Previous Chapter || First Chapter
Sharon Miller was now a pathetic, broken thing after weeks of torment at the hands of these monsters. Their most feared form of torment being the 'Cat's Cradle' which Sharon finds herself unable to escape from even in her dreams.
A new arrival at the site: Deirdre Sweeney, the prosecution attorney from Syndino's case. The thugs need to convince her to drop the upcoming second trial and they know just so to use to break the Prosecutor, knowing failure meant another stint with the cats
All characters are 18 or older
Word Count: 5,336
F/F | */F | M/F | Feet Tickling | Tickle Torture | Non-Consensual | Cat Tickling | Waterboarding
The cell was a cube of damp concrete, smelling of mildew and the phantom, cloying scent of rancid fish oil.
Sharon Miller—formerly the respectable "Sunlight Liar," now just a shivering heap of traumatized nerves—huddled in the corner. Her navy blazer and skirt were gone, replaced by a simple, grime-stained cotton slip that hung loosely on her frame. Her hair, once a pristine chignon, was a matted, tangled curtain that hid her face from the harsh fluorescent bulb buzzing overhead.
Drip.
The sound came from a leaking pipe in the corridor.
Drip.
For Sharon, it wasn't water. It was the metronome of her insanity.
She squeezed her eyes shut, pulling her knees tight against her chest, her bare feet tucking instinctively under her thighs to hide them from the air. But the sound dragged her back. It dragged her back to 'The Cradle.'
The memory hit her with the force of a physical blow.
She was back in the wooden stocks. They were heavy, medieval things, smelling of sweat and fish. Her ankles were locked tight, her legs elevated at a forty-five-degree angle, leaving her bare soles completely exposed and helpless.
Above her feet, suspended from a rusted metal frame, were two industrial tin cans. Poked into the bottom of each was a tiny hole.
Drip.
Thick, viscous fish oil—smelling of brine and rot—landed squarely in the center of her right arch. It was cold and slimy, coating the sensitive skin in a slow, spreading puddle that ran down toward her heel.
Drip.
The left arch received its own dose.
Then came the sound that made her whimper in the cell. The mewling.
In the memory, the cage door at the foot of the stocks rattled open. They weren't tigers or wolves. They were common alley cats—scrawny, patchy tabbies with ribs showing through their fur. They hadn't been fed in days.
The first cat approached her right foot, sniffing the air. It smelled the oil.
Then, the first touch.
Lap.
Sharon’s body jerked in the cell, her back slamming against the cold concrete.
The cat’s tongue wasn't smooth. It was like wet, coarse sandpaper. The barbs on the animal’s tongue scraped against the oil-slicked skin of her arch, digging into the ticklish nerves with a relentless, rhythmic abrasion.
Lap-Rasp.
"AAAAH! SSS-HAAA! IT SCRAPES! GNNNN-YAAAA-HA!"
In the flashback, she was screaming, thrashing against the oak stocks. The sensation was a paradox of agony—the tickle was sharp, electric, and unbearable, sending shockwaves up her legs. But terror lay underneath. Every time the cat licked, she felt its sharp teeth grazing her skin, the threat of a bite just millimeters away.
Lap-rasp-lap. Scritch.
"NO! NO! TOO ROUGH! HEEE-YAAA-HAAA!"
A second cat joined, attacking her left foot. It focused on the toes, its rough tongue forcing its way between her big toe and the second digit to get at the oil gathering there.
Rasp-lap-skritch.
"EEEEEE! GNNNN-HNNNN! MAKE IT STOP! HAAA-HAA-HEEE-IT-BURNS!"
The rough tongues flayed her sanity. They didn't stop. They wouldn't stop as long as the oil kept dripping. It was a torture of pure, animalistic friction, turning her most sensitive feature into a feeding trough.
Clank.
The heavy sound of the cell door unlatching snapped her to the present like a dry twig.
Sharon scrambled backward, her heels skidding on the dirty floor until her spine hit the wall. She breathed in ragged, hyperventilating gasps, her eyes wide and feral in the gloom.
A man stepped into the cell. He was tall, dressed in a sharp grey suit that looked out of place in the dungeon-like atmosphere. He had the face of a choirboy gone bad—smooth skin, cold eyes, and a faint, cruel smile.
Costigan.
He didn't hold a weapon. He didn't need to. He just held a small, sealed packet of wet wipes.
"Morning, Sunshine," Costigan chirped, his Irish accent thick and mocking. He leaned against the doorframe, looking down at her trembling form. "I hear you've been vocal today. Remembering our feline friends?"
Sharon couldn't speak. She just nodded frantically, burying her face in her knees, trying to make herself small.
"Good," Costigan murmured. He tossed the wet wipes onto the floor in front of her. "Clean your face. You look like a banshee. We have a guest coming in, and I want you to look... presentable."
He waited a beat, then lowered his voice to a whisper that made Sharon’s blood freeze.
"And Sharon? We're moving you to the big room. The one with the cage. If you're a good girl, you won't have to go back in the cradle. But... If you're a bad girl... well, the kitties are getting hungry again."
Sharon snatched up the wipes with trembling hands, scrubbing at the grime on her cheeks so hard her skin turned red.
"I'll be good," she croaked, her voice a broken whisper. "Please, Mr. Costigan. I'll be good. No cats. Please no cats."
"That depends entirely on your persuasive skills," Costigan said, checking his watch. "Up. Now."
Sharon scrambled to her feet, her legs shaking. She followed him out into the corridor, walking with a strange, high-stepping gait, as if the floor were made of hot coals.
The interrogation room was a cavernous space where the shadows seemed to have physical weight. The air was colder here, carrying the metallic tang of old blood and the dried sweat.
But for Sharon, the most terrifying thing in the room wasn't the darkness. It was the structure in the far corner.
Bathed in a pool of dim yellow light stood the heavy oak stocks. Above them, the two tin cans glinted dully, suspended like Damocles' swords. And beneath the stocks, a large wire-mesh cage sat on the concrete floor. Inside, green eyes flashed in the gloom, accompanied by a low, hungry yowl that made Sharon’s knees buckle.
Mrrrowl.
She whimpered, pressing her back against the doorframe, refusing to take another step.
"Tut, tut," Costigan chided, placing a hand on the small of her back and shoving her forward with surprising strength. "Eyes front, Sharon. The kitties are just the backup band. Meet the headliner."
In the center of the room, bolted to the concrete, was a heavy wooden chair.
Straining against thick leather restraints was Deirdre Sweeney.
The prosecutor looked like she had been dragged straight from the steps of the courthouse. Her midnight-blue pantsuit was rumpled and dusted with grime, her white blouse pulled tight across her chest as she struggled. Her hands were cuffed behind the chair, and her ankles were lashed firmly to the front legs.
She was sweating, her bobbed hair plastered to her forehead, but her eyes were blazing with a fury that burned brighter than the halogen overheads.
When she heard the footsteps, her head snapped up. She saw Costigan, and her lip curled. Then, her gaze slid to the shivering, slip-clad woman beside him.
Recognition dawned, followed instantly by disgust.
"Miller," Deirdre spat, the name dripping with venom. "I should have known. Did they promise you a cut of the settlement? Or are you just screwing Syndino directly now?"
Sharon flinched as if slapped. She hugged her own ribs, staring at the floor. "No... I... I didn't..."
"Save it for the grand jury," Deirdre snapped, thrashing against her bonds. "You perjured yourself, destroyed a murder case, and now you’re aiding in the kidnapping of a Federal Prosecutor. Do you have any idea what kind of hole I’m going to bury you in?"
Costigan laughed. It was a dry, rasping sound. He walked a slow circle around Deirdre’s chair, his shoes clicking on the concrete.
"Ms. Sweeney, Ms. Sweeney. You have it all wrong. Sharon isn't me partner. She's me... exhibit."
