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looking for an old quiller story (avengers)
Wow - I didn't know I had any fans. Thanks for the request.
Quiller
Emma's Last Case by Quiller
I have never been convinced of the reasons for Mrs Peel leaving the British Secret Service. I think she hired an actor to play her long lost husband and had a couple of phoney newspapers printed. Anyway this is what I think really happened.
"Mrs Peel... we're needed. The familiar message stared up at Emma as she lifted her delicate bone china cup from it's saucer. Steed appeared at her elbow as if by magic.
"A new case ?" she asked she asked raising her left eyebrow in her characteristic way.
"One that has baffled the greatest minds in the land", boomed Steed. He then proceeded to outline the case and gave Emma a lead to follow up. She decided to wear her all leather outfit and black boots as she had noticed it helped when dealing with men. Funny that... how they always seemed to stare at her feet.
She climbed into her Lotus Elan and drove away at high speed, but failed to notice the other car pull away from the curb and start to follow her.
The address Steed had given her turned out to be a deserted warehouse. Mrs Peel parked and approached the building cautiously her boot heels crunching over the gravel in the carpark. She approached the front door and tried the handle, which opened easily. She then entered. The shadowing car stopped moments later and two figures emerged, a man and a woman. The woman opened the boot and removed a bag while the man pulled out a sign and hung it over the warehouse entrance. The sign read :-
"WARNING. DO NOT ENTER. CONDEMNED BUILDING"
Emma had searched the whole warehouse and found nothing. As she walked back into the main entrance hands grabbed her from behind and the sickly sweet smell of chloroform filled her mouth and nose...
Mrs Peel's head snapped upright and she found herself staring at the wall in the warehouse. She couldn't move an inch as her hands had been tied tightly behind her back. She was upright in a chair with her legs stretched out in front and her ankles bound to a small footstool. As she looked around she noticed there were two others in the room, a rather fat, balding man and an exotic looking redheaded woman.
"So dahrlink. I see you are now avake. Now ve haff a little chat, yes?" the woman said.
"Now ve haff a little chat, no!" replied Mrs Peel haughtily mocking the foreign accent.
"Allow me to introduce myself," broke in the man. "My name is Pushkin and I represent certain foreign interests." The man bowed comically and Emma couldn't help smiling.
"This is my assistant Olga," he continued gesturing at the redhead with his hand. Olga glared at him, clearly not liking being referred to as an 'assistant'.
"My employers would like to be in possession of some details concerning the organisation you work for."
"I'm sure they would," said Emma in a bored voice.
"You are going to give that information to me."
"Oh no I'm not."
"Zis is vasting time," Interjected Olga.
"Olga here is an expert in the extraction of information form unwilling sources. Well Madame, do your duty for the Motherland."
Emma tried to maintain the bored look on her face as she started to panic.
"What's it to be? Thumbscrews? Splinters under the fingernails?," she inquired nervously.
"I vouldn't vant to mark such a perrrfect body. My methods are non-violent," assured Olga as she reached forward and began loosening the ropes around Emma's left ankle. The trapped woman prepared to lash out with her leg once her foot was loose but instead of releasing her Olga swiftly removed her leather boot and re-tied the knots. Again the Slavic beauty repeated her actions with the other leg and held up both boots as trophies.
"If you just wanted my boots I'd have been happy to give them to you."
"I vant what vas inside the boots, dahlink."
The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place for a terrified Emma looking down at the tops of her now naked feet.
"Such pretty pink soles," remarked Olga as she drew a long fingernail up Mrs Peel's left foot. Emma couldn't control herself and emitted a loud shriek that echoed off the walls of the empty room.
"Hee. Heee. Hee. Hooo. Hooo. Hooo. Hee. Heeee. Hahahahaha."
"You see. I vas right." Olga smirked turning to Pushkin.
This was the worst moment in Emma's career. The cruel woman meant to torture her in the worst way possible... tickling!! And on the most sensitive part of her body... her feet!!! The only other time she had been in as bad a position had been that affair when she ended up with her bare feet in the stocks. Fortunately Steed had rescued her in the nick of time before that maniac could brand her soles.
"No, no. P-Please don't let her do this to me," she begged turning desperately to Pushkin.
"Just tell me what I want to know." he replied, thoroughly enjoying the British agent's predicament.
"I can't, I can't." sobbed Emma through a decidedly non-stiff upper lip.
