The-Tickling-Master
Registered User
- Joined
- Apr 22, 2017
- Messages
- 28
- Points
- 3
Before we start:
Please do not take this story as a political statement of any kind. I believe in equal treatment for people of the entire political spectrum; if one is cute, one deserves to be tickled into submission
Done by request, and thus not my own idea or indicative of my values, positions or morals.
If you liked the story and want more content faster, support me on my Patreon (https://www.patreon.com/ttmwriting) or become a Deviantart Sub (https://www.deviantart.com/the-tickling-master/subscriptions). For as little as 1 USD, you get access to my stories as soon as they're released, as well as exclusive content at higher tiers.
------------------------------
Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez looked at her watch, praying that it was close to 4 p.m. so this could be done with. While being a political activist was her passion, she had to admit that sometimes it could become a very, very boring affair. The seminar’s lecturer was speaking in a flat, monotonous voice, repeating content she already knew about the relations between whites and Hispanics and Latinos in America. Unfortunately, the event required her presence, and even if it wasn’t the most productive use of two hours of her life, her presence helped bring some attention to the event – and the action also pleased her voting base.
Still, she really wished she could just go home, take a bath, and relax. Maybe read a book, or continue to binge Dark on Netflix.
She didn’t feel the pair of eyes that were fixed on her, from the back of the class. Watching. Waiting.
She checked the clock again. Oh God, still 14:45. Can someone die of boredom? AOC felt she was about to find out.
She decided a trip to the bathroom would do well. Maybe she could kill some time there, browse her phone a bit. No one would miss her if she took 15, 20 minutes to come back... With a warm smile, she got up from her desk and left the room, doing her best to bring as little attention as possible to herself.
She didn’t hear as the other guy went out of the room; she was focused on her own path through the corridors. She didn’t listen as he approach her, shortening the distance as she reached the bathroom. She only noticed his presence when a humid cloth was shoved into her face, as strong hands grabbed her and locked her in place. She barely had time to register the scare; darkness enveloped her, and she felt her body falling. The feelings of the hands grabbing her were the last thing she registered before going completely unconscious.
###
Slowly, her senses came back to her. Alexandria blinked twice, her eyelids heavy, her head dizzy. She needed a few seconds to fully regain her conscience – to remind herself of who she was, what year it was, what she had been doing.
She reminded the seminar, going to the bathroom, being grabbed by someone... And then, sleeping.
She was then aware of her own eyes and vision, and realized she was staring at a ceiling, black and featureless. She realized she was laying on something, on her back.
She tried getting up, and realized she only partially could. She could sit up, alright, but not get fully upwards, because her legs were restrained inside some sort of stocks. Nothing like the medieval sort, though – they were elegant, made of black wood, curved, and padded with red leather filled with some sort of cushy material, likely foam. It was... actually quite comfortable – as was the entire structure she was sitting on, in fact. It was... a bed, but not really, but also not exactly a couch. Something in between. Closer to a psychiatric couch, dark and red.
She also slowly realized her clothing had changed slightly. She had been dressed pretty formally for the event, but the day was hot – so, below the suit, she was using a sleeveless t-shirt and short shorts, an almost athletic look. She realized she had been stripped to those, her suit nowhere to be seen.
“What the...” She said, struggling against her bonds. Alexandria had never been a physically gifted woman; she quickly realized she would never be capable of breaking free from this bondage, as simple as it was.
“Oh, you’re awake! Great.” Said a voice from the corner of the room. Alexandria turned as much as her predicament allowed, and saw a man getting up from a chair. It seems like he had been watching her as she slept, which crept her out.
She remembered the hands, the chloroform... he was, most likely, her kidnapper. She gulped, feeling dread fill her to the throat... growing up as a woman is a horrifying experience. You grow learning cautionary tales of the horrible things that happen in situations just like this one. You learn them so you can avoid them, so you can never be forced to experience the horrors a ill-intentioned man can inflict upon a helpless woman.
Horrors she was now staring right in the face. Although she had to say, the way she was restrained was highly unusual. It... Didn’t really gave her captor the access to... well, the parts one would expect a man to be interested in. Her legs were firmly locked in place, and she couldn’t spread them even if she wanted – neither could her captor force her too without freeing her. And her arms and torso were free, which meant she could still put up a fight. Why go through the trouble of kidnapping and restraining her but not leave her completely vulnerable?