He gestured to Bricks, the silent mountain of muscle standing in the shadows. Bricks stepped forward, grabbing Sharon by her upper arm and dragging her into the harsh light. He forced her down onto her knees beside Deirdre’s chair, like a penitent sinner.
"Look at her, Deirdre," Costigan commanded, his voice dropping the playful lilt. "Look at the Sunlight Liar. Does she look like she's enjoying her cut of the profits?"
Deirdre looked down. Up close, she saw the truth. She saw the dark circles under Sharon’s eyes, the raw, red chafe marks on her wrists, and the way her body vibrated with a constant, suppressed tremor. She saw a woman who had been hollowed out.
"Jesus," Deirdre whispered, her anger faltering for a split second.
"Mr. Syndino has a new trial date," Costigan said, leaning against the edge of a metal table, examining his fingernails. "And you, Ms. Sweeney, are going to file a motion to dismiss all charges with prejudice. You're going to cite... oh, let's say, 'mishandling of evidence.' Or perhaps a sudden crisis of conscience."
"Go to hell," Deirdre said, her voice steel again. "I don't care what you do. I don't care what you did to her. I am the United States Government in this room, and I do not negotiate with terrorists."
"You're stubborn, good," Costigan said with a smirk. He looked over at the corner, where the cats paced restlessly in their cage. Mrowl-hiss. "But Sharon was stubborn too, once. Weren't you, love?"
Sharon squeezed her eyes shut, trembling at the sound of the cats.
"Bricks," Costigan nodded at the prosecutor’s feet. "Let’s get her comfortable."
Deirdre tried to kick out, her black leather court pumps thudding against the floor. "Don't you touch me! You lay a hand on me and I'll—"
Bricks ignored her threats as if they were buzzing flies. He knelt at the base of the chair. His massive hand clamped around Deirdre’s left ankle, immobilizing it with crushing force.
Pop.
He wrenched the black pump off her foot.
Pop.
The right one followed.
The shoes clattered across the concrete floor, coming to rest near Sharon’s knees. Deirdre gasped, the cool air of the basement hitting her soles. She was wearing sheer, coffee-colored pantyhose—reinforced at the toe, silky and professional. Her feet were arched high in the restraints, the toes curling tightly in a futile attempt to shield themselves.
"Standard issue prosecutorial attire," Costigan mused, walking over to stare down at Deirdre’s stockinged feet tucked beneath the chair. He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "But the positioning is all wrong. Sharon can’t work like this. A proper cross-examination requires the evidence to be... presented."
He snapped his fingers. "Bricks, do the honours."
The massive enforcer grunted and stepped away into the shadows. He returned a moment later dragging a heavy, steel-framed bench. It was padded with black leather and bolted to a heavy iron base that scraped loudly against the concrete. It looked like something from a 19th-century shoe shine stand, but modified for malice.
Bricks positioned the bench directly in front of Deirdre.
"Get away from me!" Deirdre growled, her heels thudding against the heavy leather pad. "Don't you dare—"
Bricks ignored her, his movements methodical and overpowering. He knelt and undid the strap holding her left ankle to the chair leg. Before she could retract her leg, he seized her calf in a grip like a vice. He lifted her leg, forcing it straight out, and slammed her ankle down into the padded groove of the bench.
Click-click-click.
He placed a thick leather strap over her ankle and buckled it tight, locking the leg in a horizontal, elevated position.
He repeated the process with the right leg. Deirdre struggled, her hips twisting in the chair, but the angle put her at a severe disadvantage. Within seconds, her legs were spread slightly and locked straight out in front of her.
Her feet were now elevated at waist-height for Sharon, the soles facing outward, perfectly vertical and utterly helpless. The position exposed everything—the arch, the heel, the vulnerable balls of her feet—while keeping her immobilized.
"There," Costigan said, admiring the display. "Much better access."
He looked at the coffee-colored nylon encasing her elevated feet. "But this nylon... it’s still a barrier to the truth, isn't it? And we are all about transparency here."
He nodded sharply to Bricks. "Let's give her feet some air."
The silent giant didn't hesitate. Bricks engulfed the toes of Deirdre's left foot in his massive hand, pinching the dark, reinforced nylon tip tight between his thumb and forefinger. He bunched the fabric, creating a tension point just above her toes where the weave was sheerest.
With a grunt of exertion, he yanked the reinforced cap violently away from her foot.
KR-SHHHHH-RIIIP!
The sheer nylon at the ball of her foot failed under the tension, snapping apart with a high-pitched hiss of shredding fabric. Bricks tore the detached reinforced toe-cap away like a husk, leaving her pale, pedicured, and slightly sweaty toes suddenly naked and exposed to the cold air, while the ragged edge of the torn hose bunched around her mid-arch.
Deirdre gasped, her toes curling frantically in the empty air, but Bricks was already moving to the right foot.
He grabbed the second reinforced tip.
P-POP... SKRRR-RIIIIP!
He shredded the second barrier, tossing the scrap of nylon to the floor. Deirdre’s feet were now fully displayed—the toes bare and vulnerable, framed by the tattered remains of her professional armor.
"Much better," Costigan murmured, running a calloused finger up the length of Deirdre's arch. The prosecutor jerked in her restraints. "Now she can really feel the gravity of her situation."
He turned his gaze to Sharon, who was still kneeling on the floor, trembling. He reached down and grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand up into the light.
Sharon’s fingernails were long, chipped, and dirty, but sharp.
"Look at these talons," Costigan said, admiring her hand. "You know, Ms. Sweeney, Sharon here has very... reactive feet. We spent a long time mapping out exactly where the nerves cluster. The 'V' between the toes? The center of the arch? The spot right under the heel bone?"
He dropped Sharon’s hand and pointed a finger at Deirdre’s exposed, curling toes.
"You know exactly what it feels like, don't you, Sharon? You know the panic. The inability to breathe. The way your brain turns to static."
Sharon nodded dumbly, her eyes darting to the cage in the corner where the cats were pacing. Mrrrowl.
"Good," Costigan whispered, leaning down to hiss in Sharon's ear. "Then give it to her. Make her feel what you felt in the stocks. Use your nails, Sharon. Dig in. Find the nerves and grind on them."
Sharon recoiled, shaking her head. "I... I can't... she's the prosecutor... I..."
"You can't?" Costigan straightened up, his voice hardening. He walked casually toward the cat cage and unlatched the padlock. The sound of the metal bolt sliding back echoed like a gunshot. "Well, that's a shame. The tabbies are starving. I suppose if you won't work, you can be dinner."
He put his hand on the cage door, ready to swing it open.
"NO!" Sharon screamed, scrambling forward on her knees until she was right at the foot of Deirdre’s chair. "No cats! I'll do it! I'll do it!"
Deirdre looked down at the broken woman, her expression a mix of pity and defiance. "Sharon, don't," she said, her voice steady despite the situation. "Don't let them break you. I can get us out of this, but you have to—"
"Shut up!" Sharon sobbed, panic overriding everything. "You don't know! You don't know what they do!"
Sharon’s hands hovered over Deirdre’s exposed feet. She could see the prosecutor’s toes twitching—a subtle, involuntary betrayer of the fear she was trying to hide. The skin looked so soft, so unsuspecting.
"Get in there, Sharon," Costigan commanded from the shadows. "Hard. Sharp. I want to hear her scream, or back in the stocks you go."
Sharon didn't wait. A feral desperation took over. She lunged forward, her hands latching onto Deirdre’s feet.
She didn't start slow. She didn't tease. She struck with the knowledge of a victim.
She clawed her hands, hooking her fingers into the soft meat of the arch. Then, with a frantic, jagged motion, she began to rake her sharp, dirty fingernails fiercely up and down the sensitive skin of Deirdre’s soles.
Scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch!
"NNNNGH! SSS-HHTT! D-DON'T—HNNNK!"
Deirdre’s head slammed back against the wooden chair, her teeth grinding together as she tried to swallow the reaction. But Sharon’s nails were jagged, desperate, and relentless. She wasn't just tickling; she was sawing at the nerves.
