feetadell1
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Here's the start of a Karen Read story I've been working on. I might go back in and edit a little as I finish up later parts. Part 2 should be up soon
Chapter One: New Evidence
It had been ten months since Karen Read was first charged, and six since her legal team had gone fully on the offensive. At first, the case had seemed simple—at least to the public. But as new evidence emerged, it became clear there were cracks in the official version of events.
Her attorney, Laura Carlisle, had blown those cracks wide open.
Now they were deep in the pre-trial phase, still months from jury selection. But tonight, something new had surfaced—something that might punch a gaping hole in the prosecution’s timeline. Something that could change everything.
It was just after 9:00 PM, and Karen’s house—tucked into a quiet neighborhood in Milton, Massachusetts—was nearly silent. The wind from a slow-moving storm brushed against the windowpanes like distant whispers. The fireplace cast flickering gold across the room, but the air itself felt tight, cold. The shadows moved with each flicker, curling against the walls like silent witnesses.
Karen sat stiffly on the edge of her leather couch. She wore a soft gray Bruins crewneck sweatshirt and navy-blue jogger sweatpants that cuffed right at her ankles—casual but cute. Her dirty blonde hair was pulled into a low ponytail, a few strands clinging to her temples. Her feet were bare, planted nervously on the wood floor—size 8, high-arched, her toenails painted a subdued, pretty pink.
Even now—under stress, under suspicion—44-year-old Karen looked polished. But the strain was visible in her posture. In the slight, compulsive curl of her toes. In the way she hadn’t really exhaled since sunset. In the way she checked her phone every few minutes, despite knowing there'd be nothing.
Born and raised in the Boston area, Karen had always been seen as tough, straight-shooting, and razor-sharp, earning both a bachelors and masters degree. She had worked in finance, fought her way into spaces dominated by men, and made a career out of never flinching first. She could outlast a boardroom brawl, bulldoze an audit committee, and walk out unruffled. But now, after ten months of whispers and headlines, the cracks were harder to hide.
Her strength was still there—quiet, stubborn—but Laura Carlisle knew how to look past that.
Laura always looked past the surface.
Laura Carlisle, her defense attorney, was the kind of woman who turned heads without trying—tall, blonde, classically beautiful in a way that was almost intimidating. In her mid-thirties, Laura had built a reputation as a legal prodigy: Ivy League educated, clerked for a federal judge, and had never lost a major case. She was known for her poise, her strategic brilliance, and her ability to weaponize charm with surgical precision. She had a mind like a scalpel and the presence of a queen.
Winning a case like Karen’s—one that had captivated the country and polarized public opinion—could elevate her from respected attorney to household name. It was the kind of case that led to book deals, news panel invitations, maybe even a career that ended in politics or television. She was sharp enough to know it, but disciplined enough never to say it out loud.
Karen checked her phone again. Still nothing. She sighed, brushing a hand through her hair.
Then, without a knock, the door opened.
“Evening,” came Laura’s smooth, deliberate voice.
Karen looked up—and felt something in her chest tighten.
Laura stood in the doorway, her tailored navy trench coat wet from the rain, shoulders squared, an aura of control radiating off her. She stepped inside and shook off the chill, her heels clicking gently across the floor—black patent leather stilettos, razor-sharp. Her matching navy suit fit like a second skin, structured and unforgiving in its elegance. Beneath the blazer was a soft ivory blouse, silk, with just the faintest sheen. And her legs—long, toned—were covered in sheer nude tights that glimmered slightly in the low light as she moved.
Her blonde hair was sleek, pinned behind her ears, and her face was flawless—clean makeup, a touch of blush, neutral lipstick. Every inch of her said authority. Effortless. Controlled. Untouchable.
Karen blinked. “You do know it’s nighttime, right?”
“Late night at the office. No time to change.” Laura set her laptop bag down on the coffee table.
Karen smirked faintly. “Didn’t know lawyers ran on intimidation 24/7.”
“Only the good ones,” Laura replied, slipping off her coat and folding it neatly over a chair. She also removed her heels—wet from the rain—revealing her slender, size 10 stockinged feet. Laura’s dark toe polish shone through the ultra-sheer material. She flexed her toes once, casually.
Karen’s eyes flicked to the shimmer of Laura’s nylons as she sat down beside her on the couch. The way her skirt tugged slightly, how her posture didn’t waver. Karen hated how effortlessly composed and stunning the younger woman always looked.
