Hidden Agenda II

Hidden Agenda II

By Marauder

read Hidden Agenda I first ! -->
http://www.ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?threadid=93


Rain still beating the streets, obscuring buildings, washing the smog out of the air and reaching the ground no longer clear and refreshing, but sludgy and acidic. The streetlights almost hidden behind the driving sheets of water from an angry, purulent sky. The birds-eye view of the town showing only the monuments of commerce seemingly drowned in the torrential downpour, yet there, on the roof -FOCUS- a lone figure, lying down, holding something, something long, something gleaming darkly, wetly, -FOCUS- a sniper rifle. The figure lies motionlessly, appearing not so much dead as part of the roof. Only the muzzle is projecting over the rim. The figure seems shapeless, wrapped with a poncho in gray and black camouflage, the bulkiness beneath the garment evidencing body armor, the head and face obscured by a tight mask, only the eyes are free... -FOCUS- Hawk-like, green-gray eyes, merciless eyes. Narrowed now, the perfect sniper eyes. Lying, waiting, patiently, ever ready for the kill, it seems. The eyes shine coldly, right one staring through the scope, left one resting. Seldom blinking. A lone raindrop hangs from one set of long leashes. The figure seems not to notice.

Doctor Craig was busy overseeing the new instructions from his superiors, a thick folder on the future expectations they had, considering his facility. His intercom beeped three times, startling him once again. He pushed the receiver button a little too quickly, betraying his nervousness. "Craig." The tinny voice from the intercom had lost none of its mechanical smugness. "Doctor Craig, you have a visitor." Craig barked at it - "Details !" "Your visitor has identified himself as Morpheus." Craig tensed up considerably. "Morpheus" was the code name of his superior's most prominent Sleeper amongst the leading FBI personal. If he came to him, to visit him in the facility of all places, the news had to be very important indeed. He looked back to the folder on his desk and suppressed the need to hit something. When things start to go downhill, he thought, they tend to pick up speed along the way. He took a few deep breaths. "Send him in."
The door buzzed open, and "Morpheus" entered. A tall man, middle aged, clad in an expensive business suit, gray, full hair cut to fit the latest wall-street fashion, a hard face, lines making him look older than he was, dark shades hiding his eyes. A thin-lipped, brutal mouth. No man to be trifled with. Craig waved him towards the visitors chair and sat down himself, once "Morpheus" had taken the seat with a pained, short gasp. Craig knew that he had been injured in the field. He looked at his visitor with barely suppressed anxiety. "Mr. Morpheus. What an honor to have you here," Craig started, but "Morpheus" raised a hand to cut him off. "Doctor Craig, we have no time for idle introductory chit-chat," the man said in a measured voice that merely hinted at his own nervousness. "Your people have crossed a line. I thought we were clear that every extraction of experimental human material was to be cleared with us first."
Craig wanted to say something, but "Morpheus" cut him off again. "Now you've really managed to get the shit flying, and it's well on it's way towards the biggest goddamn fan I've ever seen. One of your latest extractions has directed a whole damn lot of undue attention to this... operation of yours. Way to go, good job." Craig managed to get some words in at this point, and his voice was as nervous as his face was pale by now. "What are you talking about ? Our associates have taken care to wipe all traces - besides, they only acquire targets that have little or no traceable ties..." "Shut up, Craig. This is serious. The current situation you are in is way, way beyond FUBAR, and if you're going down, you're going to take a lot of people with you. We can't risk that. We need to do something."
Craig sat back, opened a drawer of his desk, took out a bottle filled with pills, shook out two into his palm, and swallowed them dry. He coughed twice, then drew a couple of deep breaths, closing his eyes. "Morpheus" continued, unimpressed by his actions. "Your people have extracted two specimens that were under observation from our own agents. Not only that, but the agents watching those two happen to be partners. Now they're both on your trail. And one of them is the last person you ever wanted to sniff at your butt."
Craig had composed himself again. He looked at his visitor. "So what do we do ?" "Nothing. Officially. Nothing of what we're going to do will be on any of our records. What's going to happen will be merely a series of misunderstandings and accidents. Get it ?" Craig nodded. "So what's the problem, and how can we solve it ?" "Morpheus" looked at him through his dark glasses. "The two agents will be traced and their positions reported to you. You have associates that will take care of them. We're talking wetwork here. Make it look like a gang-bang or something." Craig nodded. "Sounds easy enough." Suddenly, "Morpheus" jumped up and reached over the desk, grabbing Craig by the collar and pulling him forward with a hard tug. "You don't understand the scale of this !" he screamed. "One of the agents is a good man, but a complete dork. But that other one -" He shook Craig for emphasis, "Agent Tenegra is one of the most successful agents we ever had ! She's straight from the Sniper squad ! Out psychologists attested her homicidal tendencies, and her IQ is off the scale ! We'd have fired her, if her record hadn't been so goddamn clean !" He let go of Craig, who had lost his glasses and flopped back into his chair, clutching his chest. "Morpheus" sat down again, trying to calm down. He continued, "And don't even think of grabbing her for your own little experiments. I don't care what our superiors have to say about this whole twisted scheme of yours, I know you enjoy torturing those girls. This isn't your private garden of delights, though ! The whole damn plan could fail if your little torture chamber is exposed to the public !"
Craig had caught himself again and replaced his glasses. He smiled crookedly. "Don't pretend to know what the plan is. I'm merely doing my part. As are you. You have no more knowledge of the true faces behind all this than I do." "Morpheus" fumed, but kept it hidden behind a calm exterior. "And I don't care to know it either. Still, this whole tickle torture business is plain stupid. What the hell do you expect from this ? You're just catering your own little fetish." Craig shook his head. "Though it's none of your business, it wasn't me who decided that we should research tickling here. If it had been left to me, I'd have chosen other measures of disciplining those girls." He shrugged. "But our superiors were clear on this subject, and thus, tickling it is." He got up and cocked his head. "If that will be all ?" His visitor got up and, with another wince, made for the door. On his way out, he turned one more time. "We'll give you the information on the two agents. You take them out. Clear ?" Craig nodded. "Clear. Good bye."
Once "Morpheus" had left, he sat back down. His eyes wandered back to the folder on his desk. He realized that the results his superiors requested from the facility demanded proof beyond broken street-punks and homeless girls gone insane. He needed to present them with a true case of a headstrong woman who had been turned by their methods. And this agent - He would have to wait for her file, but it looked like he would be able to kill two flies with a single swat here. Maybe this day would prove to be the turn that got his business safely off the downward slope. Still, he was interested to find out which two of his latest acquisitions had been the ones that had set the hounds on his tails. He decided to go and have a look at them - maybe he'd be able to find it out for himself.
And besides, he thought with a small grin, he could do with a little diversion. While it was true that he had been more of a "standard", run of the mill sadist when he had started in the employ of his superiors and opened the facility, tickling had started to intrigue him. The way those girls writhed and screamed under light touches... Something about it turned him on immensely. "Maybe tickling's a sort of rub-off fetish," he thought to himself. With a laugh, he went out into the halls of the facility, towards the current stations of his latest prisoners, eager to see their ticklish bodies and hear their desperate laughter...

