent Ch 'e2teau, the mildewy monotony only broken by the excruciatingly slow ticking of wooden clocks. The girl's only respite from boredom and strict rules was to play games at night; quietly, so as to not earn the wrath of Frau H 'e4sslich's spanking rod. Inevitably the young women's games turned to mutual affection and petting, eventually finding curious warmth and comfort in each others arms '85 and legs.
One morning, Faren reports to class to find that her classmate is absent. She raises her hand until Frau H 'e4sslich recognizes her;
which takes some time. "Frau H 'e4sslich, where is Whitney?" The headmistress rises like a ghost and glides toward her, rod in hand, "Miss Upton has graduated to her next class. As will you if you have you completed your assignment." "Yes, Ma'am." "Gut! Place it on my desk and follow me closely. Be quick!" Frau H 'e4sslich unlocks a heavy door and leads the girl down a wood paneled corridor, one she was not permitted to see before. There another latch is unlocked and the descend stony stairs down into the darker, colder, catacomb beneath. They walk past rows of heavy oaken doors, and Faren believes her imagination hears distant crying and laughter '85 and screaming. "There," Frau H 'e4sslich motions with her rod to a open stone parlor, "Present yourself. Quickly now. Step! Schnell!"
Dutifully, with worried eyes, Faren enters the room to find a man standing before her in a strange breathing mask and goggles. She frightens and turns a glance back only to be met with Frau H 'e4sslich burning stern eyes, "Now is the time when you sign your adult papers, Yes? Your eighteenth bithday was three weeks ago like your friend. Sign." The breathing man in his rubber gowns thrusts papers and and pen at her. She signs shakily. "Gut. Now so has your friend, Miss Upton." Upon these words the man opens a set of double doors and horrified, Faren backs away unconsciously into the iron bony grip of Frau H 'e4sslich.
There stretched upon an ungodly ancient and cruel device is her friend. Another man in a breathing mask is tickling Whitney's naked form and she is red-faced with forced laughter from the torment. She can barely see Faren through her tears but cannot speak as she
is fitted with her own breathing apparatus. Her eyes plead as if to say 'This can not be so!'
"Do not be alarmed," Frau H 'e4sslich hisses, "The masks provide good air in this deep cavern, a necessity after a time. Congratulations to the both of you, having graduated to this honored position, as did most of the young women before you. Here you will be trained for sexual servitude to the elite classes of Europe. Your embattled will to be broken through systematic reward and punishment. These men of the hunting club, they will instruct you. They will torture you with prolonged and maddening tickling until you learn to comply. Do well, and you will be trained in the art of deep orgasmic pleasure. And so now you will join your friend '85 take off your clothes, sit in that chair and watch. For you are next."
Faren, her face as ashen as the white howling winds outside, dutifully begins to remove her school blouse, so conditioned is she to obey. All the while she anguishes at the sight of her friends breathless torture; the man now scratching at her imprisoned bare feet, grinning at her suffering under his own black-hosed mask.
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Enjoy more short stories of tickle torture in C.A.B.'s Nightstand Companion ~ II
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