In the meanwhile Olga had produced a pouch that she unrolled in front of the stool. Mrs Peel's eyes nearly bulged out of her head when she saw the contents. A few feathers, some cotton-wool buds, small paint brushes, vibrators and bottles of oil.
"Olga comes from a very interesting family background. Her great-grandmother was a professional foot-tickler for the Tzarina herself!"
The torturer surveyed the implements of mirth happily.
"So many choices. Let's start vit za basics." She selected a stiff, slim-bladed feather and held it up and held it up for Emma's approval. A guttural sound emerged from the slim brunette's throat and she vigorously shook her head from side to side.
"Wait!" commanded Pushkin.
Emma turned to him her eyes pleading for a last minute reprieve.
"Wear these," said the Russian agent handing two small objects to Olga. Both foreign spies put their hands up to the sides of their heads and inserted the earplugs.
Olga picked up the feather once again and brew the bristles quickly down the centre of Emma's bare sole. Shrieks of hysterical laughter commenced from the luckless victim and bounced around the room.
"Heeeee. Heeeeeeee. Heeeeeeeekkk. Heeeeeee.Heeeeeee. Haaaaahaaaaa. Haaaaaahaaa."
The echoes only made it worse for Emma as her universe was filled with her own anguish. Emma's efforts were so violent that she managed to pick up the whole stool with straining thigh muscles as she tried to move her foot out of the path of the tormenting plume. The tiny electrical impulses generated by the soft barbs on her bare skin were translated into huge muscle spasms as the feelings travelled up her body. The beautiful face usually so cool and controlled was transformed into the grinning clown mask of the terminally ticklish. Tears began to emerge from under her tightly clenched eyelids and smear her perfectly applied makeup. Emma had to drop the stool to the floor immediately as the second stroke was applied to her and she rocked back in the chair causing it to creak alarmingly. She tried in vain to elude the unwelcome attentions of the quill by turning her foot this way and that. The feather was quicker, however and seemed to know her every move.
"Haahahahahaaaaaaaa. Noooooonoooooooonoo. Heeeeeheeeeeeeeheeeeee. Dooooohooohoohoonoonooonttt."
She could not even protect one foot with the other in that peculiar timeless dance so often seen on these occasions, as her feet were fiendishly tied slightly too far apart. Emma broke the sound barrier as the bristles began to explore the secret places in-between her delicate white toes. In a quick change of technique the feather was reversed and the hard quill tip inserted into the gap always left by the little toe when the foot is tightly clenched. The action brought even louder and higher pitched protesting squeals from the captive.
"OooooOOOOOOOOHHHHHooooooohhoohhhhhhhooOOOOOhoooooooohoooooHeeeeeeEEEEEEEheeeeHeeeeee."
Olga had a strange grin on her face as she raked her diamond hard nails down the helpless woman's other sole. This caused the noises emitted by Mrs Peel to redouble as she thrashed from side to side in mirthful agony. Olga then used the very tips of her talons to gently scratch the slightly hard skin of the ball of the squirming foot. She knew from personal experience the effect of nails on callused areas was dynamite. The vibrations set up in the skin affected the whole area and amplified the torment tremendously.
"HeeeeheeeeeeeeeeheeeeeeeheeeeeeeehhhhehaaaaaahaaaaahaHAAHAAAHAHAHAHAHHEEHHHHHHHHHHE."
Mrs Peel's world was coming apart. Her tightly clamped eyes were now streaming tears that flew off in all directions as she frantically shook her head from side to side. Her mascara was leaving black streaks down her flushed cheeks and her hair began to mat to her face with sweat.
Pushkin felt strangely aroused as he watched the cool British Agent turned into a shrieking little girl with the "oldest trick in the book". The others back at headquarters would never believe this.
Olga continued her assault of a now tiring Emma. The Slav maintained the pressure by tickling one sole with the feather, the other with fingers and quickly switching feet like a concert pianist. Her victim was emitting more feeble laughs now as her voice grew horse from shrieking. As Olga changed her technique yet again, this time using the ridges of her fingerprints to draw lines on the soft skin of Mrs. Peel's high white arches, she heard a new sound coming from her captive.
"I-I-I'll talk. I'll Haahaahee ohhohohooohoooh. T-talk. Heeheeheehahahaahaaha. P-Please. ohohohheeheheeheeheeho. Stop heeheheheeheehee."
Pushkin looked at his watch in amazement. They had broken Mrs. Peel in less that ten minutes.