On a rain-beaten rooftop, a shadowy figure appeared from the elevator shaft in the middle of the stained concrete expanse and slowly, quietly, stalked toward another shadow at the roof's edge, a prone, slim shadow that all but melted into the obscure, gray wetness. The stalking shadow closed in, inching along, something in one hand. Just as it came within three feet of the other shadow, the prone figure suddenly whipped around, almost to fast for the eye to follow, and the upright shadow stared into the large-bore muzzle of the sniper rifle. For a second, none of them moved. Then, both laughed quietly, the upright one with a few short guffaws, the prone one with a low, dry chuckle. It got up, and it became clear that it was really a woman, small and sinewy, in camouflaged fatigues. The other one was taller, square shouldered, masculine, also clad in combat camouflage, and the object in his hand was a paper bag. Soaked now, of course. He grinned. "Nice ears, Kim." The women shrugged and returned the grin - on her face, it looked predatory. "Thanks, but my tits are even better." Both laughed again. Kim cocked her head towards the elevator. "Want to go ? It's useless here. I got all the data I need, and I don't think I want to snuff anyone yet." The man flinched, but nodded. "Okay, let's get our asses into the dry." She raised an eyebrow. "No wet T-shirt contest ? Oh well, I'd win anyway." And she led the way, pointedly ignoring the man's discomfort. She called back with an amused voice, "Coming, Rick ?" He followed her.
A short while later, they sat in a warm hotel room at a table, looking at a mess of printouts and photos on it. They had changed into black jogging pants and equally black T-shirts, and Rick had trouble keeping his eyes on the table. Kim had occupied his wet dreams since they had been assigned as partners, and she knew that, too. Strange - her athletic, boyish body wasn't the type he usually preferred, and neither was her cynical outlook in life, but something about her had struck home in his libido. Maybe it was the way she moved. She had an almost insectoid way of moving. No move was wasted. She radiated danger. And he knew that danger was a massive sexual incentive.
She looked up and caught his eyes, just as they were resting on her small, pert breasts that pushed slightly against the tight shirt. "I don't think my tits are the object of this observation," she remarked with a raised eyebrow, and grinned at him, showing way too many teeth. He had never seen her smiling, she always grinned as if she was about to go for the throat, he mused while he took his eyes off her breasts with a twinge of shame and guilt. She slapped him on the shoulder, still grinning. "But I understand that I'm a lot more fascinating to you than those pictures. Still, it would be nice if you'd either pay attention to our objective, or stop staring at me and get some more coffee." He nodded, smiled and got up hurriedly to fetch more coffee. Kim had a certain rep within his department. She had been playing bait in a rape case once, and when the suspect had tried to subdue her in a lonely spot in the park, the Bureau had reacted too slow. The reinforcement agents had arrived much too late, ten minutes after the assault, and her radio had been disengaged when she'd been jumped. Yet, when the other agents found her, she had been sitting on a bench, peeling an apple with her assailant's knife,
and the suspect had been lying behind a few bushes. The morticians had been counting the slashes in his body for almost two hours. It had been ruled a case of self-defense, but after that case, no-one in the department had tried to put any moves on agent Kim Tenegra.
Rick Baxter returned with two steaming cups filled with Kim's trademark Brew of Death - Coffin Varnish didn't begin to describe the stuff she called coffee. She took one of the cups and took a deep drag. Rick pulled a face. He only sipped at his cup, and the vileness of the goo made all his hairs stand on end. Kim sighed. "Ah, I needed that." She looked into the cup and grinned again. "Coffee. The great equalizer. It unites the poor and the rich, the good and the bad, it happens to kings and beggars..." Rick interrupted her. "That's death you're talking about." She re-directed her grin from the tar-like insides of her cup to his face. "Death or my coffee - who'd know the difference ?"
After the laughs, he sat back down and looked at the table. "Alright. Your suspect was captured by the cops and vanished. Mine disappeared from the streets. Where's the connection ?" Kim pointed at a few photos. "The vans. They gave it all away." Rick looked at the pictures. "They got the same plates." "Yes." She pointed at a printout. "Registered on a certain George Griffin. Now I'd like to know what the good George wants with those vans." Rick nodded. "Maybe move from one graveyard to another." Kim pointed at another printout. "Exactly. George Griffin died five years ago. And then one of my informers told me that he saw a lot of black vans going through his street. They blundered." "Yeah." Both looked at a map of the city. "And you say you saw enough at that office building ?" She nodded. "A lot of people going in and out of it. I recognized most of them. This is where they have some sort of gathering place." "Sure it ain't employees ?" Kim shook her head. "Too many. No registry in the offices or the building's domestic staff. Another blunder." She pointed at a group of tacked-together printout with staff listings. "These people go in, stay for a while, some for days, then come out again. I watched the fucking building for a whole week, and there's a pattern there. They ain't staying in the building, either. I got into it one night and had a look..."
Rick sighed. "Illegal, Kim." "Who gives a fuck, Rick. Anyway, they weren't in there. Now, this sounds like conspiracy theory paranoia hard at work, but I say secret passage." "Bull." "No. Only explanation, Watson. Rule out the impossible and such." Rick stared at the floor plans of the building. "Damnit. What now ?" "I say we get reinforcements and move. I want my suspect back. I was after the slut for almost two years, on and off. She ain't getting away through some sort of underground railroad here." Rick grumbled, but he had to agree. As little solid evidence as they had, he wasn't about to let his suspect get away like this, either. She was still his only lead to the terrorist organization he was investigating, and her disappearance had severed all leads he had. He squared shoulders and jaw. Yes, he'd get her. No way he'd give up and leave her to laugh at him from her hiding place...

