Note that this happens in an alternate universe, so please post any actual political comments in an alternate thread. But I've always enjoyed fantasies that bring together power and tickling, so here's part one of this latest fantasy!
As usual, leave feedback--we writers love it!
The Price of Power part 1 (m/f, politics)
by
Kid Indy
DECEMBER 2019: AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE
She was amazed at how quickly the slot-machine chatter disappeared as she left the casino floor and entered the conference center’s hallway. She moved quickly in her little black dress that she had worn to so many political functions over the last several months (she had three identical dresses that always traveled with her) made her way back from placing a phone call, and the change of atmosphere from the sidewalk to the gaming floor to the quiet hallway was disconcerting. When she emerged into a fourth environment, a crowded meet-and-greet, she had to shake her head to get back into the game, and her curly brown hair made a few heads turn. She still couldn’t decide whether she had been a lucky one or an unlucky one, landing a spot on the inner circle straight out of Yale, but here she was, and her eyes scanned the room for her boss and--if things fell right--the first woman president of the United States.
The bright red jacket and the matching lipstick were not hard to spot in the room full of gray suits, and the young woman made her way across the room and pressed a folded piece of paper into her hand. She took a moment away from her conversation to look at it before looking Wendy in the eye and saying quietly, “Thank you.”
Another voice chimed in. “Tulsi, you have to introduce me to this one.” Wendy’s eyes turned--she hadn’t even looked to see the candidate’s conversation partner--and saw a man who seemed to be in his fifties, gray suit--of course--and red tie.
Tulsi Gabbard flashed her campaign-trail smile and gestured to her. “August, this is my director of social-media outreach Wendy Fleming.” Her hand turned to the man. “Wendy, this is August Butler, a representative of the Apollo Group.”
Wendy tried not to let her face show her reaction as she reached out to shake his hand. The Apollo Group was an investment firm, one of the up-and-coming powers in Pacific Rim trading, and she knew that their help could well be one of the pieces that needed to fall into place to give the world President Tulsi Gabbard. Her mind was already establishing the Super-PAC into which their money would go and imagining the work that the ensuing advertising campaign would do when she realized that she hadn’t released his hand. She dropped it and began to apologize. “I’m so sorry, Sir!”
The man laughed, and she heard in it a good natured amusement. “Not to worry, Wendy. I know campaigning can wear even experienced operators like Tulsi here out. I can’t imagine you’re far removed from Princeton at this point.”
Wendy’s back stiffened in mock indignation, and she flashed a flirting smile. “Yale, thank you!”
Butler laughed again and turned to the candidate. “Well, Tulsi, you’re moving up in the world if you can afford Yale talent!”
“Wendy has been the absolute best these last several months. Without her we’d be dead in the water among the 18 to 24 demographic. As it stands, we’re contending with Bernie and Warren!”
“That really is impressive. Well, Wendy, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk with President Gabbard for a few more minutes.”
Wendy smiled at him again. “Of course! Enjoy your evening, Sir.”
“Call me Gus. And thank you.”
Wendy disengaged and started to move through the room again, making small talk and keeping her ears open for more opportunities. Tulsi had been right--her work had closed the gap with the big names, save for Biden--but it was still good to hear her name dropped in the presence of power like that. Here eyes were up, her ears open, her mind racing as she continued to work the party.
A small handful of failed conversations later, Wendy felt a hand on her elbow, and she turned to see the Congresswoman. “Congresswoman! I’m sorry I didn’t see you!”
Gabbard’s eyes scanned the room before she spoke. “I need to talk with you outside for a moment.”
Wendy nodded silently and followed the Congresswoman. In her mind the evening started playing back in bits and pieces--what had she said that had gotten her in trouble? Would this be her last evening on the Gabbard campaign? What was going on? They made their way to a side hallway, and Gabbard turned to face her, once again scanning.
“Look, I respect you Wendy, and I respect that you have a strong sense of what’s right.”
What was this? Was she about to send her away?
“So what I’m going to ask you right now I want you to say yes or no based on what you think is right.”