She hated how aware she was of it.
Laura powered up the laptop.
“We got a new piece of footage today,” she said, her voice low. “Interior camera. Smart home setup. From inside the house. The night of the incident.”
Karen’s pulse jumped.
Laura continued, “It was one of those smart cameras—motion-activated. Mounted high. Not pointed in the right direction. Dark, mostly ambient sound. But it picked something up.”
She clicked play.
At first, just static ambience. A faint hum. Then—
“Stop! Stop—oh my god! Ahaha—no! Not—no-ho-ho-ho—oh my god! Fahckinnn STAHAHAHAP!”
Karen’s spine went rigid.
The laughter in the clip was unmistakable. That breathless, high-pitched quality. The panic behind it. The shrieking giggles that escalated sharply—then abruptly cut off with a thud and silence. The laughter was a perfect blend of girly squealing and that gruff Boston edge.
Laura said nothing. Just watched her.
Karen’s face burned. “That… that could be anything.”
Laura tilted her head. “Could it? Karen, is that you laughing?”
“I mean, it’s dark. There’s no video. You can’t see anything happening. It doesn’t prove a damn thing.”
“No,” Laura agreed slowly. “But if it is you in that timestamped clip, then you were inside the house. And if you were inside, you couldn’t have been… where the prosecution says you were at that time.”
Karen stared ahead, jaw tight. Her stomach churned. The walls suddenly felt smaller.
Laura watched her. And for the first time—doubted. That voice on the tape didn’t seem possible. Not from Karen. Not from the woman who’d faced a murder charge with dry eyes and a spine of granite. She couldn’t picture it. The softness. The surrender.
“Karen,” she asked quietly. “Is it you?”
Karen hesitated. Then nodded—once, reluctantly.
Laura’s voice stayed even. “Who was with you?”
Karen closed her eyes. “I don’t remember everything. It was fast. It got chaotic, we'd all been drinkin.”
“And the laughing… what happened?”
Karen’s voice was barely audible. “Someone… one of the guys there, grabbed me. Started ticklin me.”
Laura blinked. “Tickling?”
“This is absurd,” Karen whispered. “Humiliatin'.”
“I’m not judging you,” Laura said softly. “Just tell me. Where were you tickled?”
A long beat passed.
“…My feet.”
Laura’s eyes flicked, just for a second, to Karen’s bare feet. Tense. Toes curled tightly.
“You were laughing like that just from someone… tickling your feet?”
Karen flushed. “Look... I'm a little ticklish okay?” She said, looking away, downplaying the severity of her weakness.
Laura didn’t speak for a moment. Her expression was unreadable, but her silence said plenty. Disbelief. Confusion. Maybe even curiosity.
“Sounds like more than a little the way you lost control.” she said, clinical now. “That kind of reaction… it sounded almost—”
“Hysterical?” Karen cut in bitterly. “Yea I was caught off guard”
Laura still didn’t quite look convinced. “I’m just… trying to reconcile it. That was intense laughter, Karen. You’re composed to the point of icy in court. It doesn’t add up.”
Karen, insecure about being so ticklish, was getting annoyed. “I can’t explain it eithah.” her Boston accent, that she tried to tone down in professional settings, came through
Her mind flicked—against her will—to that stupid pedicure a few weeks back. The spa chair. The lavender soak. The nail tech barely started scrubbing when Karen flinched so violently she almost kicked the basin. She’d clamped a hand over her mouth, trying to stifle the giggles. The woman had smiled knowingly.
“Ticklish, yes?”
Karen had just nodded, red-faced and mortified. The nail tech had to hold down her ankle just to finish the scrubbing the bottom of her foot with the pumice stone. Karen laughed out loud, bucking in her massage chair and causing a scene in front of the entire salon.
She could still feel the embarrassment. And now—it was back. Karen was ashamed of this weakness, especially given her usual bitchy demeanor.
Laura bit her lip and looked Karen in the eyes. “You trust me, don’t you?”
Karen nodded tightly. She did. Against her better judgment.
“Then pass me your feet,” Laura said.
“…Excuse me?” Karen blinked.
“Look, this is a major breakthrough. A gamechanger for the case,” Laura explained. “I need to hear you laugh, though.” She gave a slow, devious smirk. “Properly.”