Hidden Agenda II (cont.)

Of course, his suspect wasn't laughing at him. She was laughing, alright, but her mirth wasn't directed at anything specific, neither had it been for those last terrible weeks. She was sitting in a sturdy wooden chair, tied securely to it with leather straps, her arms tied to a chain running to a pulley in the ceiling with a pair of padded handcuffs. The chain was pulled taut, and her arms were pointing straight up. She was clad only in a flimsy green hospital gown, but its sides had been ripped open, exposing a thin ribcage that was further accentuated by her pulled-up arms. This arrangement led to her sides and underarms being extremely vulnerable, of course, but then, that was the point. Two male apprentices in their blue turtleneck sweaters and black jeans were seated on comfortable chairs at both sides of the bound girl, both busying themselves with a massive study of tickle torture.
They fingered her smoothly shaven underarms with sometimes gentle, sometimes deep caresses, scribbling their fingers inside the warm hollows, while counting her ribs with the other hand. The face of their victim was disfigured by forced laughter, but they paid no heed to her obvious agony. Instead, they joked amongst themselves. They were here to learn about tickle torture, and this woman was a great research subject. Once in a while, one of them would let one hand wander down her side, onto her thighs, tickling the bare inside with rapid scratches, renewing her howls, then continuing to her knee and squeezing there, forcing shrill giggles and shrieks out of her. They looked at her bare feet with amusement. They had been strapped to the chair's legs at the ankles, but were otherwise free to move. And move they did - they squirmed, they flexed, the toes groped at nothing, clenching and unclenching... And underneath her feet, the floor had been lined with a multitude of brushes pointing upwards. Her flexing soles moved over these brushes, and so she effectively tickled her own sensitive soles and toes. A lovely arrangement.
They joked at her expense some more while never slowing down the torturous tickling they put her through. "I really don't see why you don't just keep those feet of yours still," one of them said into her ear, almost hidden by the straining, thin arm cradling her head and the masses of sweat-soaked brown hair. "You're only making it worse for yourself." The response, of course, was only more laughter. "I'll tell you what," the other apprentice said. "If you want us to stop this, you just need to whistle Dixie. Can you do that ?" He tickled her armpit with even more flourishing sweeps of his fingers, and both men laughed at her attempts to purse her lips. She didn't stand a chance.
"Well, if you don't want it to stop, we're happy to oblige ! We'll just keep it up, and we'll tickle you heeeere..." -fingers scrambling madly in her ticklish armpits- "...and heeeere..." -poking up and down the ribs- "...and, of course, heeere...." -once more the hands left her ribs and tickled her thighs on the insides, and she bucked and screamed desperately- "...and those kneeees..."
The door opened and Craig entered the cell. The screams and laughter of all those other ticklish women here in the Practice Center filled the air, until he shut the door once more. The two apprentices made as if to get up, but he only waved them to remain seated. "Go on, go on," he grinned. "I knew I forgot something. Didn't I want to move this specimen to another department some days ago ?" The two apprentices dug in with renewed vigor, both eager to show their improved knowledge of tickling to the boss of the facility. Craig nodded. "I'll make sure to mark it down this time. Anyway, did she say anything during her stay here ?" The two young men at her sides laughed. "Sure she did, every time we stop the treatment. Would you like to hear it, Doctor ?" Craig nodded again. "Yes. " The two men stopped their manipulations of the bound woman's ticklish skin, but her laughter continued for a couple more minutes afterwards, while residual sensations continued to cruise around her body. Her feet were also still wiggling across the brushes' tickling bristles, continuing her torture, until she gathered enough willpower to force herself to keep her flailing feet still, so that the tickling was replaced by the irritating feel of brushes resting against the hot, sensitive skin of her soles. Then she managed to slow down to a weak giggling, and she looked around the cell with terrified eyes, streaked with tear tracks.
