ThePurpleQuill
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Jan 11, 2018
- Messages
- 161
- Points
- 18
You glance down at the photograph clutched between your fingers, taking careful measure not to make such a gesture seem out of place. Millions of dollars in manpower and government resources have culminated into this one moment, this one crucial opportunity, and with the future of national security at stake, you are not going to let it slip through your fingers.
Or, should I say, let her slip through your fingers.
Let me explain: you are a CIA operative working undercover at Washington-Dulles International Airport. Several months ago, a wire was intercepted by the Pentagon from a known terrorist base located in eastern Yemen. Counterintelligence officials confirmed it to be communications between radical leadership and a secret operative known only by the codename "Ezra." The contents of the message detailed the execution of a massive plot against the US government in multiple locations, its details concerning, its timetable imminent.
Yet despite the CIA’s best efforts, the identity of Ezra has been left unknown, and given their imminent arrival in one of the world’s busiest airports, the prospect of their capture seemed next to impossible. However, along with the date of the agent's arrival within the country, a detailed physical description of Ezra was given to recipients to verify her identity during the first meeting: female, mid-twenties, lightly tanned skin with dark eyebrows and long curly hair. Facial recognition software of incoming passengers, specifically those coming in from the Middle East and surrounding areas, matched the description to one individual: Sonya H. Khan, listed as an Egyptian national and student at the American University in Cairo.
She is on a connecting flight to Chicago, having only a forty-minute layover within which the extraction must be executed flawlessly without rousing the suspicions of anybody that may be watching. The moment the plane is emptied of its passengers, an announcement is made over the intercom, directing her to the security desk concerning possible damage to her luggage. Knowing for sure she would not want to make herself suspicious, let alone leave anything crucial she had brought with her behind, you wait for her. Stationed at the security desk, the crisp photograph nestled in front of you, you wait patiently to execute the next phase of your assignment: apprehend the agent, discreetly and without incident, and begin processing at a local safehouse 15 miles outside the city.
Suddenly, peering across the room, amidst the crowd of incoming passengers, you spot her: female, mid-twenties, dark eyebrows and curly hair. It's her, right down to the floral summer dress she happened to be wearing in her passport photo. Your heart is racing: little could you imagine such a dangerous entity appearing to be nothing more than an incoming tourist, let alone the fact that she is approaching you this very moment, a look of concern across her face. Casually waving your hand, you direct her over, a comforting demeanor betraying your hidden purpose. You ask her to supply identification, verifying what you already know: on the outside, she's an exchange student beginning a semester abroad at the University of Chicago, innocent as can be. However, underneath her doughy eyes and delicate features, she is a hardened operative, bent on dismantling the very peace you and your fellow CIA operatives work so hard to maintain, nothing that a false passport and doctored papers could so easily hide.
From behind the computer screen, you feign search through the database, pretending to be locating her luggage. You assure her they will hold her flight if necessary, not wanting to further complicate her plans as to draw suspicion. She sighs a breath of relief, relaxing her shoulders as she leans against the tall security desk. You inform her that the contents of her luggage had spilled out unto the runway, but had been subsequently collected and were waiting for her verification in the back. Her demeanor shifts to that of glee, obviously not wishing to betray her ruse as a mere citizen just wanting her luggage to safe. It didn't matter: had nothing incriminating been in her suitcase, the contents of which having been quarantined for safety even before she boarded the plane, the objective would still have been completed.
She was coming with you, one way or another.
You direct her to your partner, Special Agent Willow, standing adjacent to you behind the security desk. You tell her to lead Miss Khan into the back where she can collect her things to make her connecting flight. Taking her gently by the arm, Agent Willow leads her through the double doorway as you follow closely behind into the empty room. As the doors clasp shut, and she is far from the prying eyes and ears of her cohorts, a swift arm wraps itself around Sonya's neck, as Agent Willow executes a perfect sleeper hold on the suspect. Not three seconds pass before her eyes roll to the back of her head, slowly falling to the ground without making a single peep. Per the plan, you made sure the room was soundproofed before approving the mission, a detail seeming almost frivolous now given Agent Willow's efficiency.
Having subdued the suspect, you carry her limp body through an adjacent doorway, down a secluded hall, into the parking structure below. An unmarked van is waiting, its contents being a cot, a foldout chair, and a small cooler underneath. It is there Agent Willow administers a light sedative, placing a breathing mask over Ezra’s face so she doesn't wake up prior to arrival, as you hop into the driver’s seat and casually exit the garage. Making your way fifteen miles outside the city, you drive up to a safe house in the countryside, a converted farmhouse on 180 acres of government property.
It is here that nobody will know where she is, and it is here that she will become a most cooperative witness one way or another.
Carrying her into the basement through a side compartment, you lock the steel hatch above you, descending into the enclosed space that has laid dormant until now. Placed in the middle of this room of solid concrete is her destination: a set of medieval pillory. From a padded leather seat, a thick wooden pole jettisons out the back, with a set of sturdy wooden stocks nestled at its other end. A result of your extensive research in the realm of information acquisition, you've always found the contraption effective in long-term interrogations, especially those concerning female operatives, indicating your unwillingness to adhere to more contemporary guidelines. With her limp body still in your arms, you carry her to the device, gently placing her atop its surface. Binding her wrists high above her head with thick nylon ropes, you drag her legs to the end of the contraption, placing her ankles in the holes of the stocks to shut and lock them in tight. A blindfold is tied around her eyes, reducing her comfort and internal defenses, without a way to prepare herself for whatever you have in store. As the final touches are made, she begins to stir, moaning slightly only to stop dead in her tracks after realizing the perilous situation she finds herself in. Wriggling around in her bonds, she finds herself unable to escape, let alone move an inch in any direction. Just as she begins to fully take it in, your voice startles her, peering in your direction despite her inability to see you.
You begin to inform her of her predicament: that she is in the custody of the US government, that she is a known terrorist operative, and that she has entered the country under false pretenses to engage in a plot across multiple states. You use her codename to cement your point: that her cover has been unraveled, and if she wishes to lessen her discomfort for the remainder of her time here, then she had better cooperate to the highest degree.
Her shoulders trembling, barely squeaking out an answer through her shaky voice, the little actress begins to weave a tale you could have completely dictated beforehand: that she is a foreign exchange student, arriving to complete her Master's degree in cellular biology, and that this is all a big mistake because she has absolutely no idea what you are telling her. Her bottom lip trembles as she recites whatever script she prepared for this moment, the capacity she possesses for deception sowing disgust in the pit of her stomach. She even has the audacity to give you the names of her contacts in the states, knowing full well they'll just be rerouted to her home base to verify her flimsy identity.
You step away, unable to deal with the obvious lies she is telling you, mentally preparing yourself for a long interrogation process to follow. As you know, it is your responsibility to begin processing her into your database, taking statements, establishing contacts, anything that could possibly help to thwart plans for attack. However, the more you consider your current position, the greater the opportunity reveals to do more than what you had been assigned, for detailed within the decoded message was plans for Ezra to meet with three sleepers, their locations unknown but identities verified through months of careful surveillance. Despite the apprehension of Ezra being an accomplishment, it would not be complete without the entire trio of sleeper cells detailed in the dossier. Surely no operation would rely on one individual for its success, making the need to secure all members of the plot imperative. If you could coerce Ezra to cooperate, luring her partners into the open to make a clean arrest of all three, the headway the CIA would make securing national security would be unprecedented.
It's decided: you and Agent Willow will coerce Ezra to cooperate with the investigation, using her as a guinea pig to secure her contacts in the states. Whatever techniques you use must be quick and discreet, utilizing no forms of physical coercion that may leave external marks, thus betraying the methods in which you extracted such information. You know nothing about your capture other than her name and physical characteristics, but you have broken countless operatives before: you just have to know what buttons to push, patiently and relentlessly, until they eventually crack.
You circle your captive, silently and deliberately, inspecting her for any weaknesses that may work to your advantage. She can try to hide it, shrouding her evil in a shell of innocence and frailty, but you know better than to trust anything more than what you already know. What beauty she possesses, a shame for such a catch to descend to such depths, conspiring against all you know and love for some frivolous life mission she has accepted. Had she exercised that mind of hers into something more productive, she could have changed the world for the better. But here she sits, in the custody of the US government, her fate in your hands.
Approaching her from the front, her head sloped forward, unable to follow you through the thickness of the blindfold, you take a closer look at her: her supple skin and untouched features give indication to a sheltered lifestyle, void of any auxiliary labors that would lead to blemishes or imperfections. She is tall, almost too tall for the device, her feet protruding inches out of the holes in the stocks, with her hands almost able to reach the knots tied high above her. However, with very little leverage to go on, you have made it all but impossible for her to free herself by her own volition. Her long curly locks hang perfectly around the sides of her face, with her sundress beginning to crinkle as she shifts around in her bonds, a sight which may elicit some sensations of sympathy from those who do not know her like you do. The moment she moves her head, the ends of her hair drag across the flesh of her freshly shaven underarms and back again. You wonder if it bothers her, if you should reach over and push her hair back around her neck, the sensational annoyance of such a tick...hmm.
You walk over to the front of her, a pair of vulnerable feet dangling from the end of the stocks. Slowly, grasping them by the heels, you slip off her black ballet flats, a slight furrow of her brow denoting a curiosity with your interest in her shoes. As you slip them off, you reveal from heel to toe two large, supple bare feet to the cool air. They are size tens (you have much experience with this), perfectly in proportion with her body, with much real estate to work upon as a result. Tracing your thumb over their prominent length, you note their smoothened surface, indicating a pedicure in the recent past. You can smell the scent of fresh nail polish, gazing upon the sparkling red varnish, reminding you of the type Agent Willow would wear during formals (not that you are one to notice).
It is then you remember that your partner, Agent Willow, is seated in the corner of the room, and as your eyes lock with hers, you both have the realization that you were thinking the same thing this entire time.
Much to Agent Willow's delight, scribbling away at her legal pad any observations she made as well, you begin again communicating with the suspect: saying how appreciative you would be if she would just cooperate, how easy it would be to spill on her associates, and how in doing so she would be escaping that which she is going to be subject to very soon. You see her changing demeanor, understanding that you are subtly getting under her skin. Her toes recoiling defensively, the wrinkles of her soles are almost as incriminating as a full confession in the eyes of the law (and right now, that is you), as though they know exactly what's coming to them.
You love when your detainees make your job that much easier, showing you exactly where they try to hide they greatest weaknesses, just waiting to be exploited by someone just oh so eager to do their job well, and you are certainly someone who takes pride in being as thorough as necessary. For you see, you explain to your increasingly paranoid detainee, as much of a cliché as it seems, the CIA does have ways of making you talk, and if you don't want to talk then, well, they'll make due with making you laugh.