*Scritch-scratch-scritch-SCRAPE."
"AAAAHHH-HAAA! FFF-HUCK! STOP! GNNN-HEEE-NOOO!"
The Prosecutor’s composure didn't just shatter; it exploded. Her legs bucked wildly against the leather straps, her toes splaying and curling in a frantic dance to escape the nails.
"I said make her listen!" Costigan roared, his voice cutting through Deirdre's shrieks. "Get between the toes! Open them up! Flay her!"
Sharon obeyed with a sob. She shifted her grip, jamming her index finger into the sensitive webbing between Deirdre’s big and second toe.
"NOT THERE! GLLLL-HACK! EEEEEE! I COMMAND Y-HOUUU-HOOO-HA-HA! STAAAA-HAAAP!"
The prosecutor’s professional mask dissolved. Deirdre squeezed her eyes shut, her face flushing a deep, mottled crimson. She tried to pull her foot back, but the strap held firm, and Sharon was relentless.
"Please!" Sharon wept, tears streaming down her own face as she tortured the other woman. "Just tell him! Tell him you'll do what they want! I can't go back in the stocks! I can't!"
She dragged her nails down the length of the arch again, harder this time, leaving white scratch marks that faded quickly into red. Scritch-scratch-scritch.
"AAAAH-HA-HA-HAAA! SHARON! STOP! I ORDER YOU—HEEE-HEEE-HAAA! STAAA-HA-HAAP!"
"She's not listening, Sharon!" Costigan taunted. "She thinks she's better than you. She thinks she's tough. Let's test her heel, shall we? We know how effective it was on you."
Sharon sobbed a ragged breath and shifted her attack. She cupped Deirdre’s right heel, sinking her nails into the soft, wrinkled skin at the very base of the foot, wiggling them in a sharp, digging motion.
Deirdre’s laughter turned into a high-pitched, desperate shriek. "NOOOO! OH GOD! DON'T—HA-HA-HA-HA! NOT THERE! STOPIT-STOPIT-STOPIT!"
Her body thrashed in the chair, the heavy wood creaking against the bolts. Her head whipped from side to side, her bobbed hair flying across her face, blinding her.
"Do you yield?" Costigan’s voice cut through the chaos, calm and deadly. "The motion to dismiss. Say the words, Ms. Sweeney."
"NEVER! EEEEE-HEEE-HEEE! YOU BASTARDS! HA-HA-HA-NOOO!"
Deirdre was stronger than Sharon. Even as the tears leaked from her eyes and her feet cramped from the relentless, sharp scratching, she held onto her hate. She looked down at Sharon—this weeping, broken woman clawing at her soles—and she didn't just feel ticklish; she felt furious.
"Harder, Sharon!" Costigan snapped. He kicked the cage. The cats hissed loudly.
Sharon shrieked at the sound of the cats. Panic surged through her veins. She abandoned all technique and went for pure sensory overload. She grabbed both of Deirdre’s feet, jamming her fingers between all the toes at once, scissoring her nails back and forth in the sensitive crevices while her thumbs dug punishing circles into the arches.
"MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP!" Sharon screamed, begging Deirdre to break so she could stop.
"AAAAHHH-HAAAA-HAAAA! I C-CAN'T! I W-WON'T! GNNNN-HNNNN-HAAAAA!"
Deirdre was hyperventilating, her chest heaving, saliva gathering at the corners of her mouth. The sensation of Sharon’s sharp, desperate nails digging into her most vulnerable skin was maddening, sending bolts of lightning up her legs and exploding in her spine. But she bit down on her lip until it bled, refusing to give them the words they wanted.
Costigan watched for a moment longer, his expression darkening. The prosecutor was tougher than he thought. She wasn't breaking.
"Enough," he barked.
Sharon froze instantly, her hands still wrapped around Deirdre’s twitching feet.
The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the ragged, wet breathing of the two women. Deirdre slumped in the chair, gasping, her feet red and throbbing, her toes still curling and uncurling in aftershocks.
Costigan walked over to Deirdre. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him.
"You have spirit. I'll give you that," he whispered. "But spirits can be broken, we just need the right tools."
He turned to Bricks. "Take Ms. Sweeney to Room 4. The soundproof one. Prep the waterboard. We’ll see how defiant she is then."
Deirdre’s eyes went wide, but she didn't beg. She just stared at him with pure, unadulterated hatred. Bricks began to undo the straps on the chair.
Then Costigan turned his cold gaze to Sharon, who was still kneeling on the floor, shaking.
"And you," he said, his voice dripping with disappointment. "You didn't close the deal, Sharon. I gave you a chance to be useful. To be a partner."
He walked over to the cage and kicked the latch open.
"Bricks," Costigan said, not looking away from Sharon’s terrified face. "When you're done moving the prosecutor... put Mrs. Miller back in the stocks. And coat her feet in tuna oil this time. The cats prefer it."
"NO!" Sharon screamed, scrambling backward, but there was nowhere to go. "I tried! I tried! Please! Not the cats! NOT THE CATS!"
"Get her out of my sight," Costigan muttered, turning his back on the prosecutor.
Bricks moved with terrifying speed. He unbuckled and hauled Deirdre out of the chair, his massive arm hooking around her waist like a forklift. Deirdre kicked and thrashed, her bare, red-raw feet pedaling uselessly in the air.
"You can't do this!" Deirdre screamed, her voice cracking as she was dragged toward the heavy steel door. "I am a Federal Prosecutor! I will have this entire building leveled! Do you hear me? I will—"
The heavy door slammed shut, cutting off her threat with a final, booming thud.
Silence rushed back into the interrogation room, heavier and colder than before.
Sharon was left alone with Costigan. She was still on her knees, her hands trembling in her lap, her breath coming in shallow, terrified hitches. She looked up at him, eyes wide and pleading, hoping that now, with the prosecutor gone, the cruelty would end.
"Please..." she whispered, the word barely forming. "I... I tried, Mr. Costigan. You saw me. I scratched her. I did it."
Costigan didn’t answer immediately. He crossed the room and brushed the damp hair from her temple, his touch light, almost kind.
"You did," he agreed softly. "But you hesitated. And in this line of work, hesitation is a liability."
He walked over to the wire-mesh cage. He crouched down, tapping his finger against the bars. Inside, the gaunt tabbies hissed and swiped at him, their claws sparking against the metal.
Scritch-clank.
"Listen to them, Sharon," Costigan murmured. "They don't hesitate. They just do what they're told."
For five agonizing minutes, that was the only sound in the room: the hungry pacing of the cats and the soft hum of the ventilation. Sharon remained frozen, afraid that even a twitch would accelerate her fate. She stared at the door, praying it wouldn't open.
But it did.
The latch clicked. The heavy steel door swung inward.
Bricks filled the frame. He looked like a man who had just taken out the trash. He stepped back into the room, rolling his shoulders, his eyes locking instantly onto Sharon.
"Room 4 is prepped," Bricks grunted, his voice a deep gravel rumble. "She's strapped in."
Costigan nodded, checking his watch. "Good. Let her marinate for a moment." He gestured lazily toward Sharon. "Now, deal with our little under-performer."
Bricks took a step forward.
Sharon scrambled backward on her knees, her hands skidding on the concrete. "No... wait... Please... I did what you asked! Mr. Costigan, please!"
Bricks didn't speak. He just kept coming, his shadow lengthening over her until it swallowed her whole. He reached down, his hand massive and inescapable.
The transition was violent and immediate.
Bricks didn't escort Sharon to the corner; he dragged her.
"NO! NO! I DID IT! I DID EXACTLY WHAT YOU SAID!" Sharon shrieked, her heels skidding uselessly on the concrete as she was hauled toward the wooden stocks. She kicked out wildly, her limbs flailing in a desperate, bicycle-kick of panic, but Bricks was an immovable object.
