Farah's Odyssey I: Divide & Conquer
Farah's Odyssey II: Embrace
Farah's Odyssey III: A Tickling Union
Farah's Odyssey part IV: Games
CHAPTER I
A wall of bubbles. She was underwater again, with no problem breathing. Was she wearing scuba gear? No. She hadn’t put any on. She tried to clear the way; to see what was beyond. The bubbles were relentless and fluttered at her eyelids. Frustration. The water was clear, so why did it feel like she was swimming through molasses? She looked up and, through the rippled surface, made out three figures on a high platform who were staring down at her. She couldn’t see their faces, but she knew who they were.
Then the rush of bubbles began to slow. The remaining few clung to her skin as they skirted round her body on the way up to the surface. It felt like shivering. Then the bubbles stopped. She could look now and all of a sudden she didn’t want to. But she had to make sure. She coiled to face where the bubbles had been and came nose-to-nose with the drowned corpse of Cassie Jones, her face pallid blue and wrinkled from the year she had been in the pool. Her hair floated around her face as her head lolled loosely with the motion of the water. She was still tied awkwardly to the exercise machine by a lat pull-down bar.
But the thing that would imprint itself on Farah’s mind when she awoke from this dream would be the teeth – clenched into a fraught grimace. A paradoxical expression at the desperation to not laugh, with the terrifying knowledge that if she laughed she would lose her strength and lose her life. But she was ticklish and she was being tickled, and that’s why Cassie Jones was gone.
However, dreams exploit our fears and Farah’s most intense, indelible fear had long been that Cassie was alive and ready to kill her entire family, which is why the corpse’s eyes—just centimetres away from Farah’s—opened.
CHAPTER II
Farah gasped herself awake and took some moments to calm herself. This was an event so commonplace that she knew exactly how to handle it the moment she woke up.
Thankfully the sun was up – at least she didn’t have to try to force herself back to sleep again.
“Farah! Sabi! Come here!” called her younger sister Mira from the living room. “It’s happening!”
Farah swung out of bed, ready dressed in joggers and went to the window. There was nothing but empty fields and blue sky. They had left the horrors and memories of Texas behind and worked their way north, eventually settling amongst a peaceful community in the hills of central Idaho.
Mr and Mrs Reeves, an elderly couple with a bed & breakfast, were happy to have the company of a group of young women who proved to be kind-hearted and fierce enough to look after themselves. Everyone played their part in gathering the items that helped the household run smoothly and the food that Mrs Reeves cooked three times a day, when available. Mr Reeves made himself as useful as he could by maintaining the property and its defences and, during the evening TV watching and storytelling sessions, would often be caught openly admiring the shapely ankles of his guests.
Syra liked the place because it was on high ground and they would be able to see trouble if it was heading their way. Farah concurred and had taken every opportunity to learn from Syra – the woman who saved her life and had obviously undergone some form of military or security training. Although Syra and her apprentice, Uma, kept the exact details to themselves even after a year fighting and surviving together.
“Farah!” Mira called again.
“Coming!”
Farah made her way to the breakfast room. Even her accidental companion, Ruthie, whose life Farah had saved, was awake and huddled on the couch with Mira.
“What is it?”
“Shh!” said Mrs Reeves.
They were watching MSNBC. A news report showed a crowd of Democratic and Republican politicians—among them Jack Jackson, leader of the US Democrats, and Rooster Beauregard Jnr., leader of the US Republicans—in a town hall meeting hosted by the President of the People’s Republic of China.
“They’ve announced a truce,” said Mira.
“What a goddamn embarrassment,” said Mr Reeves. “Fighting like school kids so much that we need the Chinese to come over and sort things out.”
“School kids with guns,” said Sabrina.
“Nothing new there, then,” said Uma.
“Shh! I want to listen,” said Mrs Reeves.
The Chinese president went on to explain that America would soon become two countries divided by an 80-mile wide “American corridor” that would be policed by the Chinese. Once an official border was agreed upon, full power would be handed to the two new nations. For now, anyone with liberal views should head west and anyone with conservative views should head east. Those who were apolitical and comfortable staying where they were, could do so. Until official treaties were signed, both countries were under martial law (supported by the Chinese military), curfews were in place and anyone caught breaking the law to any degree would be interned and dealt with in the strictest manner possible.
“Is that US law or Chinese law?” asked Sabrina.
Farah noticed that Syra was quiet. To be fair, this was Syra’s default mode, but she seemed to be watching the broadcast with something on her mind that was different to everyone else. A look of recognition washed over her and Farah followed her gaze. The TV camera briefly focused on an impressive-looking woman in her mid forties with wavy chestnut hair and big blue eyes. As far as Farah could tell, she was the only woman amid the crowd of senators.
Syra leant to whisper something to Uma, who immediately got up and went to the room she shared with Mira. Syra headed to the nest she’d made in the attic, which she had occupied despite being told by Mrs Reeves that there were nicer rooms available in the house.
Syra heard footsteps on the ladder. “What’s up, Farah?” she said without looking up.
Farah raised her head through the hatch, “Something tells me you’re packing up and heading out.”
“Is it the personal possessions I’m putting in my bag?”
“You think this truce will hold?”
“Who knows? We’ve gotta put faith in something, don’t we?”
“Somehow I don’t believe you put faith in the men who are now in charge.”
Syra smirked. “Maybe I don’t.”
“Can I ask you something, Syra?”
“Sure,” she said withholding a sigh. She was prepared for everyone in the house to ask her to stay and she didn’t want to have the conversation at all.
“You ever had those dreams where you’re hitting someone and everything you do feels weak and ineffective?”
“Oh. Sometimes.”
“You thought I was going to ask something else?”
“What do you want to know?”
“How I can stop the dreams,” said Farah.
“You can’t.” Syra zipped up her backpack. “The best you can do is keep working on yourself. Maybe it’s your subconscious telling you that you need to do something more than you’re currently doing to protect yourself and your family.”
She ushered Farah down the ladder and handed her down the backpack. When they were both on the landing Farah asked, “You mean go take self defence classes?”
“I mean get yourself into some kind of military programme. You wanna be the best, you’ve gotta make it your life, not a hobby.”
“Do they accept ex-cons into the military?”
“Farah, if the records do still exist, they won’t give a shit. Even when this country hadn’t gone through a war they were still putting the dregs in charge.”
Farah laughed. “Oh, thanks a lot!”
“Y’welcome,” said Syra as she put on her backpack.
“And won’t you stay?” said Farah, addressing the question she knew Syra anticipated.
“Nope.”
“Didn’t think so.”
The Rashids, the Reeveses and Ruthie waved farewell as Syra and Uma headed for the horizon in the pickup truck that was christened Brad and had been their ride from Dallas to Boise. It was only Mira who let the tears flow as Uma hugged her goodbye. She would never get used to losing people.
Ruthie took her hand and led her inside. “Look here, Mira, I’m glad Uma’s gone. Now me and you can share foot massages the way you did with her, huh?” Mr and Mrs Reeves followed them in. Mrs Reeves headed for the kettle while Mr Reeves was intent on getting a good observation spot from his favourite armchair.
Sabrina had always intuitively known what her younger sisters were thinking. Farah was squinting into the noonday sun as the pickup truck got ever smaller, but her mind was elsewhere.
“You’re going to leave too,” said Sabrina.
Farah snapped from her thoughts. “Oh… yeah. We’ve gotta make a new life, eh? I’m not looking to help run a bed’n’breakfast just yet. Enough of our lives have been wasted these past few years and you can bet there are people out there looking to establish themselves in the new order. We sit here, we’ll lose out.” “Hey, you won’t get an argument from me.”
“No? You’ve got plans?” said Farah. Much like a chess master, Sabrina generally planned several moves ahead before making any announcements.
“I’m heading back to Stanford. I’ve heard it’s still standing. The laws are going to change and no matter what side of the country…countries…we’re on, there are gonna be people trying to get on top while fucking over the majority. I don’t feel like letting that happen.”
Farah whistled. She was surprised but proud. “Good for you, Sabi.”
“And you?”
“Not too different; I need to join some kind of law enforcement.”
“Hey, cool. You always were the fighter among us.”
“Well, in the past few years, I didn’t have much choice.”
They sat on the stoop and put their arms around each other’s shoulders as they discussed their future plans.
CHAPTER III
Uma flipped down the truck’s sun visor. “Where first, boss?”
“We go east before that border gets too secure.”
Uma nodded and let some moments pass before speaking her mind. “I’m just gonna say this. You know, get it out there—”
“What is it, Uma?”
“What’s the point? I mean, okay, we know where Senator Bryant is now. But we don’t know who pinpointed her, we don’t know how well protected she is and the reason she was targeted…” she hesitated, looking for the right words. “It’s kind of over now. The war happened.”
Syra was perfectly calm in her response. “Firstly, nothing is ever over – if people exist, there’s no end; there’s just the next thing. Skylar Bryant is not the kind of individual who will let things settle. Did you notice where this Chinese demilitarised zone is drawn? It splits the country in two and the Republicans get the smaller side? She didn’t instigate a civil war to settle for that – she won’t stop until the whole continent is hers. Secondly, it doesn’t matter who targeted her – she is our assignment. And she is our assignment not because we’re agents of RID, or what’s left of it, she’s our assignment because MI Baker saved my life, gave me a purpose and ten minutes after I last saw him he was incinerated. I’ve thought a lot about who could have sent those missiles. There’s only one name that makes sense – Skylar Bryant.”
“Right,” said Uma and she felt something that had been lost to her since the destruction of RID HQ. Quite simply, it was a blood lust. By and large, she kept it from those around her, but seasoned operatives had learned to spot it. Controlled, it was an asset to agents. But Uma was a bit of a loose cannon and her superiors knew it. Now, however, there was only one superior agent that she knew was still alive in the USA and they were riding east together.
“First,” said Syra with a tone that suggested she was washing her mouth of the things she was forced to clarify, “we need to stop at one of the safe houses along the way to stock up on supplies.”
Uma nodded and, as they joined the POW-MIA Memorial Highway, with nothing more to say, she switched on the radio and Jim Ford filled the cab:
There's a long road ahead!
I got a lot to leave behind!
That's the gospel truth, mister!
There's a long road ahead…
CHAPTER III
Just two days later it was time for Farah, Sabrina, Mira and Ruthie to leave the bed & breakfast, and it was Mr Reeves’s turn to shed a tear.
With Sabrina behind the wheel of their parting gift—the Reeves’ ancient, but relatively unused, Chrysler Crossfire—they headed west. The ultimate destination for Sabrina and Mira was Stanford, California. Ruthie asked to be dropped off in Las Vegas where her former employer, the renowned dominatrix Mistress Ocelot, had relocated since her Atlanta dungeon was sabotaged during the war.
Farah asked to be dropped off first in Henderson, Nevada, at the Army National Guard Recruiting Center. She remembered seeing it on a previous trip to Las Vegas, which was more familiar than she was with any other similar centre, but when they drove close by, the area was unrecognisable. With roads and buildings pockmarked by gunfire and molotov cocktails, security had evidently been ramped up. It was also somehow unnerving to be surrounded by more civilians in cars and on the sidewalk than she had seen in the past three years.
Sabrina had to park on the main road.
“Are you sure about this, Farah?” asked Mira.
“I’ve gotta start somewhere.” She jumped out the car and took her backpack.
Sabrina leant toward the open passenger window. “Shall we wait for you?”
“Hey!” called a guard from the gates of the centre. “No stopping! Move!” He was already on his way over, an M16 assault rifle in his hands.
“No, you head out,” said Farah. “I love you. Go.”
Sabrina nodded and pulled into the traffic. Farah returned a wave from Mira and Ruthie through the rear windscreen as the Crossfire headed for central Las Vegas. It wasn’t the grand goodbye they all deserved, but on the plus side, it was unemotional.
The guard was already back at his post. She passed a female officer in combat fatigues leaving the centre as she approached the gates. “Excuse me, is this the right place to enlist?” Farah asked the guard. “You’re too late for today,” he replied.
Farah checked her watch. It was 5:01pm. The centre closed at 5pm.
“Come back tomorrow,” he said and stepped into a sentry box.
“Thanks,” Farah said forlornly. This was not part of her plan.
“You’d better work on that timekeeping.”
Farah turned to see the female officer lighting up a cigarette under the shade of a sentry turret.
“From now on I won’t have to wait on my younger sister to get ready.”
The officer looked Farah up and down. “You’re a little older than most who sign up.”