Silently, you motion your hand towards Agent Willow, prompting her to rise from her state of observation: placing her clipboard ever so carefully atop the solid concrete floor, she makes her way towards your detainee, not making one sound despite the heels atop her feet, having still been in her disguise. Reaching the foot of your contraption, she crouches down, the length of Ezra’s prominent size ten feet now at face level to her. Taking one finger, placing it atop the heel of her right foot, Agent Willow begins ever so gently swirling its tip across her smooth flesh, a gesture so minute only the most skilled of interrogators could have pulled it off with the same effectiveness.
It begins with a twitch, a jerk of the leg, as Ezra tries in vain to pull away from that which she cannot see, believing it to be only a minor itch at the bottom of her foot. However, little by little, as Agent Willow begins making her way carefully up its length, caressing her finger across Ezra’s sole, the sensation becomes too much for the young captive to merely ignore. She attempts to hide the obvious smirk drawing itself across her face, a sign of just how quickly it is getting to her, as she feels herself falling right into the palms of your hands. Her staggered breaths slowly morph into forced chuckles as one finger becomes two, then three, then four until, with five sharpened nails skittering their way across her supple sole, Ezra is completely consumed by pathetic girlish laughter.
You watch in admiration of your partner’s talents, as with such little effort she is capable of stripping Ezra of her defenses as though it were mere child’s play. However, her efforts were truly anything but: not three years prior had you met the starry-eyed operative, a new recruit fresh out of the academy, waiting for the opportunity to prove herself. You took her under your wing, hoping that her drive and ambition would be of benefit to the agency as a part of your team. Little could you imagine that she would rise to the task time and time again, showing her effectiveness in such close quarters operations as these, the likes of which many of the new recruits are far too squeamish to volunteer for. However, each time she found herself in yet another harrowing ordeal, she was to ultimately overcome the challenge, with that same look of gleeful enthusiasm that she is embodying right now. Now, with one of the most dangerous terrorists in the western hemisphere in your possession, she is doing the same again, reducing the woman to pitiful guffaws with just the lightest touch.
It begins now: a plead from the woman, saying that there is an unbearable itch on the bottom of her foot, begging someone to scratch it lest it gets any worse. “It tickles!” she spurts out, trying desperately to shake Agent Willow’s hand away from the ball of her foot, only for the astute operative to know exactly where she is going before she does. She bites her lip, knowing full well she has absolutely no chance of avoiding her fate on her own accord, having been isolated far from any chance of rescue.
You can only indulge yourself in the sight of it all: your loyal compatriot, standing at a mere 5’2”, driving this statuesque woman to the brink, using the tips of her nails as instruments of torture to extract whatever information she needs from her. Torture? Surely, the sensation of nails scraping in between her toes could not aptly be described as such. Just what kind of organization would waste millions of dollars in capital to do nothing but tickle those from whom they seek highly sensitive information? Obviously, the webbing of flesh that sits untouched in between her toes could not be capitalized on in such a manner, used to pry out of her mouth, already wide open as she cackles endlessly as result, the prominent list of misdeeds she has committed against humanity. However, even if it were to be considered “torture” if you desire, by the manner of which it is executed, leaving not one trace as Agent Willow expertly does, nobody would be able to prove it anyways.
Shaking yourself out of your trance, you ask her again, hoping that she has finally come to her senses having been tossed headfirst into the first phase of her torments. With absolute authority, you demand the location of her contacts, using once again her codename to demonstrate just how guilty she is. Typical: even through her breathless laughter, she still spouts the same backstory you had read countless times over in her file. How entertaining: the almighty Ezra feigning ignorance, pretending she is merely what she claimed to be in her dossier, an innocent little student just wishing to enter university. However, such is unsatisfactory for both you and your agent, and as Agent Willow begins scraping her nails into her flailing toes, thrusting the little liar into the next stage of her interrogation, all the pleas of ignorance transform into those of pitiful mercy.
Lunging her head forward, the little terrorist bellows forth a hardy stream of laughter, now fully incapable of hiding her weakness any further. She clenches down, trapping Agent Willow’s fingers against her toes, deriving much silent delight from her interrogator having had her job been made that much easier. Such was a tactic Ezra must have realized to be useless, once again fanning them open as she is thrown back into the fray. Unbeknownst to you, a small collection of saliva has been accumulating at the edge of your lower lip, nonchalantly licking it away as though you wished to devour this delectable sight. Maybe in another life, had she not chosen such a despicable life path, you would have found yourself treating this woman to dinner and a movie, massaging her gorgeous feet after such a long walk in the park, feeling their buttery soft surface with the intimacy Agent Willow is having with them right now. But, as you are shocked back into reality, you understand that this is as intimate as you’d like to be with her right now.
A yelp of surprise, or dismay if you will, echoes through the room, with Agent Willow unexpectedly thrusting her nails into Ezra’s left sole, tickling both of her feet in tandem now. Throwing her head back in forced mirth, the ticklish little terrorist is now experiencing the full brunt of her suffering, as the extensive torments upon her right foot must have caused the left to become unbearably sensitive, ripe for indulging in. You know as well that the less dominant side of the body is the most ticklish, making you aware that Ezra must, of all things, be right-handed, most likely the reason Agent Willow was to start on her right foot as well. Such will be a good addition to the record, as you eventually plan to sit down and flesh out a list of intimate details about Ezra before you hand her over for indefinite detention.
After a long and arduous half hour, you place your hand up, silently commanding Agent Willow to briefly cease the interrogation. As you gaze upon Ezra’s outstretched form, you can see its toll on the creature: her black curly hair is now matted against her forehead, having already accumulated a healthy layer of sweat across her entire body. You watch as her chest heaves up and down, the physical exertion of such prolonged stimulation able to break down even the most stalwart resolves in your experience. Placing your fingers atop the blindfold, you feel a slight dampening, showing the mental and emotional toll of the combination of sensory deprivation and overstimulation.
Gazing upon her pathetic state, you command once more for her cooperation, only for her to return yet again to the same story she has stuck to, this time with the strained voice of a woman pushed to the brink. Dissatisfied with her constant efforts to pull the wool over her eyes, you tell her of her prospects: that she is isolated, in the custody of the US government, without a soul aware of where she is or what she is going through other than the three of you in that room. You tell her of all the preparation that has gone into her capture, all the resources expended to bring her to this point, and that she will not be let to leave until you get the information you want. Yet, even with this information, Ezra refuses to break character, that which forces you to show her exactly what she is in for.
Motioning Agent Willow upward, you silently direct her to stand behind the terrorist as she places her nails just atop her wrists high above. Just as she does that, you reach towards Ezra’s sides, revealing a belt that goes around her waist, buckling her hips to the seat below. By your guidance, little by little, Agent Willow begins caressing her fingers down the length of Ezra’s outstretched arms, their ultimate destination the vulnerable hollows of her underarms. Succumbing once again to the same girlish giggles, the resistant young captive begins once again to try and talk her way out, begging to not have to go through it again. Before her fate is sealed, you give her one more chance to give in, saving herself by relinquishing her contacts she was to meet by tonight. Bowing her head forward, she begs once more that she is not who you know her to be, just as you give Agent Willow the signal to begin.
You watch as, in one fell swoop, Agent Willow plunges her nails deep into the young woman’s flesh, caressing the freshly shaven hollows of her underarms with abandon. Throwing her head back in ticklish suffering, a wave of cackling laughter exits Ezra’s strained gullet, simply music to your ears in this desolate place. Her entire body gyrates in the infernal contraption, rendering every effort to escape on her part utterly useless, having been designed solely for the purpose of putting the most deserving of criminals in this very predicament. Muscles bulging, she tries desperately to pull herself up towards her wrists, finding only she is helplessly inept in her unbreakable bonds. You can only look on in delight, the same matched by Agent Willow, pressing her thumbs into the sensitive muscle right next to her bosom, making her jerk wildly against the wooden device that does not budge despite this.
It is merely amusing to know that, of all the people who had a hand in her suffering, it would be Ezra herself that would contribute in her own special way: with her floral sundress, leaving the room for Agent Willow to capitalize on her exposed flesh in such a matter, or her ballet flats, slipping off her feet with the utmost of ease. Not that any amount of clothing could stop you: even had she been wearing a winter coat and boots, the sheers would have made quick work of them, exposing her to the same tortures she is experiencing this very moment. However, it does your heart good to know this spoiled princess, executing the most inhuman crimes against others, yet having lived a sheltered existence anyways, could be put in her place by the likes of you and your loyal operative. You know of the rumors: that she is the daughter of a prominent government official, schooled in the ways of Western manners as only to help her infiltrate foreign lands completely undetected. You know of the life she has lived, spoiled with everything she had ever asked for, all the while her victims suffer by her plots against your government. As far as you are concerned, this is the fate she deserves, and if she never sees the light of day, then it would be fine by you.
As Agent Willow makes her way down Ezra’s person, capitalizing on the thin layer of dress to weave her way into her ribs, you can only feel that of pride for your pupil. You recall the training she had by your direction: that of physiology and its power in interrogations, knowing that it is the body’s ultimate weakness to be used against itself. You watch as her rigorous studies are coming to life right before your eyes, knowing that the moralities of torture by the state could never be applied here. I mean, think about it: is it Agent Willow’s ravenous fingers that torture Ezra’s helplessly rendered underarms, scraping their way deep into their quivering flesh with absolute ease? What about her dastardly knuckles, grazing their way over her tender ribs like a washboard, extracting harmonious shrieks and cackles time and time again? Or her horrendously effective thumbs, digging their way into her sides just above the belt she tries so desperately to escape from? You think not, for as far as you are concerned, Ezra is merely tickling herself, and you two are just there to observe.
By this point, after a full two hours have passed, you would expect only the most stubborn of foreign operatives to still be hanging on, but only by a thread. You admire her commitment to her ideals, but only for a moment, knowing full well that she has caused nothing but pain all around the world. You only wish that you could take part in her suffering, aiding Agent Willow in breaking down her resolve as you had done time and time again. However, your altruistic side is kicking in, knowing just how much Agent Willow could benefit from the experience, being the one that single-handedly broke the will of the mysterious Ezra.
No, you are merely here to guide when necessary.
For the second time, you give Agent Willow direction to stop, confronted with the sobs of a broken woman laying right in from of you. Even had she been keeping up her act, you know these tears to be that of real pain, and you make sure to use this to your advantage. You give her one final chance to redeem herself, demanding that she give the names of her contacts. But she does not break, and in one final act of desperation, she plays it up: telling you about how her parents are missing her call, of how her classmates are worrying about her, and of how she only wished to begin a life here in the land of opportunity. Her charade puts a sour taste in your mouth, cutting her off just as she is about to break down in those crocodile tears once again.