One of the apprentices merely wiggled his fingers at her, and at once she renewed her bucking and laughing, squeezing her eyes shut in horror... "She's conditioned, it seems," Craig said with an amused glance. The apprentices only smiled. When the woman felt no fingers caressing her hypersensitive skin to throw her into another fit of forced laughter, she opened her eyes again, reluctantly, still giggling. Craig motioned for the two apprentices to leave, and they did so, however regretful. Craig crouched down in front of her bound form, sitting on his heels, his hands folded between his knees, right above her feet and just a fraction of an inch away from her knees. He felt the warmth she radiated. When he looked up, he met her eyes. "...please... (giggle) ...please, no more..." she said in a small, hoarse voice. He gave her a stern look. "Would you like me to get those two men back in here and resume the tickling ?" he asked. She shook her head in blind panic and spurted out, "NO ! NO ! PLEASE ! I'll do ANYTHING ! Please, no more ! Please !" He nodded. "Then you will need to learn that you will not speak unless spoken to. Is that clear ?" She nodded, started to say that she understood, but stopped herself and resumed nodding even more rapidly. The sides of her head rubbed against her trapped arms.
Craig looked pleased. "Good. Now, I want to ask you a few questions. I want you to answer me truthfully and clearly. Clear ?" She nodded again, not daring to say a word out of fear. "What does the FBI mean to you ?" Her eyes opened wide. "Is this what this is all about ? Some kind of interrogation ?!?" She realized her mistake to late. Craig's hands shot out towards her sides as he got up and bent towards her, and then his fingers were all over her vulnerable ribcage in a flurry of motions. "NO NO NOHOOHOHOHOHO PLEEEHEHEHEHEHZE HAAAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAH !!! AAAHAHAAHHAHAAHHAA !!!!!" Ignoring her pleas, he continued to knead her ribs with gentle but steady motions, enjoying the feel of the hot skin stretched so firmly above the delicate bones, the writhing body, the desperate face... "Elize, you will answer truthfully and clearly. If I want you to editorialize, I'll say so. Clear ?" "CLEEEHEHEHER YEEEHEHEHEHES PLEEEHEHEH EEEK !!!! EEEEK ! EEK ! EEEEK !!! HEEHEHEHEHEEEK !!! AAAHAHAHAHAHAAAA !!! CLEEEHEHEEHR PLEEEHEHESE I GOOHOHOHOT EEEHEHEHEET !!!" He continued the tickling for two long minutes, listening gleefully to her assurances that she understood and her pleas for mercy, then sat back down on his heels. Her feet had tickled themselves as before, and as always it took her a long time to control herself enough that talking became possible. When it took too long, Craig helped her by grabbing hold of her feet, causing her to scream in terror, but instead of the tickling onslaught she expected, he kept the feet still long enough for her to compose herself. She looked at him, pleadingly. "Please... please... the FBI... they hunted me, that's why I went out onto the streets... to hide..." Craig raised an eyebrow. "What did they want from you ?" Elize sobbed. "They... they suspect me to be... in contact with a group of terrorists..." "And are you ?" "Yes... yes... please..." Craig looked at her with a sudden flash of insight. "You're not just in contact, are you ?" She was crying now, broken. Her fragile body shook, and her small face was a mask of self-hatred. "No... I made the bombs... I created them... I'm good at that... That's all I'm good for..." "Which terrorist group ? The name." She sobbed some more, and Craig rested a threatening hand on her left knee, ready for another onslaught. Her eyes flew open in terror. "The New Dawn ! They call themselves The New Dawn ! PLEASE !!!" "Good. Thank you." Craig gave her knee a playful squeeze as he got up. "Who could resist ?", he thought to himself as she shrieked. Then he opened the door. "Gentlemen, she's all yours again. Make sure to pay her all the attention she is due."
Elize looked after him in terror. "NO ! PLEASE !!! NOT AGAIN !!! Please, I told you FUCKING EVERYTHING !!! PLEASE !!!" Craig left, walking down the halls filled with laughter, and the door closed behind him, cutting off the woman's screams. He smiled to himself. Time for the others.