Karen stared at Laura, lips parted. “You’re seriously going to…”
“Pass me your feet,” Laura said again, calmly—like she was asking Karen for her phone, not her dignity. "You're a grown ass woman, what are you so worried about?"
Karen hesitated, her stomach twisting. But the look on Laura’s face—serious, expectant—left no room for argument.
With a tight jaw and a burning face, she swung her legs up onto the couch and slowly extended her feet toward Laura’s lap.
Her sleeves covered her hands now, as if hiding her face wasn’t enough. Her toes curled instinctively, the muscles in her soles already twitching with anticipation. The humiliation made her chest tight. She was about to be tickled—like a child, like a joke—by her lawyer. A woman she respected. A woman she feared. A woman she was terrified of disappointing.
Laura’s eyes swept over Karen’s bare feet, her expression unreadable. They were exquisite—slender, with long toes, high arches, and pink-polished nails gleaming under the firelight. No blemishes. No calluses. Just soft, pampered skin—taut and trembling now, her feet flexing reflexively against the cool air.
Laura raised one sculpted eyebrow. “I’m not even touching you yet and you're already flinching.”
Karen groaned and sank deeper into the couch. “This is a nightmare…”
Laura didn’t answer. She simply lowered one perfectly manicured nail and drew a slow, delicate line along the heel of Karen’s right foot.
Karen shrieked.
“EEEEEK!”
Her whole body jolted like she'd been shocked. Her hands flew up from her sleeves and grabbed her own sweater collar, yanking it over her mouth to stifle the squeals already bubbling up.
Laura’s smirk grew. “Wow. I barely grazed you.”
“D-don’t do that again,” Karen begged, muffled behind the fabric. “Don’t you dayuhh…” The Boston in her coming out again.
Laura ignored her. She pressed her nail back to the soft center of Karen’s arch and traced another feather-light circle. Then another.
Karen flinched violently, her foot yanking away—only for Laura to catch her ankle in a firm, elegant grip. Her grip was practiced. Calm. Confident.
“Hold still,” Laura said.
Karen’s eyes widened. “Like hell I—”
She didn’t finish. Laura’s fingertip pressed—just one finger—lightly to the center of Karen’s arch. Not scratching. Not even moving. Just resting there.
Karen flinched.
Then Laura began to move it. Slow, soft circles—barely any pressure at all.
Karen bit her lip hard. Her face twitched.
Laura tilted her head, amused. “You’re trying to fight it, huh?”
Karen didn’t answer. Her jaw was locked, her hands gripping the throw pillow in her lap like a lifeline. She stared straight ahead, breathing through her nose, visibly straining to maintain composure.
Laura kept her fingertip moving in lazy spirals. “This is one finger, Karen. One. You really can’t handle even this?”
Karen's leg twitched again, her face turned to the left then snapped back right, her erratic movements were becoming more apparent.
Then her lip betrayed her—tugging up at the corner. Just slightly. She let out a tiny, involuntary snrk sound before clamping her hand over her mouth.
Laura grinned.
“Ohh… you’re trying so hard to keep it together, aren’t you?”
Karen shook her head desperately, eyes pleading.
But it was no use.
The moment Laura started trailing that one long manicured nail up toward the ball of her foot—so lightly it was maddening—Karen broke.
“Pfft—HAHA—no! Don’t—oh no-ho-ho-ho!”
Her whole body jolted. Her hands flew to her face as the laughter burst out, shrill and unfiltered.
Laura laughed softly. “Wow. One finger.”
She didn’t even pause. Her hand came alive now—five fingers moving in a quick, spidering dance across both soles, flicking and scratching with maddening precision.
“OH MY GAHAHAWD! STAHAHAHAP! JESUS—HAHA—LAURA I’M—YOU CAN’T—!”
Her voice dissolved into helpless shrieking giggles. Her legs kicked wildly, her upper body twisting toward the couch cushions in a desperate attempt to escape.
Laura raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh my you're ridiculously ticklish Karen.”
Karen thrashed like she was on fire. Her ponytail whipped across her face, and she tried to brace herself—but her coordination was gone, scrambled by the sensory overload. She laughed so hard she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.
And all the while, Laura kept going—slow, deliberate strokes followed by quick, playful scritches. The contrast drove Karen insane.