He slammed her down onto the wooden bench. Before she could scramble away, he grabbed her ankles and shoved them into the cutouts of the heavy oak beam.
CLACK-THUD.
The top beam came down, locking her ankles in place. She was trapped.
"Please! Mr. Costigan! I tried! She wouldn't break! It’s not my fault!" Sharon sobbed, twisting her torso, straining against the wood until her skin burned.
Costigan didn't answer. He just watched from the doorway as Bricks produced a large, unmarked tin and a thick basting brush. He popped the lid. The smell hit Sharon instantly—a pungent, cloying stench of concentrated tuna oil and brine.
"Oh god, no... please, it smells... oh god..."
Bricks grabbed her right foot, immobilizing it with a grip of iron. He slapped the brush against her sole. The oil was cold and thick. He painted it liberally over her arch, slathering it into the creases of her heel, and coating the undersides of her toes.
MROWL! HISS!
The cats in the cage went berserk. They could smell the feast. They threw themselves against the wire mesh, their hunger driving them into a frenzy.
"They like the tuna blend best," Costigan called out casually.
Bricks moved to the left foot, painting it with the same grim efficiency. Then, he did something worse. He took small lengths of rawhide cord and looped them around Sharon’s big toes, pulling them backward and tying them to the frame of the stocks.
Her soles were now stretched taut, the skin of her arches pulled tight as a drum, her toes splayed wide and unable to curl for protection.
"Don't look so worried, Sharon," Costigan said. Bricks slid a thick, black leather blindfold over her eyes, plunging her into a terrifying, smelly darkness. "You won't see them coming." She then heard the splashing as the cans above her feet were refilled.
Sharon heard Costigan's retreating footsteps. "I'm going to check on our prosecutor. Have fun, Sharon."
Sharon heard the heavy door to the room close with a loud thud.
Then came the sound that stopped her heart.
Clank. Creeeeak.
The cage door swung open.
"NO! NO! NOOOO!" Sharon screamed into the darkness, yanking at her restrained ankles.
Bricks didn't say a word but Sharon could hear his heavy footfalls receed before hearing the large door open.
THUD.
The heavy steel door slammed shut, sealing Sharon inside.
Drip.
The first drop of oil from the overhead can landed with a wet splat on her right heel.
Then came the skittering of claws on concrete. Scritch-scritch-scritch.
Then she should l felt it. The tongue was rough, hot, and wet against her freezing cold foot. It dragged agonizingly slowly up the length of her right arch, the barbs catching on every ridge of her skin.
Rrrrrasp.
"HHH-ACK! AAAAH! NO! IT'S SH-HARP!"
Before she could process the first shock, the second cat struck. This one latched onto the taut, oil-slicked ball of her right foot, licking with a frantic, starving intensity. The tiny barbs caught every nerve ending like bolts of abrasive lightning.
Rasp-lap-rasp.
"GNNNN-HAAA! SSS-STOP! KHHH-AAAAH! IT BURNS! IT TICKLES! AAAAH-HA-HA-HAAA!"
Then the third found her left foot. It didn't go for the sole. It buried its face in the splayed, defenseless gap between her big toe and the second digit, its sandpaper tongue snaking deep into the webbing to lap up the pooling oil.
Slurp-rasp-scritch.
"EEE-EEE-EEE! GET OUT! GLLLL-HUCK! NOT THERE! HEEE-YAAA-NOOO! THEY’RE EATING ME! AAAAAH-HA-HA!"
The fourth cat joined the fray, attacking her left heel. Sharon's thrashing was useless. Her feet were painted, tied, and offered up as a buffet. The sensation was a maddening overload of sharp, abrasive friction and intense, electric ticklishness. She was being eaten alive, lick by lick.
"PLEASE! HEEE-HEEE-HAAA! MAKE IT ST-HO-HO-OP! I'LL BE GOOD! I'LL BE GOOOOD! AAAAAH-HAAA-HAAA!"
---
The sound of Sharon’s screams were muffled by the thick walls, but still audible—a distant, rhythmic wailing of pure misery.
Deirdre Sweeney lay strapped to a stainless steel table in the center of a sterile, white-tiled room. She had been stripped down to her white cotton underwear and bra. The table was tilted—Trendelenburg position—so her head was lower than her feet, making the blood rush to her brain, disorienting her.
Her wrists and ankles were cuffed to the rails. Her bare feet, still red and tender from Sharon’s assault, were elevated and displayed prominently under the harsh surgical lights.
Costigan closed the door to the room, blocking out the sounds of Sharon's screams, and moved to stand over her.
"Did you hear that, Deirdre," he whispered, cocking his head toward the distant screams. "That was the sound of your 'star witness.'"
Deirdre glared at him upside down, her chest heaving. "You... are... a monster."
"And Sharon?" Costigan smiled. "She went easy on you today. She was crying. She was hesitant. But in there? With the cats? She's losing the last of her sanity. Next time I bring her in here, she won't be pulling her punches. She'll tear you apart just to save herself."
Deirdre opened her mouth to retort, but Costigan was faster. He slammed a thick, wet rag over her nose and mouth and secured each end to the table.
Deirdre gasped, inhaling water. Panic flared instantly.
Costigan turned on a tap over Deirdre's head. A slow but steady stream of water began to pour onto the rag.
"Gnnnngh! Mmmph! Glub!"
Deirdre thrashed against the straps. The water filled her nose, her throat. The drowning reflex kicked in—the primal, lizard-brain terror of suffocation. Her world narrowed to the desperate need for air.
Costigan watched her struggle for a moment, the water cascading over her face.
Costigan turned off the tap.
The silence that followed was broken only by Deirdre’s desperate, ragged gasps. The water stopped pouring, but the heavy, sodden rag remained clamped over her face.
"Hhh-uhhh... Hhh-uhhh... Mmmph..."
Deirdre heaved in air, the wet fabric sucking against her lips and nostrils with every breath, tasting of damp cotton. She was dizzy, her lungs burning, her entire body trembling in the aftermath of the near-drowning. She thought the worst was over. She thought she would have a moment to stabilize.
Costigan shattered that hope.
"Let’s see how you handle multitasking," Costigan murmured.
He moved to the foot of the table and picked up the long, iridescent Peacock feather from the tray beside the table.
Deirdre’s eyes went wide above the mask. She shook her head frantically, her muffled voice pleading. "Mmm-mm! Nnnn-no!"
Costigan didn't wait. He swept the large, soft eye of the feather right down the center of her exposed, elevated soles.
"MMMPH! HNNNG-HEEE! GNNN-HUCK!"
The reaction was instantaneous. The sensation hit her raw, over-stimulated nerves with the force of a sledgehammer. The feather was ghostly soft, agonizingly light, and terrifyingly electric.
Deirdre tried to hold her breath to suppress the reaction, but the feather danced relentlessly over her arch. Her body betrayed her. Her diaphragm spasmed, forcing a burst of air out in a stifled laugh.
"MMMM-HAAA-HAAA! STOP! MMPH-HEEE!"
And then came the panic.
She had laughed the air out. Now she needed to breathe it back in. She gasped, but the wet rag sucked tight against her open mouth, sealing off the flow.
"HHHH-NNNNG! MMMM! GASP!"
Costigan didn't stop. He glided the feathery fronds between her violently flexing toes, teasing the sensitive webbing.
"So. Would you like to reconsider your stance on the upcoming court case, Ms. Sweeney?"
Deirdre thrashed against the straps, her toes curling and splaying in a frantic, helpless rhythm. She was caught in a suffocation loop—the feather forced her to laugh, the laughter emptied her lungs, and the wet rag refused to let her refill them.
"MMMPH-HEEE! I C-CAN'T! HNNNG-HAAA! MMPH-ST-OOOOP!"
Costigan watched the prosecutor’s feet dance—a twitching, curling display of pure neurological overload—and smiled as the wet, desperate sounds of her stifled laughter filled the sterile room.
The system was officially broken.