Now things were definitely getting weird.
“August Butler has invited the two of us to his suite. He asked for you specifically.”
Ah. This was what was up. “Ms. Gabbard, I--”
“I would never demand this of you, Wendy, but he’s got his finger on the button that creates the biggest Super-PAC in the race, and that means national TV dominance. We could really win this thing.”
Wendy set her jaw. “You’re right that I know what’s wrong. This is wrong.” The Congresswoman’s eyes fell. “But I know that we’re never going to win this war if nobody steps up to be a soldier.” Gabbard’s dark eyes locked with Wendy’s. “If we want him out of the White House, that means somebody is going to have to make some sacrifices. Show me the way.”
They got in the elevator, and Gabbard produced a key that would take them beyond what the array of buttons would, up to the high-rollers’ suites. Wendy breathed deeply: she had been on bad one-night stands before. This would be just one more of those. The big difference would be that this bad one-night stand might unseat the most terrible man in the world. The door started to open, and she put on the most game face that she could find.
The Congresswoman led the way down the hall to the door of the suite. She knocked, and several intense seconds passed before the door opened. August Butler, hardly one to notice in a crowded room, welcomed them in and leered at Wendy.
“Let’s sit down and talk, shall we?” He gestured for Gabbard to sit on a chair in front of the television, then for Wendy to sit on a couch. “Can I get either of you something to drink?” When they both declined, he shrugged and poured himself a small bit of rum. He took a seat next to Wendy and sipped. “As you know, ladies, Apollo Group is very interested in the Congresswoman’s approach to foreign policy. If we can convince our investors that the USA is getting out of the business of foreign invasions and occupations, some opportunities open up for us that can’t get started as long as there’s a real chance of a missile strike responding to a bad Tweet.”
Both women laughed at his jokes--they knew they had to laugh at his jokes--and listened to him talk for a spell longer. But before long Wendy, who had never been in this kind of situation, got nervous and blurted out an impolite question: “Are you going to send her away before we do what we do?”
Gabbard’s brow furrowed at her, but Butler laughed out loud. “And what do you think we’re going to do, Wendy?”
“I’m young, Mr. Butler, but I know what this is. You’re the one who can flip the switch, so I’m your bonus for getting behind our campaign.”
Butler set his glass down. “And you have reservations about that.”
Wendy was already in trouble, she knew, so she decided to go all out. “I’m on this campaign to get a man like you out of the White House. I’m working for the Congresswoman so that America can keep taking men like you out of power and fighting for women’s dignity, not so that you can treat us as commodities!”
Another laugh from Butler. Gabbard looked horrified. “That’s good, Miss--” He gestured to her.
“Fleming.”
“Miss Fleming. And I know that day is coming. So here’s the thing: I want to enjoy this while I can. Some day, when you’re a Senator, you might have the firepower to take me down. But tonight your employer needs the access to power that I have and you don’t. So your day is coming, but tonight is mine.”
Tulsi Gabbard leaned forward to do damage control. “Mr. Butler, I do apologize for Wendy. We’ve been out campaigning for weeks without a break, and--”
“No, Congresswoman, I wouldn’t want Wendy to talk to me any other way. It’s going to make this even more fun.” Wendy had turned to glare at Gabbard, so she did not see his hands extend to grab her sides and squeeze. She jumped up off the couch, nearly tripping on her high heels, letting out a squeal as she did. August Butler howled in laughter at her surprise. Wendy wheeled on him.
“If we’re going to do this, send the Congresswoman away, and let’s get it over with. I’m not here to play games!”
Butler leaned back into the couch and smirked. “No, the Congresswoman is going to stay and watch, and you’re going to sit down on the couch with me.”
Wendy’s chest heaved in frustration as she looked back and forth between Butler and Gabbard. Somehow she hadn’t anticipated just how humiliating this would be. She sat down on the couch again. “Are we going to do this on the couch, then?”