You tell her exactly what you have been saving this entire time: that for the time being, she has only the power that you give her, and that is nothing. You tell her just how easy it would be for her to be lost in the system, never to be heard from again. You say that you could write up that you failed in capturing her, escaping into an unmarked car, never to be seen again, all the while left to being tortured by you and Agent Willow for as long as they see fit. You speak of all the necessities you have: food, water, and privacy, months of radio silence a small price to pay for making sure she tells you everything she knows, and if she is not willing to talk now, then soon she will not be given the option.
You briefly leave the room, exiting through an adjacent doorway, making your way into a small hallway the likes of which very few have had the privilege of seeing. Making your way down the hall, you can still hear Ezra’s strained cackles at the hands of your crafty Agent Willow, having been relinquished but momentarily to do unto the little terrorist whatever she like. At the end of the hallway, you approach a single door, opening it as you reveal a small closet, the contents of which solely include the vast array of torture implements at your disposal, a personal collection rather than that of standard issue. Reaching towards the wall to the left, you take a small set of fabric scissors hanging precariously from a nail, reaching down to place it into a tool chest that has been specially prepared for this very moment. Closing the top, you make your way back to the interrogation room, taking your little chest of terrors along with you.
Upon entering the room once more, you catch Agent Willow in the act, pinching at the tops of Ezra’s thighs with malicious intent, a bit too close to her womanly parts for you not to notice. Normally, you’d reprimand the agent for such a maneuver for the sake of the decency of the detainee but, given just how stubborn your captive has been these past few hours, you only look upon her with pride and delight. Gazing upon Ezra, you watch as the woman gasps endlessly for breath, quietly sobbing underneath her blindfold already drenched in her pitiful tears. Maybe had she known exactly what you were going to do next, she would have confessed the moment you came into the room: taking the fabric scissors from your chest, you place them against the top of her dress just above her bosom before, in one motion, slicing clean through the front of her floral attire. This, along with two quick snips of her straps above, has done away with her very last vestige of protection, that sensation of pure vulnerability she recognizes in full the moment you take it from her person.
She begins to plead once again, begging into the void to not take advantage of her, as though you were some common thug with nothing but lust for feminine flesh in their heart. You had warned her before just what trouble she would be in for had she not confessed what you wanted to hear, and after a good minute of tear-soaked pity without even a scrap of evidence, you think you’ve heard just about enough out of her: taking what’s left of her dress, you slice a thin strip from its bottom, tying a double knot in the middle of it for a makeshift gag of her own doing. Coming up from behind her, just as one more plea is going to fall from her lips, you unceremoniously insert the gag in between her teeth, tying it behind her head as her begging turns to muffled mews for all to hear. But, you are not done with her yet, as taking two more strands from her discarded attire, you bind her at the knees and elbows, further immobilizing her to render every motion strained at best.
Gazing upon her newly prepared form, stripped down to her underwear as she sits mute as well as blind and immobile, you tell her of her fate: that for the next hour, she will not be able to confess anything, her punishment for holding out this long. After the hour, if she chooses once again to resist, then one hour will become two, then four, then eight, until every waking moment of her life is spent in darkness, tickled to oblivion without the slightest hope of repose. You tell her that this is her fate, indifferent to anything she could do to try and escape, for only when she submits will she be relinquished to the criminal justice system as her savior. Her response is delectable: jerking against her restraints, spewing a muffled heap of pleas and protest you feel adequately captured the helplessness she feels at this point, you know now her true colors are finally being revealed. It does your heart good knowing just how dedicated you are to the cause, going above and beyond to break even the most dangerous of fugitives all for the sake of national security, and that you are far from done yet. Reaching into your chest, you reveal a small bottle of baby oil, pouring a puddle into your hand as you smear it in earnest all across her feet, leaving not one inch from her heels to the tips of her toes that isn’t glistening underneath the pale lights above.
This, you tell her, is for making Agent Willow work so hard.
Taking the tool chest in hand, motioning over to Agent Willow, you open it towards her, revealing its contents to the wide-eyed young operative, giving her free pick of the tools of her trade. Reaching into the compartment, she reveals the one tool she has been waiting so long to inflict upon your captive: the hairbrush, in all its wonder. Making her way once again over to Ezra’s helpless feet, now amply lubricated by your hand, you watch in delight as she goes to town with the device of her choosing, scraping it wildly across Ezra’s feet without the slightest bit of warning. Her shrieking cries echo off these solemn walls the moment Agent Willow plunges the dastardly hairbrush right into her sole, dismantling the very last fragment of resistance in an instant. Thrusting her head side to side, she is trying so desperately to spit the gag out of her mouth, hoping once again to coax that sympathy for her that could never exist within this chamber. It must be so horrible to exist underneath that blindfold, left unaware to anything and everything that is happening to you, indifferent to your suffering. But, such is only the cherry atop the sundae of unadulterated suffering she is experiencing, as even with such energy, her newly acquired bonds render her mighty struggles as barely noticeable wriggles, trying in vain to find some modicum of movement left for her.
Over and over again, Agent Willow drags the dreaded device across her right foot: from her padded heel, all the way up to her flailing long toes, the laundry list of horrendous sounds emanating from Ezra’s hoarse throat has grown too far to count, all of which is repeated by the time she gets to her left foot. You watch as the pale shade of pink atop her foot bottoms morphs into a hue of darkened red, displaying the intensity of Agent Willow’s craft upon the tender soles of her captive. It is as though she is able to read Ezra’s thoughts right through the soles of her feet, for but the moment she tries to flail her feet away from her torments, there it is, the dastardly brush waiting for her to do it. No amount of agency training could have prepared Agent Willow to execute this interrogation as effectively as she is now, wielding her hairbrush with the virtuosity of a true master not even you could rival. No, this takes a passion, one that is focused solely on the misunderstood art of tickle torture, above and beyond the call of duty, making your choice of her as your partner the best decision you could have made.
You set the chest before her, knowing not to limit her capabilities by hiding that which she could use. Taking one glance into its contents, she reveals a large plastic comb, its teeth a sinister tool that has broken many detainees before this one. Up to this point, being taken past the point of pure exhaustion, Ezra is left a limp heap of gasping breath, surely the tingling in her feet reverberating through her entire person. However, the moment Agent Willow, upon grasping her by the left foot, begins sawing the comb in between her toes, it is as though all of her torments had just begun. It’s a powerful tool: so simple, so ruthless, so effective that it is driving Ezra into stage after stage of agony with every swipe, indifferent to how hard her toes clench upon it. Rocking against her bonds back and forth, the dastardly little criminal attempts once again to escape her torments, kicking against the stocks as though she were a professional soccer star.
You find it arousing to watch Agent Willow take this woman, one that stands at least a head taller than her, with feet as big as her face, and bring her down to this level so decisively, for no matter what she does, Agent Willow holds ultimate power over every part of her. It is with an iron grip that she locks Ezra’s right foot in place and, in one motion, begins sweeping the comb across all five of her toes, eliciting shrieks of deafening madness from the distraught woman. To her Ezra is nothing more than her plaything, a little project in which to test just how ruthless she can be with someone who deserves it oh so much, a true demonstration of her commitment to her own American dream. Rounding her from the back, you recognize that look upon her face, that look you would only want to see upon her face in this very situation: pure unadulterated delight.
However, what is to happen next is that which even you are surprised by, and by surprised, I mean you are driven to tears with pride just knowing how your student could have surpassed the master right before your very eyes. Reaching once again into your tool chest, Agent Willow grasps upon a pair of vibrating eggs, the surface of each containing four small feathers. A makeshift contraption of your own design, you had never figured out just what to do with them, your trial run on the upper body of your last suspect having been ineffective at achieving results. However, by the looks of it, it seems Agent Willow has decoded their true purpose: taking a spool of electrical tape, she presses each one deep into both of Ezra’s soles, binding them with the tape in a way that places the feathers just between each one of her toes. Taking the remote control, she tapes that against the stocks, a position which could not be used to loosen either of them where they are. With one push of a button, Agent Willow activates them, sending Ezra into a maelstrom in an instant.
Her feet begin flapping wildly, trying with all her might to dislodge the dastardly pair of vibrating devices placed square against her tenderized soles, while her toes scrunch and clench with all their might, trying to cease the pulsating sensation in between them to no avail. As though that weren’t bad enough, wrapping herself around the disheveled woman, Agent Willow executes the second phase of her torments, plunging her fingers once again into the woman’s tender underarms. Without even an inch of clothing left on her, little Ezra is left completely vulnerable for Agent Willow’s exploration, traversing her nimble fingers into every crease and crevice that was hidden underneath her attire. Her entire body gyrating across the surface of this device, you revel in the frantic nature of Ezra’s struggles, believing that if she had made it this far, then maybe she was never going to crack under the pressure. However, sooner or later, over the course of several agonizing minutes of relentless dual tickle torture upon her feet and body, you watch a transformation take effect that denotes her ultimate surrender: her head slumped forward, Ezra’s wild cackles have been replaced by pitiful whimpers, without even a muscle twitch from her struggles no matter how hard Agent Willow is on her. By the time the buzzer rings after a full hour, and Agent Willow leaves her be, her stark silence tells you that major progress has been made towards your goal.
You think that now your detainee is finally willing to talk.
Taking the gag from her mouth, letting her catch what little breath she has left, you ask her one more time if she is ready to confess. With slight hesitation, she nods her head, not even uttering one syllable as Agent Willow prepares her notepad to take down her confession. However, before you get to that which you have been waiting for this entire time, you are compelled to confirm with her everything that she has denied up to this point: that she, Sonya H. Khan, is in fact an international terrorist by the codename Ezra, masquerading as an Egyptian student to infiltrate the United States to carry out yet another attack on the innocent, and that she is guilty of all crimes committed by her and her organization as reported on by the international press. Asking her if this is correct, she again nods her head in confirmation, and though you are satisfied with this, you are not done. No, if she’s going to confess, then she’s going to confess on your terms.
You make her confirm that she is a helpless little girl who deserved every single moment of her torments over these past several hours, that she was born to be tickled, especially on her prominent sexy feet. You make her confirm that she would love nothing more than to be a tickle slave, to give up her body and mind in servitude of her new masters, bound in a myriad of ways to render her helpless, being tortured by them day and night without protest. You make her confirm that she would do anything and everything they say, no matter how horrendous or degrading, for she only exists in this world now to be tickled beyond hope and reason. Finally, you make her confirm that, if she were to ever leave this compound, that she would forever serve both you and Agent Willow, for it is the two of you that she loves for having her discover her true purpose in life. Again and again, she nods her head, having finally been broken.
Finally, you ask her one more time if she is ready to begin, once again getting the solemn nod of confirmation. However, just as you are about to question her regarding her contacts, a message appears on your phone, one coming straight from the head of your division at the agency. Its contents, those that turn you white as a sheet, read as follows:
We got her: Ezra has been captured.