Next Chapter
Sharon Miller was now a pathetic, broken thing after weeks of torment at the hands of these monsters. Their most feared form of torment being the 'Cat's Cradle' which Sharon finds herself unable to escape from even in her dreams.
A new arrival at the site: Deirdre Sweeney, the prosecution attorney from Syndino's case. The thugs need to convince her to drop the upcoming second trial and they know just so to use to break the Prosecutor, knowing failure meant another stint with the cats
All characters are 18 or older
Word Count: 5,336
F/F | */F | M/F | Feet Tickling | Tickle Torture | Non-Consensual | Cat Tickling | Waterboarding
The cell was a cube of damp concrete, smelling of mildew and the phantom, cloying scent of rancid fish oil.
Sharon Miller—formerly the respectable "Sunlight Liar," now just a shivering heap of traumatized nerves—huddled in the corner. Her navy blazer and skirt were gone, replaced by a simple, grime-stained cotton slip that hung loosely on her frame. Her hair, once a pristine chignon, was a matted, tangled curtain that hid her face from the harsh fluorescent bulb buzzing overhead.
Drip.
The sound came from a leaking pipe in the corridor.
Drip.
For Sharon, it wasn't water. It was the metronome of her insanity.
She squeezed her eyes shut, pulling her knees tight against her chest, her bare feet tucking instinctively under her thighs to hide them from the air. But the sound dragged her back. It dragged her back to 'The Cradle.'
The memory hit her with the force of a physical blow.
She was back in the wooden stocks. They were heavy, medieval things, smelling of sweat and fish. Her ankles were locked tight, her legs elevated at a forty-five-degree angle, leaving her bare soles completely exposed and helpless.
Above her feet, suspended from a rusted metal frame, were two industrial tin cans. Poked into the bottom of each was a tiny hole.
Drip.
Thick, viscous fish oil—smelling of brine and rot—landed squarely in the center of her right arch. It was cold and slimy, coating the sensitive skin in a slow, spreading puddle that ran down toward her heel.
Drip.
The left arch received its own dose.
Then came the sound that made her whimper in the cell. The mewling.
In the memory, the cage door at the foot of the stocks rattled open. They weren't tigers or wolves. They were common alley cats—scrawny, patchy tabbies with ribs showing through their fur. They hadn't been fed in days.
The first cat approached her right foot, sniffing the air. It smelled the oil.
Then, the first touch.
Lap.
Sharon’s body jerked in the cell, her back slamming against the cold concrete.
The cat’s tongue wasn't smooth. It was like wet, coarse sandpaper. The barbs on the animal’s tongue scraped against the oil-slicked skin of her arch, digging into the ticklish nerves with a relentless, rhythmic abrasion.
Lap-Rasp.
"AAAAH! SSS-HAAA! IT SCRAPES! GNNNN-YAAAA-HA!"
In the flashback, she was screaming, thrashing against the oak stocks. The sensation was a paradox of agony—the tickle was sharp, electric, and unbearable, sending shockwaves up her legs. But terror lay underneath. Every time the cat licked, she felt its sharp teeth grazing her skin, the threat of a bite just millimeters away.
Lap-rasp-lap. Scritch.
"NO! NO! TOO ROUGH! HEEE-YAAA-HAAA!"
A second cat joined, attacking her left foot. It focused on the toes, its rough tongue forcing its way between her big toe and the second digit to get at the oil gathering there.
Rasp-lap-skritch.
"EEEEEE! GNNNN-HNNNN! MAKE IT STOP! HAAA-HAA-HEEE-IT-BURNS!"
The rough tongues flayed her sanity. They didn't stop. They wouldn't stop as long as the oil kept dripping. It was a torture of pure, animalistic friction, turning her most sensitive feature into a feeding trough.
Clank.
The heavy sound of the cell door unlatching snapped her to the present like a dry twig.
Sharon scrambled backward, her heels skidding on the dirty floor until her spine hit the wall. She breathed in ragged, hyperventilating gasps, her eyes wide and feral in the gloom.
A man stepped into the cell. He was tall, dressed in a sharp grey suit that looked out of place in the dungeon-like atmosphere. He had the face of a choirboy gone bad—smooth skin, cold eyes, and a faint, cruel smile.
Costigan.
He didn't hold a weapon. He didn't need to. He just held a small, sealed packet of wet wipes.
"Morning, Sunshine," Costigan chirped, his Irish accent thick and mocking. He leaned against the doorframe, looking down at her trembling form. "I hear you've been vocal today. Remembering our feline friends?"
Sharon couldn't speak. She just nodded frantically, burying her face in her knees, trying to make herself small.
"Good," Costigan murmured. He tossed the wet wipes onto the floor in front of her. "Clean your face. You look like a banshee. We have a guest coming in, and I want you to look... presentable."
He waited a beat, then lowered his voice to a whisper that made Sharon’s blood freeze.
"And Sharon? We're moving you to the big room. The one with the cage. If you're a good girl, you won't have to go back in the cradle. But... If you're a bad girl... well, the kitties are getting hungry again."
Sharon snatched up the wipes with trembling hands, scrubbing at the grime on her cheeks so hard her skin turned red.
"I'll be good," she croaked, her voice a broken whisper. "Please, Mr. Costigan. I'll be good. No cats. Please no cats."
"That depends entirely on your persuasive skills," Costigan said, checking his watch. "Up. Now."
Sharon scrambled to her feet, her legs shaking. She followed him out into the corridor, walking with a strange, high-stepping gait, as if the floor were made of hot coals.
The interrogation room was a cavernous space where the shadows seemed to have physical weight. The air was colder here, carrying the metallic tang of old blood and the dried sweat.
But for Sharon, the most terrifying thing in the room wasn't the darkness. It was the structure in the far corner.
Bathed in a pool of dim yellow light stood the heavy oak stocks. Above them, the two tin cans glinted dully, suspended like Damocles' swords. And beneath the stocks, a large wire-mesh cage sat on the concrete floor. Inside, green eyes flashed in the gloom, accompanied by a low, hungry yowl that made Sharon’s knees buckle.
Mrrrowl.
She whimpered, pressing her back against the doorframe, refusing to take another step.
"Tut, tut," Costigan chided, placing a hand on the small of her back and shoving her forward with surprising strength. "Eyes front, Sharon. The kitties are just the backup band. Meet the headliner."
In the center of the room, bolted to the concrete, was a heavy wooden chair.
Straining against thick leather restraints was Deirdre Sweeney.
The prosecutor looked like she had been dragged straight from the steps of the courthouse. Her midnight-blue pantsuit was rumpled and dusted with grime, her white blouse pulled tight across her chest as she struggled. Her hands were cuffed behind the chair, and her ankles were lashed firmly to the front legs.
She was sweating, her bobbed hair plastered to her forehead, but her eyes were blazing with a fury that burned brighter than the halogen overheads.
When she heard the footsteps, her head snapped up. She saw Costigan, and her lip curled. Then, her gaze slid to the shivering, slip-clad woman beside him.
Recognition dawned, followed instantly by disgust.
"Miller," Deirdre spat, the name dripping with venom. "I should have known. Did they promise you a cut of the settlement? Or are you just screwing Syndino directly now?"
Sharon flinched as if slapped. She hugged her own ribs, staring at the floor. "No... I... I didn't..."
"Save it for the grand jury," Deirdre snapped, thrashing against her bonds. "You perjured yourself, destroyed a murder case, and now you’re aiding in the kidnapping of a Federal Prosecutor. Do you have any idea what kind of hole I’m going to bury you in?"
Costigan laughed. It was a dry, rasping sound. He walked a slow circle around Deirdre’s chair, his shoes clicking on the concrete.
"Ms. Sweeney, Ms. Sweeney. You have it all wrong. Sharon isn't me partner. She's me... exhibit."
He gestured to Bricks, the silent mountain of muscle standing in the shadows. Bricks stepped forward, grabbing Sharon by her upper arm and dragging her into the harsh light. He forced her down onto her knees beside Deirdre’s chair, like a penitent sinner.