Butler never stopped smiling. “I want you to turn and face the Congresswoman and put your hands on your knees.” She did, and she was very aware that as her bare shoulders moved forward, the hotel suite’s cool air was moving across the skin of her underarms. “Now I want you to tell her why it’s so important that she become president.”
Wendy stayed leaning forward but shut her eyes anxiously. “I’m not going to do that.”
“How important is this Super-PAC, Wendy? Tell Tulsi Gabbard why you're voting for her!”
She opened her eyes and stared laser beams into Tulsi Gabbard’s face. “I want you to be our first woman President, Congresswoman. I want America to--” Her dream for the country burst into a tickled scream as Butler’s hands reached under her arms and began to tickle. Her elbows snapped back to her sides, but his fingers already had their positions, and she writhed on the couch as he wiggled them into her ticklish skin. With her arms bent she couldn’t push off the couch, and she fell back into his body as he pressed and prodded her. As one leg kicked out her high-heel shoe flew across the suite’s living room, and her black-nylon-clad foot could now feel the room’s cool air. When he felt her body weight shift backwards, Butler pulled his hands out of her armpits and grabbed her right forearm with his left hand and pulled it across the front of her body. With her torso turned to the left, his right hand reached under her right arm again, and when she twisted violently to the right, responding to his ravenous hand, his left hand moved quickly to grab her hip and squeeze. She was now lying back on him, twisting and giggling and flailing in vain to keep his fingers from finding every ticklish place on her upper body and failing over and over again as he explored and tortured and tickled.
He wrapped his large arm around her waist and, pushing himself off the floor, pushed her down onto her back on the couch. Her hands came up to bat at him, but he pushed them away and brought his left hand down on her dress-covered belly in a claw. When the fingers found her abdomen, her knees shot up as they tickled. Her hands grasped in vain at his forearm, and his right hand somehow found its way under her arm again, making her attempts to control the abdominal claw even more vain.
Wendy had lost sight of Tulsi Gabbard; all that her senses had the capacity to process was the unstoppable ticklish onslaught that the older man was bringing to every part of her body above the waist, and every new spot that he found seemed to tickle more than the last. She could not stop giggling even to beg, much less to protest, and somehow this was much worse than what she thought she was coming up to his suite to do. In her ticklish throes, she had a moment of clarity, an insight into what made this so terrible: certainly she was no strangers to men’s hands, and certainly Yale boys had given her a poke or a squeeze that made her giggle, but those were just brief stops on the way to taking clothes off, then to coitus, then to sleep, nine times out of ten. This man, these hands--they did not seem to be on their way anywhere. All he wanted was to keep tickling, and to push the intensity of the tickling. The touching never stopped, never relented to unsnap a bra or lift a shirt or unbutton her jeans. The attack just kept pounding, and her body--though she never had occasion to know this before--just stayed ticklish even as each minute of tickling joined to the next. Plenty of sex-crazed college boys had tickled her, but this was a tickling-crazed man, and she had no way to anticipate what would come after the tickling or whether it would ever stop.
When the hands did depart her body, Butler stood up and left Wendy panting on the couch. He turned to the Congresswoman. “You see, Candidate Gabbard, this is the nature of national politics. If you assume you know what the most important voters want, you’ll miss the target every time.”
Wendy propped herself up on one elbow as she caught her breath and watched Butler edging closer to her boss.
“And once you know that, the only question is whether you’ll sacrifice one constituency for another. You see, every bloc can vote. But only some of them can put you over the top.”
Tulsi Gabbard shook off the shock that the spectacle had put her in. “What are you talking about now?”
“Apollo Group can start the wheels turning tomorrow to make this a two-candidate race. You versus Bernie. But I’m going to need you to give the order.”
“Okay. Start the Super-PAC.”
Butler turned to the side so that Wendy could see half of his face twist upward into a grin. “No, that’s the order I give. You need to order Wendy to put her feet in my lap.”
Wendy’s toes curled in terror. Her other shoe had come off in the melee, and she could only imagine what his fingers would feel like on her black nylon hose. Gabbard spoke up. “Come on, Gus, hasn’t she had enough?”