Kim Tenegra watched as Rick Baxter talked on the phone. A secure line to HQ. She didn't need to actually hear the conversation - his responses and the look on his face told her all she needed to know. She bent down to tighten the laces on her size five combat boot while he finished spitting the last sentences into the receiver. When she straightened up, she made sure to stretch back, her arms over her head, chest pushing outwards. Little things like this always got his jaw to drop, and that was a blast to behold. She snickered while he recovered from both the conversation and his realization that his boxers were suddenly way too tight. "Well ?" she asked with an arched eyebrow. She scratched the back of her head through the short stubble of her crew cut.
He swallowed, his larynx bobbing. "They want more evidence," he uttered. "Well..." she said, turning towards the table and the plans and photos scattered on it, "We can't give them any more without going in there and getting it from the source, and without a warrant it's useless if we get it. Am I the only one who thinks that this whole thing reeks of a cover-up ?" He nodded. "My thought exactly." She turned towards the door. "Let's go anyway. We can always just go in and fake an Agent Down call. Or something like that." He shook his head. "Won't work. Not after we called them. They're going to throw us out of the Bureau and bang our heads against the door on the way." She grinned again. "I got a hard head. I'm gonna go anyway, see if I can't find some evidence that they can't simply sweep under the carpet. After all, I'm the best." Rick grimaced and went over to the window. Looking out, he watched the rain-beaten street... All those people hurrying from shelter to shelter... The city looked especially bleak tonight.
He turned his head and said, "We can't do it. Best thing would be to just quit and look for another assignment." She stared at him. "I'm not giving up." "Kim, we don't stand a chance. You don't understand what we're up against here. You're always so eager, you think you can outrun them all. And it's lovely to see you running." She grinned. "Thanks." "But you can't outrun them. These people are ruthless. If they don't want us to find out something about them, they'll make sure we don't. The leading bunch, top of the crop, they won't be intimidated by you. They probably got something to do with this escape business. They tell us to stop investigating - we stop investigating. What do you want to do ? Disobey your bosses ?" Kim grinned even wider. "I'm my own boss." "No, Kim. You work for the goddamn FBI. You can't just decide to do what you think is right, or you might end up left on the roadside." Kim turned around to face him fully. "You know damn well that I can take care of myself. I pulled stuff like this off in the past. Cost me a few promotions, but got the job done. Remember ?" "Yes, but this is a direct order you want to disobey." "What are they going to do ? Kill me ?" Rick started to reply, but in this instant, his chest exploded in a shower of blood.
The crack of the bullet seemed to take forever to follow up. While the glass of the window showered to the ground, Rick stared down at himself, trying to deny himself the knowledge of his death, then he collapsed, slowly, crumpling to the ground, folding over, his surprised face coming to rest in a rapidly spreading pool of his own blood. At the same instant, the door flew open. Kim whipped around, her face cold, and reached for the sniper rifle on one of the chairs, when taser darts slammed into her chest, and the last thing she saw were the ski-masked faces of three people in black suits forcing their way through the door.