"Look at her, Deirdre," Costigan commanded, his voice dropping the playful lilt. "Look at the Sunlight Liar. Does she look like she's enjoying her cut of the profits?"
Deirdre looked down. Up close, she saw the truth. She saw the dark circles under Sharon’s eyes, the raw, red chafe marks on her wrists, and the way her body vibrated with a constant, suppressed tremor. She saw a woman who had been hollowed out.
"Jesus," Deirdre whispered, her anger faltering for a split second.
"Mr. Syndino has a new trial date," Costigan said, leaning against the edge of a metal table, examining his fingernails. "And you, Ms. Sweeney, are going to file a motion to dismiss all charges with prejudice. You're going to cite... oh, let's say, 'mishandling of evidence.' Or perhaps a sudden crisis of conscience."
"Go to hell," Deirdre said, her voice steel again. "I don't care what you do. I don't care what you did to her. I am the United States Government in this room, and I do not negotiate with terrorists."
"You're stubborn, good," Costigan said with a smirk. He looked over at the corner, where the cats paced restlessly in their cage. Mrowl-hiss. "But Sharon was stubborn too, once. Weren't you, love?"
Sharon squeezed her eyes shut, trembling at the sound of the cats.
"Bricks," Costigan nodded at the prosecutor’s feet. "Let’s get her comfortable."
Deirdre tried to kick out, her black leather court pumps thudding against the floor. "Don't you touch me! You lay a hand on me and I'll—"
Bricks ignored her threats as if they were buzzing flies. He knelt at the base of the chair. His massive hand clamped around Deirdre’s left ankle, immobilizing it with crushing force.
Pop.
He wrenched the black pump off her foot.
Pop.
The right one followed.
The shoes clattered across the concrete floor, coming to rest near Sharon’s knees. Deirdre gasped, the cool air of the basement hitting her soles. She was wearing sheer, coffee-colored pantyhose—reinforced at the toe, silky and professional. Her feet were arched high in the restraints, the toes curling tightly in a futile attempt to shield themselves.
"Standard issue prosecutorial attire," Costigan mused, walking over to stare down at Deirdre’s stockinged feet tucked beneath the chair. He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "But the positioning is all wrong. Sharon can’t work like this. A proper cross-examination requires the evidence to be... presented."
He snapped his fingers. "Bricks, do the honours."
The massive enforcer grunted and stepped away into the shadows. He returned a moment later dragging a heavy, steel-framed bench. It was padded with black leather and bolted to a heavy iron base that scraped loudly against the concrete. It looked like something from a 19th-century shoe shine stand, but modified for malice.
Bricks positioned the bench directly in front of Deirdre.
"Get away from me!" Deirdre growled, her heels thudding against the heavy leather pad. "Don't you dare—"
Bricks ignored her, his movements methodical and overpowering. He knelt and undid the strap holding her left ankle to the chair leg. Before she could retract her leg, he seized her calf in a grip like a vice. He lifted her leg, forcing it straight out, and slammed her ankle down into the padded groove of the bench.
Click-click-click.
He placed a thick leather strap over her ankle and buckled it tight, locking the leg in a horizontal, elevated position.
He repeated the process with the right leg. Deirdre struggled, her hips twisting in the chair, but the angle put her at a severe disadvantage. Within seconds, her legs were spread slightly and locked straight out in front of her.
Her feet were now elevated at waist-height for Sharon, the soles facing outward, perfectly vertical and utterly helpless. The position exposed everything—the arch, the heel, the vulnerable balls of her feet—while keeping her immobilized.
"There," Costigan said, admiring the display. "Much better access."
He looked at the coffee-colored nylon encasing her elevated feet. "But this nylon... it’s still a barrier to the truth, isn't it? And we are all about transparency here."
He nodded sharply to Bricks. "Let's give her feet some air."
The silent giant didn't hesitate. Bricks engulfed the toes of Deirdre's left foot in his massive hand, pinching the dark, reinforced nylon tip tight between his thumb and forefinger. He bunched the fabric, creating a tension point just above her toes where the weave was sheerest.
With a grunt of exertion, he yanked the reinforced cap violently away from her foot.
KR-SHHHHH-RIIIP!
The sheer nylon at the ball of her foot failed under the tension, snapping apart with a high-pitched hiss of shredding fabric. Bricks tore the detached reinforced toe-cap away like a husk, leaving her pale, pedicured, and slightly sweaty toes suddenly naked and exposed to the cold air, while the ragged edge of the torn hose bunched around her mid-arch.
Deirdre gasped, her toes curling frantically in the empty air, but Bricks was already moving to the right foot.
He grabbed the second reinforced tip.
P-POP... SKRRR-RIIIIP!
He shredded the second barrier, tossing the scrap of nylon to the floor. Deirdre’s feet were now fully displayed—the toes bare and vulnerable, framed by the tattered remains of her professional armor.
"Much better," Costigan murmured, running a calloused finger up the length of Deirdre's arch. The prosecutor jerked in her restraints. "Now she can really feel the gravity of her situation."
He turned his gaze to Sharon, who was still kneeling on the floor, trembling. He reached down and grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand up into the light.
Sharon’s fingernails were long, chipped, and dirty, but sharp.
"Look at these talons," Costigan said, admiring her hand. "You know, Ms. Sweeney, Sharon here has very... reactive feet. We spent a long time mapping out exactly where the nerves cluster. The 'V' between the toes? The center of the arch? The spot right under the heel bone?"
He dropped Sharon’s hand and pointed a finger at Deirdre’s exposed, curling toes.
"You know exactly what it feels like, don't you, Sharon? You know the panic. The inability to breathe. The way your brain turns to static."
Sharon nodded dumbly, her eyes darting to the cage in the corner where the cats were pacing. Mrrrowl.
"Good," Costigan whispered, leaning down to hiss in Sharon's ear. "Then give it to her. Make her feel what you felt in the stocks. Use your nails, Sharon. Dig in. Find the nerves and grind on them."
Sharon recoiled, shaking her head. "I... I can't... she's the prosecutor... I..."
"You can't?" Costigan straightened up, his voice hardening. He walked casually toward the cat cage and unlatched the padlock. The sound of the metal bolt sliding back echoed like a gunshot. "Well, that's a shame. The tabbies are starving. I suppose if you won't work, you can be dinner."
He put his hand on the cage door, ready to swing it open.
"NO!" Sharon screamed, scrambling forward on her knees until she was right at the foot of Deirdre’s chair. "No cats! I'll do it! I'll do it!"
Deirdre looked down at the broken woman, her expression a mix of pity and defiance. "Sharon, don't," she said, her voice steady despite the situation. "Don't let them break you. I can get us out of this, but you have to—"
"Shut up!" Sharon sobbed, panic overriding everything. "You don't know! You don't know what they do!"
Sharon’s hands hovered over Deirdre’s exposed feet. She could see the prosecutor’s toes twitching—a subtle, involuntary betrayer of the fear she was trying to hide. The skin looked so soft, so unsuspecting.
"Get in there, Sharon," Costigan commanded from the shadows. "Hard. Sharp. I want to hear her scream, or back in the stocks you go."
Sharon didn't wait. A feral desperation took over. She lunged forward, her hands latching onto Deirdre’s feet.
She didn't start slow. She didn't tease. She struck with the knowledge of a victim.
She clawed her hands, hooking her fingers into the soft meat of the arch. Then, with a frantic, jagged motion, she began to rake her sharp, dirty fingernails fiercely up and down the sensitive skin of Deirdre’s soles.
Scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch!
"NNNNGH! SSS-HHTT! D-DON'T—HNNNK!"
Deirdre’s head slammed back against the wooden chair, her teeth grinding together as she tried to swallow the reaction. But Sharon’s nails were jagged, desperate, and relentless. She wasn't just tickling; she was sawing at the nerves.