“The war wasn’t easy. I’m probably younger than I look.”
“Yeah? Any combat experience?”
“In a way,” said Farah.
“Go on.”
Farah was hesitant, but gave a potted history of her journey from the attack on her family up until being dropped off outside the centre. The officer seemed intensely interested, especially at the story of the prison guards who abused their power and that it was Farah who turned the whole situation around. The one detail Farah left out was being regularly tickle-tortured. Although it was harrowing, she always felt as though it sounded incredible to the point of fantasy when spoken aloud.
The woman finished her cigarette. “I’m Major Wyatt,” she said.
Farah straightened her posture and held out a hand. “Farah Rashid.” Wyatt gave her a look. She dropped her hand. “Should I salute?” she asked.
“You’re not a soldier yet, Rashid. But that’s one hell of a story. If you’re interested, I’m putting together an irregular combat force. Want to see if you’re up to it?”
“Yes, I do, Major.”
CHAPTER IV
Passing through the demilitarised zone from west to east was a lot easier than Syra anticipated. The Chinese peacekeepers backed up by the United Nations did not yet have the processes in place or the manpower to check the cross-currents of civilians who were wasting no time in heading for their new promised lands. Merging with the crowds was deceptively easy because the two groups were not as easily discernible as she suspected they would be. All races, colours and creeds merged in both directions and, while there was an air of tension, the fighting instinct seemed to be diminished after three years of death and destruction. If there was any notable difference between the two groups of travellers it was that, while both seemed to want to adopt and display the Stars & Stripes, only one group peppered its numbers with the Confederate flag.
It was on the news reports, but nothing was quite as spectacular as seeing the destruction in Washington DC first-hand. Black scorched earth marks on the tarmac of Pennsylvania Avenue indicated where vehicles were eliminated; defences reinforced the grounds of the White House to the point where it was not visible from the road; and the marble statue of Abraham Lincoln sat exposed to the elements after a friendly-fire missile malfunctioned and removed the roof of the memorial.
Syra could remember the location of three safe houses around DC, two of which turned out to be just as burnt out or ransacked as the others they had visited along their journey. After 36 hours of driving, she was relieved to see that their last chance—a small house situated in a quiet cul-de-sac in Woodmont, Virginia—was still in one piece.
Uma assumed that Syra would need a rest after almost 36 straight hours of driving. Instead, she pulled out a RID-designed AET (Advanced Encrypted Transceiver) and went about contacting any other agent who would have done the same thing. Uma sat on the couch and spectated. Partly because, although she was shattered, she felt an obligation to remain on-hand should Syra need her, but mostly because of something she had been keeping to herself for a long time now.
She watched Syra, her supervising agent and mentor, focussed on the task. She probably wasn’t even aware that Uma was in the same room. Her dedication was one of the things Uma admired about her. However, living together evoked other feelings that Uma initially struggled to identify. She first assumed it was a closeness anyone might experience in such a circumstance – not only were they living together, but everyone in the bed & breakfast relied on Syra above anyone else and so she put it down to a “big sister” effect. It was only when she found herself doing all she could to catch Syra coming out of the shower, and felt the desire to masturbate over the idea, that she realised it was much more. It was not just a surprise that she desired the instructor she had known for years, but that she was sexually interested in women. Or, at least, one woman.
“Portunus,” came a voice from the transceiver. “This is a secure line.”
“Huh?” said Uma with a start and the imprint of a couch pillow on her face. It was dark outside, which meant she must have been asleep for at least eight hours.
Syra was momentarily confused. Fatigue, plus a day of zero responses, meant that she almost forgot what she was doing. Then it registered: Portunus was a code name she recognised and it provoked a shock of adrenaline.
“Michaels?! You’re alive!”
“Rahul, is that you?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice cracking a little with emotion. She had known Senior Tech Agent Michaels since joining the cult and when the missiles struck, she assumed he was where he spent most of his waking hours when the HQ was standing – in the shadows of his personally-devised basement technical department.
“Jesus Christ, Michaels, it’s good to hear your voice.”
“You too. I didn’t know if you got out.”
“I flew out with Tailor. We just made it. Spent this past year in Idaho. Are you in the country?”
“I am. I’ve made contact with several agents. Now that a truce is signed we should all find a way to convene, yes?”
“At some point. How many agents have you found?” Syra asked.
Michaels hesitated. “Not many.”
“I won’t read much into that. We’ve only just found you. Others may follow suit.”
“You’re in the east,” said Michaels. “To carry out your assignment?”
“You’ve got a good memory,” said Syra.
“Yep. And I’ve had a lot of spare time, so I maintained surveillance of the target.”
“Have you learned anything useful?”
“I can confidently say that I have, although I’m not sure how happy you’ll be to hear it.”
“Tell me,” said Syra with an ironic tone.
“She has a very secure residence in Sagaponack.”
“Okay.”
“Very secure.”
“Right.”
“I mean, I don’t think you’ll in there.”
“I get it, Michaels – why’s it so secure?” said Syra, as Uma pulled up a chair next to her.
“She’s got interests in most of the weapons manufacturers in the country. Her income hit a steep up-curve during the war. She’s currently one of the wealthiest people in North America and she can afford the latest technology and the highest trained security teams to keep her and her property safe. And they do – 24/7. She’s even got some kind of mini ‘iron dome’ set-up, in case someone decides to attack from the air.”
“Great,” said Syra.
“She has security around her whenever she goes out. They rarely leave her side.”
“Hey Michaels,” said Uma, “got anything helpful for us?”
“That you, Tailor? It’s good to hear you. Yes, I have one thing that might be useful but, like I say, Rahul probably won’t like it.”
“This is the bit I won’t like?!” said Syra. “What is it?”
“I hacked her surveillance cameras and at the beginning of the war she was getting regular visits from two women.”
“Uhuh? She’s a lesbian?”
“Not exactly. She dates guys but it seems she has a penchant for BDSM with women.”
“Ughh!” Syra’s head dropped. After a moment of contemplation she noticed Uma’s expression of confused amusement. “I’ll tell you later,” she turned back to the AET. “Carry on, Michaels.”
“Well, she was meeting with two particular dominatrixes regularly until they were killed during the ‘New Jersey standoff’. Since then, she’s tried duo after duo of dominatrixes, but apparently they’re not hitting the mark… so to speak… because she never sees the same duo twice.”
“So you think she’s on the lookout for another couple of regular spankers?” said Uma.
“Unfortunately she doesn’t have security cameras inside her bedroom,” said Michaels with palpable disappointment, “but from the audio I’ve managed to enhance, it very much sounds like she’s in charge.”
“If she’s in charge, what’s the point of having dominatrixes come over?” said Uma.
“Well… exactly,” said Michaels.
Syra took a deep breath. “Now that we’ve found you, are you always on this channel?”
“Unless I’m asleep. Chances are, even then I’ll wake up and answer if you call.”
“Okay. Call… if I call you I’ll need you.”
“Ten four,” said Michaels, confused.
Syra clicked off the conversation. Uma looked at her and knew that tiredness was taking its toll – she didn’t realise that she’d made a mistake.
“You need a rest, boss.”
Syra nodded. She went to a bedroom on the ground floor and flopped onto the bed.
Uma could see her through the open door. She was still fully dressed with her shoes on. Uma’s heart skipped a little to see Syra like this and her body seemed to go to her before her mind knew why. For a moment she considered helping Syra off with her top, but that seemed like going too far. Instead she looked at her feet and unlaced her shoes. Then, taking them gently in her hands she slipped them off. Syra’s feet in white ankle sports socks radiated warmth and Uma discovered something else about herself – she appreciated Syra’s feet. Her mouth was dry as she slowly peeled off her right sock. The room was silent and she didn’t blink as she did the same with the left and rested her bare feet on the bed. Syra’s toes were immaculate and her soft soles with their gentle wrinkles maintained the appearance of having received regular pedicures, even though Uma couldn’t imagine her going for one.
Uma’s desire to tickle split into two directions—one for arousal and one for out-and-out sadism—and right now she was losing the battle to tickle Syra’s soles for the first reason. The twisted desire to see her strong boss laughing helplessly at her touch was all the stronger because she hadn’t had sex with anyone for so long. Her close friendship with Mira was platonic and, even though she had dreamt about them doing sexual things together, she put this down to unalleviated frustration.
Her fingertips closed in on Syra’s bare soles. She could almost hear the rrrrrrp of the texture as the tip of her fingernail scratched against the tiny immaculate toeprints, but just as she was about to make contact, Syra turned and covered herself with the blankets.
Uma snapped out of her trance and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. What she was about to do was highly irregular and Syra, who was completely heterosexual, would not have seen the funny or sexy side and it would have irreparably changed the way she perceived Uma.
Uma distracted herself by planning how to get close to and terminate their target. While she respected the traditions of the cult, she also believed in common sense: why bother with the elaborate practice of tickling someone to death when more straightforward ways existed? She quickly dismissed the debate – arguing with Syra would be a losing battle and just pondering this question caused a throbbing between her legs.
She adjourned to the upstairs bedroom, stripped naked and slipped into bed. She needed relief and, as she played with herself, the thought she tried hardest to put to the back of her mind became the only thing that was getting her wet, so she focussed on it – Syra Rahul overpowered and laughing hysterically. While she didn’t know how Syra would react in such a situation, the idea alone was enough. And who would do the tickling? She didn’t know, but because it couldn’t be her, in her fantasy the tickler was sexless and faceless. One thing she did know was that she was going to devise a way to see this happen for real.
And, with that thought, Uma came.
CHAPTER V
At 0500 in a training facility in the Steens Mountain Wilderness, Oregon, Farah received nothing but stony faces from her new teammates as she entered the training gym and took a seat. All, including herself, were dressed in black combat fatigues that made them appear like a military ninja platoon. She didn’t remember being this irrationally nervous since her first day at school. Even prison, with its enforced regimes and a the us-and-them factor between inmates and guards, gave her the feeling that they were all in the shit together. Right now she felt like the least qualified person in the room and that everyone else in the room knew it.
Major Wyatt entered and they all stood. She signalled for them to sit again. She was flanked by a chisel-jawed, green-eyed soldier in his early thirties who Farah tried not to stare at, being the first attractive man she’d seen outside of a television screen in a very long time.
“Morning squad,” said Major Wyatt, “and welcome to the new recruits. For those who have been sent here from Henderson, I am Major Wyatt and for those of you who know something about ranks, you’ll be wondering why a fully qualified and proven major is in charge of this group. It’s because you are part of something new.
“This isn’t the regular army, you’re not here for the medals or the glory. You won’t make headlines. You won’t get parades. You will get the job done and when you do, no one will know you were there.”
She took a moment to pace before them, looking each recruit in the eye. Farah felt the hairs on her arms and shoulders stand up when she looked at her – this wasn’t for dramatic effect, Wyatt was gauging their reactions to what they were hearing.
“If you feel uncomfortable at this, good. That means you’re still thinking. That means you’ve still got a choice. Because once you commit—once you take that next step—you don’t get to walk away. There are no half-measures here, no ‘I changed my mind.’ You either become a ghost, or you leave now and find something else to do out in the new world.”
Farah and a male recruit next to her looked at one another.
“There are no lone wolves here. You will lay your lives on the line and the soldiers currently sitting next to you will be the only safety net you have. So, if you don’t know how to work as part of a team, get out now.”
Nobody moved. Wyatt permitted herself a smirk.
“You may be asked to do things before I consider you ready—before you feel ready—that comes with the territory of being part of this new squad. You’ve been chosen because you’ve already got some kind of head on your shoulders. I don’t need inexperienced adolescents. But because you are not teenagers, you are going to experience pain in getting yourself into the physical specimens I require. That’s where Staff Sergeant Holmes comes in,” she indicated the chisel-jawed soldier. “He will teach you more about pain and endurance in the coming weeks than you ever thought possible. Is that not right, Sergeant Holmes?”
“Ma’am, yes, ma’am!” Holmes’s volume made Farah’s eardrums wince.
Wyatt continued. “If you make it through basic training, you will become the best you can be and what our new country deserves. You will do the things no one else can do. You will go where no one else can go. And the people will sleep safe and sound, with no clue that we are the reason why. Do you understand me, Alpha Squad?”
“Ma’am, yes, ma’am!” the recruits called in unison.
“Get to know each other’s names, recruits,” said Wyatt and dismissed them while she and Holmes stepped to one side and conferred.