“I swear to GAWD! STAHAHAHAP! I’M GONNA—OH MY—NOT THERE—NOOOOO!”
Laura’s fingers slid up to the base of her toes, where the skin was satin-soft. She scratched gently beneath them, right in the center crease.
Karen screamed, her body now flailing violently as she desperately tried to pull free.
“NOOOO-HO-HO-HO! NOT THE TOES! OH MY GAHD, I CAN’T—PLEEEHEHEHEAASSEEE—I’M GONNA DIE!”
Laura laughed softly. “You’re going to be fine.”
Then she leaned forward and wrapped both arms around Karen’s lower leg, hugging it tightly to her waist. The movement knocked her slightly off balance, but she held tight. Karen’s foot, now totally immobilized, flexed helplessly in her grip.
Her other leg flailed, but it was useless—Laura had her.
Karen could feel the silk of Laura’s blouse against her skin. Could feel her breath as she bent over her foot. The intimacy of it—the control—made her want to disappear.
“Oh my god, you’re so ticklish, Karen,” Laura murmured, her voice rich with fascination. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Karen was shrieking, her Boston accent slurred thick through her hysterics.
“FUCK YOUUUU! YOU MANIAC! STAHAHAHA—I’M GONNA—I SWEAH—!”
“Language,” Laura teased. “Is that how you talk to your attorney?”
She scratched the ball of Karen’s foot with light, rhythmic flicks of her nails, pausing occasionally to tap her fingertip gently between her toes.
Karen squealed again, nearly tearing the pillow off the couch. Her head was buried now, forehead pressed against the armrest as her whole body convulsed with high-pitched, uncontrollable laughter.
Inside her mind, she was spiraling. This is humiliating. She’s not just seeing me break—she’s doing it. She's enjoying it. Oh god, I can't stop. I sound like an idiot. I'm gonna choke. I'm gonna—
And still—Laura didn’t stop.
She whispered now, just loud enough for Karen to hear. “Is this what it was like that night? Someone had your feet, just like this? You couldn’t stop laughing?”
Karen howled. “YES—AHAHAHA—YESSS! NOW LET GO! OH MY GAAAHD—LAURA!”
“Mm,” Laura said thoughtfully, dragging a single nail up the underside of Karen’s trembling big toe. “No wonder the laugh on that recording is so vivid. You’re absolutely feral when you’re tickled. I've literally never seen anyone this ticklish in my life”
Karen made a choking sound. Her face was soaked with tears, mascara running in streaks, sweat beading at her temples. She kicked once more, then went limp—utterly spent.
Laura stopped.
Karen lay there, her foot still trapped, her chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged breaths. Her hair was a mess. Her mouth hung open slightly, trying to recover.
And beneath the haze of exhaustion, she was burning with shame.
What the hell is wrong with me? she thought, dazed. That wasn’t just laughter. That was a meltdown. She saw everything.
Laura slowly loosened her grip and laid Karen’s foot gently down on the couch.
She gave it one last, soft tap under the toes—more affectionate than teasing this time. “Your toes are really bad, huh?”
Karen didn’t answer. Couldn’t. She was too mortified to speak. She used the edges of her sleeves to wipe the tears from her cheeks, thoroughly embarrassed that shed reacted to her feet being tickled that violently in front of her defense attorney.
She curled onto her side, hands over her face, praying for the floor to open up. Her body was still twitching, still reeling.
"And here I thought this whole time you were just some rugged corporate woman. I kinda assumed ticklishness wore off into your 40s... clearly not the case for you" Laura laughed as she clicked play on the audio clip again.
“Ahaha—no! Noeehehee! No-ho-ho-ho—oh my god! Fahckinnn STAHAHAHAP!”
Karen winced as she heard her own voice echo from the speakers. She sounded frantic. Breathless. Utterly broken.
When the clip ended, Laura looked at her.
“That’s a match.”
Karen didn’t move. She just lay there in silence, her lips trembling.
Laura stood, smoothing her skirt back into place. Not a hair out of line. She started packing her things and pulled her high heels back on to her stockinged feet
“Tomorrow,” she said, gathering her things. “I’m bringing two members of my team. We’re going to analyze this angle properly. Replication, acoustic comparisons, controlled testing. We’ll need your cooperation.”
Karen peeked from beneath her sleeve. Her voice was barely audible. “You’re seriously doing more of this?”