*Scritch-scratch-scritch-SCRAPE."
"AAAAHHH-HAAA! FFF-HUCK! STOP! GNNN-HEEE-NOOO!"
The Prosecutor’s composure didn't just shatter; it exploded. Her legs bucked wildly against the leather straps, her toes splaying and curling in a frantic dance to escape the nails.
"I said make her listen!" Costigan roared, his voice cutting through Deirdre's shrieks. "Get between the toes! Open them up! Flay her!"
Sharon obeyed with a sob. She shifted her grip, jamming her index finger into the sensitive webbing between Deirdre’s big and second toe.
"NOT THERE! GLLLL-HACK! EEEEEE! I COMMAND Y-HOUUU-HOOO-HA-HA! STAAAA-HAAAP!"
The prosecutor’s professional mask dissolved. Deirdre squeezed her eyes shut, her face flushing a deep, mottled crimson. She tried to pull her foot back, but the strap held firm, and Sharon was relentless.
"Please!" Sharon wept, tears streaming down her own face as she tortured the other woman. "Just tell him! Tell him you'll do what they want! I can't go back in the stocks! I can't!"
She dragged her nails down the length of the arch again, harder this time, leaving white scratch marks that faded quickly into red. Scritch-scratch-scritch.
"AAAAH-HA-HA-HAAA! SHARON! STOP! I ORDER YOU—HEEE-HEEE-HAAA! STAAA-HA-HAAP!"
"She's not listening, Sharon!" Costigan taunted. "She thinks she's better than you. She thinks she's tough. Let's test her heel, shall we? We know how effective it was on you."
Sharon sobbed a ragged breath and shifted her attack. She cupped Deirdre’s right heel, sinking her nails into the soft, wrinkled skin at the very base of the foot, wiggling them in a sharp, digging motion.
Deirdre’s laughter turned into a high-pitched, desperate shriek. "NOOOO! OH GOD! DON'T—HA-HA-HA-HA! NOT THERE! STOPIT-STOPIT-STOPIT!"
Her body thrashed in the chair, the heavy wood creaking against the bolts. Her head whipped from side to side, her bobbed hair flying across her face, blinding her.
"Do you yield?" Costigan’s voice cut through the chaos, calm and deadly. "The motion to dismiss. Say the words, Ms. Sweeney."
"NEVER! EEEEE-HEEE-HEEE! YOU BASTARDS! HA-HA-HA-NOOO!"
Deirdre was stronger than Sharon. Even as the tears leaked from her eyes and her feet cramped from the relentless, sharp scratching, she held onto her hate. She looked down at Sharon—this weeping, broken woman clawing at her soles—and she didn't just feel ticklish; she felt furious.
"Harder, Sharon!" Costigan snapped. He kicked the cage. The cats hissed loudly.
Sharon shrieked at the sound of the cats. Panic surged through her veins. She abandoned all technique and went for pure sensory overload. She grabbed both of Deirdre’s feet, jamming her fingers between all the toes at once, scissoring her nails back and forth in the sensitive crevices while her thumbs dug punishing circles into the arches.
"MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP!" Sharon screamed, begging Deirdre to break so she could stop.
"AAAAHHH-HAAAA-HAAAA! I C-CAN'T! I W-WON'T! GNNNN-HNNNN-HAAAAA!"
Deirdre was hyperventilating, her chest heaving, saliva gathering at the corners of her mouth. The sensation of Sharon’s sharp, desperate nails digging into her most vulnerable skin was maddening, sending bolts of lightning up her legs and exploding in her spine. But she bit down on her lip until it bled, refusing to give them the words they wanted.
Costigan watched for a moment longer, his expression darkening. The prosecutor was tougher than he thought. She wasn't breaking.
"Enough," he barked.
Sharon froze instantly, her hands still wrapped around Deirdre’s twitching feet.
The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the ragged, wet breathing of the two women. Deirdre slumped in the chair, gasping, her feet red and throbbing, her toes still curling and uncurling in aftershocks.
Costigan walked over to Deirdre. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him.
"You have spirit. I'll give you that," he whispered. "But spirits can be broken, we just need the right tools."
He turned to Bricks. "Take Ms. Sweeney to Room 4. The soundproof one. Prep the waterboard. We’ll see how defiant she is then."
Deirdre’s eyes went wide, but she didn't beg. She just stared at him with pure, unadulterated hatred. Bricks began to undo the straps on the chair.
Then Costigan turned his cold gaze to Sharon, who was still kneeling on the floor, shaking.
"And you," he said, his voice dripping with disappointment. "You didn't close the deal, Sharon. I gave you a chance to be useful. To be a partner."
He walked over to the cage and kicked the latch open.
"Bricks," Costigan said, not looking away from Sharon’s terrified face. "When you're done moving the prosecutor... put Mrs. Miller back in the stocks. And coat her feet in tuna oil this time. The cats prefer it."
"NO!" Sharon screamed, scrambling backward, but there was nowhere to go. "I tried! I tried! Please! Not the cats! NOT THE CATS!"
"Get her out of my sight," Costigan muttered, turning his back on the prosecutor.
Bricks moved with terrifying speed. He unbuckled and hauled Deirdre out of the chair, his massive arm hooking around her waist like a forklift. Deirdre kicked and thrashed, her bare, red-raw feet pedaling uselessly in the air.
"You can't do this!" Deirdre screamed, her voice cracking as she was dragged toward the heavy steel door. "I am a Federal Prosecutor! I will have this entire building leveled! Do you hear me? I will—"
The heavy door slammed shut, cutting off her threat with a final, booming thud.
Silence rushed back into the interrogation room, heavier and colder than before.
Sharon was left alone with Costigan. She was still on her knees, her hands trembling in her lap, her breath coming in shallow, terrified hitches. She looked up at him, eyes wide and pleading, hoping that now, with the prosecutor gone, the cruelty would end.
"Please..." she whispered, the word barely forming. "I... I tried, Mr. Costigan. You saw me. I scratched her. I did it."
Costigan didn’t answer immediately. He crossed the room and brushed the damp hair from her temple, his touch light, almost kind.
"You did," he agreed softly. "But you hesitated. And in this line of work, hesitation is a liability."
He walked over to the wire-mesh cage. He crouched down, tapping his finger against the bars. Inside, the gaunt tabbies hissed and swiped at him, their claws sparking against the metal.
Scritch-clank.
"Listen to them, Sharon," Costigan murmured. "They don't hesitate. They just do what they're told."
For five agonizing minutes, that was the only sound in the room: the hungry pacing of the cats and the soft hum of the ventilation. Sharon remained frozen, afraid that even a twitch would accelerate her fate. She stared at the door, praying it wouldn't open.
But it did.
The latch clicked. The heavy steel door swung inward.
Bricks filled the frame. He looked like a man who had just taken out the trash. He stepped back into the room, rolling his shoulders, his eyes locking instantly onto Sharon.
"Room 4 is prepped," Bricks grunted, his voice a deep gravel rumble. "She's strapped in."
Costigan nodded, checking his watch. "Good. Let her marinate for a moment." He gestured lazily toward Sharon. "Now, deal with our little under-performer."
Bricks took a step forward.
Sharon scrambled backward on her knees, her hands skidding on the concrete. "No... wait... Please... I did what you asked! Mr. Costigan, please!"
Bricks didn't speak. He just kept coming, his shadow lengthening over her until it swallowed her whole. He reached down, his hand massive and inescapable.
The transition was violent and immediate.
Bricks didn't escort Sharon to the corner; he dragged her.
"NO! NO! I DID IT! I DID EXACTLY WHAT YOU SAID!" Sharon shrieked, her heels skidding uselessly on the concrete as she was hauled toward the wooden stocks. She kicked out wildly, her limbs flailing in a desperate, bicycle-kick of panic, but Bricks was an immovable object.
He slammed her down onto the wooden bench. Before she could scramble away, he grabbed her ankles and shoved them into the cutouts of the heavy oak beam.