“If she’s had enough, then you’re on your own in Iowa. If you give the order, we can get your message to every television, phone, and video game console in Iowa, New Hampshire, Nevada, and South Carolina starting in the morning.”
Wendy couldn’t take it any more. “Look, just come over here. Have your fun. We need those ads!”
Butler laughed the sadist’s chuckle. “Very noble, Wendy, and that makes this all the sweeter. But no, you can’t make this call.” He turned and faced Gabbard squarely. “This is an executive decision.”
Wendy watched Gabbard’s face tighten in agony, then rest on Wendy. “Go ahead and tickle her feet.”
“No, President Gabbard, you can’t give me orders. I'm your donor. Give her the order.”
Now Gabbard’s pride was on the line, and Wendy could see the rage just under the surface as Tulsi Gabbard said, “Wendy, put your feet in Mr. Butler’s lap.”
Wendy pushed herself up onto her bottom and scooted backwards against the couch’s arm, bending her knees to make room for Butler to sit down. He lowered himself onto the cushion and lifted his arms, and Wendy extended one long leg, then the next onto his lap. “You have no idea how much this is going to tickle, Miss Fleming.”
And within seconds she knew he was right: his fingers began scratching at the edge of her heel, and almost as a reflex her knee bent, drawing her foot out of his lap. She squealed as she jumped at his touch.
“Now Wendy, you don’t want this primary to hinge on a foot out of a lap, do you? Give me both of your feet, and let’s have some fun, alright?”
As she extended her leg again Wendy turned her head towards the Congresswoman, and she could see in her eyes the stirring of rage: she was imagining August Butler behind bars, and Wendy shared that vision. But then visions stopped, and the world became as small as the bottoms of Wendy Fleming’s feet. His hands only wanted one thing, to remake Wendy Fleming into a helpless, giggling play-toy, and with every inch of her skin abuzz with the terrible tickling before, they accomplished their mission within seconds. Her heels were Butler’s first obsession, and he taught her their whole perimeter with scratching and pinching, poking and stroking. Wendy’s head fell back on the couch’s padded arm as she sang out laughing, only to stop her song as new ticklish sensations slashed across her sole, making her scream at the new ticklish electricity before settling back down again into a bubbling giggle. On occasion a finger would slide between her toes, bunching up the hose and at once tickling up there and dragging the tickling material across her heel again.
He tickled and tickled, and Wendy, who only ever knew men to tickle so that they could get to other things, was once again overwhelmed at the sensuous, hilarious torture that he was visiting on her feet. Her hands balled up into fists and pounded the couch on either side of her hips, then lifted to cover her mouth, then grabbed the front of a couch cushion and the top of the couch’s back, squeezing in vain as he tickled her feet. And no matter how much her body wanted to escape, no matter what flight instincts wanted to get her poor feet away from this sadist, she kept her legs extended, that exertion of will making the tickling even worse. Her sense of time evaporated, and her whole existence fell into a flat, timeless tension between the endless tickling and the endless struggle not to pull her legs back.
But that Zen state did not persist: Wendy screamed as one of his hands moved up the couch towards her body, pinching behind her knee and making her legs kick wildly. She knew what it felt like for boys to tickle her there, but in this moment, August Butler had turned her whole body into one continuous field of ticklish nerve endings, and her knees felt like an electric shock had gone through them. His other hand, swift and ravenous, slid between her legs as she kicked, and sheer panic set in as he started squeezing her inner thigh. Her hands shot out to grab his arm, but she had no energy left, and his hand had its way with her thigh, which she believed in that moment must be the most ticklish spot on the most ticklish girl whom a man had ever tickled. She screamed and thrashed and writhed, and he did not slow or stop, and when she found herself alone on the couch, she looked up and saw Butler standing next to Gabbard, who still sat in the chair.
Wendy wondered when he had stopped tickling, when he had left her. She heard him talking to the Congresswoman. “Within 48 hours you should see your poll numbers climb so high that this will be a two-candidate race by New Year’s. The first three primaries should fall like dominoes.”