As the man approached closer, allowing to be seen under the light, Alexandre realized that she knew who he was. Not because they ever met in person, but because he had considerable fame within political discourse in the United States. Right in front of her, clear as day, was Makus Bjornson, famous right-wing ‘thinker’ and podcaster. His show, The Right Opinion, was one of the bastions of the more ‘intellectual’ side of the alt-right – the side that wanted to pretend it had some philosophic merit to its supremacist ideologies. Markus himself was little more than a buffoon; he was quite good at pretending he was smart, and considerably less apt at actually being. All style and no substance; a full bookcase of books that were never read. And yet, he was popular, precisely because ‘feeling smart without actually needing to put the effort’ was the alt-right’s favorite thing. Living through Markus, his listeners could pretend – to everyone and especially to themselves – that they had something in their brains, something that society shunned because it was intimidating, rather than repulsive.
“If you don’t close your mouth a fly might get into it, Ms. Cortez. There is no need to be so surprised.” He said, with the soft-spoken demeanor he was known for – a facade of pseudo-intellectualism that was progressively shattered as his show went on, until the episode ended in crazed, furious rants. This progression – from a calm, intelligent man to a pissed-off republican – was the trademark of his show.
She hated him with a passion, despite never having met him personally.
“Have you gone insane? You’re a woman kidnapper now??”
“Not usually, no.” He answered, with a soft – and clearly fake – smile. “But sometimes, in a war, it is necessary to take some extreme measures. And, as you surely know, you and me both are soldiers in a culture war far greater than either of us.”
“Believe it or not, I don’t waste my days planning how to win a fictional war. I have a life, you know?” She knew provoking him was the dumbest thing she could do right now, but the urge was stronger than her. She hated that concept of ‘culture war’. There was a war of ideas, sure, but that was it – ideas, not people, were at war. The left wasn’t a united front planning the destruction of capitalism. And yet, alt-righters convinced themselves that it was – and that they, the right, needed to counteract accordingly. Markus was one of the main mouthpieces of that dangerous ideology in America.
“I believe that you believe that, Mrs. Cortez. It being the truth is another matter entirely. But nevermind. I didn’t bring you here to discuss the merits of culture war tactics.”
“You know you’re getting arrested when I get out of here, right?”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Cortez, I’ll be quite well. I have enough friends in high places to make this story die. Besides, no one will believe you – first, because you yourself texted, from your cellphone, to the teacher of your seminar, explaining you were not feeling well and that you were going home. A few helpful witnesses will confirm that they saw you leaving home, and the security officer of your building will also testify that he saw you arriving at your home, if the need arises. Second, because you will admit, yourself, to the whole internet, that you paid me a visit to be a guest to my podcast, which will explain why there might be traces of you in this room. And finally, because no one would believe you if you told the real story.” He said, his smile now turned into a smirk of smug satisfaction, a triumphant mockery.
“I will not admit to anything.” She said, almost laughing. For the idea WAS laughable, in her opinion. She had to admit the man seemed to have a plan, one which covered for many of its bases – but not all. It seemed the plan needed her cooperation, and that she would not give. Especially because... “If you try to force me, if you hurt me to make me cooperate with you, I’ll show my scars and people will know immediately that your story is bullshit.”
“Mrs. Cortez, I’m horrified that you have such a distorted view of my person. I’d never bring harm to you! Or anyone! And I’ll certainly not leave any scars. Although, I admit, I’m aware you will not cooperate willingly, and I know I’ll have to add some persuasion to the mix. But nothing painful, oh no. I’m not a monster. I have much... subtler methods.” The last words had a hint of malice that once again made Alexandria afraid. He was too certain of his triumph, and it didn’t sound like pure bravado.
“So, here’s the deal. Recently you made some very... inflamatory comments regarding the racial relations in America. The common white man already gets a lot of shit on a daily basis, you know? You have no idea how hard it is to be one in the 20th century. Your recent interview on The Late Night Show placed quite an unjust burden on our shoulders; some people have been clamoring for racial taxation after your remarks!” Alexandria didn’t remember seeing anyone clamoring for that anywhere, but she was sure it didn’t really matter – it was true in Markus’ head and, as far as he was concerned, that was enough. “So I’ll turn up that microphone when you are ready to cooperate...” He said, pointing to a mic supported by a pole, pointed at her. “And we’ll start recording a segment for my next podcast, in which you’ll admit that you thought about what you said in that interview and realized that you were wrong. You will then give a quick speech being emphatic to the struggles of the modern white male, and reassure everyone that you seek no harm to those who helped build civilization.”
She felt sick just hearing that. She doubted her lips could even form such absurdities. “Hell no! Let me go, you psycho!”
Markus sighed. “I gave you a chance, Mrs. Cortez.” As he said that, he began to pull her shoes off from her feet, which made her even more puzzled. What did that idiot have in mind?
She was not left in suspense for long. He wasted no time taking off her socks as well, leaving her bare feet to enjoy the chilling air of that little private dungeon. Then, he slid one single finger down her right sole, making the Latina congresswoman squeal. The realization hit her.
Tickling leaves no scars.
“Thahat’s your plan?! To tihihckle me into submissiohohon??” She asked, appalled, amidst giggles. It was so fucking absurd that she would have laughed if someone told her.
Now, however, she was laughing for entirely different reasons. And she was starting to realize Markus was right on one thing – no one would believe her.
“Stop, STOP!” She yelled, annoyed, as Markus added another finger, now to her left sole. The solitary digits traced a multitude of pathways through her light-skinned soles. And, terrified, Alexandria realized that, by themselves, they were already more than enough to drive her wild. She had always been a very sensitive girl; relatives used to tease her with tickles all the time. Everyone in the family knew that touching Alexandria’s feet was not free of consequences – a kick to the face was in the future of those who tried it.
But she couldn’t kick now. With her legs locked in place, she couldn’t do anything except sit there and take it.
“MAhahahAHHAHArrkuhuhuhSSs! STOHOHoopp!!” She yelled, frustrated and desperate. She was now understanding the evilness of leaving her upperbody free. It gave her ample space to squirm around, to pound her firsts against the cushioned seat, to twitch like a madwoman – but it was all in vain. Whatever she did, her legs stood locked in place, stretched in front of her. Worse – she could try to reach them with her hands. She could almost do so – she had always been a flexible girl. And yet, due to the way the seat was built and the angle of her legs, she just couldn’t reach it.
Everything in her mind told her that she could protect herself – she just had to reach her feet and block his hands with hers. They were RIGHT THERE. And yet, whenever she tired, she came juuust short, her hands grabbing against the air in a pathetic struggle that really reinforced just how helpless she was in that situation.
And Markus quickly showed that he had no mercy in store for her as long as she didn’t cooperate. He didn’t even flinch with her pleas; the torture grew harsher every few seconds, Markus adding a new finger or speeding up the pace, bit by bit, building and building the stimuli over and over until they reached a crescendo that enveloped Alexandre in a never-ending universe of torment. Over the course of a few minutes – minutes in which she repeatedly pleaded for him to stop – the tickling continued to rise until, finally, Markus was using both hands on both her feet, tickling with vigor. And God, she had forgotten how devastatingly ticklish she was; her feet flared up with ticklish signals, burning up with that annoying, unbearable stimuli that compelled her to laugh, to scream, to plead, to try anything to flee from it.
“MAHAHAHARKUHUHUHUSS PLEHEHEHAHAHAHSSHEEHHE!! STOHOHOHPPP!! PLEHEHEHAHAHAHSSEHEHEH!!” She begged, abandoning her pride – and she was a very proud person. But keeping her pride was not worth this. Even if it wasn’t just Markus; even if there were a crowd there, watching her, she wouldn’t care. Yeah, she was the girl begging because of tickling. She would take that, as long as it made it fucking STOP.
But, of course, it didn’t. It just made Markus pick up the pace even more; his fingers were now dancing over her soles, exploring every ticklish nook and cranny. She continued to struggle – to reach for her feet, to squirm around, to scream – but nothing brought the relief she so desperately craved for.
The minutes dragged on, Markus never relenting on his attack on her soles. Slowly, he started to explore other regions – the sides and balls of her feet, below her toes – but nothing was as sensitive as the raw intensity of her soles; the very center, especially. When Markus scratched that region with his nails, Alexandria almost craved for death.
It didn’t take long for her to realize that she greatly underestimated how terrifying that torture could be. When it started, she thought it could be bad, due to her sensitiveness, but not that it could actually break her. It was just tickling, right? It’s child’s play. It’s not torture! Except it was. There was a clock in the opposite wall that allowed her to keep track of time, and even though she felt like it had been dozens of minutes so far, she knew for a fact it had been just seven. And yet, she was already worn out. She was exhausted from all the struggling, her throat was already getting sore from laughing, her abdomen was aching with pain, her entire body begged for rest. And, much to her horror, she realized that she was starting to consider whether to cave in and give Markus what he wanted. It seemed… a reasonable price to make the torture stop. Anything, at that moment, seemed like a reasonable price.
And yet, Markus didn’t insist. He just. Kept. Going. A quick glance to his face showed that he was enjoying torturing her – whether because that was some sick fetish of his, or just because he was ‘owning a libtard’, she would never know. What she knew is that she wanted it to stop.
“GOOHOHOHOHODDHAHAHAHHAMHIHIHITT! STOHOHOHOHOPPP!!!” She screamed, lunging forward, her instincts taking control. Maybe some animalistic side of her brain thought that she could attack him and make him stop. Of course, reality hit her as she reached the limits of what she could do while on those stocks. The torment continued, and Alexandria had no choice but to stay there, powerless, tears running down her eyes, completely at the mercy of the deranged podcaster.
Finally, after an eternity, Markus stopped, just as suddenly at he had started. In an instant, all torment ceased, although it took a while for Alexandria’s jumbled brain to catch-up. She continued for a few seconds, laughing and squirming, weakly begging for him to stop, before she managed to process the situation. She collapsed backwards, letting the couch embrace her, thankful that, at least for now, it was over.
“Are you willing to cooperate, Mrs Cortez? Or will I have to continue?”
She almost blurted out a ‘yes’ before her rational mind managed to regain control. The desperate side of her, the one that wanted the torment to stop at any costs, really wanted to give in. But, in the absence of the tickling, she could think a bit more clearly, and her reason counterattacked, reminding her that she had a responsibility with those that she represented, both those that elected her directly and those who lived elsewhere but saw in her a model for inspiration. She couldn’t betray them like this. She had to resist. For them.
Thus, even though reluctant, she shook her head, gesturing a no.
Markus’ grin widened. “Resistant as I expected. Good thing I brought some tools to help out in the persuasion.”
With that, he pulled closer a wheeled table with a box on the top. Upon seeing the contents, Alexandria’s eyes widened in terror.
Markus’ picked a hairbrush from it, hard bristles with small plastic balls on their ends. She started struggling before they made contact, in a desperate, irrational effort to break free.
“NO. NO, NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOO!!!” She erupted in laughter when he started applying it to her soles, dragging the brush left and right, up and down. There was no ramping up, no meticulously calculated pace – just raw, unrelentless assault from the very first minute. Alexandria’s laughter quickly turned into a shrill scream of pure suffering; her mind immediately regretted her choice. This was too much. WAY too much. She couldn’t take it. She NEEDED it to stop, NOW!
“STOHOHOHOPP!! PLEHEHEHEHEHAHAHAHSSHEHEHE!! I CHAHAHAHHAHANNTT THAHHAHAHAHAHAKEKEHEHEHHE IHIHIHIIHTTT!” She screamed amidst sobs and laughs; the congresswoman had been reduced to an incoherent mess as the brush continued to work its magic on her soles, making them burn with horrible ticklish sensations.
And yet, Markus didn’t stop. The assault continued for three horrible minutes, in which Alexandria hated herself more and more each second; she hated herself for being proud, for being stubborn, for trying to resist when so clearly outmatched. Being brave and true to her ideals brought her suffering; things would have been much easier if she had just complied from the start. Now, she was here – suffering more than she could possibly handle.
Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid! She should just give up. Give him what he want. Make the torment stop.
And it stopped. Once again, overwhelming relief hit her; now she could give him what he wanted and be done with it.
It’s what she thought – until she heard a soft buzz fill the room. Lifting her head with the little energy she had left, she saw Markus, with a deranged look of satisfaction in his face, holding an electric toothbrush.
“I heard these are terrible under one’s toes. Let’s fact check it?”
“WAIT, MARKUS, I GIHIHIHIHIHIHIBVVHEHEHEHEHEH HAEHEHEHAEHHEHAEHAEHAHAE!!!”
They were. She screamed louder than ever before; Markus held her toes back with one hand, while applying the brush with the other. Alexandria screamed from the top of her lungs, terrified of the horrible, HORRIBLE sensations that overwhelmed her soles. She tried to give up; she tried to tell him that she would do it. She would do whatever he wanted, just, for the love of God, make it stop!
But she couldn’t make the words pass her lips, She tried, she really did, but the laughter poured out faster and stronger, her words were lost in a sea of laughter and screaming.
The world whirled. Her head was fuzzy. She couldn’t breathe properly. She tried once more to push out her surrender, and once more she failed – and, quite frankly, she wasn’t sure Markus would care. He had a fixated, demented look of enjoyment on his face, his usually calm and soft-spoken demeanor replaced by constant teases and provocations. “Are all leftist girls this ticklish?” “This is what we should do to all parasites of this country.” “Your soles would not be going through this if you had stayed in your fucking country and left America for Americans.” He repeated.
“PLEehehahasshehehe…” She managed to blurt out before darkness enveloped her.
Markus stepped back when he realized she wasn’t responding anymore. Darn it. It seems he had pushed her too far. She fainted, and would certainly take a while before she came back. He cursed; time was precious, despite his initial bravado to the girl.
But oh well. Even if things fell through; even if he was discovered and AOC was rescued… He couldn’t lie, it had all been worth it.
Please do not take this story as a political statement of any kind. I believe in equal treatment for people of the entire political spectrum; if one is cute, one deserves to be tickled into submission
Done by request, and thus not my own idea or indicative of my values, positions or morals.
If you liked the story and want more content faster, support me on my Patreon (https://www.patreon.com/ttmwriting) or become a Deviantart Sub (https://www.deviantart.com/the-tickling-master/subscriptions). For as little as 1 USD, you get access to my stories as soon as they're released, as well as exclusive content at higher tiers.
------------------------------
Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez looked at her watch, praying that it was close to 4 p.m. so this could be done with. While being a political activist was her passion, she had to admit that sometimes it could become a very, very boring affair. The seminar’s lecturer was speaking in a flat, monotonous voice, repeating content she already knew about the relations between whites and Hispanics and Latinos in America. Unfortunately, the event required her presence, and even if it wasn’t the most productive use of two hours of her life, her presence helped bring some attention to the event – and the action also pleased her voting base.
Still, she really wished she could just go home, take a bath, and relax. Maybe read a book, or continue to binge Dark on Netflix.
She didn’t feel the pair of eyes that were fixed on her, from the back of the class. Watching. Waiting.
She checked the clock again. Oh God, still 14:45. Can someone die of boredom? AOC felt she was about to find out.
She decided a trip to the bathroom would do well. Maybe she could kill some time there, browse her phone a bit. No one would miss her if she took 15, 20 minutes to come back... With a warm smile, she got up from her desk and left the room, doing her best to bring as little attention as possible to herself.
She didn’t hear as the other guy went out of the room; she was focused on her own path through the corridors. She didn’t listen as he approach her, shortening the distance as she reached the bathroom. She only noticed his presence when a humid cloth was shoved into her face, as strong hands grabbed her and locked her in place. She barely had time to register the scare; darkness enveloped her, and she felt her body falling. The feelings of the hands grabbing her were the last thing she registered before going completely unconscious.
###
Slowly, her senses came back to her. Alexandria blinked twice, her eyelids heavy, her head dizzy. She needed a few seconds to fully regain her conscience – to remind herself of who she was, what year it was, what she had been doing.
She reminded the seminar, going to the bathroom, being grabbed by someone... And then, sleeping.
She was then aware of her own eyes and vision, and realized she was staring at a ceiling, black and featureless. She realized she was laying on something, on her back.
She tried getting up, and realized she only partially could. She could sit up, alright, but not get fully upwards, because her legs were restrained inside some sort of stocks. Nothing like the medieval sort, though – they were elegant, made of black wood, curved, and padded with red leather filled with some sort of cushy material, likely foam. It was... actually quite comfortable – as was the entire structure she was sitting on, in fact. It was... a bed, but not really, but also not exactly a couch. Something in between. Closer to a psychiatric couch, dark and red.
She also slowly realized her clothing had changed slightly. She had been dressed pretty formally for the event, but the day was hot – so, below the suit, she was using a sleeveless t-shirt and short shorts, an almost athletic look. She realized she had been stripped to those, her suit nowhere to be seen.
“What the...” She said, struggling against her bonds. Alexandria had never been a physically gifted woman; she quickly realized she would never be capable of breaking free from this bondage, as simple as it was.
“Oh, you’re awake! Great.” Said a voice from the corner of the room. Alexandria turned as much as her predicament allowed, and saw a man getting up from a chair. It seems like he had been watching her as she slept, which crept her out.
She remembered the hands, the chloroform... he was, most likely, her kidnapper. She gulped, feeling dread fill her to the throat... growing up as a woman is a horrifying experience. You grow learning cautionary tales of the horrible things that happen in situations just like this one. You learn them so you can avoid them, so you can never be forced to experience the horrors a ill-intentioned man can inflict upon a helpless woman.
Horrors she was now staring right in the face. Although she had to say, the way she was restrained was highly unusual. It... Didn’t really gave her captor the access to... well, the parts one would expect a man to be interested in. Her legs were firmly locked in place, and she couldn’t spread them even if she wanted – neither could her captor force her too without freeing her. And her arms and torso were free, which meant she could still put up a fight. Why go through the trouble of kidnapping and restraining her but not leave her completely vulnerable?
As the man approached closer, allowing to be seen under the light, Alexandre realized that she knew who he was. Not because they ever met in person, but because he had considerable fame within political discourse in the United States. Right in front of her, clear as day, was Makus Bjornson, famous right-wing ‘thinker’ and podcaster. His show, The Right Opinion, was one of the bastions of the more ‘intellectual’ side of the alt-right – the side that wanted to pretend it had some philosophic merit to its supremacist ideologies. Markus himself was little more than a buffoon; he was quite good at pretending he was smart, and considerably less apt at actually being. All style and no substance; a full bookcase of books that were never read. And yet, he was popular, precisely because ‘feeling smart without actually needing to put the effort’ was the alt-right’s favorite thing. Living through Markus, his listeners could pretend – to everyone and especially to themselves – that they had something in their brains, something that society shunned because it was intimidating, rather than repulsive.
“If you don’t close your mouth a fly might get into it, Ms. Cortez. There is no need to be so surprised.” He said, with the soft-spoken demeanor he was known for – a facade of pseudo-intellectualism that was progressively shattered as his show went on, until the episode ended in crazed, furious rants. This progression – from a calm, intelligent man to a pissed-off republican – was the trademark of his show.
She hated him with a passion, despite never having met him personally.
“Have you gone insane? You’re a woman kidnapper now??”
“Not usually, no.” He answered, with a soft – and clearly fake – smile. “But sometimes, in a war, it is necessary to take some extreme measures. And, as you surely know, you and me both are soldiers in a culture war far greater than either of us.”
“Believe it or not, I don’t waste my days planning how to win a fictional war. I have a life, you know?” She knew provoking him was the dumbest thing she could do right now, but the urge was stronger than her. She hated that concept of ‘culture war’. There was a war of ideas, sure, but that was it – ideas, not people, were at war. The left wasn’t a united front planning the destruction of capitalism. And yet, alt-righters convinced themselves that it was – and that they, the right, needed to counteract accordingly. Markus was one of the main mouthpieces of that dangerous ideology in America.
“I believe that you believe that, Mrs. Cortez. It being the truth is another matter entirely. But nevermind. I didn’t bring you here to discuss the merits of culture war tactics.”
“You know you’re getting arrested when I get out of here, right?”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Cortez, I’ll be quite well. I have enough friends in high places to make this story die. Besides, no one will believe you – first, because you yourself texted, from your cellphone, to the teacher of your seminar, explaining you were not feeling well and that you were going home. A few helpful witnesses will confirm that they saw you leaving home, and the security officer of your building will also testify that he saw you arriving at your home, if the need arises. Second, because you will admit, yourself, to the whole internet, that you paid me a visit to be a guest to my podcast, which will explain why there might be traces of you in this room. And finally, because no one would believe you if you told the real story.” He said, his smile now turned into a smirk of smug satisfaction, a triumphant mockery.
“I will not admit to anything.” She said, almost laughing. For the idea WAS laughable, in her opinion. She had to admit the man seemed to have a plan, one which covered for many of its bases – but not all. It seemed the plan needed her cooperation, and that she would not give. Especially because... “If you try to force me, if you hurt me to make me cooperate with you, I’ll show my scars and people will know immediately that your story is bullshit.”
“Mrs. Cortez, I’m horrified that you have such a distorted view of my person. I’d never bring harm to you! Or anyone! And I’ll certainly not leave any scars. Although, I admit, I’m aware you will not cooperate willingly, and I know I’ll have to add some persuasion to the mix. But nothing painful, oh no. I’m not a monster. I have much... subtler methods.” The last words had a hint of malice that once again made Alexandria afraid. He was too certain of his triumph, and it didn’t sound like pure bravado.
“So, here’s the deal. Recently you made some very... inflamatory comments regarding the racial relations in America. The common white man already gets a lot of shit on a daily basis, you know? You have no idea how hard it is to be one in the 20th century. Your recent interview on The Late Night Show placed quite an unjust burden on our shoulders; some people have been clamoring for racial taxation after your remarks!” Alexandria didn’t remember seeing anyone clamoring for that anywhere, but she was sure it didn’t really matter – it was true in Markus’ head and, as far as he was concerned, that was enough. “So I’ll turn up that microphone when you are ready to cooperate...” He said, pointing to a mic supported by a pole, pointed at her. “And we’ll start recording a segment for my next podcast, in which you’ll admit that you thought about what you said in that interview and realized that you were wrong. You will then give a quick speech being emphatic to the struggles of the modern white male, and reassure everyone that you seek no harm to those who helped build civilization.”
She felt sick just hearing that. She doubted her lips could even form such absurdities. “Hell no! Let me go, you psycho!”
Markus sighed. “I gave you a chance, Mrs. Cortez.” As he said that, he began to pull her shoes off from her feet, which made her even more puzzled. What did that idiot have in mind?