CLACK-THUD.
The top beam came down, locking her ankles in place. She was trapped.
"Please! Mr. Costigan! I tried! She wouldn't break! It’s not my fault!" Sharon sobbed, twisting her torso, straining against the wood until her skin burned.
Costigan didn't answer. He just watched from the doorway as Bricks produced a large, unmarked tin and a thick basting brush. He popped the lid. The smell hit Sharon instantly—a pungent, cloying stench of concentrated tuna oil and brine.
"Oh god, no... please, it smells... oh god..."
Bricks grabbed her right foot, immobilizing it with a grip of iron. He slapped the brush against her sole. The oil was cold and thick. He painted it liberally over her arch, slathering it into the creases of her heel, and coating the undersides of her toes.
MROWL! HISS!
The cats in the cage went berserk. They could smell the feast. They threw themselves against the wire mesh, their hunger driving them into a frenzy.
"They like the tuna blend best," Costigan called out casually.
Bricks moved to the left foot, painting it with the same grim efficiency. Then, he did something worse. He took small lengths of rawhide cord and looped them around Sharon’s big toes, pulling them backward and tying them to the frame of the stocks.
Her soles were now stretched taut, the skin of her arches pulled tight as a drum, her toes splayed wide and unable to curl for protection.
"Don't look so worried, Sharon," Costigan said. Bricks slid a thick, black leather blindfold over her eyes, plunging her into a terrifying, smelly darkness. "You won't see them coming." She then heard the splashing as the cans above her feet were refilled.
Sharon heard Costigan's retreating footsteps. "I'm going to check on our prosecutor. Have fun, Sharon."
Sharon heard the heavy door to the room close with a loud thud.
Then came the sound that stopped her heart.
Clank. Creeeeak.
The cage door swung open.
"NO! NO! NOOOO!" Sharon screamed into the darkness, yanking at her restrained ankles.
Bricks didn't say a word but Sharon could hear his heavy footfalls receed before hearing the large door open.
THUD.
The heavy steel door slammed shut, sealing Sharon inside.
Drip.
The first drop of oil from the overhead can landed with a wet splat on her right heel.
Then came the skittering of claws on concrete. Scritch-scritch-scritch.
Then she should l felt it. The tongue was rough, hot, and wet against her freezing cold foot. It dragged agonizingly slowly up the length of her right arch, the barbs catching on every ridge of her skin.
Rrrrrasp.
"HHH-ACK! AAAAH! NO! IT'S SH-HARP!"
Before she could process the first shock, the second cat struck. This one latched onto the taut, oil-slicked ball of her right foot, licking with a frantic, starving intensity. The tiny barbs caught every nerve ending like bolts of abrasive lightning.
Rasp-lap-rasp.
"GNNNN-HAAA! SSS-STOP! KHHH-AAAAH! IT BURNS! IT TICKLES! AAAAH-HA-HA-HAAA!"
Then the third found her left foot. It didn't go for the sole. It buried its face in the splayed, defenseless gap between her big toe and the second digit, its sandpaper tongue snaking deep into the webbing to lap up the pooling oil.
Slurp-rasp-scritch.
"EEE-EEE-EEE! GET OUT! GLLLL-HUCK! NOT THERE! HEEE-YAAA-NOOO! THEY’RE EATING ME! AAAAAH-HA-HA!"
The fourth cat joined the fray, attacking her left heel. Sharon's thrashing was useless. Her feet were painted, tied, and offered up as a buffet. The sensation was a maddening overload of sharp, abrasive friction and intense, electric ticklishness. She was being eaten alive, lick by lick.
"PLEASE! HEEE-HEEE-HAAA! MAKE IT ST-HO-HO-OP! I'LL BE GOOD! I'LL BE GOOOOD! AAAAAH-HAAA-HAAA!"
---
The sound of Sharon’s screams were muffled by the thick walls, but still audible—a distant, rhythmic wailing of pure misery.
Deirdre Sweeney lay strapped to a stainless steel table in the center of a sterile, white-tiled room. She had been stripped down to her white cotton underwear and bra. The table was tilted—Trendelenburg position—so her head was lower than her feet, making the blood rush to her brain, disorienting her.
Her wrists and ankles were cuffed to the rails. Her bare feet, still red and tender from Sharon’s assault, were elevated and displayed prominently under the harsh surgical lights.
Costigan closed the door to the room, blocking out the sounds of Sharon's screams, and moved to stand over her.
"Did you hear that, Deirdre," he whispered, cocking his head toward the distant screams. "That was the sound of your 'star witness.'"
Deirdre glared at him upside down, her chest heaving. "You... are... a monster."
"And Sharon?" Costigan smiled. "She went easy on you today. She was crying. She was hesitant. But in there? With the cats? She's losing the last of her sanity. Next time I bring her in here, she won't be pulling her punches. She'll tear you apart just to save herself."
Deirdre opened her mouth to retort, but Costigan was faster. He slammed a thick, wet rag over her nose and mouth and secured each end to the table.
Deirdre gasped, inhaling water. Panic flared instantly.
Costigan turned on a tap over Deirdre's head. A slow but steady stream of water began to pour onto the rag.
"Gnnnngh! Mmmph! Glub!"
Deirdre thrashed against the straps. The water filled her nose, her throat. The drowning reflex kicked in—the primal, lizard-brain terror of suffocation. Her world narrowed to the desperate need for air.
Costigan watched her struggle for a moment, the water cascading over her face.
Costigan turned off the tap.
The silence that followed was broken only by Deirdre’s desperate, ragged gasps. The water stopped pouring, but the heavy, sodden rag remained clamped over her face.
"Hhh-uhhh... Hhh-uhhh... Mmmph..."
Deirdre heaved in air, the wet fabric sucking against her lips and nostrils with every breath, tasting of damp cotton. She was dizzy, her lungs burning, her entire body trembling in the aftermath of the near-drowning. She thought the worst was over. She thought she would have a moment to stabilize.
Costigan shattered that hope.
"Let’s see how you handle multitasking," Costigan murmured.
He moved to the foot of the table and picked up the long, iridescent Peacock feather from the tray beside the table.
Deirdre’s eyes went wide above the mask. She shook her head frantically, her muffled voice pleading. "Mmm-mm! Nnnn-no!"
Costigan didn't wait. He swept the large, soft eye of the feather right down the center of her exposed, elevated soles.
"MMMPH! HNNNG-HEEE! GNNN-HUCK!"
The reaction was instantaneous. The sensation hit her raw, over-stimulated nerves with the force of a sledgehammer. The feather was ghostly soft, agonizingly light, and terrifyingly electric.
Deirdre tried to hold her breath to suppress the reaction, but the feather danced relentlessly over her arch. Her body betrayed her. Her diaphragm spasmed, forcing a burst of air out in a stifled laugh.
"MMMM-HAAA-HAAA! STOP! MMPH-HEEE!"
And then came the panic.
She had laughed the air out. Now she needed to breathe it back in. She gasped, but the wet rag sucked tight against her open mouth, sealing off the flow.
"HHHH-NNNNG! MMMM! GASP!"
Costigan didn't stop. He glided the feathery fronds between her violently flexing toes, teasing the sensitive webbing.
"So. Would you like to reconsider your stance on the upcoming court case, Ms. Sweeney?"
Deirdre thrashed against the straps, her toes curling and splaying in a frantic, helpless rhythm. She was caught in a suffocation loop—the feather forced her to laugh, the laughter emptied her lungs, and the wet rag refused to let her refill them.
"MMMPH-HEEE! I C-CAN'T! HNNNG-HAAA! MMPH-ST-OOOOP!"
Costigan watched the prosecutor’s feet dance—a twitching, curling display of pure neurological overload—and smiled as the wet, desperate sounds of her stifled laughter filled the sterile room.
The system was officially broken.
Next Chapter
Attachments
Last edited:
