chandor864
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- Apr 14, 2025
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Forced Euphoria for Louise
Dust danced in a solitary shaft of sunlight, cutting through the only triple-glazed window of the Adjustment Suite. On the treatment chair—an ergonomic structure that resembled a white leather cocoon more than a piece of medical furniture—Louise did not move.
She looked almost angelic that way, her face relaxed by a deep chemical sleep. It was hard to imagine that this woman, according to her brother-in-law's reports, was capable of turning a simple family dinner into an emotional minefield. The anonymous individual who had contacted me hadn't minced words: Louise’s arrogance had become a poison, a heaviness that even blood ties could no longer bear.
"A typical case of behavioral rigidity," I whispered, adjusting my latex gloves.
My assistant, Clara, entered the room noiselessly. She held a tablet displaying our "guest's" vital signs.
"Everything is ready for the preparatory phase, sir," she said in a monotone voice. "The client was very specific regarding the restraints and the exposure."
I glanced at the way Louise had been delivered. A discreet transport, the details of which would remain sealed in our confidential archives. For now, she wore the establishment's regulation attire: a light cotton jumpsuit, leaving her extremities bare.
We both knew that behind this apparent calm, a seismic shift was brewing. My method, though controversial, rested on a simple principle: one cannot maintain a disdainful attitude when the body is betrayed by uncontrollable laughter.
Check the wrist and ankle fastenings," I ordered. "And ensure that the precision feathers and mechanical activators are calibrated to Type 4 sensitivity."
Clara complied. Within minutes, Louise was positioned according to the "Spasmodic Resonance" protocol. Her feet, carefully immobilized and pointed toward the robotic tickling unit, were the primary target of the first session.
"The client wants her to understand powerlessness before she finds joy," Clara reminded me, tightening a supple leather strap.
I approached Louise's face. In a few minutes, the neutralizing agent would take effect. She would wake up in a white room, unable to move, facing two masked strangers, ready to undergo forty-eight hours of pure laughter therapy, with no escape.
"Louise, Louise..." I murmured to myself. "You entered here with a heart of stone and a sharp tongue. You will leave with aching abdominals and an oddly light spirit."
I signaled to Clara. She pressed the wake-up switch. The first flicker of Louise's eyelids announced the beginning of the longest—and loudest—weekend of her life.
The air in the room was saturated with the scent of synthetic lavender and ozone. On the monitor, the line of her heart rate began to draw more nervous peaks. Louise was coming to.
At first, it was a simple furrowing of the brow, an instinctive attempt to brush away the fog weighing on her eyelids. Then, her fingers tried to curl against her palms, but met the firm resistance of the soft leather straps.
Her eyes snapped open. Dilated pupils frantically scanned the immaculate white ceiling before fixing on me, then on Clara, who stood as still as a porcelain statue by her side.
"Where... where am I?" Her voice was raspy, dry as parchment. "What is this? Untie me immediately!"
The habitual arrogance, the very one her brother-in-law had described with such bitterness, resurfaced in an instant. She tried to sit up, but the ergonomic cocoon held her perfectly horizontal, her limbs neatly aligned and immobilized.
"Good morning, Louise," I said in a soothing, almost clinical tone. "Welcome to the Mood Adjustment Center. Your family was concerned about your nervous tension. We are here to help you release... all that excess seriousness."
She was no longer listening. Her eyes had dropped toward the lower half of her body. She saw what we had prepared with such care: her bare feet, secured firmly in polished wood stirrups, pointing toward a strange machine equipped with ultra-fine rotating brushes and motorized ostrich feathers.
"You have no right!" she screamed, her face turning crimson. "My brother will have you wiped off the map! This is ridiculous, it's—"
She stopped abruptly. A first contact, light as a breath, had just occurred. Clara had activated the "Prelude" mode. A feather brushed the arch of her right foot, almost imperceptibly.
Louise had a violent spasm, her ankles pulling uselessly against the restraints. A small nervous giggle, which she immediately tried to stifle with a grimace of anger, escaped her despite herself.
"Is this a joke? Some playground torture?" she shrieked, already short of breath.
"Oh, far from it," I replied, adjusting the intensity slider on the console. "This is applied neurology. Forced laughter short-circuits your psychological defenses. In an hour, Louise, you won't even remember why you were angry."
I signaled Clara. She pressed the start button for the "Persistence" cycle. The brushes began to rotate slowly, grazing the sensitive skin of her soles with diabolical precision.
Louise's cry instantly turned into a high-pitched, uncontrolled cackle that echoed against the soundproofed walls of the suite.
"No! St... ha-ha-ha! Stop! It’s... hee-hee-hee... it's unbearable!"
Her legs thrashed vainly in the restraints; her toes curled in a desperate reflex to escape the incessant tickling. But there was nowhere to hide. The forty-eight-hour protocol had officially begun.
The sterile calm of the suite was instantly shattered. What began as a giggle of indignation swelled into a sonic explosion that Louise could no longer contain.
Clara slid the robotic unit's cursor toward the "Arch and Heel" zone. The rotating silk brushes, possessing a diabolical softness, began to trace rapid little circles on the ultra-sensitive skin of Louise's soles.
"No! Ha-ha-ha! Oh my God, no! ho-ho-ho-ho!"
Louise arched violently, her body fighting the leather straps that kept her pinned to the chair. Her toes, desperately clenched, tried to grasp at the air to escape the torment, but the motorized feathers came to tease them one by one, slipping between each space with surgical precision.
This was the moment the psychology shifted. Louise was still trying to maintain a look of rage, to glare us down, but her features were decomposing under the assault of the tickling. Her cheeks turned red, her eyes began to water, and her laughter changed pitch: it became higher, more staccato—a laugh of pure helplessness.
"Please... ha-ha-ha-ha! I... hee-hee-hee-hee... beg you! Stop! That’s enough! Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho!"
Every time she tried to catch her breath to insult us, a new volley of brushes or a particularly insistent stroke on her heels triggered a new fit of convulsive laughter. She was no longer the haughty, glacial sister-in-law; she was nothing but a bundle of raw nerves, shaken by uncontrollable spasms.
I leaned closer to her face, watching the sweat bead on her forehead. "Do you feel that, Louise? That's your body letting go. Your brain cannot maintain your contempt and process this stimulation at the same time. Choose joy, or endure it."
I signaled Clara to activate the "Quiver Gloves." Clara began to graze Louise's flanks, just under her arms, with the tips of her textured silicone-gloved fingers.
The scream that followed was a mixture of a hiccup and a joyful howl in spite of herself. Louise squirmed as if she were on hot coals, her hips pivoting frantically to flee the double assault on her feet and underarms. Her laughter was now continuous—a frenetic melody that filled the room, methodically breaking every barrier of her ego.
"Look at her, Clara," I whispered, checking the stress sensors which were finally starting to drop. "The therapy is finally beginning to bear fruit."
Louise no longer responded with words. She was nothing but short gasps, punctuated by "Hee-hee-hee" and exhausted sobs of laughter, while the feathers continued their implacable dance.
With a sharp gesture, I signaled Clara to stop the motors. The silence that fell over the room was almost deafening, disturbed only by Louise’s erratic, wheezing breath.
The feathers came to rest against her reddened arches, and the retractable brushes ceased their infernal rotation. Louise remained prostrate for a moment, eyes fixed on the ceiling, her body still rippling with slight residual tremors.
"Breathe, Louise," I said softly, approaching her with a glass of water and a straw. "The first cycle is over."
She turned her head toward me. Her hair was disheveled, plastered to her temples by sweat, and her mascara had smudged slightly, giving her the look of a fallen tragedienne. But the spark of defiance in
her eyes, though flickering, was not yet extinguished. She refused the water with a sharp jerk of her chin.
"You... you’re sick," she gasped, her chest heaving violently. "I’ll take you... to court. I’ll ruin my brother-in-law... that coward... who doesn’t even dare to show his face."
She paused, trying to regain the composure of a businesswoman. She lowered her voice, adopting that honeyed, authoritative tone she likely used to crush her subordinates.
"Listen. I don’t know how much he’s paying you for this... humiliating charade. But I can double it. No, triple it. Untie me, give me my phone, and we’ll forget everything. I’ll make an immediate transfer."
I smiled, exchanging an amused look with Clara.
"Money is not the engine of this establishment, Louise. Family harmony is. Your brother-in-law doesn't want your ruin; he simply wants to be able to spend a Christmas without you criticizing his choice of tie or his wife’s degree for three hours straight."
She gritted her teeth, her toes contracting instinctively against the leather of the footrest, as if already anticipating what was next.
"I’ll change!" she lied with desperate fervor. "I swear it. I’ll be lovely. I’ll be a saint! Just... don’t turn those machines back on. It’s... it’s too much. I can’t stand having my feet tickled, don’t you understand? It’s torture!"
"It’s not torture, it’s a liberation," I replied, placing my hand on the control lever. "If you were truly ready to change, you wouldn’t have started this conversation with threats of lawsuits and attempts at corruption. Your ego is still too solid. It needs to crack further."
I saw the panic rise in her eyes as she realized the negotiation had failed.
"No, wait! I... Ha!"
Without another word, I lowered the lever. The feathers restarted at a higher speed, this time targeting the sensitive gap between her big toe and its neighbor.
"HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE! NO! NOT THERE! NOT THERE-HA-HA-HA-HA!"
Her promise to become a "saint" vanished instantly in a new burst of high-pitched, shrill laughter. The negotiation was over. The shock therapy had only just begun.
A sharp click echoed through the hidden speakers in the corners of the room, slightly muffling the din of Louise’s convulsive laughter. The sound of the machines was automatically lowered a notch, giving way to a masculine voice—calm, but heavy with bitterness accumulated over years.
It was Marc, her brother-in-law.
"Can you hear me, Louise?" the disembodied voice asked. "Don't bother answering; I know you're... a bit busy at the moment."
Louise frantically turned her head toward the two-way mirror, her tearful eyes searching for a silhouette behind the reflective surface. She tried to scream an insult, but the incessant passage of
the brushes on her soles turned her curse into a long, melodic hiccup: "Ma-ha-ha-arc! You... hee-hee-hee-hee!"
"Look at yourself, Louise," Marc continued, ignoring her protests. "For the first time in your life, you control nothing. Not the situation, not your nerves, not even your own feet. It’s refreshing, don’t you think?"
I signaled Clara to intensify the work on the flanks while Marc spoke. The motorized gloves activated under Louise's armpits, making her writhe like an eel on the chair.
"Do you remember Mom's birthday?" Marc resumed, his voice hardening. "When you spent two hours explaining to everyone that her gift was 'cheap' and that my new job was a dead end? Do you remember the look on her face? She was crying, Louise. But you, you were too busy admiring the reflection of your own superiority."
"I... hee-hee-hee... sorry! Ha-ha-ha-ha!" she wailed, tears now streaming freely down her flushed cheeks.
"No, you're not sorry," Marc snapped. "You're just very ticklish. And that is exactly why you're staying there all weekend. Every time you think about belittling us in the future, I hope your brain sends you this sensation... this unbearable little tingling that is running through your toes right this second."
Marc paused; he could be heard taking a deep breath. "Doctor, move to the 'Cruising Speed' phase. I want her to laugh until she forgets her own name. See you Sunday evening for the debriefing, Louise. Try to keep smiling... you don't have a choice anyway."
The click of the intercom signaled the end of the communication.
I turned to the console and rotated the central dial toward the red zone. The machines kicked into high gear, the feathers became a blur of white movement against Louise’s skin, and the rotating brushes switched to alternating mode.
The laughter that then escaped Louise’s throat was no longer human; it was an uninterrupted flow of forced joy and sensory panic. She had entered as a family tyrant; she was becoming, second by second, the plaything of her own nerve endings.
The hours ticked by…
I glanced at the wall clock: 7:15 PM. The first evening was just getting started.
"Clara, increase the frequency of the plantar arch pulsators and switch to 'Random Tickle' mode," I ordered, adjusting my mask. "We wouldn't want her nervous system to get used to the pace too quickly."
Louise, head thrown back and body wracked by hiccups of laughter that sounded like nothing more than barks of forced joy, tried to catch my eye. Her eyes pleaded, but her lips, betrayed by her nerves, could only draw a permanent, grotesque smile. She still had no idea that the night program included the use of horsehair brushes and peacock feathers—much firmer than those used in the afternoon.
"Rest between fits, Louise," I whispered, moving toward the door. "There are still forty-two hours left on the clock... and we haven't even started the real tickling session on your hips, your waist, and your ribs."
As I closed the suite's armored door, the muffled sound of her shrill laughter continued to echo down the hallway—a promise of a total breaking. It was going to be a very, very long weekend for the sister-in-law.
Dust danced in a solitary shaft of sunlight, cutting through the only triple-glazed window of the Adjustment Suite. On the treatment chair—an ergonomic structure that resembled a white leather cocoon more than a piece of medical furniture—Louise did not move.
She looked almost angelic that way, her face relaxed by a deep chemical sleep. It was hard to imagine that this woman, according to her brother-in-law's reports, was capable of turning a simple family dinner into an emotional minefield. The anonymous individual who had contacted me hadn't minced words: Louise’s arrogance had become a poison, a heaviness that even blood ties could no longer bear.
"A typical case of behavioral rigidity," I whispered, adjusting my latex gloves.
My assistant, Clara, entered the room noiselessly. She held a tablet displaying our "guest's" vital signs.
"Everything is ready for the preparatory phase, sir," she said in a monotone voice. "The client was very specific regarding the restraints and the exposure."
I glanced at the way Louise had been delivered. A discreet transport, the details of which would remain sealed in our confidential archives. For now, she wore the establishment's regulation attire: a light cotton jumpsuit, leaving her extremities bare.
We both knew that behind this apparent calm, a seismic shift was brewing. My method, though controversial, rested on a simple principle: one cannot maintain a disdainful attitude when the body is betrayed by uncontrollable laughter.
Check the wrist and ankle fastenings," I ordered. "And ensure that the precision feathers and mechanical activators are calibrated to Type 4 sensitivity."
Clara complied. Within minutes, Louise was positioned according to the "Spasmodic Resonance" protocol. Her feet, carefully immobilized and pointed toward the robotic tickling unit, were the primary target of the first session.
"The client wants her to understand powerlessness before she finds joy," Clara reminded me, tightening a supple leather strap.
I approached Louise's face. In a few minutes, the neutralizing agent would take effect. She would wake up in a white room, unable to move, facing two masked strangers, ready to undergo forty-eight hours of pure laughter therapy, with no escape.
"Louise, Louise..." I murmured to myself. "You entered here with a heart of stone and a sharp tongue. You will leave with aching abdominals and an oddly light spirit."
I signaled to Clara. She pressed the wake-up switch. The first flicker of Louise's eyelids announced the beginning of the longest—and loudest—weekend of her life.
The air in the room was saturated with the scent of synthetic lavender and ozone. On the monitor, the line of her heart rate began to draw more nervous peaks. Louise was coming to.
At first, it was a simple furrowing of the brow, an instinctive attempt to brush away the fog weighing on her eyelids. Then, her fingers tried to curl against her palms, but met the firm resistance of the soft leather straps.
Her eyes snapped open. Dilated pupils frantically scanned the immaculate white ceiling before fixing on me, then on Clara, who stood as still as a porcelain statue by her side.
"Where... where am I?" Her voice was raspy, dry as parchment. "What is this? Untie me immediately!"
The habitual arrogance, the very one her brother-in-law had described with such bitterness, resurfaced in an instant. She tried to sit up, but the ergonomic cocoon held her perfectly horizontal, her limbs neatly aligned and immobilized.
"Good morning, Louise," I said in a soothing, almost clinical tone. "Welcome to the Mood Adjustment Center. Your family was concerned about your nervous tension. We are here to help you release... all that excess seriousness."
She was no longer listening. Her eyes had dropped toward the lower half of her body. She saw what we had prepared with such care: her bare feet, secured firmly in polished wood stirrups, pointing toward a strange machine equipped with ultra-fine rotating brushes and motorized ostrich feathers.
"You have no right!" she screamed, her face turning crimson. "My brother will have you wiped off the map! This is ridiculous, it's—"
She stopped abruptly. A first contact, light as a breath, had just occurred. Clara had activated the "Prelude" mode. A feather brushed the arch of her right foot, almost imperceptibly.
Louise had a violent spasm, her ankles pulling uselessly against the restraints. A small nervous giggle, which she immediately tried to stifle with a grimace of anger, escaped her despite herself.
"Is this a joke? Some playground torture?" she shrieked, already short of breath.
"Oh, far from it," I replied, adjusting the intensity slider on the console. "This is applied neurology. Forced laughter short-circuits your psychological defenses. In an hour, Louise, you won't even remember why you were angry."
I signaled Clara. She pressed the start button for the "Persistence" cycle. The brushes began to rotate slowly, grazing the sensitive skin of her soles with diabolical precision.
Louise's cry instantly turned into a high-pitched, uncontrolled cackle that echoed against the soundproofed walls of the suite.
"No! St... ha-ha-ha! Stop! It’s... hee-hee-hee... it's unbearable!"
Her legs thrashed vainly in the restraints; her toes curled in a desperate reflex to escape the incessant tickling. But there was nowhere to hide. The forty-eight-hour protocol had officially begun.
The sterile calm of the suite was instantly shattered. What began as a giggle of indignation swelled into a sonic explosion that Louise could no longer contain.
Clara slid the robotic unit's cursor toward the "Arch and Heel" zone. The rotating silk brushes, possessing a diabolical softness, began to trace rapid little circles on the ultra-sensitive skin of Louise's soles.
"No! Ha-ha-ha! Oh my God, no! ho-ho-ho-ho!"
Louise arched violently, her body fighting the leather straps that kept her pinned to the chair. Her toes, desperately clenched, tried to grasp at the air to escape the torment, but the motorized feathers came to tease them one by one, slipping between each space with surgical precision.
This was the moment the psychology shifted. Louise was still trying to maintain a look of rage, to glare us down, but her features were decomposing under the assault of the tickling. Her cheeks turned red, her eyes began to water, and her laughter changed pitch: it became higher, more staccato—a laugh of pure helplessness.
"Please... ha-ha-ha-ha! I... hee-hee-hee-hee... beg you! Stop! That’s enough! Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho!"
Every time she tried to catch her breath to insult us, a new volley of brushes or a particularly insistent stroke on her heels triggered a new fit of convulsive laughter. She was no longer the haughty, glacial sister-in-law; she was nothing but a bundle of raw nerves, shaken by uncontrollable spasms.
I leaned closer to her face, watching the sweat bead on her forehead. "Do you feel that, Louise? That's your body letting go. Your brain cannot maintain your contempt and process this stimulation at the same time. Choose joy, or endure it."
I signaled Clara to activate the "Quiver Gloves." Clara began to graze Louise's flanks, just under her arms, with the tips of her textured silicone-gloved fingers.
The scream that followed was a mixture of a hiccup and a joyful howl in spite of herself. Louise squirmed as if she were on hot coals, her hips pivoting frantically to flee the double assault on her feet and underarms. Her laughter was now continuous—a frenetic melody that filled the room, methodically breaking every barrier of her ego.
"Look at her, Clara," I whispered, checking the stress sensors which were finally starting to drop. "The therapy is finally beginning to bear fruit."
Louise no longer responded with words. She was nothing but short gasps, punctuated by "Hee-hee-hee" and exhausted sobs of laughter, while the feathers continued their implacable dance.
With a sharp gesture, I signaled Clara to stop the motors. The silence that fell over the room was almost deafening, disturbed only by Louise’s erratic, wheezing breath.
The feathers came to rest against her reddened arches, and the retractable brushes ceased their infernal rotation. Louise remained prostrate for a moment, eyes fixed on the ceiling, her body still rippling with slight residual tremors.
"Breathe, Louise," I said softly, approaching her with a glass of water and a straw. "The first cycle is over."
She turned her head toward me. Her hair was disheveled, plastered to her temples by sweat, and her mascara had smudged slightly, giving her the look of a fallen tragedienne. But the spark of defiance in
her eyes, though flickering, was not yet extinguished. She refused the water with a sharp jerk of her chin.
"You... you’re sick," she gasped, her chest heaving violently. "I’ll take you... to court. I’ll ruin my brother-in-law... that coward... who doesn’t even dare to show his face."
She paused, trying to regain the composure of a businesswoman. She lowered her voice, adopting that honeyed, authoritative tone she likely used to crush her subordinates.
"Listen. I don’t know how much he’s paying you for this... humiliating charade. But I can double it. No, triple it. Untie me, give me my phone, and we’ll forget everything. I’ll make an immediate transfer."
I smiled, exchanging an amused look with Clara.
"Money is not the engine of this establishment, Louise. Family harmony is. Your brother-in-law doesn't want your ruin; he simply wants to be able to spend a Christmas without you criticizing his choice of tie or his wife’s degree for three hours straight."
She gritted her teeth, her toes contracting instinctively against the leather of the footrest, as if already anticipating what was next.
"I’ll change!" she lied with desperate fervor. "I swear it. I’ll be lovely. I’ll be a saint! Just... don’t turn those machines back on. It’s... it’s too much. I can’t stand having my feet tickled, don’t you understand? It’s torture!"
"It’s not torture, it’s a liberation," I replied, placing my hand on the control lever. "If you were truly ready to change, you wouldn’t have started this conversation with threats of lawsuits and attempts at corruption. Your ego is still too solid. It needs to crack further."
I saw the panic rise in her eyes as she realized the negotiation had failed.
"No, wait! I... Ha!"
Without another word, I lowered the lever. The feathers restarted at a higher speed, this time targeting the sensitive gap between her big toe and its neighbor.
"HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE! NO! NOT THERE! NOT THERE-HA-HA-HA-HA!"
Her promise to become a "saint" vanished instantly in a new burst of high-pitched, shrill laughter. The negotiation was over. The shock therapy had only just begun.
A sharp click echoed through the hidden speakers in the corners of the room, slightly muffling the din of Louise’s convulsive laughter. The sound of the machines was automatically lowered a notch, giving way to a masculine voice—calm, but heavy with bitterness accumulated over years.
It was Marc, her brother-in-law.
"Can you hear me, Louise?" the disembodied voice asked. "Don't bother answering; I know you're... a bit busy at the moment."
Louise frantically turned her head toward the two-way mirror, her tearful eyes searching for a silhouette behind the reflective surface. She tried to scream an insult, but the incessant passage of
the brushes on her soles turned her curse into a long, melodic hiccup: "Ma-ha-ha-arc! You... hee-hee-hee-hee!"
"Look at yourself, Louise," Marc continued, ignoring her protests. "For the first time in your life, you control nothing. Not the situation, not your nerves, not even your own feet. It’s refreshing, don’t you think?"
I signaled Clara to intensify the work on the flanks while Marc spoke. The motorized gloves activated under Louise's armpits, making her writhe like an eel on the chair.
"Do you remember Mom's birthday?" Marc resumed, his voice hardening. "When you spent two hours explaining to everyone that her gift was 'cheap' and that my new job was a dead end? Do you remember the look on her face? She was crying, Louise. But you, you were too busy admiring the reflection of your own superiority."
"I... hee-hee-hee... sorry! Ha-ha-ha-ha!" she wailed, tears now streaming freely down her flushed cheeks.
"No, you're not sorry," Marc snapped. "You're just very ticklish. And that is exactly why you're staying there all weekend. Every time you think about belittling us in the future, I hope your brain sends you this sensation... this unbearable little tingling that is running through your toes right this second."
Marc paused; he could be heard taking a deep breath. "Doctor, move to the 'Cruising Speed' phase. I want her to laugh until she forgets her own name. See you Sunday evening for the debriefing, Louise. Try to keep smiling... you don't have a choice anyway."
The click of the intercom signaled the end of the communication.
I turned to the console and rotated the central dial toward the red zone. The machines kicked into high gear, the feathers became a blur of white movement against Louise’s skin, and the rotating brushes switched to alternating mode.
The laughter that then escaped Louise’s throat was no longer human; it was an uninterrupted flow of forced joy and sensory panic. She had entered as a family tyrant; she was becoming, second by second, the plaything of her own nerve endings.
The hours ticked by…
I glanced at the wall clock: 7:15 PM. The first evening was just getting started.
"Clara, increase the frequency of the plantar arch pulsators and switch to 'Random Tickle' mode," I ordered, adjusting my mask. "We wouldn't want her nervous system to get used to the pace too quickly."
Louise, head thrown back and body wracked by hiccups of laughter that sounded like nothing more than barks of forced joy, tried to catch my eye. Her eyes pleaded, but her lips, betrayed by her nerves, could only draw a permanent, grotesque smile. She still had no idea that the night program included the use of horsehair brushes and peacock feathers—much firmer than those used in the afternoon.
"Rest between fits, Louise," I whispered, moving toward the door. "There are still forty-two hours left on the clock... and we haven't even started the real tickling session on your hips, your waist, and your ribs."
As I closed the suite's armored door, the muffled sound of her shrill laughter continued to echo down the hallway—a promise of a total breaking. It was going to be a very, very long weekend for the sister-in-law.