End of part 1
Will Emma spill the beans? Have the diabolical duo finished with her or do they have any other plans? See part 2. Available from your usual dealer soon.
Quiller
Emma's Last Case by Quiller
I have never been convinced of the reasons for Mrs Peel leaving the British Secret Service. I think she hired an actor to play her long lost husband and had a couple of phoney newspapers printed. Anyway this is what I think really happened.
"Mrs Peel... we're needed. The familiar message stared up at Emma as she lifted her delicate bone china cup from it's saucer. Steed appeared at her elbow as if by magic.
"A new case ?" she asked she asked raising her left eyebrow in her characteristic way.
"One that has baffled the greatest minds in the land", boomed Steed. He then proceeded to outline the case and gave Emma a lead to follow up. She decided to wear her all leather outfit and black boots as she had noticed it helped when dealing with men. Funny that... how they always seemed to stare at her feet.
She climbed into her Lotus Elan and drove away at high speed, but failed to notice the other car pull away from the curb and start to follow her.
The address Steed had given her turned out to be a deserted warehouse. Mrs Peel parked and approached the building cautiously her boot heels crunching over the gravel in the carpark. She approached the front door and tried the handle, which opened easily. She then entered. The shadowing car stopped moments later and two figures emerged, a man and a woman. The woman opened the boot and removed a bag while the man pulled out a sign and hung it over the warehouse entrance. The sign read :-
"WARNING. DO NOT ENTER. CONDEMNED BUILDING"
Emma had searched the whole warehouse and found nothing. As she walked back into the main entrance hands grabbed her from behind and the sickly sweet smell of chloroform filled her mouth and nose...
Mrs Peel's head snapped upright and she found herself staring at the wall in the warehouse. She couldn't move an inch as her hands had been tied tightly behind her back. She was upright in a chair with her legs stretched out in front and her ankles bound to a small footstool. As she looked around she noticed there were two others in the room, a rather fat, balding man and an exotic looking redheaded woman.
"So dahrlink. I see you are now avake. Now ve haff a little chat, yes?" the woman said.
"Now ve haff a little chat, no!" replied Mrs Peel haughtily mocking the foreign accent.
"Allow me to introduce myself," broke in the man. "My name is Pushkin and I represent certain foreign interests." The man bowed comically and Emma couldn't help smiling.
"This is my assistant Olga," he continued gesturing at the redhead with his hand. Olga glared at him, clearly not liking being referred to as an 'assistant'.
"My employers would like to be in possession of some details concerning the organisation you work for."
"I'm sure they would," said Emma in a bored voice.
"You are going to give that information to me."
"Oh no I'm not."
"Zis is vasting time," Interjected Olga.
"Olga here is an expert in the extraction of information form unwilling sources. Well Madame, do your duty for the Motherland."
Emma tried to maintain the bored look on her face as she started to panic.
"What's it to be? Thumbscrews? Splinters under the fingernails?," she inquired nervously.
"I vouldn't vant to mark such a perrrfect body. My methods are non-violent," assured Olga as she reached forward and began loosening the ropes around Emma's left ankle. The trapped woman prepared to lash out with her leg once her foot was loose but instead of releasing her Olga swiftly removed her leather boot and re-tied the knots. Again the Slavic beauty repeated her actions with the other leg and held up both boots as trophies.
"If you just wanted my boots I'd have been happy to give them to you."
"I vant what vas inside the boots, dahlink."
The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place for a terrified Emma looking down at the tops of her now naked feet.
"Such pretty pink soles," remarked Olga as she drew a long fingernail up Mrs Peel's left foot. Emma couldn't control herself and emitted a loud shriek that echoed off the walls of the empty room.
"Hee. Heee. Hee. Hooo. Hooo. Hooo. Hee. Heeee. Hahahahaha."
"You see. I vas right." Olga smirked turning to Pushkin.
This was the worst moment in Emma's career. The cruel woman meant to torture her in the worst way possible... tickling!! And on the most sensitive part of her body... her feet!!! The only other time she had been in as bad a position had been that affair when she ended up with her bare feet in the stocks. Fortunately Steed had rescued her in the nick of time before that maniac could brand her soles.
"No, no. P-Please don't let her do this to me," she begged turning desperately to Pushkin.
"Just tell me what I want to know." he replied, thoroughly enjoying the British agent's predicament.
"I can't, I can't." sobbed Emma through a decidedly non-stiff upper lip.