Craig was smiling happily while amusing himself with the pair of bare soles trapped in front of him, when his beeper sounded. Momentarily distracted, he stopped the constant tickling he had been putting the feet through for more than thirty minutes, and looked at the display of the little electronic dictator. "Oh well," he thought, "Back to the office." He looked back at the small pink soles that quivered in their bonds, and the plaques besides them. Sole storage had received a redesign after a new apprentice had pointed out a few possible improvements. Now the compartments were more personalized.
Besides the bare feet pointing out, toes securely bound by small clamps, each coffin-like compartment now displayed a portrait picture of its unfortunate occupant, most smiling from the pictures as if nothing was wrong, and also a chart of the soles, pointing out the most effective techniques and especially receptive spots. Craig looked from the soles to the picture and back. Twyla Connors looked back at him from the picture, sneering with mock amusement from underneath her green hair, while her soles twitched in the aftermath of the tickle torture she had just received all over the most ticklish spots on her hypersensitive soles. A red bar framed her picture, marking her as one of the few with a ticklishness rating of one hundred. Craig was pretty sure that the sneer, which had been captured on the picture during her observation prior to her acquisition, had been thoroughly wiped from her face by now. He pressed the button that caused the mechanical tickling machines to resume their torturous treatment of her soft soles, and stood back from her casket. The four arms, all sporting a variety of small, vibrating brushes, went to work at once, going straight for the hot spots on her soles, located in the arches and just under the toes.
Craig looked around and once more enjoyed the picture of hundreds of soles undergoing their daily routine of tickling. He grinned at the thought of all those trapped women in the compartments, never knowing what came next, while the arms switched tools, sometimes stopping the torture for a few hours, then resuming it without compassion. He turned and left, the sound of all those tools scratching soft soles the only noise behind him.