She was not left in suspense for long. He wasted no time taking off her socks as well, leaving her bare feet to enjoy the chilling air of that little private dungeon. Then, he slid one single finger down her right sole, making the Latina congresswoman squeal. The realization hit her.
Tickling leaves no scars.
“Thahat’s your plan?! To tihihckle me into submissiohohon??” She asked, appalled, amidst giggles. It was so fucking absurd that she would have laughed if someone told her.
Now, however, she was laughing for entirely different reasons. And she was starting to realize Markus was right on one thing – no one would believe her.
“Stop, STOP!” She yelled, annoyed, as Markus added another finger, now to her left sole. The solitary digits traced a multitude of pathways through her light-skinned soles. And, terrified, Alexandria realized that, by themselves, they were already more than enough to drive her wild. She had always been a very sensitive girl; relatives used to tease her with tickles all the time. Everyone in the family knew that touching Alexandria’s feet was not free of consequences – a kick to the face was in the future of those who tried it.
But she couldn’t kick now. With her legs locked in place, she couldn’t do anything except sit there and take it.
“MAhahahAHHAHArrkuhuhuhSSs! STOHOHoopp!!” She yelled, frustrated and desperate. She was now understanding the evilness of leaving her upperbody free. It gave her ample space to squirm around, to pound her firsts against the cushioned seat, to twitch like a madwoman – but it was all in vain. Whatever she did, her legs stood locked in place, stretched in front of her. Worse – she could try to reach them with her hands. She could almost do so – she had always been a flexible girl. And yet, due to the way the seat was built and the angle of her legs, she just couldn’t reach it.
Everything in her mind told her that she could protect herself – she just had to reach her feet and block his hands with hers. They were RIGHT THERE. And yet, whenever she tired, she came juuust short, her hands grabbing against the air in a pathetic struggle that really reinforced just how helpless she was in that situation.
And Markus quickly showed that he had no mercy in store for her as long as she didn’t cooperate. He didn’t even flinch with her pleas; the torture grew harsher every few seconds, Markus adding a new finger or speeding up the pace, bit by bit, building and building the stimuli over and over until they reached a crescendo that enveloped Alexandre in a never-ending universe of torment. Over the course of a few minutes – minutes in which she repeatedly pleaded for him to stop – the tickling continued to rise until, finally, Markus was using both hands on both her feet, tickling with vigor. And God, she had forgotten how devastatingly ticklish she was; her feet flared up with ticklish signals, burning up with that annoying, unbearable stimuli that compelled her to laugh, to scream, to plead, to try anything to flee from it.
“MAHAHAHARKUHUHUHUSS PLEHEHEHAHAHAHSSHEEHHE!! STOHOHOHPPP!! PLEHEHEHAHAHAHSSEHEHEH!!” She begged, abandoning her pride – and she was a very proud person. But keeping her pride was not worth this. Even if it wasn’t just Markus; even if there were a crowd there, watching her, she wouldn’t care. Yeah, she was the girl begging because of tickling. She would take that, as long as it made it fucking STOP.
But, of course, it didn’t. It just made Markus pick up the pace even more; his fingers were now dancing over her soles, exploring every ticklish nook and cranny. She continued to struggle – to reach for her feet, to squirm around, to scream – but nothing brought the relief she so desperately craved for.
The minutes dragged on, Markus never relenting on his attack on her soles. Slowly, he started to explore other regions – the sides and balls of her feet, below her toes – but nothing was as sensitive as the raw intensity of her soles; the very center, especially. When Markus scratched that region with his nails, Alexandria almost craved for death.
It didn’t take long for her to realize that she greatly underestimated how terrifying that torture could be. When it started, she thought it could be bad, due to her sensitiveness, but not that it could actually break her. It was just tickling, right? It’s child’s play. It’s not torture! Except it was. There was a clock in the opposite wall that allowed her to keep track of time, and even though she felt like it had been dozens of minutes so far, she knew for a fact it had been just seven. And yet, she was already worn out. She was exhausted from all the struggling, her throat was already getting sore from laughing, her abdomen was aching with pain, her entire body begged for rest. And, much to her horror, she realized that she was starting to consider whether to cave in and give Markus what he wanted. It seemed… a reasonable price to make the torture stop. Anything, at that moment, seemed like a reasonable price.
And yet, Markus didn’t insist. He just. Kept. Going. A quick glance to his face showed that he was enjoying torturing her – whether because that was some sick fetish of his, or just because he was ‘owning a libtard’, she would never know. What she knew is that she wanted it to stop.
“GOOHOHOHOHODDHAHAHAHHAMHIHIHITT! STOHOHOHOHOPPP!!!” She screamed, lunging forward, her instincts taking control. Maybe some animalistic side of her brain thought that she could attack him and make him stop. Of course, reality hit her as she reached the limits of what she could do while on those stocks. The torment continued, and Alexandria had no choice but to stay there, powerless, tears running down her eyes, completely at the mercy of the deranged podcaster.
Finally, after an eternity, Markus stopped, just as suddenly at he had started. In an instant, all torment ceased, although it took a while for Alexandria’s jumbled brain to catch-up. She continued for a few seconds, laughing and squirming, weakly begging for him to stop, before she managed to process the situation. She collapsed backwards, letting the couch embrace her, thankful that, at least for now, it was over.
“Are you willing to cooperate, Mrs Cortez? Or will I have to continue?”
She almost blurted out a ‘yes’ before her rational mind managed to regain control. The desperate side of her, the one that wanted the torment to stop at any costs, really wanted to give in. But, in the absence of the tickling, she could think a bit more clearly, and her reason counterattacked, reminding her that she had a responsibility with those that she represented, both those that elected her directly and those who lived elsewhere but saw in her a model for inspiration. She couldn’t betray them like this. She had to resist. For them.
Thus, even though reluctant, she shook her head, gesturing a no.
Markus’ grin widened. “Resistant as I expected. Good thing I brought some tools to help out in the persuasion.”
With that, he pulled closer a wheeled table with a box on the top. Upon seeing the contents, Alexandria’s eyes widened in terror.
Markus’ picked a hairbrush from it, hard bristles with small plastic balls on their ends. She started struggling before they made contact, in a desperate, irrational effort to break free.
“NO. NO, NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOO!!!” She erupted in laughter when he started applying it to her soles, dragging the brush left and right, up and down. There was no ramping up, no meticulously calculated pace – just raw, unrelentless assault from the very first minute. Alexandria’s laughter quickly turned into a shrill scream of pure suffering; her mind immediately regretted her choice. This was too much. WAY too much. She couldn’t take it. She NEEDED it to stop, NOW!
“STOHOHOHOPP!! PLEHEHEHEHEHAHAHAHSSHEHEHE!! I CHAHAHAHHAHANNTT THAHHAHAHAHAHAKEKEHEHEHHE IHIHIHIIHTTT!” She screamed amidst sobs and laughs; the congresswoman had been reduced to an incoherent mess as the brush continued to work its magic on her soles, making them burn with horrible ticklish sensations.
And yet, Markus didn’t stop. The assault continued for three horrible minutes, in which Alexandria hated herself more and more each second; she hated herself for being proud, for being stubborn, for trying to resist when so clearly outmatched. Being brave and true to her ideals brought her suffering; things would have been much easier if she had just complied from the start. Now, she was here – suffering more than she could possibly handle.
Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid! She should just give up. Give him what he want. Make the torment stop.
And it stopped. Once again, overwhelming relief hit her; now she could give him what he wanted and be done with it.
It’s what she thought – until she heard a soft buzz fill the room. Lifting her head with the little energy she had left, she saw Markus, with a deranged look of satisfaction in his face, holding an electric toothbrush.
“I heard these are terrible under one’s toes. Let’s fact check it?”
“WAIT, MARKUS, I GIHIHIHIHIHIHIBVVHEHEHEHEHEH HAEHEHEHAEHHEHAEHAEHAHAE!!!”
They were. She screamed louder than ever before; Markus held her toes back with one hand, while applying the brush with the other. Alexandria screamed from the top of her lungs, terrified of the horrible, HORRIBLE sensations that overwhelmed her soles. She tried to give up; she tried to tell him that she would do it. She would do whatever he wanted, just, for the love of God, make it stop!
But she couldn’t make the words pass her lips, She tried, she really did, but the laughter poured out faster and stronger, her words were lost in a sea of laughter and screaming.
The world whirled. Her head was fuzzy. She couldn’t breathe properly. She tried once more to push out her surrender, and once more she failed – and, quite frankly, she wasn’t sure Markus would care. He had a fixated, demented look of enjoyment on his face, his usually calm and soft-spoken demeanor replaced by constant teases and provocations. “Are all leftist girls this ticklish?” “This is what we should do to all parasites of this country.” “Your soles would not be going through this if you had stayed in your fucking country and left America for Americans.” He repeated.
“PLEehehahasshehehe…” She managed to blurt out before darkness enveloped her.
Markus stepped back when he realized she wasn’t responding anymore. Darn it. It seems he had pushed her too far. She fainted, and would certainly take a while before she came back. He cursed; time was precious, despite his initial bravado to the girl.
But oh well. Even if things fell through; even if he was discovered and AOC was rescued… He couldn’t lie, it had all been worth it.