In the meanwhile Olga had produced a pouch that she unrolled in front of the stool. Mrs Peel's eyes nearly bulged out of her head when she saw the contents. A few feathers, some cotton-wool buds, small paint brushes, vibrators and bottles of oil.
"Olga comes from a very interesting family background. Her great-grandmother was a professional foot-tickler for the Tzarina herself!"
The torturer surveyed the implements of mirth happily.
"So many choices. Let's start vit za basics." She selected a stiff, slim-bladed feather and held it up and held it up for Emma's approval. A guttural sound emerged from the slim brunette's throat and she vigorously shook her head from side to side.
"Wait!" commanded Pushkin.
Emma turned to him her eyes pleading for a last minute reprieve.
"Wear these," said the Russian agent handing two small objects to Olga. Both foreign spies put their hands up to the sides of their heads and inserted the earplugs.
Olga picked up the feather once again and brew the bristles quickly down the centre of Emma's bare sole. Shrieks of hysterical laughter commenced from the luckless victim and bounced around the room.
"Heeeee. Heeeeeeee. Heeeeeeeekkk. Heeeeeee.Heeeeeee. Haaaaahaaaaa. Haaaaaahaaa."
The echoes only made it worse for Emma as her universe was filled with her own anguish. Emma's efforts were so violent that she managed to pick up the whole stool with straining thigh muscles as she tried to move her foot out of the path of the tormenting plume. The tiny electrical impulses generated by the soft barbs on her bare skin were translated into huge muscle spasms as the feelings travelled up her body. The beautiful face usually so cool and controlled was transformed into the grinning clown mask of the terminally ticklish. Tears began to emerge from under her tightly clenched eyelids and smear her perfectly applied makeup. Emma had to drop the stool to the floor immediately as the second stroke was applied to her and she rocked back in the chair causing it to creak alarmingly. She tried in vain to elude the unwelcome attentions of the quill by turning her foot this way and that. The feather was quicker, however and seemed to know her every move.
"Haahahahahaaaaaaaa. Noooooonoooooooonoo. Heeeeeheeeeeeeeheeeeee. Dooooohooohoohoonoonooonttt."
She could not even protect one foot with the other in that peculiar timeless dance so often seen on these occasions, as her feet were fiendishly tied slightly too far apart. Emma broke the sound barrier as the bristles began to explore the secret places in-between her delicate white toes. In a quick change of technique the feather was reversed and the hard quill tip inserted into the gap always left by the little toe when the foot is tightly clenched. The action brought even louder and higher pitched protesting squeals from the captive.
"OooooOOOOOOOOHHHHHooooooohhoohhhhhhhooOOOOOhoooooooohoooooHeeeeeeEEEEEEEheeeeHeeeeee."
Olga had a strange grin on her face as she raked her diamond hard nails down the helpless woman's other sole. This caused the noises emitted by Mrs Peel to redouble as she thrashed from side to side in mirthful agony. Olga then used the very tips of her talons to gently scratch the slightly hard skin of the ball of the squirming foot. She knew from personal experience the effect of nails on callused areas was dynamite. The vibrations set up in the skin affected the whole area and amplified the torment tremendously.
"HeeeeheeeeeeeeeeheeeeeeeheeeeeeeehhhhehaaaaaahaaaaahaHAAHAAAHAHAHAHAHHEEHHHHHHHHHHE."
Mrs Peel's world was coming apart. Her tightly clamped eyes were now streaming tears that flew off in all directions as she frantically shook her head from side to side. Her mascara was leaving black streaks down her flushed cheeks and her hair began to mat to her face with sweat.
Pushkin felt strangely aroused as he watched the cool British Agent turned into a shrieking little girl with the "oldest trick in the book". The others back at headquarters would never believe this.
Olga continued her assault of a now tiring Emma. The Slav maintained the pressure by tickling one sole with the feather, the other with fingers and quickly switching feet like a concert pianist. Her victim was emitting more feeble laughs now as her voice grew horse from shrieking. As Olga changed her technique yet again, this time using the ridges of her fingerprints to draw lines on the soft skin of Mrs. Peel's high white arches, she heard a new sound coming from her captive.
"I-I-I'll talk. I'll Haahaahee ohhohohooohoooh. T-talk. Heeheeheehahahaahaaha. P-Please. ohohohheeheheeheeheeho. Stop heeheheheeheehee."
Pushkin looked at his watch in amazement. They had broken Mrs. Peel in less that ten minutes.