Back in his office, he picked up the phone and called the number his beeper displayed. "Doctor Craig here." He listened. "Very good !" His face split in a mean smile. "Have her brought to one of the test chambers at once !" Another short while of listening. "Good work. Now, remember, she has been killed along with her partner in the pipe-bomb blast, right ? Yes, the New Dawn terrorist group. I got certain information that the man was hunting them. They put them out of business. Make sure that all ends are tied." He put the phone down and relaxed in his chair. "It'll be interesting to see just how receptive this FBI agent is to our special treatments," he mused. But while he waited, there was something that he could do to pass the time until the testing phase of their newest inmate was finished. He never watched the tests of new arrivals - he preferred to be surprised by the results.
He turned to his intercom. "Query - Where is Maria Miller located ?" The intercom buzzed, then answered smugly, "Miller, Maria. In holding cell fifteen. Scheduled treatments - None." Craig grinned. "Put holding Cell fifteen on screen." The painting on the wall moved aside to reveal the screen, which flickered to life to show the captured goth girl curled up on the bed, shaking with silent sobs. Craig grinned. This would be fun.

Maria was hugging her knees, lying on her cot, her mind aflame with terror. She had been tortured by those monsters seemingly forever, and she couldn't stand another round. She knew that she'd go insane if they ever tied her up again, from the knowledge of what would come alone, and then the tickling would start AGAIN... she sobbed in desperation. The crackling of a speaker activating caused her to scream. "Maria Miller. Get up." She screamed and buried her head between her knees. "NOOOOOO !!!!" The metallic voice continued. "Maria Miller. Get up now, or you will suffer the consequences." Sobbing, Maria slowly unfolded her cramped-up body and stood up from her cot, her whole body shaking in terror. "Please..." she whispered. "Look at the screen in the corner of your cell, Maria Miller."
She obliged, her eyes wide. The screen was black, but suddenly came to life. When she saw what it displayed, she started crying harder still, her body heaving... The sound was cut, but she could clearly make out herself, lying on that goddamn rack, and four people working her over, all over, tickling her body, tickling and tickling... She shut her eyes and let out a wail of terror. The voice sounded again, sounding amused, even through the metallic distortions. "This is a recording of your treatment three days ago. Look closely. Observe." She shook her head... "PLEASE !!! PLEASE !!!" "Maria Miller, you will look at the screen, or we will have to take drastic measures." Maria opened her eyes again, tears flowing down her pale cheeks, sobbing freely, lips quivering. The picture cut to a close-up of a pair of soles, held immobile by cruel hands around the backs of the toes, while four ballpoint pens were idly doodling designs on the flushed skin. She let out a shriek - watching this made her soles flash in hot remembrance of the tortures they had suffered... Those were her soles, she knew it at once. This had been done to HER. This could be done to her all over again. She whimpered in horror.
"Maria Miller, keep watching the screen. This is a recording of your treatment four days ago." Another cut, now the screen showed her hung by her wrists, while two men in laboratory whites were busy tickling her armpits and sides with a detached, professional look on their faces, and her bound form on the screen was screaming, laughing, squirming... She squirmed along in her cell, and clutched her sides in terror, as if still feeling the fingers, those horrible fingers ALL OVER HER... she collapsed in a heap on the floor, screaming, screaming... "Maria Miller, get up. GET UP !" She shook her head, curled up into a protective fetal ball again, starting to rock back and forth on the floor, still screaming in nameless anguish. "Get up, or you will be tickled in ways that make everything that has happened to you yet look like a mere irritation. And this time, we will tickle you for days without any pause, until you go insane. Do you want that ?" "NOOOOOO !!!! PLEASE !!! PLEEEEEEEEEASE !!!" "THEN GET UP !" the voice barked. Maria got up, her face wild, her long black hair disheveled. Raw fear raged in her eyes.
"Look at the screen." She obliged. She saw herself in a set of stocks, her feet extended towards... "NOOOO !!! PLEASE !!! NOT THAT !!!" She watched the goats licking, and her body threatened to collapse all over again... Her toes cringed at the remembrance... The goats had licked her feet, and it had felt like... like... She screamed again. "Maria Miller, you will watch the screen very closely. In about an hour, you will be taken from your cell, and one of the treatments you can see on the screen will be resumed." She wailed in dreadful anguish. "But," the voice continued, "You will have a say in what kind of tickling you will have to endure. We will ask you about your preferences. And you can name the tickle torture of your choosing. So watch closely, and try to remember exactly how each treatment felt. You will have only one opportunity to choose." Maria despaired... "No... please..." she sobbed. "Please.. you can't... please, no, not that..." "Choose wisely, Maria Miller. The tickle treatment of your choice will be continued for a whole sixteen hours. So make sure you name one you can bear for that amount of time."
Maria stumbled back from the screen. "No - No - No - NO !!!" "Yes. Indeed. But to make you more comfortable during the period of choosing, I will read you something - A letter from your parents." The sound of a throat clearing. "Dear Maria, I hope you are well. Daddy and I are so proud that our daughter helps the matter of national security, even though we miss you very much. I hope that you'll forgive us for sending you off, but it's for your own good. We hope that you'll see it the same way..." The voice paused. "Are you paying attention to the screen, Maria Miller ?" it asked sardonically over the din of screams...

