Hidden Agenda

Hidden Agenda

By Marauder

Prologue

An autumn street, leaves blowing between the legs of passers-by. Somewhere in a big City, New York perhaps. Clouded sky, looks like rain. People hurry along, their shoulders hunched against cold wind. There, at the corner -FOCUS- a young punk girl, bugging people for spare change. Perhaps eighteen or so, short, spiked bright green hair, torn jeans, ratty leather jacket, combat boots. A business man hurries past -FOCUS- 'Spare some change, man ?' A short glance. 'No, sorry.' He passes quickly. She whips around after him; 'Then go fuck yourself, holier-than-thou yuppie asshole !' He throws her a glance, then walks on. Takes out his cellular; 'Got one, run check.'

A homeless shelter, somewhere in the outskirts. Rain beating down, just now turning to slate. Light shines through a window. Inside -FOCUS- human debris cuddles around the only oven. Some sipping from brown paper-bags. Outside the throng, a huddled figure sits, clad in army surplus and old blankets. The door opens, a figure enters, looks around. Its -FOCUS- a middle aged man in a business suit, a button on his coat says 'Christian Aid' He approaches the lone figure -FOCUS- who lifts her head. Its a young woman with disheveled, sticky looking long brown hair and a dirty, thin face. Huge, green eyes, swollen from crying. 'Why don't you join the others ?' She shrugs. 'Don't care for company. Leave me alone.' He raises an eyebrow, turns and leaves. Outside -FOCUS- he takes his phone from his jacket; 'Subject found. Specifics follow.'

Somewhere in the suburbs, rows and rows of expensive real estate, neatly trimmed lawns, hedges immaculately, small, decorative trees shaking in the cold blasts of wind. One house in particular, two stories, white plaster with vines up the sides... A window on the second floor illuminated by candlelight; Inside -FOCUS- walls painted black, a bed covered in black silk sheets, The Cure pouring out off the stereo. At the black desk, covered with candles and small trinkets, looking almost like an altar -FOCUS- a young woman, long, jet black hair, unhealthily pale, black lipstick, heavy make up, maybe twenty years old, writing something -FOCUS- a piece of dark poetry. -FOCUS- The front door opens. A man in a business suit is leaving, waving back to a concerned looking couple, probably the girls parents. They glance at each other, looking at the same time uneasy and relieved. Then they shut the door. The man -FOCUS- climbs into his car and picks up his phone; 'Positive on this one. Prepare acquisition.'

Uptown at night, sheets of rain obscuring the view. A large building -FOCUS- a museum, still lit. A glass dome, lit from within. Inside, a small figure -FOCUS- climbs carefully down a rope from an open skylight. A short, slender person in a tight, black bodysuit. Face hidden behind a cloth mask. Slowly lowering towards a huge gem in a display box. Reaching in, delicately pulling the stone from its pedestal, then ascending quickly. Climbing through the skylight -FOCUS- and putting the gem into a duffel bag, along with the climbing equipment. Pulling off the mask; a narrow, almost triangular, impish face, short, bleached white hair standing out at all angles, quickly plastering to her head - a woman, twenty-three years at most. A wide grin splits her face as -FOCUS- a man on the other side of the street puts down his binoculars and picks up his cellular from his business suits pocket; 'Found her. Prepare the team. Tip off the cops.'

Acquisitions

A black van, hidden in a side alley. Inside -FOCUS- four people looking at computer screens.
'Relatives ?' 'None known. Looks like a runaway to me.' Keyboard clicking. 'Roger that. Found the missing persons file.' 'Name ?' 'Twyla Connors.' 'Data ?' 'Just a sec.' Clicking, clicking, typing. 'Age eighteen. Mother dead. Ran from home five years ago in Chicago. Seen in a few cities since then. Has the habit to leave without a word whenever it suits her, found three more police inquiries filed by friends.' 'Perfect. Correct her status.' 'Roger that.' Typing. A soft beeping noise. 'She's going to be found dead, burnt beyond recognition, at the next opportunity. Greetings from the minister.' 'Alright. Let's move in.' -FOCUS- the van rolls onto the street, picks up speed, vanishes into the darkness and the rain... -FOCUS- a lone figure walking along the empty main street, pulling her leather jacket tightly around her bony shoulders. The van approaches, screeches to a halt in front of her. As she turns to run, the back doors whip open and a man from the dark interior raises a rifle... a low noise of compressed air... the girl stumbles and falls, the tranquilizer-dart lodged in her shoulder. Four men jump out, carry her into the van, doors close, the vehicle takes off into the night...