“That’s good, Mister Butler.”
“I’ll see you two in Iowa.”
As usual, leave feedback--we writers love it!
The Price of Power part 1 (m/f, politics)
by
Kid Indy
DECEMBER 2019: AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE
She was amazed at how quickly the slot-machine chatter disappeared as she left the casino floor and entered the conference center’s hallway. She moved quickly in her little black dress that she had worn to so many political functions over the last several months (she had three identical dresses that always traveled with her) made her way back from placing a phone call, and the change of atmosphere from the sidewalk to the gaming floor to the quiet hallway was disconcerting. When she emerged into a fourth environment, a crowded meet-and-greet, she had to shake her head to get back into the game, and her curly brown hair made a few heads turn. She still couldn’t decide whether she had been a lucky one or an unlucky one, landing a spot on the inner circle straight out of Yale, but here she was, and her eyes scanned the room for her boss and--if things fell right--the first woman president of the United States.
The bright red jacket and the matching lipstick were not hard to spot in the room full of gray suits, and the young woman made her way across the room and pressed a folded piece of paper into her hand. She took a moment away from her conversation to look at it before looking Wendy in the eye and saying quietly, “Thank you.”
Another voice chimed in. “Tulsi, you have to introduce me to this one.” Wendy’s eyes turned--she hadn’t even looked to see the candidate’s conversation partner--and saw a man who seemed to be in his fifties, gray suit--of course--and red tie.
Tulsi Gabbard flashed her campaign-trail smile and gestured to her. “August, this is my director of social-media outreach Wendy Fleming.” Her hand turned to the man. “Wendy, this is August Butler, a representative of the Apollo Group.”
Wendy tried not to let her face show her reaction as she reached out to shake his hand. The Apollo Group was an investment firm, one of the up-and-coming powers in Pacific Rim trading, and she knew that their help could well be one of the pieces that needed to fall into place to give the world President Tulsi Gabbard. Her mind was already establishing the Super-PAC into which their money would go and imagining the work that the ensuing advertising campaign would do when she realized that she hadn’t released his hand. She dropped it and began to apologize. “I’m so sorry, Sir!”
The man laughed, and she heard in it a good natured amusement. “Not to worry, Wendy. I know campaigning can wear even experienced operators like Tulsi here out. I can’t imagine you’re far removed from Princeton at this point.”
Wendy’s back stiffened in mock indignation, and she flashed a flirting smile. “Yale, thank you!”
Butler laughed again and turned to the candidate. “Well, Tulsi, you’re moving up in the world if you can afford Yale talent!”
“Wendy has been the absolute best these last several months. Without her we’d be dead in the water among the 18 to 24 demographic. As it stands, we’re contending with Bernie and Warren!”
“That really is impressive. Well, Wendy, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk with President Gabbard for a few more minutes.”
Wendy smiled at him again. “Of course! Enjoy your evening, Sir.”
“Call me Gus. And thank you.”
Wendy disengaged and started to move through the room again, making small talk and keeping her ears open for more opportunities. Tulsi had been right--her work had closed the gap with the big names, save for Biden--but it was still good to hear her name dropped in the presence of power like that. Here eyes were up, her ears open, her mind racing as she continued to work the party.
A small handful of failed conversations later, Wendy felt a hand on her elbow, and she turned to see the Congresswoman. “Congresswoman! I’m sorry I didn’t see you!”
Gabbard’s eyes scanned the room before she spoke. “I need to talk with you outside for a moment.”
Wendy nodded silently and followed the Congresswoman. In her mind the evening started playing back in bits and pieces--what had she said that had gotten her in trouble? Would this be her last evening on the Gabbard campaign? What was going on? They made their way to a side hallway, and Gabbard turned to face her, once again scanning.
“Look, I respect you Wendy, and I respect that you have a strong sense of what’s right.”
What was this? Was she about to send her away?
“So what I’m going to ask you right now I want you to say yes or no based on what you think is right.”
Now things were definitely getting weird.
“August Butler has invited the two of us to his suite. He asked for you specifically.”