Craig sat back in his chair, watching the young goth girl tearing at her hair; then he resumed reading the letter. This was a great day, he thought. He couldn't wait until the agent had been tested - It would be a great feeling to break her spirit. He watched the screen while he read on. The girl was going crazy. Good. This messing with her mind was almost as entertaining as was the actual tickling. He'd make sure to join in the tickle torture anyway. Her skin was so very sensitive... It would be a shame to leave it to untrained hands to torture her.

Kim awoke and found herself in a strange contraption. Machines all around her. She lifted her head. She was alone in a mechanically furnished room... All those arms... The arms started moving. With alarm, she realized that she was naked, and the arms were equipped with instruments that could only be designed for one thing... "Shit !" she screamed, and then she lost coherence.
Outside, the two guards looked at the screens in awe. "Man." "Yeah." The stylized, rotating, green female figure on one of the displays turned white. "Oh, man." "Holy shit." One of them reached out to touch the button for the voice feed. Immediately, mind-numbing screams filled the small room, and both men almost scrambled over one another to turn it off again. They stared at the screens some more. "The Doc's going to love this..." "No shit, Sherlock." They watched some more long minutes. A few red lights started blinking. "Oh shit ! Turn the sole probes down ! We're losing her !" The other one hurriedly turned some dials until the red lights winked off. "Look at the fucking STRAIN she puts on the bonds !" the first one whispered. "Shit !"
They looked on. "Oh man, good thing we got her. We'll need to recalculate the whole damn scale." "Yeah." "Loads of work." "Needs to be done anyway. I've heard of cases like her, but this is the first time I actually saw one." "Yeah." They turned some more dials. "Watch out for the blood pressure, it's going through the roof." "I got it." "I always thought that this level of sensitivity was a legend." "No, it's real, but rare." They looked at the screens, at the close-ups of brushes traversing a pair of small, soft, twitching soles, the probes in the underarms, circling the smooth skin with precision, the metal, rubber-clad hands kneading the ribs... and the madly fluctuating curves of their subject's physical read-outs.
"Turn down the resolution on the sensitivity display. It can't really be all in the white." "Okay." A dial was turned slowly, but the stylized, rotating female figure on one of the screens stayed a solid white. "Shit." "Yeah." "We need to call the Doc. He'll think we're pulling his leg when he gets those results." "Hmm. But he'll find out the truth once he gets his hands on her." "Yeah." More red lights started blinking. "Man, and that's just her belly !" "I know. Turn it down." They watched. The screens flickered. The buzz of the computers was all that could be heard. Their eyes were wide with disbelief. "Shit." "Yeah."

go to Hidden Agenda III -->
http://66.78.4.9/~tforum/showthread.php?postid=572#post572



If you liked this tale of ticklish torture, pay heed ! You can read more of my works, along with many other pieces of high quality fiction, in Tales From The Asylum, the ultimate resource for fiendish tickling fiction and art, and on the magazine's website -
http://www.MTJpub.com !

A must read

Part Deux - <bump>

loved this part to!

The link to part 3 doesn't work:-(