At the border of Syria entering Turkey.
Initiating Protocol Canary.
You look at your partner, your ghastly demeanor making her realize right then and there just what you two had done…
(Epilogue)
You gently peel your eyes open, having been awoken from your slumber by a subtle sound emanating from just down the hall. Rising from your bed, you make your way towards your bedroom door, gently opening it to find out just where it is coming from, realizing that it is from down the hall. As you tiptoe down your upstairs hallway, you slowly but surely come to a door left slightly ajar, enough for you to peek into its contents and be treated with a sight to behold: Agent Willow, seated at the end of a bed, tickling Sonya’s feet. Dressed in her nighty and slippers, she has locked Sonya’s pair of prominent feet underneath her left arm, skittering her nails across their supple surface as the young woman writhes helplessly across her bed. With a look of absolute glee scrawled across her face, Agent Willow commands the girl to confess, saying that she will not stop until she does. Pounding her fists against the bed, thrust into a torrent of endless cackling laughter as a result, Sonya quickly succumbs to her demands, spouting that she will tell her anything and everything she wants. The moment that happens, Agent Willow releases her from her grasp, letting the girl fall back breathless into her bed, still dressed in her loosely fitting red pajamas. Crawling back unto the bed with her, Agent Willow pecks a kiss atop her cheek, right before asking her what she’d like for breakfast this morning.
She asks for pancakes.
Fifteen minutes later, as you lift your cup of hot coffee up to your lips, you watch in secret delight as Sonya H. Khan, whom you once thought to be the despicable Ezra, begins to chow down on a heaping stack of blueberry pancakes, being served to her in your kitchen by the sultry and sensual Agent Willow (who you refer to as “Daisy” now). It has been a full two years since your initial encounter, having assumed to have come face-to-face with one of the world’s most dangerous terrorists during your time at the agency. Locking her away in that chamber, far away from any hope of escape, you strove to extract a confession out of her by any means necessary, and little by little, by Daisy’s hands and your direction, you broke your nefarious detainee after a mere four hours, fully ready to dictate her full confession and secure yourself yet another promotion. However, such was not to be, for only after her harrowing ordeal was over in full did you make the startling discovery that she wasn’t who you believed her to be, but the innocent college student that surely she knew herself to be but you wouldn’t believe. Both you and Daisy comprehended the totality of your actions, and began contemplating the consequences that would surely follow if you both continued on this same path.
As a result, much has changed since that time: feeling it best, you decided to distance yourself from the agency, taking up private consulting work far from the front lines you once found to be your home. It wasn’t due to your fear of being caught, mind you, but your lack of stomach for the job, that which you lost having put her through such an ordeal. Your loyal agent Daisy would also take a more hands-off approach as well, having been promoted to your post once you left, in the position of shaping future agents to meet the call of duty in a manner that would be deemed less reckless than their predecessors. Plus, you too got married, tying the knot on a sandy beach in Cancun in front of all your friends and relatives. That was six months ago, and every day since then has been filled with bliss and discovery the likes of which you two could not have possibly imagined.
So, just how did you wind up caring for the young university student?
Well, after yours and Daisy’s little escapade with her, your options had been paired down significantly: you couldn’t just let her go, lest she finger you two for your egregious case of mistaken identity. You also weren’t one for “disposing” of her as in the movies, not having the stomach for it after having failed your core mission so decisively. Even if you were able to set her up in witness protection, somewhere far away from anybody who could take her statement, there was still a chance that someone at the agency would uncover the paper trail, wondering why money was being funneled into a person the likes of which they had never heard of. Plus, there was something about her now that made you believe she would never make it out there by herself: having been completely broken by your highly effective tactics, poor Sonya had been rendered into a state of perpetual subservience, now unequivocally submissive as the fate you had designed for her as the end goal of her interrogation, only believing her once to be the criminal that deserved it. The thought of her rekindling a normal life after such an ordeal seemed impossible, making the prospect of just letting her go cruel at best. Now, with a broken young lady to deal with, you and Agent Willow decided to do the only humane thing you could think of: you took her in, and gave her a purpose.
Taking her from the safehouse one early morning, you loaded all your belongings into a moving truck before hightailing it into the sunset, your newly acquired guest on her way towards her new life far away from here. It would have been too risky to stay in the area, lest she be recognized by those who had been waiting for her, so you two transferred yourselves from Washington D.C. to sunny southern California, buying up a nice house on a private chunk of property to start a brand new life together. It seemed perfect: nobody knew you, and best of all, certainly nobody knew her, making Sonya’s identity as flexible as you needed it to be. So, when your neighbors just happen to stop by to deliver you a warm welcome to the neighborhood? You introduce her as your niece, having just fled her oppressive homeland, now here to get the American experience. And when either of your families come over for the holidays? They get to meet your live-in housekeeper, working her way through school before she gets back on her feet.
Little would they suspect that, when the house was finally empty and you were left all alone together, Sonya would transform into whatever you and Daisy told her to be, your imaginations running amok with a live-in tickle pet to play with. Night after night, you two played out the ticklish fantasies you had stored up your entire lives, with the adorably ticklish and submissive Sonya now the focus of it all. Three nights ago, she was a world-class equestrian, cornered in her stable as she is tickled to exhaustion by her competitor Daisy to convince her to drop out of tomorrow’s competition. Two nights ago, she was the daughter of a wealthy nobleman in a rustic village in the countryside, captured by the resistance and interrogated for the location of her father’s priceless collection of ancient artifacts. Last night’s venture, however, certainly was to be your favorite thus far: playing a statue in a modern art museum, Sonya was forced to keep still in the myriad of positions you placed her in, as the “clumsy janitors” you two played thoroughly clean every inch of her for the next day.
But, in order to maintain these nightly escapades, you needed the tools of the trade, and you two knew just where to get them.
It was quick thinking of you to plunder the old safehouse for its cuffs, ropes, and chains before being torn down for the sake of national security, keeping your house well-stocked with bondage materials. But, it wouldn’t be complete without the right costumes, and that’s where Daisy and Sonya come in. You reveled in their daily shopping trips, bringing back yet another accessory to further augment your time together. Be it another set of cuffs, or one of the several dozens of costumes lining your attic, it seemed there was no end to the places they would go, from Halloween and craft stores to the “naughtier” realms of retail. Oh, Sonya was quite bashful at first accompanying Daisy into the adult shops, the conservative girl having never had a taste of the finer things in life. But, over the course of several months, she began to enjoy the excursions, even taking the initiative and choosing the right accessories for the next scenario.
You felt yourselves to be the luckiest people in the world to have such a delectably ticklish participant in your midst, and if you were this blessed to have her, then it was only right for you to share the joy with others.
Soon after you established yourselves in the neighborhood, you established yourselves online as well, documenting the ticklish escapades of the three of you, from stories, to pictures, to full videos for all to enjoy. Little by little, as your online presence grew, you found yourself collecting a small community of like-minded members, conveying just how much they’d like to get their hands on your darling Sonya, a request you happily obliged. You looked forward to the weekly gatherings at your house, with nearly two dozen tickle enthusiasts coming together for a full night of ticklish bliss to inflict upon her. You introduce your guest of honor, clad in the chosen attire for the night, this time just happening to be the Princess Leia slave costume you had been eyeballing these past few months. You direct her towards the couch as Daisy strips her of her boots, revealing the freshly pedicured feet that she relinquishes to everyone else, with Daisy giving her a quick tickle as she always does.
You look upon them as they ravage her hyper ticklish body, strung up to the ceiling by leather cuffs high above, as not one inch of flesh is left unscathed by the end of the night. You love to watch the way she dances atop the balls of her feet, whisked away into that world of perpetual bliss with six sets of hands caressing every inch of her delicate flesh. Her cackling laughter that you have become so familiar with is intensified twofold when they go at her, binding her in the most creative of positions throughout the eight-hour evening. Even nearing the end, as she is bound across her own bed, blindfolded and cleave gagged with a hundred fingers caressing her oil-coated body, not once does she convey anything but the constant desire to have this happen over and over again.
Which reminds you: it’s Ronald’s birthday this week. You and Sonya will have to make a house call if time will permit it.
However, surely the most enjoyable experience you have with her is at the local renaissance faire, one which, as a result of your generous patronage, has expanded into a monthly event to your delight. You were even courteous enough to provide a set of period-accurate pillory, that which you said you just happened to pick up back east and brought it with you. With Sonya dressed as a roaming gypsy woman, you and Daisy subsequently “arrest” her in front of the entire crowd, inviting all in earshot to watch her questioning later in the day. As she is locked in the stocks, the very same she found herself broken in those many months ago, her skimpy sandals are quickly stripped from her feet as her toes are tied back to the board. Having been well-prepped, you ask if anyone in the audience would like to participate in her inquisition, a request that always goes well answered.
One by one, wielding a variety of tickle implements, they participate in her questioning, tickling her without pause as she merely sits there in ticklish bliss. You offer up a reward to the first person who elicits a confession for her, promising a full day of servitude where she will do whatever they ask of her so long as it is in reason. Lucky for her, a group of six sorority sisters just happened to be making a field trip that day, and made quick work of her in a matter of minutes (you usually don’t let groups do it, but you made an exception to this). Much to your delight, they would only request that she accompany them with her hands bound over her head, allowing them to tickle her sides and underarms as they pleased throughout the day, a request you felt should be honored.
Yet, despite such a period of endless pleasure, there was a nagging feeling slowly building up within you, one which was fed by your uncertainty of the future. You weren’t sure when this was going to end, if it ever was, believing this little masquerade to continue forever. In fact, something inside told you that it should end, and you were just waiting for it to come to a happy conclusion. Well, that time seems to have finally come, as one morning, as you were preparing your nightly escapades, Sonya comes to you, suitcase in hand and a smile across her face. She tells you it was time for her to start back up her life, to go back to school and renew her studies that she let go two years ago. She thanks you for all the time you had together, and that she will always keep it in the back of her mind no matter where she goes. With a heavy heart, you let her go, knowing that whatever she does in life, she needed to do for herself.
The warm and fuzzy feeling of giving her what she wanted might have continued into the far future, had the FBI not knocked down your door one morning three months after letting her free, search warrant in hand. Even as you were being questioned, with the piles of costumes and cuffs lining their vehicle as evidence to be used against you at trial, you held onto the notion that this was all a mistake, and that Sonya would be more than happy to clear it up if she had not fingered him in the first place. Now, six months later, you find yourself sitting in a 9x8’ cell, awaiting trial on 847 charges of Kidnapping, False Imprisonment, Torture, Forced Servitude, Falsifying Records, Transportation of a Captured Person Across State Lines, and so on and so forth. You even heard that Daisy, who divorced you three days before the raid, has cut a deal with the prosecution, securing a mere ten years in prison claiming you were the mastermind behind it all.
Well, it was good while it lasted.
The End
Or, should I say, let her slip through your fingers.
Let me explain: you are a CIA operative working undercover at Washington-Dulles International Airport. Several months ago, a wire was intercepted by the Pentagon from a known terrorist base located in eastern Yemen. Counterintelligence officials confirmed it to be communications between radical leadership and a secret operative known only by the codename "Ezra." The contents of the message detailed the execution of a massive plot against the US government in multiple locations, its details concerning, its timetable imminent.
Yet despite the CIA’s best efforts, the identity of Ezra has been left unknown, and given their imminent arrival in one of the world’s busiest airports, the prospect of their capture seemed next to impossible. However, along with the date of the agent's arrival within the country, a detailed physical description of Ezra was given to recipients to verify her identity during the first meeting: female, mid-twenties, lightly tanned skin with dark eyebrows and long curly hair. Facial recognition software of incoming passengers, specifically those coming in from the Middle East and surrounding areas, matched the description to one individual: Sonya H. Khan, listed as an Egyptian national and student at the American University in Cairo.
She is on a connecting flight to Chicago, having only a forty-minute layover within which the extraction must be executed flawlessly without rousing the suspicions of anybody that may be watching. The moment the plane is emptied of its passengers, an announcement is made over the intercom, directing her to the security desk concerning possible damage to her luggage. Knowing for sure she would not want to make herself suspicious, let alone leave anything crucial she had brought with her behind, you wait for her. Stationed at the security desk, the crisp photograph nestled in front of you, you wait patiently to execute the next phase of your assignment: apprehend the agent, discreetly and without incident, and begin processing at a local safehouse 15 miles outside the city.
Suddenly, peering across the room, amidst the crowd of incoming passengers, you spot her: female, mid-twenties, dark eyebrows and curly hair. It's her, right down to the floral summer dress she happened to be wearing in her passport photo. Your heart is racing: little could you imagine such a dangerous entity appearing to be nothing more than an incoming tourist, let alone the fact that she is approaching you this very moment, a look of concern across her face. Casually waving your hand, you direct her over, a comforting demeanor betraying your hidden purpose. You ask her to supply identification, verifying what you already know: on the outside, she's an exchange student beginning a semester abroad at the University of Chicago, innocent as can be. However, underneath her doughy eyes and delicate features, she is a hardened operative, bent on dismantling the very peace you and your fellow CIA operatives work so hard to maintain, nothing that a false passport and doctored papers could so easily hide.
From behind the computer screen, you feign search through the database, pretending to be locating her luggage. You assure her they will hold her flight if necessary, not wanting to further complicate her plans as to draw suspicion. She sighs a breath of relief, relaxing her shoulders as she leans against the tall security desk. You inform her that the contents of her luggage had spilled out unto the runway, but had been subsequently collected and were waiting for her verification in the back. Her demeanor shifts to that of glee, obviously not wishing to betray her ruse as a mere citizen just wanting her luggage to safe. It didn't matter: had nothing incriminating been in her suitcase, the contents of which having been quarantined for safety even before she boarded the plane, the objective would still have been completed.
She was coming with you, one way or another.
You direct her to your partner, Special Agent Willow, standing adjacent to you behind the security desk. You tell her to lead Miss Khan into the back where she can collect her things to make her connecting flight. Taking her gently by the arm, Agent Willow leads her through the double doorway as you follow closely behind into the empty room. As the doors clasp shut, and she is far from the prying eyes and ears of her cohorts, a swift arm wraps itself around Sonya's neck, as Agent Willow executes a perfect sleeper hold on the suspect. Not three seconds pass before her eyes roll to the back of her head, slowly falling to the ground without making a single peep. Per the plan, you made sure the room was soundproofed before approving the mission, a detail seeming almost frivolous now given Agent Willow's efficiency.
Having subdued the suspect, you carry her limp body through an adjacent doorway, down a secluded hall, into the parking structure below. An unmarked van is waiting, its contents being a cot, a foldout chair, and a small cooler underneath. It is there Agent Willow administers a light sedative, placing a breathing mask over Ezra’s face so she doesn't wake up prior to arrival, as you hop into the driver’s seat and casually exit the garage. Making your way fifteen miles outside the city, you drive up to a safe house in the countryside, a converted farmhouse on 180 acres of government property.
It is here that nobody will know where she is, and it is here that she will become a most cooperative witness one way or another.
Carrying her into the basement through a side compartment, you lock the steel hatch above you, descending into the enclosed space that has laid dormant until now. Placed in the middle of this room of solid concrete is her destination: a set of medieval pillory. From a padded leather seat, a thick wooden pole jettisons out the back, with a set of sturdy wooden stocks nestled at its other end. A result of your extensive research in the realm of information acquisition, you've always found the contraption effective in long-term interrogations, especially those concerning female operatives, indicating your unwillingness to adhere to more contemporary guidelines. With her limp body still in your arms, you carry her to the device, gently placing her atop its surface. Binding her wrists high above her head with thick nylon ropes, you drag her legs to the end of the contraption, placing her ankles in the holes of the stocks to shut and lock them in tight. A blindfold is tied around her eyes, reducing her comfort and internal defenses, without a way to prepare herself for whatever you have in store. As the final touches are made, she begins to stir, moaning slightly only to stop dead in her tracks after realizing the perilous situation she finds herself in. Wriggling around in her bonds, she finds herself unable to escape, let alone move an inch in any direction. Just as she begins to fully take it in, your voice startles her, peering in your direction despite her inability to see you.
You begin to inform her of her predicament: that she is in the custody of the US government, that she is a known terrorist operative, and that she has entered the country under false pretenses to engage in a plot across multiple states. You use her codename to cement your point: that her cover has been unraveled, and if she wishes to lessen her discomfort for the remainder of her time here, then she had better cooperate to the highest degree.
Her shoulders trembling, barely squeaking out an answer through her shaky voice, the little actress begins to weave a tale you could have completely dictated beforehand: that she is a foreign exchange student, arriving to complete her Master's degree in cellular biology, and that this is all a big mistake because she has absolutely no idea what you are telling her. Her bottom lip trembles as she recites whatever script she prepared for this moment, the capacity she possesses for deception sowing disgust in the pit of her stomach. She even has the audacity to give you the names of her contacts in the states, knowing full well they'll just be rerouted to her home base to verify her flimsy identity.
You step away, unable to deal with the obvious lies she is telling you, mentally preparing yourself for a long interrogation process to follow. As you know, it is your responsibility to begin processing her into your database, taking statements, establishing contacts, anything that could possibly help to thwart plans for attack. However, the more you consider your current position, the greater the opportunity reveals to do more than what you had been assigned, for detailed within the decoded message was plans for Ezra to meet with three sleepers, their locations unknown but identities verified through months of careful surveillance. Despite the apprehension of Ezra being an accomplishment, it would not be complete without the entire trio of sleeper cells detailed in the dossier. Surely no operation would rely on one individual for its success, making the need to secure all members of the plot imperative. If you could coerce Ezra to cooperate, luring her partners into the open to make a clean arrest of all three, the headway the CIA would make securing national security would be unprecedented.
It's decided: you and Agent Willow will coerce Ezra to cooperate with the investigation, using her as a guinea pig to secure her contacts in the states. Whatever techniques you use must be quick and discreet, utilizing no forms of physical coercion that may leave external marks, thus betraying the methods in which you extracted such information. You know nothing about your capture other than her name and physical characteristics, but you have broken countless operatives before: you just have to know what buttons to push, patiently and relentlessly, until they eventually crack.
You circle your captive, silently and deliberately, inspecting her for any weaknesses that may work to your advantage. She can try to hide it, shrouding her evil in a shell of innocence and frailty, but you know better than to trust anything more than what you already know. What beauty she possesses, a shame for such a catch to descend to such depths, conspiring against all you know and love for some frivolous life mission she has accepted. Had she exercised that mind of hers into something more productive, she could have changed the world for the better. But here she sits, in the custody of the US government, her fate in your hands.
Approaching her from the front, her head sloped forward, unable to follow you through the thickness of the blindfold, you take a closer look at her: her supple skin and untouched features give indication to a sheltered lifestyle, void of any auxiliary labors that would lead to blemishes or imperfections. She is tall, almost too tall for the device, her feet protruding inches out of the holes in the stocks, with her hands almost able to reach the knots tied high above her. However, with very little leverage to go on, you have made it all but impossible for her to free herself by her own volition. Her long curly locks hang perfectly around the sides of her face, with her sundress beginning to crinkle as she shifts around in her bonds, a sight which may elicit some sensations of sympathy from those who do not know her like you do. The moment she moves her head, the ends of her hair drag across the flesh of her freshly shaven underarms and back again. You wonder if it bothers her, if you should reach over and push her hair back around her neck, the sensational annoyance of such a tick...hmm.
You walk over to the front of her, a pair of vulnerable feet dangling from the end of the stocks. Slowly, grasping them by the heels, you slip off her black ballet flats, a slight furrow of her brow denoting a curiosity with your interest in her shoes. As you slip them off, you reveal from heel to toe two large, supple bare feet to the cool air. They are size tens (you have much experience with this), perfectly in proportion with her body, with much real estate to work upon as a result. Tracing your thumb over their prominent length, you note their smoothened surface, indicating a pedicure in the recent past. You can smell the scent of fresh nail polish, gazing upon the sparkling red varnish, reminding you of the type Agent Willow would wear during formals (not that you are one to notice).
It is then you remember that your partner, Agent Willow, is seated in the corner of the room, and as your eyes lock with hers, you both have the realization that you were thinking the same thing this entire time.
Much to Agent Willow's delight, scribbling away at her legal pad any observations she made as well, you begin again communicating with the suspect: saying how appreciative you would be if she would just cooperate, how easy it would be to spill on her associates, and how in doing so she would be escaping that which she is going to be subject to very soon. You see her changing demeanor, understanding that you are subtly getting under her skin. Her toes recoiling defensively, the wrinkles of her soles are almost as incriminating as a full confession in the eyes of the law (and right now, that is you), as though they know exactly what's coming to them.
You love when your detainees make your job that much easier, showing you exactly where they try to hide they greatest weaknesses, just waiting to be exploited by someone just oh so eager to do their job well, and you are certainly someone who takes pride in being as thorough as necessary. For you see, you explain to your increasingly paranoid detainee, as much of a cliché as it seems, the CIA does have ways of making you talk, and if you don't want to talk then, well, they'll make due with making you laugh.
Silently, you motion your hand towards Agent Willow, prompting her to rise from her state of observation: placing her clipboard ever so carefully atop the solid concrete floor, she makes her way towards your detainee, not making one sound despite the heels atop her feet, having still been in her disguise. Reaching the foot of your contraption, she crouches down, the length of Ezra’s prominent size ten feet now at face level to her. Taking one finger, placing it atop the heel of her right foot, Agent Willow begins ever so gently swirling its tip across her smooth flesh, a gesture so minute only the most skilled of interrogators could have pulled it off with the same effectiveness.
It begins with a twitch, a jerk of the leg, as Ezra tries in vain to pull away from that which she cannot see, believing it to be only a minor itch at the bottom of her foot. However, little by little, as Agent Willow begins making her way carefully up its length, caressing her finger across Ezra’s sole, the sensation becomes too much for the young captive to merely ignore. She attempts to hide the obvious smirk drawing itself across her face, a sign of just how quickly it is getting to her, as she feels herself falling right into the palms of your hands. Her staggered breaths slowly morph into forced chuckles as one finger becomes two, then three, then four until, with five sharpened nails skittering their way across her supple sole, Ezra is completely consumed by pathetic girlish laughter.
You watch in admiration of your partner’s talents, as with such little effort she is capable of stripping Ezra of her defenses as though it were mere child’s play. However, her efforts were truly anything but: not three years prior had you met the starry-eyed operative, a new recruit fresh out of the academy, waiting for the opportunity to prove herself. You took her under your wing, hoping that her drive and ambition would be of benefit to the agency as a part of your team. Little could you imagine that she would rise to the task time and time again, showing her effectiveness in such close quarters operations as these, the likes of which many of the new recruits are far too squeamish to volunteer for. However, each time she found herself in yet another harrowing ordeal, she was to ultimately overcome the challenge, with that same look of gleeful enthusiasm that she is embodying right now. Now, with one of the most dangerous terrorists in the western hemisphere in your possession, she is doing the same again, reducing the woman to pitiful guffaws with just the lightest touch.
It begins now: a plead from the woman, saying that there is an unbearable itch on the bottom of her foot, begging someone to scratch it lest it gets any worse. “It tickles!” she spurts out, trying desperately to shake Agent Willow’s hand away from the ball of her foot, only for the astute operative to know exactly where she is going before she does. She bites her lip, knowing full well she has absolutely no chance of avoiding her fate on her own accord, having been isolated far from any chance of rescue.
You can only indulge yourself in the sight of it all: your loyal compatriot, standing at a mere 5’2”, driving this statuesque woman to the brink, using the tips of her nails as instruments of torture to extract whatever information she needs from her. Torture? Surely, the sensation of nails scraping in between her toes could not aptly be described as such. Just what kind of organization would waste millions of dollars in capital to do nothing but tickle those from whom they seek highly sensitive information? Obviously, the webbing of flesh that sits untouched in between her toes could not be capitalized on in such a manner, used to pry out of her mouth, already wide open as she cackles endlessly as result, the prominent list of misdeeds she has committed against humanity. However, even if it were to be considered “torture” if you desire, by the manner of which it is executed, leaving not one trace as Agent Willow expertly does, nobody would be able to prove it anyways.
Shaking yourself out of your trance, you ask her again, hoping that she has finally come to her senses having been tossed headfirst into the first phase of her torments. With absolute authority, you demand the location of her contacts, using once again her codename to demonstrate just how guilty she is. Typical: even through her breathless laughter, she still spouts the same backstory you had read countless times over in her file. How entertaining: the almighty Ezra feigning ignorance, pretending she is merely what she claimed to be in her dossier, an innocent little student just wishing to enter university. However, such is unsatisfactory for both you and your agent, and as Agent Willow begins scraping her nails into her flailing toes, thrusting the little liar into the next stage of her interrogation, all the pleas of ignorance transform into those of pitiful mercy.
Lunging her head forward, the little terrorist bellows forth a hardy stream of laughter, now fully incapable of hiding her weakness any further. She clenches down, trapping Agent Willow’s fingers against her toes, deriving much silent delight from her interrogator having had her job been made that much easier. Such was a tactic Ezra must have realized to be useless, once again fanning them open as she is thrown back into the fray. Unbeknownst to you, a small collection of saliva has been accumulating at the edge of your lower lip, nonchalantly licking it away as though you wished to devour this delectable sight. Maybe in another life, had she not chosen such a despicable life path, you would have found yourself treating this woman to dinner and a movie, massaging her gorgeous feet after such a long walk in the park, feeling their buttery soft surface with the intimacy Agent Willow is having with them right now. But, as you are shocked back into reality, you understand that this is as intimate as you’d like to be with her right now.
A yelp of surprise, or dismay if you will, echoes through the room, with Agent Willow unexpectedly thrusting her nails into Ezra’s left sole, tickling both of her feet in tandem now. Throwing her head back in forced mirth, the ticklish little terrorist is now experiencing the full brunt of her suffering, as the extensive torments upon her right foot must have caused the left to become unbearably sensitive, ripe for indulging in. You know as well that the less dominant side of the body is the most ticklish, making you aware that Ezra must, of all things, be right-handed, most likely the reason Agent Willow was to start on her right foot as well. Such will be a good addition to the record, as you eventually plan to sit down and flesh out a list of intimate details about Ezra before you hand her over for indefinite detention.
After a long and arduous half hour, you place your hand up, silently commanding Agent Willow to briefly cease the interrogation. As you gaze upon Ezra’s outstretched form, you can see its toll on the creature: her black curly hair is now matted against her forehead, having already accumulated a healthy layer of sweat across her entire body. You watch as her chest heaves up and down, the physical exertion of such prolonged stimulation able to break down even the most stalwart resolves in your experience. Placing your fingers atop the blindfold, you feel a slight dampening, showing the mental and emotional toll of the combination of sensory deprivation and overstimulation.
Gazing upon her pathetic state, you command once more for her cooperation, only for her to return yet again to the same story she has stuck to, this time with the strained voice of a woman pushed to the brink. Dissatisfied with her constant efforts to pull the wool over her eyes, you tell her of her prospects: that she is isolated, in the custody of the US government, without a soul aware of where she is or what she is going through other than the three of you in that room. You tell her of all the preparation that has gone into her capture, all the resources expended to bring her to this point, and that she will not be let to leave until you get the information you want. Yet, even with this information, Ezra refuses to break character, that which forces you to show her exactly what she is in for.
Motioning Agent Willow upward, you silently direct her to stand behind the terrorist as she places her nails just atop her wrists high above. Just as she does that, you reach towards Ezra’s sides, revealing a belt that goes around her waist, buckling her hips to the seat below. By your guidance, little by little, Agent Willow begins caressing her fingers down the length of Ezra’s outstretched arms, their ultimate destination the vulnerable hollows of her underarms. Succumbing once again to the same girlish giggles, the resistant young captive begins once again to try and talk her way out, begging to not have to go through it again. Before her fate is sealed, you give her one more chance to give in, saving herself by relinquishing her contacts she was to meet by tonight. Bowing her head forward, she begs once more that she is not who you know her to be, just as you give Agent Willow the signal to begin.
You watch as, in one fell swoop, Agent Willow plunges her nails deep into the young woman’s flesh, caressing the freshly shaven hollows of her underarms with abandon. Throwing her head back in ticklish suffering, a wave of cackling laughter exits Ezra’s strained gullet, simply music to your ears in this desolate place. Her entire body gyrates in the infernal contraption, rendering every effort to escape on her part utterly useless, having been designed solely for the purpose of putting the most deserving of criminals in this very predicament. Muscles bulging, she tries desperately to pull herself up towards her wrists, finding only she is helplessly inept in her unbreakable bonds. You can only look on in delight, the same matched by Agent Willow, pressing her thumbs into the sensitive muscle right next to her bosom, making her jerk wildly against the wooden device that does not budge despite this.
It is merely amusing to know that, of all the people who had a hand in her suffering, it would be Ezra herself that would contribute in her own special way: with her floral sundress, leaving the room for Agent Willow to capitalize on her exposed flesh in such a matter, or her ballet flats, slipping off her feet with the utmost of ease. Not that any amount of clothing could stop you: even had she been wearing a winter coat and boots, the sheers would have made quick work of them, exposing her to the same tortures she is experiencing this very moment. However, it does your heart good to know this spoiled princess, executing the most inhuman crimes against others, yet having lived a sheltered existence anyways, could be put in her place by the likes of you and your loyal operative. You know of the rumors: that she is the daughter of a prominent government official, schooled in the ways of Western manners as only to help her infiltrate foreign lands completely undetected. You know of the life she has lived, spoiled with everything she had ever asked for, all the while her victims suffer by her plots against your government. As far as you are concerned, this is the fate she deserves, and if she never sees the light of day, then it would be fine by you.
As Agent Willow makes her way down Ezra’s person, capitalizing on the thin layer of dress to weave her way into her ribs, you can only feel that of pride for your pupil. You recall the training she had by your direction: that of physiology and its power in interrogations, knowing that it is the body’s ultimate weakness to be used against itself. You watch as her rigorous studies are coming to life right before your eyes, knowing that the moralities of torture by the state could never be applied here. I mean, think about it: is it Agent Willow’s ravenous fingers that torture Ezra’s helplessly rendered underarms, scraping their way deep into their quivering flesh with absolute ease? What about her dastardly knuckles, grazing their way over her tender ribs like a washboard, extracting harmonious shrieks and cackles time and time again? Or her horrendously effective thumbs, digging their way into her sides just above the belt she tries so desperately to escape from? You think not, for as far as you are concerned, Ezra is merely tickling herself, and you two are just there to observe.
By this point, after a full two hours have passed, you would expect only the most stubborn of foreign operatives to still be hanging on, but only by a thread. You admire her commitment to her ideals, but only for a moment, knowing full well that she has caused nothing but pain all around the world. You only wish that you could take part in her suffering, aiding Agent Willow in breaking down her resolve as you had done time and time again. However, your altruistic side is kicking in, knowing just how much Agent Willow could benefit from the experience, being the one that single-handedly broke the will of the mysterious Ezra.
No, you are merely here to guide when necessary.
For the second time, you give Agent Willow direction to stop, confronted with the sobs of a broken woman laying right in from of you. Even had she been keeping up her act, you know these tears to be that of real pain, and you make sure to use this to your advantage. You give her one final chance to redeem herself, demanding that she give the names of her contacts. But she does not break, and in one final act of desperation, she plays it up: telling you about how her parents are missing her call, of how her classmates are worrying about her, and of how she only wished to begin a life here in the land of opportunity. Her charade puts a sour taste in your mouth, cutting her off just as she is about to break down in those crocodile tears once again.
You tell her exactly what you have been saving this entire time: that for the time being, she has only the power that you give her, and that is nothing. You tell her just how easy it would be for her to be lost in the system, never to be heard from again. You say that you could write up that you failed in capturing her, escaping into an unmarked car, never to be seen again, all the while left to being tortured by you and Agent Willow for as long as they see fit. You speak of all the necessities you have: food, water, and privacy, months of radio silence a small price to pay for making sure she tells you everything she knows, and if she is not willing to talk now, then soon she will not be given the option.
You briefly leave the room, exiting through an adjacent doorway, making your way into a small hallway the likes of which very few have had the privilege of seeing. Making your way down the hall, you can still hear Ezra’s strained cackles at the hands of your crafty Agent Willow, having been relinquished but momentarily to do unto the little terrorist whatever she like. At the end of the hallway, you approach a single door, opening it as you reveal a small closet, the contents of which solely include the vast array of torture implements at your disposal, a personal collection rather than that of standard issue. Reaching towards the wall to the left, you take a small set of fabric scissors hanging precariously from a nail, reaching down to place it into a tool chest that has been specially prepared for this very moment. Closing the top, you make your way back to the interrogation room, taking your little chest of terrors along with you.
Upon entering the room once more, you catch Agent Willow in the act, pinching at the tops of Ezra’s thighs with malicious intent, a bit too close to her womanly parts for you not to notice. Normally, you’d reprimand the agent for such a maneuver for the sake of the decency of the detainee but, given just how stubborn your captive has been these past few hours, you only look upon her with pride and delight. Gazing upon Ezra, you watch as the woman gasps endlessly for breath, quietly sobbing underneath her blindfold already drenched in her pitiful tears. Maybe had she known exactly what you were going to do next, she would have confessed the moment you came into the room: taking the fabric scissors from your chest, you place them against the top of her dress just above her bosom before, in one motion, slicing clean through the front of her floral attire. This, along with two quick snips of her straps above, has done away with her very last vestige of protection, that sensation of pure vulnerability she recognizes in full the moment you take it from her person.
She begins to plead once again, begging into the void to not take advantage of her, as though you were some common thug with nothing but lust for feminine flesh in their heart. You had warned her before just what trouble she would be in for had she not confessed what you wanted to hear, and after a good minute of tear-soaked pity without even a scrap of evidence, you think you’ve heard just about enough out of her: taking what’s left of her dress, you slice a thin strip from its bottom, tying a double knot in the middle of it for a makeshift gag of her own doing. Coming up from behind her, just as one more plea is going to fall from her lips, you unceremoniously insert the gag in between her teeth, tying it behind her head as her begging turns to muffled mews for all to hear. But, you are not done with her yet, as taking two more strands from her discarded attire, you bind her at the knees and elbows, further immobilizing her to render every motion strained at best.
Gazing upon her newly prepared form, stripped down to her underwear as she sits mute as well as blind and immobile, you tell her of her fate: that for the next hour, she will not be able to confess anything, her punishment for holding out this long. After the hour, if she chooses once again to resist, then one hour will become two, then four, then eight, until every waking moment of her life is spent in darkness, tickled to oblivion without the slightest hope of repose. You tell her that this is her fate, indifferent to anything she could do to try and escape, for only when she submits will she be relinquished to the criminal justice system as her savior. Her response is delectable: jerking against her restraints, spewing a muffled heap of pleas and protest you feel adequately captured the helplessness she feels at this point, you know now her true colors are finally being revealed. It does your heart good knowing just how dedicated you are to the cause, going above and beyond to break even the most dangerous of fugitives all for the sake of national security, and that you are far from done yet. Reaching into your chest, you reveal a small bottle of baby oil, pouring a puddle into your hand as you smear it in earnest all across her feet, leaving not one inch from her heels to the tips of her toes that isn’t glistening underneath the pale lights above.
This, you tell her, is for making Agent Willow work so hard.
Taking the tool chest in hand, motioning over to Agent Willow, you open it towards her, revealing its contents to the wide-eyed young operative, giving her free pick of the tools of her trade. Reaching into the compartment, she reveals the one tool she has been waiting so long to inflict upon your captive: the hairbrush, in all its wonder. Making her way once again over to Ezra’s helpless feet, now amply lubricated by your hand, you watch in delight as she goes to town with the device of her choosing, scraping it wildly across Ezra’s feet without the slightest bit of warning. Her shrieking cries echo off these solemn walls the moment Agent Willow plunges the dastardly hairbrush right into her sole, dismantling the very last fragment of resistance in an instant. Thrusting her head side to side, she is trying so desperately to spit the gag out of her mouth, hoping once again to coax that sympathy for her that could never exist within this chamber. It must be so horrible to exist underneath that blindfold, left unaware to anything and everything that is happening to you, indifferent to your suffering. But, such is only the cherry atop the sundae of unadulterated suffering she is experiencing, as even with such energy, her newly acquired bonds render her mighty struggles as barely noticeable wriggles, trying in vain to find some modicum of movement left for her.
Over and over again, Agent Willow drags the dreaded device across her right foot: from her padded heel, all the way up to her flailing long toes, the laundry list of horrendous sounds emanating from Ezra’s hoarse throat has grown too far to count, all of which is repeated by the time she gets to her left foot. You watch as the pale shade of pink atop her foot bottoms morphs into a hue of darkened red, displaying the intensity of Agent Willow’s craft upon the tender soles of her captive. It is as though she is able to read Ezra’s thoughts right through the soles of her feet, for but the moment she tries to flail her feet away from her torments, there it is, the dastardly brush waiting for her to do it. No amount of agency training could have prepared Agent Willow to execute this interrogation as effectively as she is now, wielding her hairbrush with the virtuosity of a true master not even you could rival. No, this takes a passion, one that is focused solely on the misunderstood art of tickle torture, above and beyond the call of duty, making your choice of her as your partner the best decision you could have made.
You set the chest before her, knowing not to limit her capabilities by hiding that which she could use. Taking one glance into its contents, she reveals a large plastic comb, its teeth a sinister tool that has broken many detainees before this one. Up to this point, being taken past the point of pure exhaustion, Ezra is left a limp heap of gasping breath, surely the tingling in her feet reverberating through her entire person. However, the moment Agent Willow, upon grasping her by the left foot, begins sawing the comb in between her toes, it is as though all of her torments had just begun. It’s a powerful tool: so simple, so ruthless, so effective that it is driving Ezra into stage after stage of agony with every swipe, indifferent to how hard her toes clench upon it. Rocking against her bonds back and forth, the dastardly little criminal attempts once again to escape her torments, kicking against the stocks as though she were a professional soccer star.
You find it arousing to watch Agent Willow take this woman, one that stands at least a head taller than her, with feet as big as her face, and bring her down to this level so decisively, for no matter what she does, Agent Willow holds ultimate power over every part of her. It is with an iron grip that she locks Ezra’s right foot in place and, in one motion, begins sweeping the comb across all five of her toes, eliciting shrieks of deafening madness from the distraught woman. To her Ezra is nothing more than her plaything, a little project in which to test just how ruthless she can be with someone who deserves it oh so much, a true demonstration of her commitment to her own American dream. Rounding her from the back, you recognize that look upon her face, that look you would only want to see upon her face in this very situation: pure unadulterated delight.
However, what is to happen next is that which even you are surprised by, and by surprised, I mean you are driven to tears with pride just knowing how your student could have surpassed the master right before your very eyes. Reaching once again into your tool chest, Agent Willow grasps upon a pair of vibrating eggs, the surface of each containing four small feathers. A makeshift contraption of your own design, you had never figured out just what to do with them, your trial run on the upper body of your last suspect having been ineffective at achieving results. However, by the looks of it, it seems Agent Willow has decoded their true purpose: taking a spool of electrical tape, she presses each one deep into both of Ezra’s soles, binding them with the tape in a way that places the feathers just between each one of her toes. Taking the remote control, she tapes that against the stocks, a position which could not be used to loosen either of them where they are. With one push of a button, Agent Willow activates them, sending Ezra into a maelstrom in an instant.
Her feet begin flapping wildly, trying with all her might to dislodge the dastardly pair of vibrating devices placed square against her tenderized soles, while her toes scrunch and clench with all their might, trying to cease the pulsating sensation in between them to no avail. As though that weren’t bad enough, wrapping herself around the disheveled woman, Agent Willow executes the second phase of her torments, plunging her fingers once again into the woman’s tender underarms. Without even an inch of clothing left on her, little Ezra is left completely vulnerable for Agent Willow’s exploration, traversing her nimble fingers into every crease and crevice that was hidden underneath her attire. Her entire body gyrating across the surface of this device, you revel in the frantic nature of Ezra’s struggles, believing that if she had made it this far, then maybe she was never going to crack under the pressure. However, sooner or later, over the course of several agonizing minutes of relentless dual tickle torture upon her feet and body, you watch a transformation take effect that denotes her ultimate surrender: her head slumped forward, Ezra’s wild cackles have been replaced by pitiful whimpers, without even a muscle twitch from her struggles no matter how hard Agent Willow is on her. By the time the buzzer rings after a full hour, and Agent Willow leaves her be, her stark silence tells you that major progress has been made towards your goal.
You think that now your detainee is finally willing to talk.
Taking the gag from her mouth, letting her catch what little breath she has left, you ask her one more time if she is ready to confess. With slight hesitation, she nods her head, not even uttering one syllable as Agent Willow prepares her notepad to take down her confession. However, before you get to that which you have been waiting for this entire time, you are compelled to confirm with her everything that she has denied up to this point: that she, Sonya H. Khan, is in fact an international terrorist by the codename Ezra, masquerading as an Egyptian student to infiltrate the United States to carry out yet another attack on the innocent, and that she is guilty of all crimes committed by her and her organization as reported on by the international press. Asking her if this is correct, she again nods her head in confirmation, and though you are satisfied with this, you are not done. No, if she’s going to confess, then she’s going to confess on your terms.
You make her confirm that she is a helpless little girl who deserved every single moment of her torments over these past several hours, that she was born to be tickled, especially on her prominent sexy feet. You make her confirm that she would love nothing more than to be a tickle slave, to give up her body and mind in servitude of her new masters, bound in a myriad of ways to render her helpless, being tortured by them day and night without protest. You make her confirm that she would do anything and everything they say, no matter how horrendous or degrading, for she only exists in this world now to be tickled beyond hope and reason. Finally, you make her confirm that, if she were to ever leave this compound, that she would forever serve both you and Agent Willow, for it is the two of you that she loves for having her discover her true purpose in life. Again and again, she nods her head, having finally been broken.
Finally, you ask her one more time if she is ready to begin, once again getting the solemn nod of confirmation. However, just as you are about to question her regarding her contacts, a message appears on your phone, one coming straight from the head of your division at the agency. Its contents, those that turn you white as a sheet, read as follows:
We got her: Ezra has been captured.
At the border of Syria entering Turkey.
Initiating Protocol Canary.
You look at your partner, your ghastly demeanor making her realize right then and there just what you two had done…
(Epilogue)
You gently peel your eyes open, having been awoken from your slumber by a subtle sound emanating from just down the hall. Rising from your bed, you make your way towards your bedroom door, gently opening it to find out just where it is coming from, realizing that it is from down the hall. As you tiptoe down your upstairs hallway, you slowly but surely come to a door left slightly ajar, enough for you to peek into its contents and be treated with a sight to behold: Agent Willow, seated at the end of a bed, tickling Sonya’s feet. Dressed in her nighty and slippers, she has locked Sonya’s pair of prominent feet underneath her left arm, skittering her nails across their supple surface as the young woman writhes helplessly across her bed. With a look of absolute glee scrawled across her face, Agent Willow commands the girl to confess, saying that she will not stop until she does. Pounding her fists against the bed, thrust into a torrent of endless cackling laughter as a result, Sonya quickly succumbs to her demands, spouting that she will tell her anything and everything she wants. The moment that happens, Agent Willow releases her from her grasp, letting the girl fall back breathless into her bed, still dressed in her loosely fitting red pajamas. Crawling back unto the bed with her, Agent Willow pecks a kiss atop her cheek, right before asking her what she’d like for breakfast this morning.
She asks for pancakes.
Fifteen minutes later, as you lift your cup of hot coffee up to your lips, you watch in secret delight as Sonya H. Khan, whom you once thought to be the despicable Ezra, begins to chow down on a heaping stack of blueberry pancakes, being served to her in your kitchen by the sultry and sensual Agent Willow (who you refer to as “Daisy” now). It has been a full two years since your initial encounter, having assumed to have come face-to-face with one of the world’s most dangerous terrorists during your time at the agency. Locking her away in that chamber, far away from any hope of escape, you strove to extract a confession out of her by any means necessary, and little by little, by Daisy’s hands and your direction, you broke your nefarious detainee after a mere four hours, fully ready to dictate her full confession and secure yourself yet another promotion. However, such was not to be, for only after her harrowing ordeal was over in full did you make the startling discovery that she wasn’t who you believed her to be, but the innocent college student that surely she knew herself to be but you wouldn’t believe. Both you and Daisy comprehended the totality of your actions, and began contemplating the consequences that would surely follow if you both continued on this same path.
As a result, much has changed since that time: feeling it best, you decided to distance yourself from the agency, taking up private consulting work far from the front lines you once found to be your home. It wasn’t due to your fear of being caught, mind you, but your lack of stomach for the job, that which you lost having put her through such an ordeal. Your loyal agent Daisy would also take a more hands-off approach as well, having been promoted to your post once you left, in the position of shaping future agents to meet the call of duty in a manner that would be deemed less reckless than their predecessors. Plus, you too got married, tying the knot on a sandy beach in Cancun in front of all your friends and relatives. That was six months ago, and every day since then has been filled with bliss and discovery the likes of which you two could not have possibly imagined.
So, just how did you wind up caring for the young university student?
Well, after yours and Daisy’s little escapade with her, your options had been paired down significantly: you couldn’t just let her go, lest she finger you two for your egregious case of mistaken identity. You also weren’t one for “disposing” of her as in the movies, not having the stomach for it after having failed your core mission so decisively. Even if you were able to set her up in witness protection, somewhere far away from anybody who could take her statement, there was still a chance that someone at the agency would uncover the paper trail, wondering why money was being funneled into a person the likes of which they had never heard of. Plus, there was something about her now that made you believe she would never make it out there by herself: having been completely broken by your highly effective tactics, poor Sonya had been rendered into a state of perpetual subservience, now unequivocally submissive as the fate you had designed for her as the end goal of her interrogation, only believing her once to be the criminal that deserved it. The thought of her rekindling a normal life after such an ordeal seemed impossible, making the prospect of just letting her go cruel at best. Now, with a broken young lady to deal with, you and Agent Willow decided to do the only humane thing you could think of: you took her in, and gave her a purpose.
Taking her from the safehouse one early morning, you loaded all your belongings into a moving truck before hightailing it into the sunset, your newly acquired guest on her way towards her new life far away from here. It would have been too risky to stay in the area, lest she be recognized by those who had been waiting for her, so you two transferred yourselves from Washington D.C. to sunny southern California, buying up a nice house on a private chunk of property to start a brand new life together. It seemed perfect: nobody knew you, and best of all, certainly nobody knew her, making Sonya’s identity as flexible as you needed it to be. So, when your neighbors just happen to stop by to deliver you a warm welcome to the neighborhood? You introduce her as your niece, having just fled her oppressive homeland, now here to get the American experience. And when either of your families come over for the holidays? They get to meet your live-in housekeeper, working her way through school before she gets back on her feet.
Little would they suspect that, when the house was finally empty and you were left all alone together, Sonya would transform into whatever you and Daisy told her to be, your imaginations running amok with a live-in tickle pet to play with. Night after night, you two played out the ticklish fantasies you had stored up your entire lives, with the adorably ticklish and submissive Sonya now the focus of it all. Three nights ago, she was a world-class equestrian, cornered in her stable as she is tickled to exhaustion by her competitor Daisy to convince her to drop out of tomorrow’s competition. Two nights ago, she was the daughter of a wealthy nobleman in a rustic village in the countryside, captured by the resistance and interrogated for the location of her father’s priceless collection of ancient artifacts. Last night’s venture, however, certainly was to be your favorite thus far: playing a statue in a modern art museum, Sonya was forced to keep still in the myriad of positions you placed her in, as the “clumsy janitors” you two played thoroughly clean every inch of her for the next day.
But, in order to maintain these nightly escapades, you needed the tools of the trade, and you two knew just where to get them.
It was quick thinking of you to plunder the old safehouse for its cuffs, ropes, and chains before being torn down for the sake of national security, keeping your house well-stocked with bondage materials. But, it wouldn’t be complete without the right costumes, and that’s where Daisy and Sonya come in. You reveled in their daily shopping trips, bringing back yet another accessory to further augment your time together. Be it another set of cuffs, or one of the several dozens of costumes lining your attic, it seemed there was no end to the places they would go, from Halloween and craft stores to the “naughtier” realms of retail. Oh, Sonya was quite bashful at first accompanying Daisy into the adult shops, the conservative girl having never had a taste of the finer things in life. But, over the course of several months, she began to enjoy the excursions, even taking the initiative and choosing the right accessories for the next scenario.
You felt yourselves to be the luckiest people in the world to have such a delectably ticklish participant in your midst, and if you were this blessed to have her, then it was only right for you to share the joy with others.
Soon after you established yourselves in the neighborhood, you established yourselves online as well, documenting the ticklish escapades of the three of you, from stories, to pictures, to full videos for all to enjoy. Little by little, as your online presence grew, you found yourself collecting a small community of like-minded members, conveying just how much they’d like to get their hands on your darling Sonya, a request you happily obliged. You looked forward to the weekly gatherings at your house, with nearly two dozen tickle enthusiasts coming together for a full night of ticklish bliss to inflict upon her. You introduce your guest of honor, clad in the chosen attire for the night, this time just happening to be the Princess Leia slave costume you had been eyeballing these past few months. You direct her towards the couch as Daisy strips her of her boots, revealing the freshly pedicured feet that she relinquishes to everyone else, with Daisy giving her a quick tickle as she always does.
You look upon them as they ravage her hyper ticklish body, strung up to the ceiling by leather cuffs high above, as not one inch of flesh is left unscathed by the end of the night. You love to watch the way she dances atop the balls of her feet, whisked away into that world of perpetual bliss with six sets of hands caressing every inch of her delicate flesh. Her cackling laughter that you have become so familiar with is intensified twofold when they go at her, binding her in the most creative of positions throughout the eight-hour evening. Even nearing the end, as she is bound across her own bed, blindfolded and cleave gagged with a hundred fingers caressing her oil-coated body, not once does she convey anything but the constant desire to have this happen over and over again.
Which reminds you: it’s Ronald’s birthday this week. You and Sonya will have to make a house call if time will permit it.
However, surely the most enjoyable experience you have with her is at the local renaissance faire, one which, as a result of your generous patronage, has expanded into a monthly event to your delight. You were even courteous enough to provide a set of period-accurate pillory, that which you said you just happened to pick up back east and brought it with you. With Sonya dressed as a roaming gypsy woman, you and Daisy subsequently “arrest” her in front of the entire crowd, inviting all in earshot to watch her questioning later in the day. As she is locked in the stocks, the very same she found herself broken in those many months ago, her skimpy sandals are quickly stripped from her feet as her toes are tied back to the board. Having been well-prepped, you ask if anyone in the audience would like to participate in her inquisition, a request that always goes well answered.
One by one, wielding a variety of tickle implements, they participate in her questioning, tickling her without pause as she merely sits there in ticklish bliss. You offer up a reward to the first person who elicits a confession for her, promising a full day of servitude where she will do whatever they ask of her so long as it is in reason. Lucky for her, a group of six sorority sisters just happened to be making a field trip that day, and made quick work of her in a matter of minutes (you usually don’t let groups do it, but you made an exception to this). Much to your delight, they would only request that she accompany them with her hands bound over her head, allowing them to tickle her sides and underarms as they pleased throughout the day, a request you felt should be honored.
Yet, despite such a period of endless pleasure, there was a nagging feeling slowly building up within you, one which was fed by your uncertainty of the future. You weren’t sure when this was going to end, if it ever was, believing this little masquerade to continue forever. In fact, something inside told you that it should end, and you were just waiting for it to come to a happy conclusion. Well, that time seems to have finally come, as one morning, as you were preparing your nightly escapades, Sonya comes to you, suitcase in hand and a smile across her face. She tells you it was time for her to start back up her life, to go back to school and renew her studies that she let go two years ago. She thanks you for all the time you had together, and that she will always keep it in the back of her mind no matter where she goes. With a heavy heart, you let her go, knowing that whatever she does in life, she needed to do for herself.
The warm and fuzzy feeling of giving her what she wanted might have continued into the far future, had the FBI not knocked down your door one morning three months after letting her free, search warrant in hand. Even as you were being questioned, with the piles of costumes and cuffs lining their vehicle as evidence to be used against you at trial, you held onto the notion that this was all a mistake, and that Sonya would be more than happy to clear it up if she had not fingered him in the first place. Now, six months later, you find yourself sitting in a 9x8’ cell, awaiting trial on 847 charges of Kidnapping, False Imprisonment, Torture, Forced Servitude, Falsifying Records, Transportation of a Captured Person Across State Lines, and so on and so forth. You even heard that Daisy, who divorced you three days before the raid, has cut a deal with the prosecution, securing a mere ten years in prison claiming you were the mastermind behind it all.
Well, it was good while it lasted.
The End
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