Ah. This was what was up. “Ms. Gabbard, I--”
“I would never demand this of you, Wendy, but he’s got his finger on the button that creates the biggest Super-PAC in the race, and that means national TV dominance. We could really win this thing.”
Wendy set her jaw. “You’re right that I know what’s wrong. This is wrong.” The Congresswoman’s eyes fell. “But I know that we’re never going to win this war if nobody steps up to be a soldier.” Gabbard’s dark eyes locked with Wendy’s. “If we want him out of the White House, that means somebody is going to have to make some sacrifices. Show me the way.”
They got in the elevator, and Gabbard produced a key that would take them beyond what the array of buttons would, up to the high-rollers’ suites. Wendy breathed deeply: she had been on bad one-night stands before. This would be just one more of those. The big difference would be that this bad one-night stand might unseat the most terrible man in the world. The door started to open, and she put on the most game face that she could find.
The Congresswoman led the way down the hall to the door of the suite. She knocked, and several intense seconds passed before the door opened. August Butler, hardly one to notice in a crowded room, welcomed them in and leered at Wendy.
“Let’s sit down and talk, shall we?” He gestured for Gabbard to sit on a chair in front of the television, then for Wendy to sit on a couch. “Can I get either of you something to drink?” When they both declined, he shrugged and poured himself a small bit of rum. He took a seat next to Wendy and sipped. “As you know, ladies, Apollo Group is very interested in the Congresswoman’s approach to foreign policy. If we can convince our investors that the USA is getting out of the business of foreign invasions and occupations, some opportunities open up for us that can’t get started as long as there’s a real chance of a missile strike responding to a bad Tweet.”
Both women laughed at his jokes--they knew they had to laugh at his jokes--and listened to him talk for a spell longer. But before long Wendy, who had never been in this kind of situation, got nervous and blurted out an impolite question: “Are you going to send her away before we do what we do?”
Gabbard’s brow furrowed at her, but Butler laughed out loud. “And what do you think we’re going to do, Wendy?”
“I’m young, Mr. Butler, but I know what this is. You’re the one who can flip the switch, so I’m your bonus for getting behind our campaign.”
Butler set his glass down. “And you have reservations about that.”
Wendy was already in trouble, she knew, so she decided to go all out. “I’m on this campaign to get a man like you out of the White House. I’m working for the Congresswoman so that America can keep taking men like you out of power and fighting for women’s dignity, not so that you can treat us as commodities!”
Another laugh from Butler. Gabbard looked horrified. “That’s good, Miss--” He gestured to her.
“Fleming.”
“Miss Fleming. And I know that day is coming. So here’s the thing: I want to enjoy this while I can. Some day, when you’re a Senator, you might have the firepower to take me down. But tonight your employer needs the access to power that I have and you don’t. So your day is coming, but tonight is mine.”
Tulsi Gabbard leaned forward to do damage control. “Mr. Butler, I do apologize for Wendy. We’ve been out campaigning for weeks without a break, and--”
“No, Congresswoman, I wouldn’t want Wendy to talk to me any other way. It’s going to make this even more fun.” Wendy had turned to glare at Gabbard, so she did not see his hands extend to grab her sides and squeeze. She jumped up off the couch, nearly tripping on her high heels, letting out a squeal as she did. August Butler howled in laughter at her surprise. Wendy wheeled on him.
“If we’re going to do this, send the Congresswoman away, and let’s get it over with. I’m not here to play games!”
Butler leaned back into the couch and smirked. “No, the Congresswoman is going to stay and watch, and you’re going to sit down on the couch with me.”
Wendy’s chest heaved in frustration as she looked back and forth between Butler and Gabbard. Somehow she hadn’t anticipated just how humiliating this would be. She sat down on the couch again. “Are we going to do this on the couch, then?”
Butler never stopped smiling. “I want you to turn and face the Congresswoman and put your hands on your knees.” She did, and she was very aware that as her bare shoulders moved forward, the hotel suite’s cool air was moving across the skin of her underarms. “Now I want you to tell her why it’s so important that she become president.”