End of part 1
Will Emma spill the beans? Have the diabolical duo finished with her or do they have any other plans? See part 2. Available from your usual dealer soon.
Emma's last case - conclusion
by Quiller
For the next hour-and-a-half Pushkin closely questioned Emma about the Secret Service. At first she was reluctant to speak but Olga was ever present with a coaxing touch from a feather or her nails on her now pink soles. The longer the torment went on the more susceptible she seemed to be to the torture.
"And how many work in the section ?"
"Haa ! haa ! hee ! hee ! t-th-thirtheeeheeheehaahaahaahaa ! Hee ! Hee ! Hee ! s-sheeeveen ! ha ! ha ! ha ! hee ! hee ! hee !
And so it went on and on. Emma's resistance crumbled towards the end and the Russians got more out of her with less persuasion.
Mrs Peel knew she was finished as an agent. She dreaded what Steed would say and how he would react. And to have her fatal flaw exposed and used in such a fashion. She also knew a quick phone call to Mother would undo most of the damage this flow of information would cause. An organisation as sophisticated as hers knew that any agent could be broken under interrogation. Her section had been formed for this very reason - though they had never used this particular method before - she was sure it would become standard practice now !
So how to minimise the damage ? Emma tried to lie as much as possible but Pushkin was a very shrewd customer and kept repeating questions at various intervals, faster and faster. When they caught Emma lying she was punished swiftly and brutally. One of the worst times was when Olga gave her an agonising foot massage using baby oil and the lightest of touches with her finger tips. The captive howled with laughter and thought she was going to loose her mind. Emma thought she had been taken to Hell and was being tormented by the Devil's assistants - all she could see was Pushkin's leering face close to her and Olga grinning dementedly at her feet.
Finally they had all they wanted and a smugly satisfied Pushkin scrutinised the still sobbing woman. He noticed her English rose complexion had turned beet red and her cat-like eyes swollen and puffed from crying. Any trace of makeup had been removed by tears or sweat and her hair was plastered to her head in an unsightly mop.
"Well now, Mrs Peel. What shall we do with you. You realise that your now a traitor and traitors must be punished." he said in his irritating supercilious manner.
Emma's heart turned to stone.
"Please. Let me go. I've told you everything you wanted."
It really didn't matter to Pushkin who had thoroughly enjoyed the experience so far and was feeling more than a little turned on.
Olga turned to him, "Ve should go now."
"Not just yet, I think." he replied. He noticed how her white feet and ankles looked totally out of place from her all black clothing. Pushkin then remembered something he had in the car that would fix that.
He returned holding a couple of small objects in both hands. Kneeling in front of the captive agent who looked down at him with large, pleading eyes. He opened a tin and dipped a brush in scooping a large dollop onto the bristles and began to apply the black shoe polish all over Emma's squirming left foot. For Mrs Peel this was the worst torment yet. The thousands of stiff bristles made softer by the waxy, oily polish tickled like hell as they probed every ticklish nerve on her feet. Emma began screaming like a banshee - a very ticklish banshee anyway - as her foot received the treatment usually reserved for tanned leather.
"Whooo ! hoo ! hoo! Hoo! HOO ! HOO! Ha ! ha! Ha! Ha ! ha ! hhahhahhahaahhaaAAahhahHHaa !"
Through her agonised laughter she had the absurd thought that she now knew what her pair of boots felt like when she cleaned them. This thought only made her laugh more loudly. She howled in agony as Pushkin held her toes apart and liberally applied a coating of polish and began spreading it evenly about. Intent on his task, the erection in his pants now straining against the fabric, the Russian finished the foot he was working on and started on the right. He began whistling tunelessly in the best shoe shine boy tradition. Emma reeled in the chair her face a mask of hysterical ecstasy/agony twisting to and fro as the brush explored every part of her foot. Pushkin had applied the polish to every part of Emma's feet and then began shining them by lightly buffing the tops. She again curled up and began screeching as her big toes were firmly held and the brush used all over her soles.
"HeehaahaahheeheehaaahaahaahaaieeehaeehhhaaahaaheeHEEHHEEHaaHHAAHHeeheehee"
Then the punishment was over. Mrs Peel again sat sobbing in the chair for long moments, her shoulders heaving, and giggling like a schoolgirl. When she had gained her composure a little she looked round but the opposition had gone.
She struggled to free herself from the chair and eventually succeeded by breaking off one of the legs and using the jagged edge to sever the binding ropes. She sighed in relief as she eased her boots on once again, covering her ticklish extremities. Walking was a little difficult as the coating of polish made her feet slip inside the leather.
She called Mother and told him everything and immediately resigned from The Service. Mother was sympathetic and agreed to play along with her plan to keep the truth from Steed.
"Any luck?" Steed enquired.
"No. A total waste of time, I'm afraid." Emma lied smoothly.
"Mrs Peel, you look terrible." Steed said with concern taking in Mrs Peel's drawn face and flushed complexion. Emma had tried to cover the aftermath of the tickle feast by plastering on makeup in the car before confronting Steed, but she could do little to hide her fatigue.
"Just tired. I need a bath and then straight off to bed"
"Can I help you off with your boots ?" Steed had always considered this as one of the fringe benefits of his job with Mrs Peel. To his surprise she paled visibly and, making excuses, hurried him out of the apartment. She leaned against the closed door, sighing in relief as she heard a puzzled Steed slowly leaving.
"Whew. That was close"
Once in the bathroom she pulled off her boots and ruefully examined her blackened feet. She ran the bath as hot as she could stand it and, climbing in, turned on the radio at full volume. She reached for the soap and scrubbing brush...
Steed was not the only one puzzled that night. Emma's neighbours heard the radio playing way too loud and some insane hysterical laughter accompanying. They found nothing funny about the programme.
"This is the BBC. Here is the news..."
The End.
by Quiller
For the next hour-and-a-half Pushkin closely questioned Emma about the Secret Service. At first she was reluctant to speak but Olga was ever present with a coaxing touch from a feather or her nails on her now pink soles. The longer the torment went on the more susceptible she seemed to be to the torture.
"And how many work in the section ?"
"Haa ! haa ! hee ! hee ! t-th-thirtheeeheeheehaahaahaahaa ! Hee ! Hee ! Hee ! s-sheeeveen ! ha ! ha ! ha ! hee ! hee ! hee !
And so it went on and on. Emma's resistance crumbled towards the end and the Russians got more out of her with less persuasion.
Mrs Peel knew she was finished as an agent. She dreaded what Steed would say and how he would react. And to have her fatal flaw exposed and used in such a fashion. She also knew a quick phone call to Mother would undo most of the damage this flow of information would cause. An organisation as sophisticated as hers knew that any agent could be broken under interrogation. Her section had been formed for this very reason - though they had never used this particular method before - she was sure it would become standard practice now !
So how to minimise the damage ? Emma tried to lie as much as possible but Pushkin was a very shrewd customer and kept repeating questions at various intervals, faster and faster. When they caught Emma lying she was punished swiftly and brutally. One of the worst times was when Olga gave her an agonising foot massage using baby oil and the lightest of touches with her finger tips. The captive howled with laughter and thought she was going to loose her mind. Emma thought she had been taken to Hell and was being tormented by the Devil's assistants - all she could see was Pushkin's leering face close to her and Olga grinning dementedly at her feet.
Finally they had all they wanted and a smugly satisfied Pushkin scrutinised the still sobbing woman. He noticed her English rose complexion had turned beet red and her cat-like eyes swollen and puffed from crying. Any trace of makeup had been removed by tears or sweat and her hair was plastered to her head in an unsightly mop.
"Well now, Mrs Peel. What shall we do with you. You realise that your now a traitor and traitors must be punished." he said in his irritating supercilious manner.
Emma's heart turned to stone.
"Please. Let me go. I've told you everything you wanted."
It really didn't matter to Pushkin who had thoroughly enjoyed the experience so far and was feeling more than a little turned on.
Olga turned to him, "Ve should go now."
"Not just yet, I think." he replied. He noticed how her white feet and ankles looked totally out of place from her all black clothing. Pushkin then remembered something he had in the car that would fix that.
He returned holding a couple of small objects in both hands. Kneeling in front of the captive agent who looked down at him with large, pleading eyes. He opened a tin and dipped a brush in scooping a large dollop onto the bristles and began to apply the black shoe polish all over Emma's squirming left foot. For Mrs Peel this was the worst torment yet. The thousands of stiff bristles made softer by the waxy, oily polish tickled like hell as they probed every ticklish nerve on her feet. Emma began screaming like a banshee - a very ticklish banshee anyway - as her foot received the treatment usually reserved for tanned leather.