A white ambulance in front of the homeless shelter, inside -FOCUS- a man looking at his desktop. 'Elize Dunning, age twenty-one, orphaned, homeless. No social security, no registries anywhere. Won't be missed. Perfect.' He glances up at his companion, both are wearing white clothes. 'Ready ?' 'Let's move in.' They leave the van, -FOCUS- enter the building. Homeless people gathering around a collapsed heap on the floor. 'She... just fell...' one mutters. The two men nod, one leaves and returns with a stretcher while the other one examines the young woman. 'Malnutrition. We'll take care of her.' The men put her on the stretcher and roll her out. The homeless gather around the fire, quickly forgetting about the incident. Inside the van -FOCUS- 'The drug worked.' 'Sure it did. Always does. Let's move.' One climbs into the drivers seat while the other one secures the girl and they drive off.

The black room, now empty. Signs of a short struggle - a lamp lying on the floor, a candle fallen over on the desk, a wax puddle obscuring the poetry... voices from downstairs... 'Let me go !!! Mom ! Dad ! HELP !!!' '...you have the right to an attorney...' 'MARIA !!!' In front of the house -FOCUS- two police officers drag the screaming and struggling black-clad Goth towards a patrol car, her hands cuffed behind her back, her legs kicking out with futile exertion. A third, female, officer in the door, blocking the parents, arguing with them; '...into custody until the claims have been verified. Not for long...' 'DONT'T TAKE MY LITTLE ANGEL ! MARIAAA !!!' The patrol cars doors slam, cutting off the girl's screams. As the car drives off, the figure in the back seat still struggling, both parents quiet down at once. The woman looks at her husband, 'Do you really think we're doing the right thing ?' 'Better than have her run off with Satanists, dear... It's for her own good...' The officer interrupts, 'And its for a good reason. Your daughter will help establish national security measures by her sacrifice and become a valuable member of society as well.' The father nods, but the mother still looks uneasy; 'But what if she doesn't adapt ? You said she won't be released until she shows serious behavior improvements...' 'In that case, at least you can rest in peace, knowing her in good care instead of plundering graveyards for skulls, Miss Miller.' The mother nods slowly. 'Now let's go inside and fill out those forms to declare her legally insane and the transfer approval to the facility, shall we ?' As the officer eases the couple back into the house, the mother mutters 'My poor misguided angel... Just turned twenty...'

A police station. Inside the cell block -FOCUS- the young cat burglar sits on her cot, cursing, clad in a gray prison suit. In the office bordering on the cell block -FOCUS- Two men in dark suits stand in front of the desk. On it lies a folder, opened to display the file on -FOCUS- Dwight, Corinne, age twenty-three, wanted for multiple cases of breaking and entering and burglary. One of the agents -FOCUS- addresses the police officer; 'We know this is inconvenient, but we must insist that you hand the prisoner over to us. This is a federal case. She is wanted in Egypt for stealing national treasures.' The officer nods with a small smile. 'No problem, agents. Just got a call from the boss. You can have her. Need help ?' 'No thanks. We will make sure to report your cooperation.' A short while later, -FOCUS- the prisoner is led out the front door of the building into a black van. Doors close, the vehicle drives off.