Wendy stayed leaning forward but shut her eyes anxiously. “I’m not going to do that.”
“How important is this Super-PAC, Wendy? Tell Tulsi Gabbard why you're voting for her!”
She opened her eyes and stared laser beams into Tulsi Gabbard’s face. “I want you to be our first woman President, Congresswoman. I want America to--” Her dream for the country burst into a tickled scream as Butler’s hands reached under her arms and began to tickle. Her elbows snapped back to her sides, but his fingers already had their positions, and she writhed on the couch as he wiggled them into her ticklish skin. With her arms bent she couldn’t push off the couch, and she fell back into his body as he pressed and prodded her. As one leg kicked out her high-heel shoe flew across the suite’s living room, and her black-nylon-clad foot could now feel the room’s cool air. When he felt her body weight shift backwards, Butler pulled his hands out of her armpits and grabbed her right forearm with his left hand and pulled it across the front of her body. With her torso turned to the left, his right hand reached under her right arm again, and when she twisted violently to the right, responding to his ravenous hand, his left hand moved quickly to grab her hip and squeeze. She was now lying back on him, twisting and giggling and flailing in vain to keep his fingers from finding every ticklish place on her upper body and failing over and over again as he explored and tortured and tickled.
He wrapped his large arm around her waist and, pushing himself off the floor, pushed her down onto her back on the couch. Her hands came up to bat at him, but he pushed them away and brought his left hand down on her dress-covered belly in a claw. When the fingers found her abdomen, her knees shot up as they tickled. Her hands grasped in vain at his forearm, and his right hand somehow found its way under her arm again, making her attempts to control the abdominal claw even more vain.
Wendy had lost sight of Tulsi Gabbard; all that her senses had the capacity to process was the unstoppable ticklish onslaught that the older man was bringing to every part of her body above the waist, and every new spot that he found seemed to tickle more than the last. She could not stop giggling even to beg, much less to protest, and somehow this was much worse than what she thought she was coming up to his suite to do. In her ticklish throes, she had a moment of clarity, an insight into what made this so terrible: certainly she was no strangers to men’s hands, and certainly Yale boys had given her a poke or a squeeze that made her giggle, but those were just brief stops on the way to taking clothes off, then to coitus, then to sleep, nine times out of ten. This man, these hands--they did not seem to be on their way anywhere. All he wanted was to keep tickling, and to push the intensity of the tickling. The touching never stopped, never relented to unsnap a bra or lift a shirt or unbutton her jeans. The attack just kept pounding, and her body--though she never had occasion to know this before--just stayed ticklish even as each minute of tickling joined to the next. Plenty of sex-crazed college boys had tickled her, but this was a tickling-crazed man, and she had no way to anticipate what would come after the tickling or whether it would ever stop.
When the hands did depart her body, Butler stood up and left Wendy panting on the couch. He turned to the Congresswoman. “You see, Candidate Gabbard, this is the nature of national politics. If you assume you know what the most important voters want, you’ll miss the target every time.”
Wendy propped herself up on one elbow as she caught her breath and watched Butler edging closer to her boss.
“And once you know that, the only question is whether you’ll sacrifice one constituency for another. You see, every bloc can vote. But only some of them can put you over the top.”
Tulsi Gabbard shook off the shock that the spectacle had put her in. “What are you talking about now?”
“Apollo Group can start the wheels turning tomorrow to make this a two-candidate race. You versus Bernie. But I’m going to need you to give the order.”
“Okay. Start the Super-PAC.”
Butler turned to the side so that Wendy could see half of his face twist upward into a grin. “No, that’s the order I give. You need to order Wendy to put her feet in my lap.”
Wendy’s toes curled in terror. Her other shoe had come off in the melee, and she could only imagine what his fingers would feel like on her black nylon hose. Gabbard spoke up. “Come on, Gus, hasn’t she had enough?”