"Whooo ! hoo ! hoo! Hoo! HOO ! HOO! Ha ! ha! Ha! Ha ! ha ! hhahhahhahaahhaaAAahhahHHaa !"
Through her agonised laughter she had the absurd thought that she now knew what her pair of boots felt like when she cleaned them. This thought only made her laugh more loudly. She howled in agony as Pushkin held her toes apart and liberally applied a coating of polish and began spreading it evenly about. Intent on his task, the erection in his pants now straining against the fabric, the Russian finished the foot he was working on and started on the right. He began whistling tunelessly in the best shoe shine boy tradition. Emma reeled in the chair her face a mask of hysterical ecstasy/agony twisting to and fro as the brush explored every part of her foot. Pushkin had applied the polish to every part of Emma's feet and then began shining them by lightly buffing the tops. She again curled up and began screeching as her big toes were firmly held and the brush used all over her soles.
"HeehaahaahheeheehaaahaahaahaaieeehaeehhhaaahaaheeHEEHHEEHaaHHAAHHeeheehee"
Then the punishment was over. Mrs Peel again sat sobbing in the chair for long moments, her shoulders heaving, and giggling like a schoolgirl. When she had gained her composure a little she looked round but the opposition had gone.
She struggled to free herself from the chair and eventually succeeded by breaking off one of the legs and using the jagged edge to sever the binding ropes. She sighed in relief as she eased her boots on once again, covering her ticklish extremities. Walking was a little difficult as the coating of polish made her feet slip inside the leather.
She called Mother and told him everything and immediately resigned from The Service. Mother was sympathetic and agreed to play along with her plan to keep the truth from Steed.
"Any luck?" Steed enquired.
"No. A total waste of time, I'm afraid." Emma lied smoothly.
"Mrs Peel, you look terrible." Steed said with concern taking in Mrs Peel's drawn face and flushed complexion. Emma had tried to cover the aftermath of the tickle feast by plastering on makeup in the car before confronting Steed, but she could do little to hide her fatigue.
"Just tired. I need a bath and then straight off to bed"
"Can I help you off with your boots ?" Steed had always considered this as one of the fringe benefits of his job with Mrs Peel. To his surprise she paled visibly and, making excuses, hurried him out of the apartment. She leaned against the closed door, sighing in relief as she heard a puzzled Steed slowly leaving.
"Whew. That was close"
Once in the bathroom she pulled off her boots and ruefully examined her blackened feet. She ran the bath as hot as she could stand it and, climbing in, turned on the radio at full volume. She reached for the soap and scrubbing brush...
Steed was not the only one puzzled that night. Emma's neighbours heard the radio playing way too loud and some insane hysterical laughter accompanying. They found nothing funny about the programme.
"This is the BBC. Here is the news..."
The End.
Hi Heman,
Thanks - glad you enjoyed it.
http://87.243.200.111/quiller/qc2a/
will work for a short while.
Thanks - glad you enjoyed it.
http://87.243.200.111/quiller/qc2a/
will work for a short while.
Last edited:
Joker Jack
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Avengers Story
Thank you Quiller.
Without a shadow of a doubt, this is the single best story I have ever read in 10 years of trolling the internet.
Emma Peel as played by Diana Rigg is the sexiest woman ever to have appeared on TV. This story is absolutely fantastic.
Thank you again.
Thank you Quiller.
Without a shadow of a doubt, this is the single best story I have ever read in 10 years of trolling the internet.
Emma Peel as played by Diana Rigg is the sexiest woman ever to have appeared on TV. This story is absolutely fantastic.
Thank you again.
Hi Joker Jack,
That is without doubt the kindest thing anyone has said about my modest efforts. I thought the story "A Grave Ticklish Matter" by another author (can't remember their name now) caught the feeling of the series better. My writing tends to be done in one go so possibly has a raw feel to it. I've not written much for a while (this was some time back now) but this will give me encouragement.
That is without doubt the kindest thing anyone has said about my modest efforts. I thought the story "A Grave Ticklish Matter" by another author (can't remember their name now) caught the feeling of the series better. My writing tends to be done in one go so possibly has a raw feel to it. I've not written much for a while (this was some time back now) but this will give me encouragement.
Joker Jack
TMF Master
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I've read 'A Grave, Ticklish Matter' by Capt. Spalding and it was very good. It reads just like a real 'Avengers' episode. However, the tickling of Mrs Peel in that story comes near the end and doesn't last very long. I thought your story was magnificent!