Preparations

The only sounds in the luxurious office were the annoying buzz of the neon lights and the periodic shuffling of turned pages. The room was lavishly decorated with wood panels along the walls, offset with oil paintings, a dark, plush carpet, antique, high armchairs around small coffee tables with chessboards or trays with cognac glasses on them. But dominating the room was the huge oaken desk. In front of it stood a man clad in a black suit, staying completely motionless. Behind the desk sat a fatherly figure in blue jeans and an 'I heart NYC' sweater. He had short brown hair, looked to be about fifty and wore small, thin rimmed glassed on his hook-like nose. He looked up. 'These are our new entries ?' The man in black nodded sharply. 'Nice going. They look promising. I'm eager for the test results. What about this one ?' He pointed at one of four files lying on the table. 'This says her parents agreed to the treatment ?' The man nodded again. 'Silver tongued, that's what you guys are.' The sitting man grinned. 'But of course you know that we have no intention of letting anyone go, right ?' 'Her parents were informed that she might not be released. If they get intrusive, they will be notified of their girls suicide. They will be approached by an attorney, who will convince them to settle out of court. The settlement money will be paid by the shadow fund. If they approach the newspapers, their story will not make headlines. It will all be forgotten within a few months.' 'You sound so sure ?' 'It's all worked out.' The man behind the desk leaned back. 'What about this one ?' pointing at another file. The man in black shrugged. 'The government of Egypt has a program similar to ours. Once we are finished, they would like to get the subject for their own use, in exchange for a Japanese business spy wanted by the US who's in their custody. Her file looks promising, so we agreed.' The sitting man raised an eyebrow. 'Promising ?' 'She's got an exceptional sensitivity rating.' 'Great, well done, all !' the sitting man said. 'Wow, I can't wait for the test results...'

The young criminal slowly came to, her eyes fluttering, focusing... She couldn't move. Not one muscle. As her vision cleared, she saw the reason. She was in a stark white room together with three other girls, all naked, one with spiky green hair, one with long brown curls and another with long black hair. All were slender like herself, and while she was the shortest, the punk only topped her by a couple of inches. The one with the black hair was the tallest. All of them were held by metal frameworks surrounding them with a network of pipes that secured their ankles, knees, waists, elbows, necks, shoulders, wrists and foreheads with thin plastic bands, holding them totally motionless almost two feet off the ground. Together, the frames formed the corner points of a square with the girls facing inwards. Their fingers and toes were also secured by small metal clamps, held slightly spread apart. Their faces were covered with white rebreather masks, tubes running from them to vanish in the walls. On their foreheads, arranged around the plastic band, were arrays of electrodes, cables running from them along the tubes from the masks into the walls. But the worst part of it all were the strange machines surrounding the frames that held them captive. They looked like a surreal blend of industrial robots, hospital equipment and insects, all white and silver and shiny, bristling with literally hundreds of mechanical arms, each holding some sort of appendage - Brushes, mechanical hands, things that at first glance looked like dentist drills until one noticed the bristles replacing the drill bit, muzzles, electrodes... Corinne wanted to scream for help, but the mask almost completely muffled her voice. She relaxed reluctantly and began to think of an explanation. Slowly, the other three women awoke. They made the same discoveries, and showed equal reactions, the punk more violently then the rest. Then, just as they all clamed down, a voice boomed through unseen speakers. 'Begin testing.' They had time for one last estranged glance at each other before the machines around them whirred into life and began the testing. When the instruments touched down, all four began to scream...

Outside the room, two men in laboratory whites sat in from of a large console with a bank of sixteen monitors arranged four by four. The top row showed medical readings like EEG, EKG and some more jagged lines, all fluctuating madly. The row below showed the distorted faces of the women inside, the third row some close up views of their bodies. Right now, all of these monitors showed clean shaven armpits that were being stroked with five small, vibrating feathers. The last row showed an animation of a green, stylized female body. Slowly, the green color was replaced by a colorful pattern. 'So, what do you think, Dave ?' asked one of the men. 'Definitely potential. Let's hope they are as sensitive as they look.' 'Want to wager who's the best ?' 'Hmm... ten bucks say the Goth girl.' 'You got it. My bet's on the thief.' They watched the monitors for ten long minutes as the stylized graphics became evermore refined and colorful. The close-up screens now showed different parts of each girl, sometimes a sole being treated with rotating bristles, a bellybutton invaded by a feather, ribs kneaded by a spidery silver hand... 'Mike, what's your guess for top ranking tonight ? Think we'll get a specialist ?' Mike thought about it. 'Probably. My guess is all four are gonna be specialized.' 'You wanna put your money where your mouth is ?' 'Yep. Another ten.' 'Gotcha.' They kept watching the young women's tortures, idly chatting away as the hours passed...