“If she’s had enough, then you’re on your own in Iowa. If you give the order, we can get your message to every television, phone, and video game console in Iowa, New Hampshire, Nevada, and South Carolina starting in the morning.”
Wendy couldn’t take it any more. “Look, just come over here. Have your fun. We need those ads!”
Butler laughed the sadist’s chuckle. “Very noble, Wendy, and that makes this all the sweeter. But no, you can’t make this call.” He turned and faced Gabbard squarely. “This is an executive decision.”
Wendy watched Gabbard’s face tighten in agony, then rest on Wendy. “Go ahead and tickle her feet.”
“No, President Gabbard, you can’t give me orders. I'm your donor. Give her the order.”
Now Gabbard’s pride was on the line, and Wendy could see the rage just under the surface as Tulsi Gabbard said, “Wendy, put your feet in Mr. Butler’s lap.”
Wendy pushed herself up onto her bottom and scooted backwards against the couch’s arm, bending her knees to make room for Butler to sit down. He lowered himself onto the cushion and lifted his arms, and Wendy extended one long leg, then the next onto his lap. “You have no idea how much this is going to tickle, Miss Fleming.”
And within seconds she knew he was right: his fingers began scratching at the edge of her heel, and almost as a reflex her knee bent, drawing her foot out of his lap. She squealed as she jumped at his touch.
“Now Wendy, you don’t want this primary to hinge on a foot out of a lap, do you? Give me both of your feet, and let’s have some fun, alright?”
As she extended her leg again Wendy turned her head towards the Congresswoman, and she could see in her eyes the stirring of rage: she was imagining August Butler behind bars, and Wendy shared that vision. But then visions stopped, and the world became as small as the bottoms of Wendy Fleming’s feet. His hands only wanted one thing, to remake Wendy Fleming into a helpless, giggling play-toy, and with every inch of her skin abuzz with the terrible tickling before, they accomplished their mission within seconds. Her heels were Butler’s first obsession, and he taught her their whole perimeter with scratching and pinching, poking and stroking. Wendy’s head fell back on the couch’s padded arm as she sang out laughing, only to stop her song as new ticklish sensations slashed across her sole, making her scream at the new ticklish electricity before settling back down again into a bubbling giggle. On occasion a finger would slide between her toes, bunching up the hose and at once tickling up there and dragging the tickling material across her heel again.
He tickled and tickled, and Wendy, who only ever knew men to tickle so that they could get to other things, was once again overwhelmed at the sensuous, hilarious torture that he was visiting on her feet. Her hands balled up into fists and pounded the couch on either side of her hips, then lifted to cover her mouth, then grabbed the front of a couch cushion and the top of the couch’s back, squeezing in vain as he tickled her feet. And no matter how much her body wanted to escape, no matter what flight instincts wanted to get her poor feet away from this sadist, she kept her legs extended, that exertion of will making the tickling even worse. Her sense of time evaporated, and her whole existence fell into a flat, timeless tension between the endless tickling and the endless struggle not to pull her legs back.
But that Zen state did not persist: Wendy screamed as one of his hands moved up the couch towards her body, pinching behind her knee and making her legs kick wildly. She knew what it felt like for boys to tickle her there, but in this moment, August Butler had turned her whole body into one continuous field of ticklish nerve endings, and her knees felt like an electric shock had gone through them. His other hand, swift and ravenous, slid between her legs as she kicked, and sheer panic set in as he started squeezing her inner thigh. Her hands shot out to grab his arm, but she had no energy left, and his hand had its way with her thigh, which she believed in that moment must be the most ticklish spot on the most ticklish girl whom a man had ever tickled. She screamed and thrashed and writhed, and he did not slow or stop, and when she found herself alone on the couch, she looked up and saw Butler standing next to Gabbard, who still sat in the chair.
Wendy wondered when he had stopped tickling, when he had left her. She heard him talking to the Congresswoman. “Within 48 hours you should see your poll numbers climb so high that this will be a two-candidate race by New Year’s. The first three primaries should fall like dominoes.”
“That’s good, Mister Butler.”
“I’ll see you two in Iowa.”