Because Farah’s eyes were glued to Holmes, she missed an introduction to her immediate neighbour as the recruits stood and started sharing getting to know each other. She breathed in a resolve to be more confident, stood up and came face-to-face with one of the last people she expected to see – ex-Deputy Warden of the McGunn Penitentiary, Janine Dayton.
CHAPTER VI
Senator Skylar Bryant adjusted the cuffs of her blazer as she strode towards her office, the sharp click of her 4-inch heels echoing against the marble floors, accompanied by her trusted chief aide, Sally, and her personal security unit. The Capitol was alive with its usual hum of activity—staffers rushing, deals being whispered, alliances forming and crumbling in the span of a coffee break. She pondered how quickly the everyday routines settled into place even after the three year cardiac arrest the country had just experienced.
She exuded control, power, and discipline, the very image of moral fortitude she had so carefully cultivated, along with a default confident smirk that had been there her whole life; a smirk that operated like the bright colours on poisonous amphibians by convincing any opponent who came into contact with her that she was one step ahead. And, to her credit, she generally was. It was not good luck that meant she had been appointed Press Secretary for President Gabby Calhoun and had not left the White House grounds in the years since.
Skylar Bryant was braggadocios when she wanted to provoke a reaction or gain the limelight, but also knew how to keep her mouth shut and operate in the shadows when it was best for her. Hence, she placed seeds in the mouths of colleagues, opponents, commentators and those who considered themselves superior and, without fail, the fruits of her labour grew exactly as she planned. She considered the federal government to be her chess board and all she had to do was whisper into the ears of the pieces and watch the games play out as she required.
The civil war was the nearest she had come to making a gamble, but it paid off. She was now a multi-billionaire and confident that she would be appointed to one of the highest positions in Rooster Beauregard Jnr’s new government, placing the Presidency within her reach. After that, it was just a matter of informing the population that all treaties were unfair and another war would result in the entire continent being theirs, as it should have been if Beauregard had been strong enough in the first place.
Her day was a flurry of committee meetings, policy reviews, and tense negotiations. By late afternoon, she found herself in the private lounge of the Senate chambers, nursing an espresso, reading the latest news on her tablet and indulging in a rare moment of solitude, overseen at every step by her bodyguards.
Senator Aldridge, a colleague with a penchant for loose talk and finer vices, sank into the chair across from her with a sly grin.
“You look like you need a distraction, Bryant,” he said, swirling the drink in his glass.
“I get the feeling you’d have said that no matter what I look like, Aldridge,” she replied without looking up.
He chuckled, lowering his voice. “I had an unforgettable night last night.”
“Managed to finish that jigsaw you’ve been working on?”
“I went to an exclusive little club in South Beach. Caters to… very particular tastes.” He leaned in. “Met two incredible women there. Legendary, really. Mistress Equinox and Lady Nightshade. They could make even the most powerful feel utterly powerless.”
Skylar Bryant’s fingers tightened around her cup and her pulse quickened. She knew exactly which club he was referring to and was a regular visitor before she was in a position of recognition. Hearing about it from Aldridge made her miss the dark & neon atmosphere, the sense of anticipation and the smell of leather and rubber.
Feigning indifference, she exhaled. “Sounds like a liability waiting to happen.”
He smirked. “Not if you know how to play the game.” He drained his drink and stood, straightening his tie. “Anyway, just thought I’d share. Never know when you might want to… unwind.”
She gave him a look of disgust and he departed, presumably to share his stories with others who didn’t ask to hear them. He wasn’t physically unattractive, but she was repelled by his lack of discretion.
During Skylar Bryant’s ride home, Sally’s briefings on the following day’s meetings became an indecipherable murmur as the idea of being with two legendary dommes made her heart thump. She had spent years commanding rooms, shaping policies, controlling outcomes, however, the idea of surrendering—of relinquishing control to skilled hands—sent a thrill down her spine she couldn’t ignore. Yet, she had almost impossibly high standards, especially since the deaths of two mistresses with whom she had a long-standing relationship. Men were worthless in this regard – she hadn’t met a man she couldn’t manipulate into doing whatever she wanted, including passing through the veneer of any male dominant like a phantasm. She was repulsed by gay men. This only left women. Preferably straight women. She needed high-class experienced women who could take control.
Sally was unaware that her words were not penetrating until she was interrupted, “…and at 3:30pm you have a meeting with—”
“Sally, I’ve got something I need you to do this evening…”
CHAPTER VII
In the mess hall at supper time Farah collected her meal and saw Janine Dayton sitting away from the rest of the squad.
Farah went over, placed her tray down and took the bench on the opposite side of the table with her legs to one side. Subconsciously, she felt as though she might need to make a quick getaway, but that was stupid and so she moved into a more natural position.
“Don’t want to mix with the others?” asked Farah.
“I thought you might want to talk without being overheard,” said Janine.
“What are you doing here? Am I being set up?”
“No. It’s pure coincidence, Rashid–”
“Don’t call me Rashid, I ain’t one of your captives any more. And the last I saw of you, you weren’t exactly dominating the place. Remember?”
A couple of their squad members glanced over due to Farah’s defensive tone of voice.
Janine subtly indicated for her to remain calm. “I remember. I just didn’t think we’d be on friendly enough terms for me to call you by your first name.”
“Why are you here?” said Farah, side-stepping this very good point. “I assumed you’d be more at home in the east.”
“I can see why. But I didn’t exactly have many friends after leaving the penitentiary.”
“What happened?” asked Farah.
“Yuri realised she could trust me and needed me to help keep the perimeter of the prison safe, which we did for a while. But then some guys came and started poking their noses around. They must’ve noticed that it was only women inside trying to scare them off, because one day a huge crowd of men appeared over the horizon. There was no way we were going to keep them out or stay alive if we tried. So some of us escaped through the basement corridors.”
“Yuri?” asked Farah, remembering the one other friend who stayed behind in the prison.
“Yeah, Yuri and I stuck together for a long while, but then she said she needed to move on.”
“What happened to McGunn in the end?”
Janine didn’t meet her eye. She still clearly had mixed feelings about the unofficial Warden and tickle sadist who had been her lover for several years and chewed on a mouthful of food before answering. “He didn’t last long once the inmates took control. When he died they slumped him over the welcome rock as a warning to other men to keep out. It didn’t work, obviously.”
Despite her hate for McGunn and resentment at what he and Janine had put her through, Farah knew what it was like to lose someone, and she knew that he had double-crossed her in the end.
“You can call me Rashid. Just know it’s different now,” said Farah.
Janine nodded in appreciation. They sat in an awkward atmosphere and ate for several minutes.
Janine was the first to break the silence. “Still ticklish, Rashid?”
Farah glared at her.
“Just trying to break the ice,” said Janine.
“Not yet,” said Farah. “You can’t joke about that yet.”
Janine nodded and they ate in silence.
CHAPTER VIII
One of Senator Skylar Bryant’s sleek black sedans entered the looming gates to her grandiose estate.
“Is this a human residence or do they keep King Kong inside?” said Syra almost to herself, yet Uma was amused.
The sedan pulled up outside the steps to the front entrance. The chauffeur got out and opened the doors for them and lifted their suitcase from the trunk, which he carried up the ornate marble stairs to the front door. They followed with their high heels clicking in perfect rhythm. Both had their hair pinned up and wore long trench coats that almost touched the ground.
A butler opened the door for them. Syra adjusted the cuffs of her lace gloves and glanced to Uma, who was evidently in awe at the wealth on display. Every surface or decorative flourish was gold.
“The Senator is expecting you upstairs,” said the butler, taking the suitcase from the chauffeur and leading the way. They stopped outside a room. The butler rested down the suitcase, knocked, bowed and left.
“Probably got gold leaf toilet paper,” said Syra, when he was out of earshot.
“Come,” said a voice from behind the door.
Syra opened the door and Uma brought in the suitcase. Senator Skylar Bryant sat at a desk in her resplendent master bedroom. She was wearing a casual pant-suit, let a Prada slipper dangle from her toes and, by her feet, under the shadows of the desk laid an enormous Bullmastiff-Doberman Pinscher cross on full alert.
“Skylar Bryant?” asked Uma.
Syra and Uma removed their coats to reveal their stunning outfits. Syra was adorned in a mix of black leather and lace while Uma wore white thigh-high leather boots, elbow-length white silk gloves and a white corset.
“Senator Skylar Bryant, I’m sure you are aware,” said the senator, with a poker face.
“Not tonight,” said Syra with an aloof air. She detected a widening of the senator’s smirk and knew she was on the right path. “We don’t work with an audience.”
“You think I have spectators in here somewhere?”
“I think, with all the security measures you have, there must be cameras in every room,” said Syra.
“Not in this room,” said Bryant. “I trust my security teams, but I don’t tempt temptation. Who wouldn’t want to see what goes on in my bedroom?”
“Exactly our thoughts,” said Uma. “But we don’t allow animals to be present either.”
“Samson won’t interfere unless I tell him to.”
“I’m sure he’s well trained. I’m also sure that if he saw someone strike you with a crop, flogger or whip, he would tear them to pieces.”
The senator smiled. “You may be right. Samson: out. Go eat.”
The dog almost lifted the desk as it stood and both Syra and Uma struggled to maintain an unintimidated demeanour as it trotted past them and out of the room.
“We haven’t met before,” said Syra. “I’m Mistress Equinox.”
“And I’m Lady Nightshade,” said Uma. “Your messenger, Sally, didn’t tell us much.”
“Good,” said Bryant. She stood and took a deep draw from a gold vape and blew it out, making a show of the cloud it created around her. “I value discretion above all else.”
“Above all else?” Syra probed.
Bryant held her eye and stepped closer. “And I don’t tolerate mediocrity.” She blew another cloud dangerously close to Syra’s face that smelt of strawberry cheesecake.
“Dismiss your bodyguards,” said Syra, her tone edged with authority.
Bryant’s natural smirk held firm. “Ooh. Is that you taking charge? It’s already done – I don’t let my employees listen in. Even the butler has the night off now.”
“If you are going to be a brat all evening–” Uma began.
“A brat?” said Bryant indignantly.
“We don’t bother with brats,” said Uma. “Either you want quality or you don’t. It is not necessary for us to prove ourselves to anyone.”
“Or perhaps you don’t have the wherewithal to overcome such challenges?”
Uma picked up her coat as Syra adjusted her hair and said, “Very well, perhaps one day you’ll see the value of real dominatr-EEKS!”
Uma looked round sharply.
Syra stood with her arms clamped to her sides and staring at Skylar Bryant.
“Oh, dear,” said Bryant. “You were talking about being real dominatrixes? But you’re as sensitive as a schoolgirl. How pathetic.”
“You do not have my permission to touch me!” said Syra.
Uma was stunned. The senator had tickled Syra and she had missed it. Suddenly several thoughts solidified. “Wait right there,” she commanded and stepped towards her. “You do not touch us.”
Without her trademark four-inch heels, the senator stood at 5’6” and Uma, in her leather boots, towered over her. In that moment the senator felt put in her place by Uma but gestured like a kid making excuses for bad behaviour.
“I’m afraid it’s too late,” said Bryant, “I can’t take her seriously if I know that she’s ticklish–YEE-HEE!”
With identical timing, Uma grasped the senator’s waist and made her laugh.
“Don’t do that!” said Bryant, “I hate being tickled. Hard limit.”
“So you’re ticklish?” said Syra. “Does that mean we shouldn’t take you seriously?”
“Stop,” said Uma. Syra did not appreciate this tone from her junior but remained in character. “I have an idea of how we can resolve this.” She addressed the senator, “Am I correct in thinking that you would have a play room for visiting children, nephews, nieces?”
“Yes, it’s across the landing, three doors down.”
“Right,” said Uma and left the room, being careful not to bump into Samson along the way.
She could hear the stony silence of the two women in the bedroom as she surveyed the selection of toys and games in the play room, then she found what she was looking for and strode happily back to the bedroom, closed the door behind her and dropped a box onto the floor.
“What is this?” said Bryant.
“Twister. You haven’t heard of it?” said Uma.
“Of course I have. Why is it here?”
“I don’t want to hear you say it’s ‘infantile’ or ‘beyond you’ to play such games. You, Ms Bryant, have placed us in this position. I suggest a battle of wills to decide – if Mistress Equinox wins, you submit.”
“And if I win?” said Bryant.
“You tell us.”
Skylar Bryant looked at Syra and felt a desire to be on top. “If I win, we dominate her.”
Uma nodded and looked to Syra. Syra confidently agreed, but when the senator turned her attention to remove her slippers she slung Uma a venomous look. Uma shrugged, giving the impression that it was the first thing she could think of, and when Syra turned to remove her stilettos and leather basque, she couldn’t help but squeeze her thighs together in an attempt to relieve her arousal.
Uma spread the plastic Twister mat on top of a luxurious Persian rug and sat primly on the desk chair.
“Let’s play,” she said, and spun the dial. “Right hand: red.”
Doing their best to overlook this ludicrous arrangement, Syra and Skylar Bryant assumed their positions, both barefoot and determined. The game began with calculated movements and both women doing their best to maintain their balance. Even as the poses grew more complicated and their bodies entwined, they were no closer to toppling over.
After fifteen minutes of straight play, Syra spoke up, “This doesn’t look like it’s the right way to make this decision.”
“Just as I thought,” said Skylar Bryant, “no staying power.”
Syra flushed with irritation and let herself do the thing she’d been itching to do for fifteen minutes – she reached for the senator’s bare sole and scratched the taut ball of her foot.
Skylar Bryant yelped with laughter and leapt from the mat.
“One point to me,” said Syra.
“That’s a clear violation of the rules!” said Bryant. “No point!”
“Actually, I’ll allow it,” said Uma. “But the rules do state that you need to keep your hands and feet on the coloured dots at all times. So: one all.”
Syra’s satisfied grin washed away and she glared daggers at Uma.
Uma pretended not to notice and spun the dial. “Left foot: yellow.”
Several moves later it was obvious that this was a more physical round. While not able to use fingers or toes as weapons, both did their best to shove the other off balance. However, when an unnoticed miscalculation by Syra placed her stretched torso next to Skylar Bryant’s arm, all the senator had to do was bend her elbow a little to put pressure on Syra’s lower ribcage, and apply pressure.
Uma felt herself get wet as she witnessed the error and saw the mix of emotions on Syra’s face as she struggled to maintain composure. Her lips quivered and her nostrils flared before she broke into laughter and fell sideways onto the rug, then quickly gritted her teeth and slammed her fist down on the floor.
“Two: one,” said Skylar Bryant arrogantly, and she stood in position. “Final round.”
“Not if you lose,” said Syra.
“I don’t lose,” said the senator.
The dial spun. “Right foot: blue,” said Uma.
Both women took the dots in the centre of the mat and held each other’s unblinking gaze, even at the following command: “Left foot: yellow.”
“Right hand: blue,” said Uma.
Bryant quickly adopted the most convenient spot that left Syra in a tricky position. Syra took the opportunity to shoot Uma a look that read: I’d better not lose this, Uma.
Uma raised her eyebrows with the answer: That’s kinda down to you, boss. “Left hand: green.”
Both women crouched on the mat and found their faces in uncomfortably close proximity. Uma briefly fantasised that they might kiss. Skylar Bryant saw that Syra was wobbling and smiled – on the verge of victory and looked to Uma for the next spin and her winning move, which is when Syra closed in on her exposed neck. Bryant yelped, expecting a bite, but instead felt the fluttering of Syra’s eyelashes and she burst into giggles and fell backwards, slapping herself as though fighting a spider that had dropped onto her.
“Two: two,” said Syra.
“You bitch!” said Bryant and lunged for her.
Uma jumped up, ready to intervene, but instead of fists and cat-scratches, Syra Rahul and Senator Skylar Bryant grabbed each other’s waists and had a tickle fight. Not in the way that most people would—with a sense of fun—but a genuinely malicious fight using only tickling.
Uma slowly sat back down. It had to be said that both women were evenly matched – fit, quick, strong and exceedingly ticklish. At one point Bryant latched onto Syra’s leg and scurried fingernails expertly over her delicious soles, which sent Syra into a frenzy – her brain was overwhelmed and all her years self-defence practice deserted her. Uma never pictured in her wildest dreams that Syra would react in such a way. It took her a deal of strength not to begin masturbating there and then.
More by luck than intention, Syra pulled herself free of Skylar Bryant’s grip and latched on to her back, one arm around her neck and the free hand pressing into her vulnerable waistline. Bryant spasmed with hysterics. She obviously detested being tickled but was completely unable to prevent herself from laughing or uttering a word of protest. Soon, they heard a wheezing sound and she raised her hands.
“She surrenders!” said Syra, incensed, and pushed her to one side.
Bryant crawled to her desk, pulled out an inhaler and used it. “I have asthma, you f…” she began, but then looked up and saw Syra standing over her. Syra’s stance and sense of command shone through her sweaty exterior. “I have asthma, Mistress Equinox.”
Syra took the game dial from Uma and tossed it into a fireplace. “We can cancel round three.”
CHAPTER IX
Skylar Bryant’s demeanour changed completely once she submitted to Syra. She remained on her knees and looked up at the dominatrixes with a feline compliance while they discussed the punishment she deserved for her insolence and were stylishly subtle in the way they elicited from her the dominance and corporal punishment she preferred as part of the scene.
Now that she felt they had earned her respect, she willingly bent over her bed when they commanded and absorbed the caning on her backside until she could feel it glowing with rosey heat.
Then Mistress Equinox cleared her desk and instructed her to sit on it. She did as she was told and purred a gentle, “Ooh,” as the cold of the inlaid leather surface cooled the raised welts on her buttocks.
Lady Nightshade told her to lay back, and she did, pouting a little at the cold on her back, but she was told not to worry – they were about to warm her up.
Skylar Bryant’s eyes widened in anticipation and she removed her bra, leaving her in just her panties as she laid prone on the desk, her knees and elbows bent over the edges as Equinox and Nightshade secured her wrists and ankles to the legs of the sturdy oak desk.
“Can you move?” asked Syra.
Skylar Bryant pulled at the restraints. She couldn’t move a muscle. “No, Mistress,” she said.
“Good,” said Syra. “Now, tell us about your plans for government.”
Bryant rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t involve work, I don’t want to think about it now.”
Uma stepped forward. “Tell us.”
Bryant looked between them for a moment. “This isn’t what I want.”
Syra released her hair to let it fall around her shoulders and pulled off her gloves.
Uma undid her corset and through it to one side. “I can’t stand these things. They really dig in.”
“You two are really breaking the spell now,” said Bryant. “I think you can let me go—”
Suddenly the breath was taken from her in a gasp as Syra’s hands pressed onto her stomach. It was as if all ten fingertips had found the most precise ticklish spots on her torso and she felt a fizz of danger and regret rinse over her body and brain.
“Don’t!” she said. “I don’t want that.”
“Lady,” said Uma, “this had never been about what you want.”
Syra looked her in the eye. “You’re going to tell us what you have planned or…” she pressed her fingers into the muscles of Skylar Bryant’s stomach and waist, prompting a mist of spittle as the initial laugh escaped her pursed lips and quickly exploded into peals of laughter that filled the room.
Syra paused.
“Fuck you!” said Bryant. “Who are you?”
“What are your plans?” Syra could tell the next words from Bryant’s mouth would be more insults and refusals, so simply pressed and wriggled all ten fingertips again. Seeing the senator’s helpless reaction, as she could do nothing but let her head flip from side to side, Syra remembered why she enjoyed this job so much. Nothing else elicited such a response and she went on a lot longer than she used to at this point in the torture.
Uma watched, impressed by Syra’s flawless and devastating technique, and wondered if she would ever stop, which she didn’t until there was a great thump at the door, and bark so low and loud, it was as though a hellhound had escaped the underworld.
“Samson!” Bryant called.
The dog continued to bark.
“He’s not getting in here,” said Syra. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the din that echoed throughout the mansion.
“We know you started the war. Everyone knows. What next?”
“If it’s obvious, then why do the people love me?”
“Because they don’t care! They wanted the chance to fight the people you convinced them to hate, until they realised what war was actually like!”
Bryant’s self-righteous smirk was back.
“You’re worthless scum,” said Syra. “Don’t you care about the families who were torn apart or wiped out?” she said, thinking of her own.
“Why would I? I don’t have one,” said Bryant.
“I think she deserves more,” said Uma, who circled to the top of the desk until the senator was looking at her, upside down. She wiggled her fingers over her face and slowly descended towards her exposed smooth armpits.
Bryant struggled and a whimper entered her voice. “No… Not there… Not there!” she shrieked as Uma’s fingernails scampered all around the hollows of her underarms. Her laughter prompted more thumping at the door and barking from the dog.
“Time for her feet, I think,” said Syra.
Bryant’s eyes widened. She tried to scream, “No!” but wheezing stole the words from her throat.
“Let her talk,” said Syra and Uma paused.
She was sweating, struggling to breathe and her beautiful breast was heaving for air. “I’m doing it for America,” she wheezed.
“What a load of crap,” said Syra. “You’re doing it for you.”
“I am not,” she demanded through gasps. “The only way to stay safe is to dominate. Truly dominate. To be queen of the jungle. Queen of the world. The USA isn’t over. We’ll take it back and make it better than ever.”
“When?” said Uma.
“As soon as we’re ready. Because when it’s proven that we rule better than the liberal fucktards, their population will want to join us.”
Syra leant in. “It takes a country years, probably decades, to establish its place in the world, let alone doing it after a bitter, bloody war like the one you just invoked. You’ve not even let the ink dry on the truce before talking about a takeover.”
Bryant maintained what she thought was a poker face, but they saw that her trademark smirk was gone. “I work in the government! I am the government! You people don’t get to question me because you don’t know how life works. All you know is how to spank someone, suck a dick and get paid!”
“Is that all we know?” asked Uma.
“No,” said Syra with a serene tone. “We know so much more than that.”
With that, she knelt out of view and ignored the insults, the threats and soon the begging and the pleading, and fully exploited Senator Skylar Bryant’s terrifyingly ticklish feet. The smooth soles were a dream to scamper fingertips and fingernails across. And when Uma joined in on the senator’s excruciatingly ticklish underarms, she was lost to helpless, breathless laughter.
The process was quicker than Syra expected, especially as Bryant was such a fit woman. It would have taken all night if her asthma wasn’t a factor. The entire time her loyal dog kept ramming the bedroom door.
Syra and Uma wiped and sprayed all surfaces to remove any trace of their presence. They left the suitcase full of sex toys and BDSM equipment and the senator strapped naked to the desk. Whoever found her would assume that her demise was an accident and they would never again see, or hear of, Mistress Equinox and Lady Nightshade who, according to the CCTV cameras, left the scene in a panic.
“How do we deal with Cerberus, out there?” asked Uma.
Syra held up a can of bear spray she had at the ready.
“Aw, that’s a bit cruel, isn't it?”
“Would you like to try and tickle him into submission?” Syra asked rhetorically. “It’ll wear off in a couple of hours. Oh, and talking of cruel, when we get back to base I’ll need to debrief you on placing your superior in the position you did earlier.”
Uma gave a guilty smile. She hoped it would involve her own punishment.
“Right, get ready,” said Syra, holding up the spray. “Open the door… now!”
CHAPTER X
Farah stood to attention with her fellow trainees, ready for the morning’s training when Staff Sergeant Holmes walked into the training gym.
“Listen up, Alpha. PT is postponed,” he announced. “We have something we need to deal with. Follow me.”
The squad followed him across the barracks to a building they hadn’t yet visited. He took an elevator and sent them jogging down hundreds of stairs to a cold, featureless basement.
They found him next to a wall with a huge glass panel, which was evidently a two-way mirror. Through the glass was a room that contained a single chair, bolted securely to the floor. Shackled to the chair was a palpably fit, attractive young woman who had evidently been through something physically demanding. Her hair was a mess and she was sweating and glaring defiantly at the mirror.
“You were told that you may face challenges when you don’t feel you are ready,” said Holmes. “This might be one of those times. This woman is an undercover agent from the east. She was caught spying on our interim government.
“Now, our leaders are yet to agree on the rights, wrongs and wherefores of interrogation and, since Guantanamo is a territory in dispute, she’s our problem. So far she’s undergone conventional means of interview with no luck. So, short of electric shocks or pulling her fingernails out, we need to find a method that is ‘outside the box’. You people are here for your brains as much as your physical abilities. Speak up.”
Farah and Janine didn’t need to look at each other. They could both sense a blushing warmth between them. But this was what they were there for and, if they had an idea, they were obliged to put it forward. They both slowly raised their hands.
Holmes lifted his chin towards them. “Privates Rashid and Dayton. You have suggestions?”
“Sir, yes, sir,” said Farah. “I have something that I think might work…”
Farah's Odyssey II: Embrace
Farah's Odyssey III: A Tickling Union
Farah's Odyssey part IV: Games
CHAPTER I
A wall of bubbles. She was underwater again, with no problem breathing. Was she wearing scuba gear? No. She hadn’t put any on. She tried to clear the way; to see what was beyond. The bubbles were relentless and fluttered at her eyelids. Frustration. The water was clear, so why did it feel like she was swimming through molasses? She looked up and, through the rippled surface, made out three figures on a high platform who were staring down at her. She couldn’t see their faces, but she knew who they were.
Then the rush of bubbles began to slow. The remaining few clung to her skin as they skirted round her body on the way up to the surface. It felt like shivering. Then the bubbles stopped. She could look now and all of a sudden she didn’t want to. But she had to make sure. She coiled to face where the bubbles had been and came nose-to-nose with the drowned corpse of Cassie Jones, her face pallid blue and wrinkled from the year she had been in the pool. Her hair floated around her face as her head lolled loosely with the motion of the water. She was still tied awkwardly to the exercise machine by a lat pull-down bar.
But the thing that would imprint itself on Farah’s mind when she awoke from this dream would be the teeth – clenched into a fraught grimace. A paradoxical expression at the desperation to not laugh, with the terrifying knowledge that if she laughed she would lose her strength and lose her life. But she was ticklish and she was being tickled, and that’s why Cassie Jones was gone.
However, dreams exploit our fears and Farah’s most intense, indelible fear had long been that Cassie was alive and ready to kill her entire family, which is why the corpse’s eyes—just centimetres away from Farah’s—opened.
CHAPTER II
Farah gasped herself awake and took some moments to calm herself. This was an event so commonplace that she knew exactly how to handle it the moment she woke up.
Thankfully the sun was up – at least she didn’t have to try to force herself back to sleep again.
“Farah! Sabi! Come here!” called her younger sister Mira from the living room. “It’s happening!”
Farah swung out of bed, ready dressed in joggers and went to the window. There was nothing but empty fields and blue sky. They had left the horrors and memories of Texas behind and worked their way north, eventually settling amongst a peaceful community in the hills of central Idaho.
Mr and Mrs Reeves, an elderly couple with a bed & breakfast, were happy to have the company of a group of young women who proved to be kind-hearted and fierce enough to look after themselves. Everyone played their part in gathering the items that helped the household run smoothly and the food that Mrs Reeves cooked three times a day, when available. Mr Reeves made himself as useful as he could by maintaining the property and its defences and, during the evening TV watching and storytelling sessions, would often be caught openly admiring the shapely ankles of his guests.
Syra liked the place because it was on high ground and they would be able to see trouble if it was heading their way. Farah concurred and had taken every opportunity to learn from Syra – the woman who saved her life and had obviously undergone some form of military or security training. Although Syra and her apprentice, Uma, kept the exact details to themselves even after a year fighting and surviving together.
“Farah!” Mira called again.
“Coming!”
Farah made her way to the breakfast room. Even her accidental companion, Ruthie, whose life Farah had saved, was awake and huddled on the couch with Mira.
“What is it?”
“Shh!” said Mrs Reeves.
They were watching MSNBC. A news report showed a crowd of Democratic and Republican politicians—among them Jack Jackson, leader of the US Democrats, and Rooster Beauregard Jnr., leader of the US Republicans—in a town hall meeting hosted by the President of the People’s Republic of China.
“They’ve announced a truce,” said Mira.
“What a goddamn embarrassment,” said Mr Reeves. “Fighting like school kids so much that we need the Chinese to come over and sort things out.”
“School kids with guns,” said Sabrina.
“Nothing new there, then,” said Uma.
“Shh! I want to listen,” said Mrs Reeves.
The Chinese president went on to explain that America would soon become two countries divided by an 80-mile wide “American corridor” that would be policed by the Chinese. Once an official border was agreed upon, full power would be handed to the two new nations. For now, anyone with liberal views should head west and anyone with conservative views should head east. Those who were apolitical and comfortable staying where they were, could do so. Until official treaties were signed, both countries were under martial law (supported by the Chinese military), curfews were in place and anyone caught breaking the law to any degree would be interned and dealt with in the strictest manner possible.
“Is that US law or Chinese law?” asked Sabrina.
Farah noticed that Syra was quiet. To be fair, this was Syra’s default mode, but she seemed to be watching the broadcast with something on her mind that was different to everyone else. A look of recognition washed over her and Farah followed her gaze. The TV camera briefly focused on an impressive-looking woman in her mid forties with wavy chestnut hair and big blue eyes. As far as Farah could tell, she was the only woman amid the crowd of senators.
Syra leant to whisper something to Uma, who immediately got up and went to the room she shared with Mira. Syra headed to the nest she’d made in the attic, which she had occupied despite being told by Mrs Reeves that there were nicer rooms available in the house.
Syra heard footsteps on the ladder. “What’s up, Farah?” she said without looking up.
Farah raised her head through the hatch, “Something tells me you’re packing up and heading out.”
“Is it the personal possessions I’m putting in my bag?”
“You think this truce will hold?”
“Who knows? We’ve gotta put faith in something, don’t we?”
“Somehow I don’t believe you put faith in the men who are now in charge.”
Syra smirked. “Maybe I don’t.”
“Can I ask you something, Syra?”
“Sure,” she said withholding a sigh. She was prepared for everyone in the house to ask her to stay and she didn’t want to have the conversation at all.
“You ever had those dreams where you’re hitting someone and everything you do feels weak and ineffective?”
“Oh. Sometimes.”
“You thought I was going to ask something else?”
“What do you want to know?”
“How I can stop the dreams,” said Farah.
“You can’t.” Syra zipped up her backpack. “The best you can do is keep working on yourself. Maybe it’s your subconscious telling you that you need to do something more than you’re currently doing to protect yourself and your family.”
She ushered Farah down the ladder and handed her down the backpack. When they were both on the landing Farah asked, “You mean go take self defence classes?”
“I mean get yourself into some kind of military programme. You wanna be the best, you’ve gotta make it your life, not a hobby.”
“Do they accept ex-cons into the military?”
“Farah, if the records do still exist, they won’t give a shit. Even when this country hadn’t gone through a war they were still putting the dregs in charge.”
Farah laughed. “Oh, thanks a lot!”
“Y’welcome,” said Syra as she put on her backpack.
“And won’t you stay?” said Farah, addressing the question she knew Syra anticipated.
“Nope.”
“Didn’t think so.”
The Rashids, the Reeveses and Ruthie waved farewell as Syra and Uma headed for the horizon in the pickup truck that was christened Brad and had been their ride from Dallas to Boise. It was only Mira who let the tears flow as Uma hugged her goodbye. She would never get used to losing people.
Ruthie took her hand and led her inside. “Look here, Mira, I’m glad Uma’s gone. Now me and you can share foot massages the way you did with her, huh?” Mr and Mrs Reeves followed them in. Mrs Reeves headed for the kettle while Mr Reeves was intent on getting a good observation spot from his favourite armchair.
Sabrina had always intuitively known what her younger sisters were thinking. Farah was squinting into the noonday sun as the pickup truck got ever smaller, but her mind was elsewhere.
“You’re going to leave too,” said Sabrina.
Farah snapped from her thoughts. “Oh… yeah. We’ve gotta make a new life, eh? I’m not looking to help run a bed’n’breakfast just yet. Enough of our lives have been wasted these past few years and you can bet there are people out there looking to establish themselves in the new order. We sit here, we’ll lose out.” “Hey, you won’t get an argument from me.”
“No? You’ve got plans?” said Farah. Much like a chess master, Sabrina generally planned several moves ahead before making any announcements.
“I’m heading back to Stanford. I’ve heard it’s still standing. The laws are going to change and no matter what side of the country…countries…we’re on, there are gonna be people trying to get on top while fucking over the majority. I don’t feel like letting that happen.”
Farah whistled. She was surprised but proud. “Good for you, Sabi.”
“And you?”
“Not too different; I need to join some kind of law enforcement.”
“Hey, cool. You always were the fighter among us.”
“Well, in the past few years, I didn’t have much choice.”
They sat on the stoop and put their arms around each other’s shoulders as they discussed their future plans.
CHAPTER III
Uma flipped down the truck’s sun visor. “Where first, boss?”
“We go east before that border gets too secure.”
Uma nodded and let some moments pass before speaking her mind. “I’m just gonna say this. You know, get it out there—”
“What is it, Uma?”
“What’s the point? I mean, okay, we know where Senator Bryant is now. But we don’t know who pinpointed her, we don’t know how well protected she is and the reason she was targeted…” she hesitated, looking for the right words. “It’s kind of over now. The war happened.”
Syra was perfectly calm in her response. “Firstly, nothing is ever over – if people exist, there’s no end; there’s just the next thing. Skylar Bryant is not the kind of individual who will let things settle. Did you notice where this Chinese demilitarised zone is drawn? It splits the country in two and the Republicans get the smaller side? She didn’t instigate a civil war to settle for that – she won’t stop until the whole continent is hers. Secondly, it doesn’t matter who targeted her – she is our assignment. And she is our assignment not because we’re agents of RID, or what’s left of it, she’s our assignment because MI Baker saved my life, gave me a purpose and ten minutes after I last saw him he was incinerated. I’ve thought a lot about who could have sent those missiles. There’s only one name that makes sense – Skylar Bryant.”
“Right,” said Uma and she felt something that had been lost to her since the destruction of RID HQ. Quite simply, it was a blood lust. By and large, she kept it from those around her, but seasoned operatives had learned to spot it. Controlled, it was an asset to agents. But Uma was a bit of a loose cannon and her superiors knew it. Now, however, there was only one superior agent that she knew was still alive in the USA and they were riding east together.
“First,” said Syra with a tone that suggested she was washing her mouth of the things she was forced to clarify, “we need to stop at one of the safe houses along the way to stock up on supplies.”
Uma nodded and, as they joined the POW-MIA Memorial Highway, with nothing more to say, she switched on the radio and Jim Ford filled the cab:
There's a long road ahead!
I got a lot to leave behind!
That's the gospel truth, mister!
There's a long road ahead…
CHAPTER III
Just two days later it was time for Farah, Sabrina, Mira and Ruthie to leave the bed & breakfast, and it was Mr Reeves’s turn to shed a tear.
With Sabrina behind the wheel of their parting gift—the Reeves’ ancient, but relatively unused, Chrysler Crossfire—they headed west. The ultimate destination for Sabrina and Mira was Stanford, California. Ruthie asked to be dropped off in Las Vegas where her former employer, the renowned dominatrix Mistress Ocelot, had relocated since her Atlanta dungeon was sabotaged during the war.
Farah asked to be dropped off first in Henderson, Nevada, at the Army National Guard Recruiting Center. She remembered seeing it on a previous trip to Las Vegas, which was more familiar than she was with any other similar centre, but when they drove close by, the area was unrecognisable. With roads and buildings pockmarked by gunfire and molotov cocktails, security had evidently been ramped up. It was also somehow unnerving to be surrounded by more civilians in cars and on the sidewalk than she had seen in the past three years.
Sabrina had to park on the main road.
“Are you sure about this, Farah?” asked Mira.
“I’ve gotta start somewhere.” She jumped out the car and took her backpack.
Sabrina leant toward the open passenger window. “Shall we wait for you?”
“Hey!” called a guard from the gates of the centre. “No stopping! Move!” He was already on his way over, an M16 assault rifle in his hands.
“No, you head out,” said Farah. “I love you. Go.”
Sabrina nodded and pulled into the traffic. Farah returned a wave from Mira and Ruthie through the rear windscreen as the Crossfire headed for central Las Vegas. It wasn’t the grand goodbye they all deserved, but on the plus side, it was unemotional.
The guard was already back at his post. She passed a female officer in combat fatigues leaving the centre as she approached the gates. “Excuse me, is this the right place to enlist?” Farah asked the guard. “You’re too late for today,” he replied.
Farah checked her watch. It was 5:01pm. The centre closed at 5pm.
“Come back tomorrow,” he said and stepped into a sentry box.
“Thanks,” Farah said forlornly. This was not part of her plan.
“You’d better work on that timekeeping.”
Farah turned to see the female officer lighting up a cigarette under the shade of a sentry turret.
“From now on I won’t have to wait on my younger sister to get ready.”
The officer looked Farah up and down. “You’re a little older than most who sign up.”
“The war wasn’t easy. I’m probably younger than I look.”
“Yeah? Any combat experience?”
“In a way,” said Farah.
“Go on.”
Farah was hesitant, but gave a potted history of her journey from the attack on her family up until being dropped off outside the centre. The officer seemed intensely interested, especially at the story of the prison guards who abused their power and that it was Farah who turned the whole situation around. The one detail Farah left out was being regularly tickle-tortured. Although it was harrowing, she always felt as though it sounded incredible to the point of fantasy when spoken aloud.
The woman finished her cigarette. “I’m Major Wyatt,” she said.
Farah straightened her posture and held out a hand. “Farah Rashid.” Wyatt gave her a look. She dropped her hand. “Should I salute?” she asked.
“You’re not a soldier yet, Rashid. But that’s one hell of a story. If you’re interested, I’m putting together an irregular combat force. Want to see if you’re up to it?”
“Yes, I do, Major.”
CHAPTER IV
Passing through the demilitarised zone from west to east was a lot easier than Syra anticipated. The Chinese peacekeepers backed up by the United Nations did not yet have the processes in place or the manpower to check the cross-currents of civilians who were wasting no time in heading for their new promised lands. Merging with the crowds was deceptively easy because the two groups were not as easily discernible as she suspected they would be. All races, colours and creeds merged in both directions and, while there was an air of tension, the fighting instinct seemed to be diminished after three years of death and destruction. If there was any notable difference between the two groups of travellers it was that, while both seemed to want to adopt and display the Stars & Stripes, only one group peppered its numbers with the Confederate flag.
It was on the news reports, but nothing was quite as spectacular as seeing the destruction in Washington DC first-hand. Black scorched earth marks on the tarmac of Pennsylvania Avenue indicated where vehicles were eliminated; defences reinforced the grounds of the White House to the point where it was not visible from the road; and the marble statue of Abraham Lincoln sat exposed to the elements after a friendly-fire missile malfunctioned and removed the roof of the memorial.
Syra could remember the location of three safe houses around DC, two of which turned out to be just as burnt out or ransacked as the others they had visited along their journey. After 36 hours of driving, she was relieved to see that their last chance—a small house situated in a quiet cul-de-sac in Woodmont, Virginia—was still in one piece.
Uma assumed that Syra would need a rest after almost 36 straight hours of driving. Instead, she pulled out a RID-designed AET (Advanced Encrypted Transceiver) and went about contacting any other agent who would have done the same thing. Uma sat on the couch and spectated. Partly because, although she was shattered, she felt an obligation to remain on-hand should Syra need her, but mostly because of something she had been keeping to herself for a long time now.
She watched Syra, her supervising agent and mentor, focussed on the task. She probably wasn’t even aware that Uma was in the same room. Her dedication was one of the things Uma admired about her. However, living together evoked other feelings that Uma initially struggled to identify. She first assumed it was a closeness anyone might experience in such a circumstance – not only were they living together, but everyone in the bed & breakfast relied on Syra above anyone else and so she put it down to a “big sister” effect. It was only when she found herself doing all she could to catch Syra coming out of the shower, and felt the desire to masturbate over the idea, that she realised it was much more. It was not just a surprise that she desired the instructor she had known for years, but that she was sexually interested in women. Or, at least, one woman.
“Portunus,” came a voice from the transceiver. “This is a secure line.”
“Huh?” said Uma with a start and the imprint of a couch pillow on her face. It was dark outside, which meant she must have been asleep for at least eight hours.
Syra was momentarily confused. Fatigue, plus a day of zero responses, meant that she almost forgot what she was doing. Then it registered: Portunus was a code name she recognised and it provoked a shock of adrenaline.
“Michaels?! You’re alive!”
“Rahul, is that you?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice cracking a little with emotion. She had known Senior Tech Agent Michaels since joining the cult and when the missiles struck, she assumed he was where he spent most of his waking hours when the HQ was standing – in the shadows of his personally-devised basement technical department.
“Jesus Christ, Michaels, it’s good to hear your voice.”
“You too. I didn’t know if you got out.”
“I flew out with Tailor. We just made it. Spent this past year in Idaho. Are you in the country?”
“I am. I’ve made contact with several agents. Now that a truce is signed we should all find a way to convene, yes?”
“At some point. How many agents have you found?” Syra asked.
Michaels hesitated. “Not many.”
“I won’t read much into that. We’ve only just found you. Others may follow suit.”
“You’re in the east,” said Michaels. “To carry out your assignment?”
“You’ve got a good memory,” said Syra.
“Yep. And I’ve had a lot of spare time, so I maintained surveillance of the target.”
“Have you learned anything useful?”
“I can confidently say that I have, although I’m not sure how happy you’ll be to hear it.”
“Tell me,” said Syra with an ironic tone.
“She has a very secure residence in Sagaponack.”
“Okay.”
“Very secure.”
“Right.”
“I mean, I don’t think you’ll in there.”
“I get it, Michaels – why’s it so secure?” said Syra, as Uma pulled up a chair next to her.
“She’s got interests in most of the weapons manufacturers in the country. Her income hit a steep up-curve during the war. She’s currently one of the wealthiest people in North America and she can afford the latest technology and the highest trained security teams to keep her and her property safe. And they do – 24/7. She’s even got some kind of mini ‘iron dome’ set-up, in case someone decides to attack from the air.”
“Great,” said Syra.
“She has security around her whenever she goes out. They rarely leave her side.”
“Hey Michaels,” said Uma, “got anything helpful for us?”
“That you, Tailor? It’s good to hear you. Yes, I have one thing that might be useful but, like I say, Rahul probably won’t like it.”
“This is the bit I won’t like?!” said Syra. “What is it?”
“I hacked her surveillance cameras and at the beginning of the war she was getting regular visits from two women.”
“Uhuh? She’s a lesbian?”
“Not exactly. She dates guys but it seems she has a penchant for BDSM with women.”
“Ughh!” Syra’s head dropped. After a moment of contemplation she noticed Uma’s expression of confused amusement. “I’ll tell you later,” she turned back to the AET. “Carry on, Michaels.”
“Well, she was meeting with two particular dominatrixes regularly until they were killed during the ‘New Jersey standoff’. Since then, she’s tried duo after duo of dominatrixes, but apparently they’re not hitting the mark… so to speak… because she never sees the same duo twice.”
“So you think she’s on the lookout for another couple of regular spankers?” said Uma.
“Unfortunately she doesn’t have security cameras inside her bedroom,” said Michaels with palpable disappointment, “but from the audio I’ve managed to enhance, it very much sounds like she’s in charge.”
“If she’s in charge, what’s the point of having dominatrixes come over?” said Uma.
“Well… exactly,” said Michaels.
Syra took a deep breath. “Now that we’ve found you, are you always on this channel?”
“Unless I’m asleep. Chances are, even then I’ll wake up and answer if you call.”
“Okay. Call… if I call you I’ll need you.”
“Ten four,” said Michaels, confused.
Syra clicked off the conversation. Uma looked at her and knew that tiredness was taking its toll – she didn’t realise that she’d made a mistake.
“You need a rest, boss.”
Syra nodded. She went to a bedroom on the ground floor and flopped onto the bed.
Uma could see her through the open door. She was still fully dressed with her shoes on. Uma’s heart skipped a little to see Syra like this and her body seemed to go to her before her mind knew why. For a moment she considered helping Syra off with her top, but that seemed like going too far. Instead she looked at her feet and unlaced her shoes. Then, taking them gently in her hands she slipped them off. Syra’s feet in white ankle sports socks radiated warmth and Uma discovered something else about herself – she appreciated Syra’s feet. Her mouth was dry as she slowly peeled off her right sock. The room was silent and she didn’t blink as she did the same with the left and rested her bare feet on the bed. Syra’s toes were immaculate and her soft soles with their gentle wrinkles maintained the appearance of having received regular pedicures, even though Uma couldn’t imagine her going for one.
Uma’s desire to tickle split into two directions—one for arousal and one for out-and-out sadism—and right now she was losing the battle to tickle Syra’s soles for the first reason. The twisted desire to see her strong boss laughing helplessly at her touch was all the stronger because she hadn’t had sex with anyone for so long. Her close friendship with Mira was platonic and, even though she had dreamt about them doing sexual things together, she put this down to unalleviated frustration.
Her fingertips closed in on Syra’s bare soles. She could almost hear the rrrrrrp of the texture as the tip of her fingernail scratched against the tiny immaculate toeprints, but just as she was about to make contact, Syra turned and covered herself with the blankets.
Uma snapped out of her trance and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. What she was about to do was highly irregular and Syra, who was completely heterosexual, would not have seen the funny or sexy side and it would have irreparably changed the way she perceived Uma.
Uma distracted herself by planning how to get close to and terminate their target. While she respected the traditions of the cult, she also believed in common sense: why bother with the elaborate practice of tickling someone to death when more straightforward ways existed? She quickly dismissed the debate – arguing with Syra would be a losing battle and just pondering this question caused a throbbing between her legs.
She adjourned to the upstairs bedroom, stripped naked and slipped into bed. She needed relief and, as she played with herself, the thought she tried hardest to put to the back of her mind became the only thing that was getting her wet, so she focussed on it – Syra Rahul overpowered and laughing hysterically. While she didn’t know how Syra would react in such a situation, the idea alone was enough. And who would do the tickling? She didn’t know, but because it couldn’t be her, in her fantasy the tickler was sexless and faceless. One thing she did know was that she was going to devise a way to see this happen for real.
And, with that thought, Uma came.
CHAPTER V
At 0500 in a training facility in the Steens Mountain Wilderness, Oregon, Farah received nothing but stony faces from her new teammates as she entered the training gym and took a seat. All, including herself, were dressed in black combat fatigues that made them appear like a military ninja platoon. She didn’t remember being this irrationally nervous since her first day at school. Even prison, with its enforced regimes and a the us-and-them factor between inmates and guards, gave her the feeling that they were all in the shit together. Right now she felt like the least qualified person in the room and that everyone else in the room knew it.
Major Wyatt entered and they all stood. She signalled for them to sit again. She was flanked by a chisel-jawed, green-eyed soldier in his early thirties who Farah tried not to stare at, being the first attractive man she’d seen outside of a television screen in a very long time.
“Morning squad,” said Major Wyatt, “and welcome to the new recruits. For those who have been sent here from Henderson, I am Major Wyatt and for those of you who know something about ranks, you’ll be wondering why a fully qualified and proven major is in charge of this group. It’s because you are part of something new.
“This isn’t the regular army, you’re not here for the medals or the glory. You won’t make headlines. You won’t get parades. You will get the job done and when you do, no one will know you were there.”
She took a moment to pace before them, looking each recruit in the eye. Farah felt the hairs on her arms and shoulders stand up when she looked at her – this wasn’t for dramatic effect, Wyatt was gauging their reactions to what they were hearing.
“If you feel uncomfortable at this, good. That means you’re still thinking. That means you’ve still got a choice. Because once you commit—once you take that next step—you don’t get to walk away. There are no half-measures here, no ‘I changed my mind.’ You either become a ghost, or you leave now and find something else to do out in the new world.”
Farah and a male recruit next to her looked at one another.
“There are no lone wolves here. You will lay your lives on the line and the soldiers currently sitting next to you will be the only safety net you have. So, if you don’t know how to work as part of a team, get out now.”
Nobody moved. Wyatt permitted herself a smirk.
“You may be asked to do things before I consider you ready—before you feel ready—that comes with the territory of being part of this new squad. You’ve been chosen because you’ve already got some kind of head on your shoulders. I don’t need inexperienced adolescents. But because you are not teenagers, you are going to experience pain in getting yourself into the physical specimens I require. That’s where Staff Sergeant Holmes comes in,” she indicated the chisel-jawed soldier. “He will teach you more about pain and endurance in the coming weeks than you ever thought possible. Is that not right, Sergeant Holmes?”
“Ma’am, yes, ma’am!” Holmes’s volume made Farah’s eardrums wince.
Wyatt continued. “If you make it through basic training, you will become the best you can be and what our new country deserves. You will do the things no one else can do. You will go where no one else can go. And the people will sleep safe and sound, with no clue that we are the reason why. Do you understand me, Alpha Squad?”
“Ma’am, yes, ma’am!” the recruits called in unison.
“Get to know each other’s names, recruits,” said Wyatt and dismissed them while she and Holmes stepped to one side and conferred.
Because Farah’s eyes were glued to Holmes, she missed an introduction to her immediate neighbour as the recruits stood and started sharing getting to know each other. She breathed in a resolve to be more confident, stood up and came face-to-face with one of the last people she expected to see – ex-Deputy Warden of the McGunn Penitentiary, Janine Dayton.
CHAPTER VI
Senator Skylar Bryant adjusted the cuffs of her blazer as she strode towards her office, the sharp click of her 4-inch heels echoing against the marble floors, accompanied by her trusted chief aide, Sally, and her personal security unit. The Capitol was alive with its usual hum of activity—staffers rushing, deals being whispered, alliances forming and crumbling in the span of a coffee break. She pondered how quickly the everyday routines settled into place even after the three year cardiac arrest the country had just experienced.
She exuded control, power, and discipline, the very image of moral fortitude she had so carefully cultivated, along with a default confident smirk that had been there her whole life; a smirk that operated like the bright colours on poisonous amphibians by convincing any opponent who came into contact with her that she was one step ahead. And, to her credit, she generally was. It was not good luck that meant she had been appointed Press Secretary for President Gabby Calhoun and had not left the White House grounds in the years since.
Skylar Bryant was braggadocios when she wanted to provoke a reaction or gain the limelight, but also knew how to keep her mouth shut and operate in the shadows when it was best for her. Hence, she placed seeds in the mouths of colleagues, opponents, commentators and those who considered themselves superior and, without fail, the fruits of her labour grew exactly as she planned. She considered the federal government to be her chess board and all she had to do was whisper into the ears of the pieces and watch the games play out as she required.
The civil war was the nearest she had come to making a gamble, but it paid off. She was now a multi-billionaire and confident that she would be appointed to one of the highest positions in Rooster Beauregard Jnr’s new government, placing the Presidency within her reach. After that, it was just a matter of informing the population that all treaties were unfair and another war would result in the entire continent being theirs, as it should have been if Beauregard had been strong enough in the first place.
Her day was a flurry of committee meetings, policy reviews, and tense negotiations. By late afternoon, she found herself in the private lounge of the Senate chambers, nursing an espresso, reading the latest news on her tablet and indulging in a rare moment of solitude, overseen at every step by her bodyguards.
Senator Aldridge, a colleague with a penchant for loose talk and finer vices, sank into the chair across from her with a sly grin.
“You look like you need a distraction, Bryant,” he said, swirling the drink in his glass.
“I get the feeling you’d have said that no matter what I look like, Aldridge,” she replied without looking up.
He chuckled, lowering his voice. “I had an unforgettable night last night.”
“Managed to finish that jigsaw you’ve been working on?”
“I went to an exclusive little club in South Beach. Caters to… very particular tastes.” He leaned in. “Met two incredible women there. Legendary, really. Mistress Equinox and Lady Nightshade. They could make even the most powerful feel utterly powerless.”
Skylar Bryant’s fingers tightened around her cup and her pulse quickened. She knew exactly which club he was referring to and was a regular visitor before she was in a position of recognition. Hearing about it from Aldridge made her miss the dark & neon atmosphere, the sense of anticipation and the smell of leather and rubber.
Feigning indifference, she exhaled. “Sounds like a liability waiting to happen.”
He smirked. “Not if you know how to play the game.” He drained his drink and stood, straightening his tie. “Anyway, just thought I’d share. Never know when you might want to… unwind.”
She gave him a look of disgust and he departed, presumably to share his stories with others who didn’t ask to hear them. He wasn’t physically unattractive, but she was repelled by his lack of discretion.
During Skylar Bryant’s ride home, Sally’s briefings on the following day’s meetings became an indecipherable murmur as the idea of being with two legendary dommes made her heart thump. She had spent years commanding rooms, shaping policies, controlling outcomes, however, the idea of surrendering—of relinquishing control to skilled hands—sent a thrill down her spine she couldn’t ignore. Yet, she had almost impossibly high standards, especially since the deaths of two mistresses with whom she had a long-standing relationship. Men were worthless in this regard – she hadn’t met a man she couldn’t manipulate into doing whatever she wanted, including passing through the veneer of any male dominant like a phantasm. She was repulsed by gay men. This only left women. Preferably straight women. She needed high-class experienced women who could take control.
Sally was unaware that her words were not penetrating until she was interrupted, “…and at 3:30pm you have a meeting with—”
“Sally, I’ve got something I need you to do this evening…”
CHAPTER VII
In the mess hall at supper time Farah collected her meal and saw Janine Dayton sitting away from the rest of the squad.
Farah went over, placed her tray down and took the bench on the opposite side of the table with her legs to one side. Subconsciously, she felt as though she might need to make a quick getaway, but that was stupid and so she moved into a more natural position.
“Don’t want to mix with the others?” asked Farah.
“I thought you might want to talk without being overheard,” said Janine.
“What are you doing here? Am I being set up?”
“No. It’s pure coincidence, Rashid–”
“Don’t call me Rashid, I ain’t one of your captives any more. And the last I saw of you, you weren’t exactly dominating the place. Remember?”
A couple of their squad members glanced over due to Farah’s defensive tone of voice.
Janine subtly indicated for her to remain calm. “I remember. I just didn’t think we’d be on friendly enough terms for me to call you by your first name.”
“Why are you here?” said Farah, side-stepping this very good point. “I assumed you’d be more at home in the east.”
“I can see why. But I didn’t exactly have many friends after leaving the penitentiary.”
“What happened?” asked Farah.
“Yuri realised she could trust me and needed me to help keep the perimeter of the prison safe, which we did for a while. But then some guys came and started poking their noses around. They must’ve noticed that it was only women inside trying to scare them off, because one day a huge crowd of men appeared over the horizon. There was no way we were going to keep them out or stay alive if we tried. So some of us escaped through the basement corridors.”
“Yuri?” asked Farah, remembering the one other friend who stayed behind in the prison.
“Yeah, Yuri and I stuck together for a long while, but then she said she needed to move on.”
“What happened to McGunn in the end?”
Janine didn’t meet her eye. She still clearly had mixed feelings about the unofficial Warden and tickle sadist who had been her lover for several years and chewed on a mouthful of food before answering. “He didn’t last long once the inmates took control. When he died they slumped him over the welcome rock as a warning to other men to keep out. It didn’t work, obviously.”
Despite her hate for McGunn and resentment at what he and Janine had put her through, Farah knew what it was like to lose someone, and she knew that he had double-crossed her in the end.
“You can call me Rashid. Just know it’s different now,” said Farah.
Janine nodded in appreciation. They sat in an awkward atmosphere and ate for several minutes.
Janine was the first to break the silence. “Still ticklish, Rashid?”
Farah glared at her.
“Just trying to break the ice,” said Janine.
“Not yet,” said Farah. “You can’t joke about that yet.”
Janine nodded and they ate in silence.
CHAPTER VIII
One of Senator Skylar Bryant’s sleek black sedans entered the looming gates to her grandiose estate.
“Is this a human residence or do they keep King Kong inside?” said Syra almost to herself, yet Uma was amused.
The sedan pulled up outside the steps to the front entrance. The chauffeur got out and opened the doors for them and lifted their suitcase from the trunk, which he carried up the ornate marble stairs to the front door. They followed with their high heels clicking in perfect rhythm. Both had their hair pinned up and wore long trench coats that almost touched the ground.
A butler opened the door for them. Syra adjusted the cuffs of her lace gloves and glanced to Uma, who was evidently in awe at the wealth on display. Every surface or decorative flourish was gold.
“The Senator is expecting you upstairs,” said the butler, taking the suitcase from the chauffeur and leading the way. They stopped outside a room. The butler rested down the suitcase, knocked, bowed and left.
“Probably got gold leaf toilet paper,” said Syra, when he was out of earshot.
“Come,” said a voice from behind the door.
Syra opened the door and Uma brought in the suitcase. Senator Skylar Bryant sat at a desk in her resplendent master bedroom. She was wearing a casual pant-suit, let a Prada slipper dangle from her toes and, by her feet, under the shadows of the desk laid an enormous Bullmastiff-Doberman Pinscher cross on full alert.
“Skylar Bryant?” asked Uma.
Syra and Uma removed their coats to reveal their stunning outfits. Syra was adorned in a mix of black leather and lace while Uma wore white thigh-high leather boots, elbow-length white silk gloves and a white corset.
“Senator Skylar Bryant, I’m sure you are aware,” said the senator, with a poker face.
“Not tonight,” said Syra with an aloof air. She detected a widening of the senator’s smirk and knew she was on the right path. “We don’t work with an audience.”
“You think I have spectators in here somewhere?”
“I think, with all the security measures you have, there must be cameras in every room,” said Syra.
“Not in this room,” said Bryant. “I trust my security teams, but I don’t tempt temptation. Who wouldn’t want to see what goes on in my bedroom?”
“Exactly our thoughts,” said Uma. “But we don’t allow animals to be present either.”
“Samson won’t interfere unless I tell him to.”
“I’m sure he’s well trained. I’m also sure that if he saw someone strike you with a crop, flogger or whip, he would tear them to pieces.”
The senator smiled. “You may be right. Samson: out. Go eat.”
The dog almost lifted the desk as it stood and both Syra and Uma struggled to maintain an unintimidated demeanour as it trotted past them and out of the room.
“We haven’t met before,” said Syra. “I’m Mistress Equinox.”
“And I’m Lady Nightshade,” said Uma. “Your messenger, Sally, didn’t tell us much.”
“Good,” said Bryant. She stood and took a deep draw from a gold vape and blew it out, making a show of the cloud it created around her. “I value discretion above all else.”
“Above all else?” Syra probed.
Bryant held her eye and stepped closer. “And I don’t tolerate mediocrity.” She blew another cloud dangerously close to Syra’s face that smelt of strawberry cheesecake.
“Dismiss your bodyguards,” said Syra, her tone edged with authority.
Bryant’s natural smirk held firm. “Ooh. Is that you taking charge? It’s already done – I don’t let my employees listen in. Even the butler has the night off now.”
“If you are going to be a brat all evening–” Uma began.
“A brat?” said Bryant indignantly.
“We don’t bother with brats,” said Uma. “Either you want quality or you don’t. It is not necessary for us to prove ourselves to anyone.”
“Or perhaps you don’t have the wherewithal to overcome such challenges?”
Uma picked up her coat as Syra adjusted her hair and said, “Very well, perhaps one day you’ll see the value of real dominatr-EEKS!”
Uma looked round sharply.
Syra stood with her arms clamped to her sides and staring at Skylar Bryant.
“Oh, dear,” said Bryant. “You were talking about being real dominatrixes? But you’re as sensitive as a schoolgirl. How pathetic.”
“You do not have my permission to touch me!” said Syra.
Uma was stunned. The senator had tickled Syra and she had missed it. Suddenly several thoughts solidified. “Wait right there,” she commanded and stepped towards her. “You do not touch us.”
Without her trademark four-inch heels, the senator stood at 5’6” and Uma, in her leather boots, towered over her. In that moment the senator felt put in her place by Uma but gestured like a kid making excuses for bad behaviour.
“I’m afraid it’s too late,” said Bryant, “I can’t take her seriously if I know that she’s ticklish–YEE-HEE!”
With identical timing, Uma grasped the senator’s waist and made her laugh.
“Don’t do that!” said Bryant, “I hate being tickled. Hard limit.”
“So you’re ticklish?” said Syra. “Does that mean we shouldn’t take you seriously?”
“Stop,” said Uma. Syra did not appreciate this tone from her junior but remained in character. “I have an idea of how we can resolve this.” She addressed the senator, “Am I correct in thinking that you would have a play room for visiting children, nephews, nieces?”
“Yes, it’s across the landing, three doors down.”
“Right,” said Uma and left the room, being careful not to bump into Samson along the way.
She could hear the stony silence of the two women in the bedroom as she surveyed the selection of toys and games in the play room, then she found what she was looking for and strode happily back to the bedroom, closed the door behind her and dropped a box onto the floor.
“What is this?” said Bryant.
“Twister. You haven’t heard of it?” said Uma.
“Of course I have. Why is it here?”
“I don’t want to hear you say it’s ‘infantile’ or ‘beyond you’ to play such games. You, Ms Bryant, have placed us in this position. I suggest a battle of wills to decide – if Mistress Equinox wins, you submit.”
“And if I win?” said Bryant.
“You tell us.”
Skylar Bryant looked at Syra and felt a desire to be on top. “If I win, we dominate her.”
Uma nodded and looked to Syra. Syra confidently agreed, but when the senator turned her attention to remove her slippers she slung Uma a venomous look. Uma shrugged, giving the impression that it was the first thing she could think of, and when Syra turned to remove her stilettos and leather basque, she couldn’t help but squeeze her thighs together in an attempt to relieve her arousal.
Uma spread the plastic Twister mat on top of a luxurious Persian rug and sat primly on the desk chair.
“Let’s play,” she said, and spun the dial. “Right hand: red.”
Doing their best to overlook this ludicrous arrangement, Syra and Skylar Bryant assumed their positions, both barefoot and determined. The game began with calculated movements and both women doing their best to maintain their balance. Even as the poses grew more complicated and their bodies entwined, they were no closer to toppling over.
After fifteen minutes of straight play, Syra spoke up, “This doesn’t look like it’s the right way to make this decision.”
“Just as I thought,” said Skylar Bryant, “no staying power.”
Syra flushed with irritation and let herself do the thing she’d been itching to do for fifteen minutes – she reached for the senator’s bare sole and scratched the taut ball of her foot.
Skylar Bryant yelped with laughter and leapt from the mat.
“One point to me,” said Syra.
“That’s a clear violation of the rules!” said Bryant. “No point!”
“Actually, I’ll allow it,” said Uma. “But the rules do state that you need to keep your hands and feet on the coloured dots at all times. So: one all.”
Syra’s satisfied grin washed away and she glared daggers at Uma.
Uma pretended not to notice and spun the dial. “Left foot: yellow.”
Several moves later it was obvious that this was a more physical round. While not able to use fingers or toes as weapons, both did their best to shove the other off balance. However, when an unnoticed miscalculation by Syra placed her stretched torso next to Skylar Bryant’s arm, all the senator had to do was bend her elbow a little to put pressure on Syra’s lower ribcage, and apply pressure.
Uma felt herself get wet as she witnessed the error and saw the mix of emotions on Syra’s face as she struggled to maintain composure. Her lips quivered and her nostrils flared before she broke into laughter and fell sideways onto the rug, then quickly gritted her teeth and slammed her fist down on the floor.
“Two: one,” said Skylar Bryant arrogantly, and she stood in position. “Final round.”
“Not if you lose,” said Syra.
“I don’t lose,” said the senator.
The dial spun. “Right foot: blue,” said Uma.
Both women took the dots in the centre of the mat and held each other’s unblinking gaze, even at the following command: “Left foot: yellow.”
“Right hand: blue,” said Uma.
Bryant quickly adopted the most convenient spot that left Syra in a tricky position. Syra took the opportunity to shoot Uma a look that read: I’d better not lose this, Uma.
Uma raised her eyebrows with the answer: That’s kinda down to you, boss. “Left hand: green.”
Both women crouched on the mat and found their faces in uncomfortably close proximity. Uma briefly fantasised that they might kiss. Skylar Bryant saw that Syra was wobbling and smiled – on the verge of victory and looked to Uma for the next spin and her winning move, which is when Syra closed in on her exposed neck. Bryant yelped, expecting a bite, but instead felt the fluttering of Syra’s eyelashes and she burst into giggles and fell backwards, slapping herself as though fighting a spider that had dropped onto her.
“Two: two,” said Syra.
“You bitch!” said Bryant and lunged for her.
Uma jumped up, ready to intervene, but instead of fists and cat-scratches, Syra Rahul and Senator Skylar Bryant grabbed each other’s waists and had a tickle fight. Not in the way that most people would—with a sense of fun—but a genuinely malicious fight using only tickling.
Uma slowly sat back down. It had to be said that both women were evenly matched – fit, quick, strong and exceedingly ticklish. At one point Bryant latched onto Syra’s leg and scurried fingernails expertly over her delicious soles, which sent Syra into a frenzy – her brain was overwhelmed and all her years self-defence practice deserted her. Uma never pictured in her wildest dreams that Syra would react in such a way. It took her a deal of strength not to begin masturbating there and then.
More by luck than intention, Syra pulled herself free of Skylar Bryant’s grip and latched on to her back, one arm around her neck and the free hand pressing into her vulnerable waistline. Bryant spasmed with hysterics. She obviously detested being tickled but was completely unable to prevent herself from laughing or uttering a word of protest. Soon, they heard a wheezing sound and she raised her hands.
“She surrenders!” said Syra, incensed, and pushed her to one side.
Bryant crawled to her desk, pulled out an inhaler and used it. “I have asthma, you f…” she began, but then looked up and saw Syra standing over her. Syra’s stance and sense of command shone through her sweaty exterior. “I have asthma, Mistress Equinox.”
Syra took the game dial from Uma and tossed it into a fireplace. “We can cancel round three.”
CHAPTER IX
Skylar Bryant’s demeanour changed completely once she submitted to Syra. She remained on her knees and looked up at the dominatrixes with a feline compliance while they discussed the punishment she deserved for her insolence and were stylishly subtle in the way they elicited from her the dominance and corporal punishment she preferred as part of the scene.
Now that she felt they had earned her respect, she willingly bent over her bed when they commanded and absorbed the caning on her backside until she could feel it glowing with rosey heat.
Then Mistress Equinox cleared her desk and instructed her to sit on it. She did as she was told and purred a gentle, “Ooh,” as the cold of the inlaid leather surface cooled the raised welts on her buttocks.
Lady Nightshade told her to lay back, and she did, pouting a little at the cold on her back, but she was told not to worry – they were about to warm her up.
Skylar Bryant’s eyes widened in anticipation and she removed her bra, leaving her in just her panties as she laid prone on the desk, her knees and elbows bent over the edges as Equinox and Nightshade secured her wrists and ankles to the legs of the sturdy oak desk.
“Can you move?” asked Syra.
Skylar Bryant pulled at the restraints. She couldn’t move a muscle. “No, Mistress,” she said.
“Good,” said Syra. “Now, tell us about your plans for government.”
Bryant rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t involve work, I don’t want to think about it now.”
Uma stepped forward. “Tell us.”
Bryant looked between them for a moment. “This isn’t what I want.”
Syra released her hair to let it fall around her shoulders and pulled off her gloves.
Uma undid her corset and through it to one side. “I can’t stand these things. They really dig in.”
“You two are really breaking the spell now,” said Bryant. “I think you can let me go—”
Suddenly the breath was taken from her in a gasp as Syra’s hands pressed onto her stomach. It was as if all ten fingertips had found the most precise ticklish spots on her torso and she felt a fizz of danger and regret rinse over her body and brain.
“Don’t!” she said. “I don’t want that.”
“Lady,” said Uma, “this had never been about what you want.”
Syra looked her in the eye. “You’re going to tell us what you have planned or…” she pressed her fingers into the muscles of Skylar Bryant’s stomach and waist, prompting a mist of spittle as the initial laugh escaped her pursed lips and quickly exploded into peals of laughter that filled the room.
Syra paused.
“Fuck you!” said Bryant. “Who are you?”
“What are your plans?” Syra could tell the next words from Bryant’s mouth would be more insults and refusals, so simply pressed and wriggled all ten fingertips again. Seeing the senator’s helpless reaction, as she could do nothing but let her head flip from side to side, Syra remembered why she enjoyed this job so much. Nothing else elicited such a response and she went on a lot longer than she used to at this point in the torture.
Uma watched, impressed by Syra’s flawless and devastating technique, and wondered if she would ever stop, which she didn’t until there was a great thump at the door, and bark so low and loud, it was as though a hellhound had escaped the underworld.
“Samson!” Bryant called.
The dog continued to bark.
“He’s not getting in here,” said Syra. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the din that echoed throughout the mansion.
“We know you started the war. Everyone knows. What next?”
“If it’s obvious, then why do the people love me?”
“Because they don’t care! They wanted the chance to fight the people you convinced them to hate, until they realised what war was actually like!”
Bryant’s self-righteous smirk was back.
“You’re worthless scum,” said Syra. “Don’t you care about the families who were torn apart or wiped out?” she said, thinking of her own.
“Why would I? I don’t have one,” said Bryant.
“I think she deserves more,” said Uma, who circled to the top of the desk until the senator was looking at her, upside down. She wiggled her fingers over her face and slowly descended towards her exposed smooth armpits.
Bryant struggled and a whimper entered her voice. “No… Not there… Not there!” she shrieked as Uma’s fingernails scampered all around the hollows of her underarms. Her laughter prompted more thumping at the door and barking from the dog.
“Time for her feet, I think,” said Syra.
Bryant’s eyes widened. She tried to scream, “No!” but wheezing stole the words from her throat.
“Let her talk,” said Syra and Uma paused.
She was sweating, struggling to breathe and her beautiful breast was heaving for air. “I’m doing it for America,” she wheezed.
“What a load of crap,” said Syra. “You’re doing it for you.”
“I am not,” she demanded through gasps. “The only way to stay safe is to dominate. Truly dominate. To be queen of the jungle. Queen of the world. The USA isn’t over. We’ll take it back and make it better than ever.”
“When?” said Uma.
“As soon as we’re ready. Because when it’s proven that we rule better than the liberal fucktards, their population will want to join us.”
Syra leant in. “It takes a country years, probably decades, to establish its place in the world, let alone doing it after a bitter, bloody war like the one you just invoked. You’ve not even let the ink dry on the truce before talking about a takeover.”
Bryant maintained what she thought was a poker face, but they saw that her trademark smirk was gone. “I work in the government! I am the government! You people don’t get to question me because you don’t know how life works. All you know is how to spank someone, suck a dick and get paid!”
“Is that all we know?” asked Uma.
“No,” said Syra with a serene tone. “We know so much more than that.”
With that, she knelt out of view and ignored the insults, the threats and soon the begging and the pleading, and fully exploited Senator Skylar Bryant’s terrifyingly ticklish feet. The smooth soles were a dream to scamper fingertips and fingernails across. And when Uma joined in on the senator’s excruciatingly ticklish underarms, she was lost to helpless, breathless laughter.
The process was quicker than Syra expected, especially as Bryant was such a fit woman. It would have taken all night if her asthma wasn’t a factor. The entire time her loyal dog kept ramming the bedroom door.
Syra and Uma wiped and sprayed all surfaces to remove any trace of their presence. They left the suitcase full of sex toys and BDSM equipment and the senator strapped naked to the desk. Whoever found her would assume that her demise was an accident and they would never again see, or hear of, Mistress Equinox and Lady Nightshade who, according to the CCTV cameras, left the scene in a panic.
“How do we deal with Cerberus, out there?” asked Uma.
Syra held up a can of bear spray she had at the ready.
“Aw, that’s a bit cruel, isn't it?”
“Would you like to try and tickle him into submission?” Syra asked rhetorically. “It’ll wear off in a couple of hours. Oh, and talking of cruel, when we get back to base I’ll need to debrief you on placing your superior in the position you did earlier.”
Uma gave a guilty smile. She hoped it would involve her own punishment.
“Right, get ready,” said Syra, holding up the spray. “Open the door… now!”
CHAPTER X
Farah stood to attention with her fellow trainees, ready for the morning’s training when Staff Sergeant Holmes walked into the training gym.
“Listen up, Alpha. PT is postponed,” he announced. “We have something we need to deal with. Follow me.”
The squad followed him across the barracks to a building they hadn’t yet visited. He took an elevator and sent them jogging down hundreds of stairs to a cold, featureless basement.
They found him next to a wall with a huge glass panel, which was evidently a two-way mirror. Through the glass was a room that contained a single chair, bolted securely to the floor. Shackled to the chair was a palpably fit, attractive young woman who had evidently been through something physically demanding. Her hair was a mess and she was sweating and glaring defiantly at the mirror.
“You were told that you may face challenges when you don’t feel you are ready,” said Holmes. “This might be one of those times. This woman is an undercover agent from the east. She was caught spying on our interim government.
“Now, our leaders are yet to agree on the rights, wrongs and wherefores of interrogation and, since Guantanamo is a territory in dispute, she’s our problem. So far she’s undergone conventional means of interview with no luck. So, short of electric shocks or pulling her fingernails out, we need to find a method that is ‘outside the box’. You people are here for your brains as much as your physical abilities. Speak up.”
Farah and Janine didn’t need to look at each other. They could both sense a blushing warmth between them. But this was what they were there for and, if they had an idea, they were obliged to put it forward. They both slowly raised their hands.
Holmes lifted his chin towards them. “Privates Rashid and Dayton. You have suggestions?”
“Sir, yes, sir,” said Farah. “I have something that I think might work…”