The man came into his office and put his Stetson and coat on the hanger by the door. He polished his small glasses. Then he sat down at his desk and pushed a button on the intercom. 'Appointments.' An tinny voice replied, 'Good morning, doctor Craig. You have three appointments today. First, review the four new entries that came in six days ago. Second, cancel dinner with your mother. Third, doctor Brown waits for your approval of his new treatment.' Doc Craig leant back. 'Details on item three ?' 'Doctor Brown has been researching a new method for inquisitive stimulation, based on insight from reflexology experts.' Craig sighed. 'Always the foot-man... Details on item one.' 'The subjects have been tested and assigned to respective departments four days ago. They are currently being held in generic suspension. You are to assign specific treatments.' 'Hmmm... display profiles on screen.' One of the paintings on the wall opposite the desk slid up to reveal a large screen. It was blank except for the words 'Profile 1 - Twyla Connors; Profile 2 - Elize Dunning; Profile 3 - Maria Miller; Profile 4 - Corinne Dwight' Craig settled comfortably into his chair. 'Display all Profiles, essentials only.'

Connors, Twyla - Age 18 - 1,55m - 45kg
Neck 52 - Armpits 66 - Ribs 41 - Stomach 52 - Thighs 61 - Knees 70 - Feet 100 - Average 64
Special Focus - Soles and toes
Department - Podiatry Clinic, pedicures and preparation
Dunning, Elize - Age 21 - 1,70m - 50kg
Neck 82 - Armpits 98 - Ribs 89 - Stomach 92 - Thighs 94 - Knees 91 - Feet 78 - Average 90
Special Focus - None
Department - Practice Center, apprentice training halls
Miller, Maria - Age 20 - 1,80m - 65kg
Neck 90 - Armpits 94 - Ribs 81 - Stomach 60 - Thighs 79 - Knees 83 - Feet 94 - Average 83
Special Focus - None
Department - Public Relations, display chamber
Dwight, Corinne - Age 23 - 1,50m - 43kg
Neck 61 - Armpits 48 - Ribs 31 - Stomach 65 - Thighs 70 - Knees 71 - Feet 99 - Average 64
Special Focus - Soles
Department - Podiatry Clinic, sole storage cells

Craig leaned forward. 'I will check back later. Time for some assigning.' Smiling, he stood and left the room.

Hidden Agenda (cont.)

Treatments

His way led him to the Public Relations department first. He entered a huge, round observation deck. Through the opening in the middle, he looked down at a padded rack containing Maria. She was stretched out to the point of total immobility, her feet enclosed in padded wooden stocks, her arms held by shackles fastened to a winch with chains. The only cloth covering her bucking form was a thong bikini with top. There was a gag in her mouth, muffling her screams and begs. The reason for her struggling and crying was obvious - Two men in business suits stood on either side of her. One kneading her rips gently while the other one was spider-walking his fingers from her knees up her thighs to her thong and back again. She had her eyes squeezed shut in horror and whipped her head from side to side, but the men knew no mercy. Meanwhile, happy chatter could be heard in the background. Craig smiled and descended a flight of stairs to the room below. A few visitors were there, most of them from different countries. Craig made his rounds, greeting and smiling, finally stopping besides the two men torturing the bound girl. 'Good entertainment ?' 'Sure sir.' Craig made a wide gesture, indicating the whole room. 'What about our guests ?' 'We waited for your permission.' 'What a waste !' Craig smiled into the crowed. 'Help yourselves, ladies and gentlemen. But remember - tickling's all that's allowed !' A large, black man approached. 'I read her profile,' he said, nodding to a display case on the wall displaying just that. 'She's a Satan-worshipper ?' Craig shrugged. 'That's what we were told. Why ?' The man gave him a big smile. 'I just happen to be a Baptist priest. Do you think me and my wife could... relieve these two gents ?' Craig gave him a clap on the shoulder. 'Sure thing ! Enjoy !' As he turned to leave, the black man and his slender wife approached the sweating girl on the rack. The two men stepped back. He turned to his wife and said 'You take the feet, I get the armpits, okay ?' His wife nodded, grinning, and approached the foot end of the rack, wriggling her long fingers with their sharp nails while the priest cracked his knuckles. Marias eyes flew open and she screamed into her gag, begging them not to touch her, but to late. Just as Craig reached the observation area once more, he heard the desperate laughter and couldn't help himself but to glance down onto the scene - The woman was holding the right foots thin toes steady in one hand with one hand while wickedly raking the long, slender sole with the other. At the same time the priest was dancing his fingers with remarkable nimbleness in the girls smooth, deep, pale armpits. Both enjoyed themselves immensely. Craig turned to leave. Just as he exited, he heard the priest begin to lecture the tortured girl on Christian ethics. Craig made a mental note to leave Maria here for at least a few more days... There was a religious convention in town, and some of the attendants would come here as well. Snickering under his breath, he walked towards the Practice Center.

The training halls were actually a maze of small rooms connected by narrow corridors. He had to ask his way around until he reached the cell Elize was held in. The room was tiny, the walls painted a sickly green and the floor made of white plastic. A fluorescent tube on the ceiling shed bright light. Elize was gagged and bound with multiple straps to a convex bench, her midsection being the highest part and her head and uplifted arms still higher that her feet, which almost touched the floor. She wore a short, sleeveless gray shirt and equally gray panties. Three people were already in the room, one male and one female apprentice, both looking to be straight out of college in their blue turtlenecks and black jeans, and an older woman in her forties, wearing the hospital whites of a staff member. She sat in a chair in the corner, instructing the two students. At the moment, the young man was busy stroking Elizes neck with two goose feathers, while the female student eagerly counted the protruding ribs of their victim with a single index finger. Just as Craig entered, the instructor shouted 'Pits and Tummy !' At once, the boy began to twirl the feathers in the smooth hollows while his companion started to let all ten fingers glide across the smooth, heaving belly of the bound girl. Elize renewed her mad, muffled laughter to new levels at the change. Craig mustered the twitching, bucking and guffawing woman with interest. 'wouldn't have thought that homeless girls were so sensitive... We'll have to concentrate our efforts this way...' The instructor looked at him sternly. 'What is it ? We're in the middle of a session.' 'My apologies. How's it coming ?' The woman looked down. 'As much as I'd like to keep her, she's too sensitive for our needs. No challenge.' The two students looked at her with disappointment. Craig laughed. 'No worries, we'll reassign her as soon as we get a suitable replacement.' He patted Elizes sweat soaked brown curls with mocking compassion. 'Might be a little while longer, though...' The instructor shrugged. 'I doubt taunts will have any effect. She's been here for four days already. I don't think she notices anything but her discomfort.' Craig turned to leave. 'Oh well... What would be your suggestion as to her destination ?' The woman held her head askance. 'Re-Education or Information Extraction.' Craig nodded. 'I'll give it a thought. Gotta go !' He left. As he closed the door, he heard the woman shout 'Pits and Knees !' followed by quick movement sounds and the laughter of the tortured girls changing pitch again, growing evermore desperate. Grinning, Craig walked towards the Podiatry Clinic.

The first department he came across was the pedicure and preparation area. Many large rooms contained dentist chairs with helpless girls tied to them, their feet raised up while their bodies were enclosed in straight jackets. Multiple leather bands held them in the chair. Their feet were set in individual metal stocks, toes held fast by small clamps closing around their top, so that the stems and tops were easily accessible. Most were attended by a single pedicure specialist, yet some had two, one for each foot. Craig went through room after room, but couldn't find the girl he was looking for. Finally, he asked a woman running a pumice stone over the somewhat calloused soles of a slightly overweight redhead, 'Excuse me, but where can I find the patient called Twyla Connors ?' The woman looked up from her work without interrupting it, keeping the victim in a state of constant ticklish agony. 'The punk ?' She smiled. 'She's in cell eight.' He raised an eyebrow. 'Single cell ?' She nodded, still grinning. 'Yes. A little too... loud... for these. And very rude when she was brought here.' He picked up her smile. 'I see. Special consideration.' 'Exactly.' Still smiling, he returned to the hallway and went to the cell labeled 'Eight'. The single cells were reserved for problem patients - those that kept fainting, or needed special attention because of other circumstances. And of course, troublemakers. Coincidentally, the third category was dominating. He opened the door and was greeted by muffled shrill screams. Inside the room, four pedicurists, all female and quite young ('The best of the bunch,' Craig thought) were joking amongst themselves while caring for their 'client'. Twyla was tied up like the women in the large cell, but without the gag. Her screams and cries were muffled because between her and her torturers was a two-way-mirror, intersecting the cell. She could only see her own helpless, struggling body. Her bare feet protruded in the middle of the mirror, about four feet of the ground, as the foot stocks were set in exactly measured holes in the mirror. The tiny soles were treated very very thoroughly here, as was evident from their apparent softness. Right now, one woman ran a small rotating brush back and forth under the toe stems of the left foot while another one used a water jet in her left hand to clean the left heel with a fine, pulsing stream, at the same time using a bristly brush on the heel to apply soap. The right foot was being treated to equally torturous attentions - the short toes were held slightly apart by the clamps, and a pedicurist used something like a dentist drill with a tiny bottle cleaner brush where the drill should be between each pair of twitching digits, running a pumice stone over the big toes pad at the same time. Twylas utmost agony was clear - She stared into the mirror, trying to stop the unbearable tortures of her small, hypersensitive feet with mad stares, while throwing herself around in her bondage and shrieking with tortured laughter. The fourth pedicurist stood at a microphone set in the side of the mirror. 'Kootchie kootchie ! Well, Who's kicking our asses ? Not young Twyla, she's not. She's too busy laughing, isn't she ? Oh, good, because laughter is soooo healthy. Tickle tickle tickle ! Oh, Twylas wittle tootsies are so ticklish, yes they are ! Tickle tickle ! Kitchiekitchiekoo ! That feels good, doesn't it ? Say that feels good when we clean those toes and brush these soles. Oh remind me, young Twyla - Who should go fuck themselves ? You didn't mean us, didcha ? Because we are soo nice to you... Feel this ? And this ? Think those feet are already done ? Well... I DON'T THINK SO ! Tickle tickle, punk, tickle tickle tickle... Oh, and about calling us bitches... Time for some more toe-cleaning fun, dontcha think, punky ?' Twyla could hardly squeeze out a word between the forced bouts of shrill laughter, but... 'AAAHAHAHAHA !!! NOT THEEEEHEHEHE NONONONOOOO !! NOT THEEHEHEHERE !! PLEEEHEHEHEHEHEHESE !!! AHAHAHA ! OHOHOHNOOOOOOO GAAHAHAHAHAHAWD !!! AHAHAHAHAM SOREEEHEHEHEHEEEEE ! EEEEEK !!! YAAAAARGH !!!! NOOOOOOHOHOHOHOHO !!! THE TOHOHOHOES ! TEEEEEEHEHEHEHEKLES MEEEEHEHEHEHEE !!!! STOOOOHOHOHOOP ! NOOHOHOHOHOHO !' Craig listened, pleased. He addressed the woman working under the left foots toes. 'I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I'll have to take her away from you.' ('Is dis tootsy really so ticklish ? Kitchikitchy ! KITCHIKITCHIKOOO !' 'PLEEASE AAAAHAHAHAHRG ! YAAAAAAA ! EEEK EEEHEHEHE EEEEARGH !)' The pedicurist looked up. 'No trouble. We had our revenge for four days in a row, hardly gave her any rest. We're about done-' (Lookit little Twyla laugh ! Lookit the tough punker laugh ! Tickles, doesn't it ? Tell me, does it tickle bad ? Want us to stop tickling these toes ?' 'ARGH GAWD PLEEEEHEHEHEHESE AHAHAHAHA STOOOHOHOHOP IHIHIHIIIT EEEK NOHOHO EEEEK NOT THAHAHAHAHAT !') '-with her. However if you assign her anywhere we can visit, give us a call, will you ?' 'Sure thing,' Craig replied. 'But I gotta go. I'll take her with me to sole storage.' ('You think this is bad ? Just you wait, oh just you wait justyouwaitjustyawait ! Tickle tickle tickletickletickle ! Wasn't that even worse, hmm ? Wow, these feet look so soft and sensitive... luscious and ticklish... How does it feel, hmm ?' 'EEEK EEEEEEK AHAHHA AAAARHG YEEEEARGH EEEK EHEHEHEEEEHAHAHAHA NOOOOHOHOHOHOHAHAHA EEEEAAARGH !!!') Craig turned to leave. 'Send her over to sole storage, okay ?' The pedicurist nodded, still tickle torturing the small, twitching sole. 'She'll be right along. Let us just say goodbye, alright ?' Craig just grinned and left. ('Time to say farewells, Twyla. Okay, ready girls ? Onnnne... twoooooo...' 'EARGH.... OH NO NONONO what are you doing please not not all at once not toes not the toes' 'THREEEEE !!!! GET HER GOOD !' 'notthetoesNOT THE TOOOHOHOHOH AAAAHAHAHAHA ARGH ARGH EEEK NOHOHOHOHO !!!' 'No, not just the toes bitch, up and down Twylas soles we go, here we go, the heels, the balls, the smooth ticklish arches... a-tickling we will go, tickletickle !!!!' 'YEEEEAAAAARGH AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA !!!!')

Craig reached sole storage. He entered the small delivery area first. The case for Twyla was already in place - a metal box with rounded corners about the size of a casket. The top was open right now, showing the things inside - Many anchors for the bondage, plastic clamps and rings for maximum immobility of the occupant, the hoses and tubes for the catheters and the oxygen mask... and the holes where the feet went through. They were the only body parts outside of the coffin once anyone was strapped inside. These cases were ingenious - the clamps above the two ankle holes held the feet perfectly still and accessible while the rest of the body was totally helpless inside the soundproof interior. The tubing inside allowed for the inmates to remain inside the coffins for an almost limitless length of time. Of course they didn't die of boredom. Craig turned around as Twyla was brought in. Two men carried her limp form between them. They put her into the case and fastened her bondage, then left. Two women replaced them and expertly inserted the tubes and hoses. Then they left as well. Craig bent down over Twylas face, half covered by an oxygen mask, her eyes red and tired. 'And now that we have prepared you, we will perform the thing you are here for - true tickling.' Twylas eyes flew open. 'Yes dear, now you'll feel real tickling on your soles. I have big plans for you - Your feet are so sensitive, we'll stimulate them only with the best equipment available. And of course, you'll get only the most renown professional foot ticklers.' He pushed a button on the side of the casket and the top closed. Twyla started to scream in horrified protest, but as soon as the lid closed, nothing could be heard. Only the small peds at the bottom end twitched slightly. Craig approached them, pressing another button that allowed his voice to be heard inside the case. 'What was done to you in pedicure was nothing. Here in storage you'll feel tickling that's about twenty times as bad. And that's just to keep you from losing interest ! When I decide that any assignment is calling for your soles, you'll get it far, far worse.' He bent down and appreciated the small, quivering soles and the short, round toes. Slowly he reached out and ran his fingers all over them with slow wriggling motions. Rapid twitches showed this to be already unbearably for the green haired punk inside the case. Craig smiled while tickling gently but effectively. 'Oh, you will suffer so bad in here...' Reluctantly, he stood up and went to a terminal. 'Time to send you on your way. Try not to think about the tickling, I'm told it works...' he said while typing instructions. The floor opened and the case descended. 'I'm kidding, of course. Have a few nice, long laughs at the joke, Twyla, darling !' He grinned as the door closed. He contemplated going in to look at Corinne, but decided on a coffee break first.

When he returned an hour later, the delivery room was still empty. He turned to the keyboard and looked through the entries for Corinne and Twyla. He didn't request Corinnes case quite yet, but went through another door first. Behind it lay the storage area. A huge, long room. The walls were made of compartments where the automated delivery system could store cases with prisoners. But this clinical description doesn't suffice for this room. The cases are stacked ten high and thirty long on both sides, and almost all are filled. That means that the sight of almost six hundred trapped female feet greeted Craig as he entered. On each compartments rim were four articulated arms, each holding a different instrument. These arms made sure to keep the occupants from boredom, as they tickled their respective pink targets with mechanical precision. A huge Crane moving along rails on the ceiling sometimes lowered a large box that contained different tickle tools, and arms were put in to retract with different instruments, at once renewing their attacks on the helpless foot bottom they were working on. This feature had been installed to keep the stay in storage more interesting. As Craig walked along, he let his eyes wander... All kinds of bare, totally helpless soles faced him. Large, small, wide, narrow, high and low arches, wrinkled or smooth, long and short toes... Black soles, Asian soles, Indian soles, white soles... And all of them in the high nineties, but rarely a hundred like Twyla. While looking for Twylas case, Craig saw a young student man in his turtleneck lying on his stomach before a pair of huge soles in the lowest row. The young man had disabled the autoticklers and war busy running his fingers all over the soles. Craig smiled. The storage areas was free for all staff members and students that were off duty. This young man had discovered an old babysitter of his among the inmates and was spending almost his entire free time here. Craig had a soft spot in his heart for him and had ordered for the woman to be held in sole storage for six month already. He had also sent the boy to a tutor specializing in foot tickling. The young man seemed to pick up quite a bit, as the soles he was working over quivered almost as much as under the autoticklers. He whispered softly into the microphone on the box 'And the next area I'm going to tickle are your left toes. Remember how you said 'Bedtime for bonzo ?' time to pay. Here comes some serious workout for you, Sharon...' Craig didn't disturb the boy. He had seen Twylas soles in the top row, high above, being grazed all over by four mechanical hands with ultrasonically vibrating, teasingly wriggling fingers. Oh yes, he thought , she must hate this. This is so much worse for her poor feet then the pedicures... Then his gaze fell upon Corinnes soles. He had seen them on pictures, but those hadn't come close to the true beauty of the thief's aristocratic feet. Pale (well, now a bright pink on most areas), narrow, with slender, perfect toes, medium smooth arches, the skin looking like silk... Her case was in the third row from the bottom, meaning her soles were at perfect eye-level for Craig to enjoy. The arms tickling her were equipped with soft brushes, sawing between the twitching toes, and very stiff feathers running in spirals all across her arches. Muscle spasms beneath the soft skin showed the treatment to be highly effective. Craig couldn't resist - he turned the machines off after looking at their work in rapt attention for ten minutes and brought his own fingers in contact with the incredibly soft soles. Hew began tickling with the skill of an expert, feeling the soft warmth of the twitching flesh, imagining the young criminal's plight inside her small prison, and turned on the microphone to her case. 'You're lucky, Corinne,' he said. 'We're not keeping you here for much longer. We need the space, and we have no assignment for you. You get to leave the Country. As a matter of fact, you'll be going to Egypt. It may surprise you, but they have a facility just like ours here. Or maybe not... they only use foot tickling, but to make up for that, they've gotten better than us at it, or so I've heard...' and while stroking the arches with his fingernails, he leant in close and whispered 'I'm sure you'll be tickled pink, and they'll probably want to talk to you about a certain item that was stolen and never recovered... I'm sure you don't want to hear about the last sentence they imposed on someone who stole national treasures... Oh, you do ? Well, after tickling the location of the item out of the young woman, they sentenced her to a lifetime of sole stimulation research... experimental tickling...' he began scratching the toes. 'Maybe you'll meet her, she's probably still there... The Egyptians are famous for never tickling anyone to death while at the same time their experimental wings are rumored to be the closest thing to tickle hell there is... people whisper about ways to tickle helpless soles with intensities hundreds of times worse then we can... of ways to make tender feet many times more ticklish...' He grinned darkly. 'I'm sure you will enjoy yourself.' Inside the case, Corinne was screaming in nameless horror and unbearable ticklish agony.

go to Hidden Agenda II -->
http://www.ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?threadid=148



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 !

I must have read this series a dozen times. This is a must read for any fan of absolutely no mercy tickle torture fiction.

For anyone who hasn't read this yet, it should be on your "must-read" list.

love!!!

Thanks very much for the wonderful story.

What a great diabolical story! A shame it wasn't given at least one more part to wrap up the girl's stories, especially Kim. Oh well, a classic nevertheless.

Nice brooo