Laura gave her a small, razor-sharp smile.
“Karen, you're the most ticklish person I’ve ever met, it's actually impressive. That laugh is going to keep you out of prison... Bet you never thought being this ticklish would help you out.” Laura noticed Karen's arms up as she fixed her ponytail, she playfully reached down from behind the couch and squeezed Karen's sides.
Karen yelped, her elbows shooting down immediately.
Laura turned toward the door, her high heels clicking on the hardwood floor as she walked.
“Try to get some sleep,” she added. “You’ll need your strength. Tomorrow, I’m not holding back. Also—dress how you did that night.”
As the door clicked shut behind Laura, the silence rushed in like a wave.
Karen didn’t move for a long time.
She stayed curled on the couch, hair disheveled, sweater damp with sweat, her bare feet still tingling. Her whole body ached—not from exertion, but from tension. From being seen in a way she wasn’t used to. Not by cops, or the press, or the public. But by her.
She was still shaking. Still burning.
I sounded like an idiot, she thought. Like a little girl getting tickled on the playground. That was.... Demoralizing
Her toes flexed involuntarily at the memory. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to will away the sting of tears that hadn’t quite fallen.
Eventually, she stood, legs unsteady. She crossed to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed the first bottle of wine she saw—a half-full pinot grigio. No glass. She unscrewed the cap and took a long, bitter swig straight from the bottle.
Then she took another.
She stared out the window over the sink. Rain slicked down the glass in thin rivulets. The storm was heavier now—steady, relentless. Karen set the bottle down on the counter, her hand lingering on the neck for a moment before she turned and headed upstairs.
Her bedroom was dimly lit by the glow of a salt lamp. She peeled off her sweatshirt and tossed it to the side. Her joggers followed. She stepped out of them slowly, her movements stiff and automatic.
Then she stood there in just her panties, staring at herself in the mirror above the dresser.
Mascara streaked down her face. Her eyes looked wild. Her lips were slightly parted, still flushed from laughing too hard. She looked like a woman who’d been undone.
She reached up and pulled her hair loose from the ponytail, letting it fall around her shoulders. Then she turned toward the master bath.
Steam began to rise as the tub filled. She added a splash of eucalyptus bubble soak and stripped the rest of the way down, tossing her underwear in the corner. The mirror fogged as she stepped in, the hot water enveloping her immediately.
Karen sank into the heat with a low, unsteady exhale. The tension in her body eased by degrees, but the knot in her stomach remained.
She tilted her head back and let the water lap up to her collarbone. Closed her eyes. Tried not to think about Laura. About that look on her face when she said, Pass me your feet.
Tried not to hear the recording again in her head—the shrieking giggles, the desperate cries, the squeals between gasps.
But it was no use.
The laughter was there, playing on a loop in her memory. Her own voice. Helpless. Broken.
She reached for the wine bottle, which she’d carried upstairs, and took another long swig.
As the rain tapped against the bathroom window and the bubbles crept higher around her bare knees. Her sensitive little pink toes poked out from the bubbles on the other end. Karen closed her eyes and whispered under her breath:
“Jesus Christ, what the hell did I get myself into…”
Chapter One: New Evidence
It had been ten months since Karen Read was first charged, and six since her legal team had gone fully on the offensive. At first, the case had seemed simple—at least to the public. But as new evidence emerged, it became clear there were cracks in the official version of events.
Her attorney, Laura Carlisle, had blown those cracks wide open.
Now they were deep in the pre-trial phase, still months from jury selection. But tonight, something new had surfaced—something that might punch a gaping hole in the prosecution’s timeline. Something that could change everything.
It was just after 9:00 PM, and Karen’s house—tucked into a quiet neighborhood in Milton, Massachusetts—was nearly silent. The wind from a slow-moving storm brushed against the windowpanes like distant whispers. The fireplace cast flickering gold across the room, but the air itself felt tight, cold. The shadows moved with each flicker, curling against the walls like silent witnesses.
Karen sat stiffly on the edge of her leather couch. She wore a soft gray Bruins crewneck sweatshirt and navy-blue jogger sweatpants that cuffed right at her ankles—casual but cute. Her dirty blonde hair was pulled into a low ponytail, a few strands clinging to her temples. Her feet were bare, planted nervously on the wood floor—size 8, high-arched, her toenails painted a subdued, pretty pink.
Even now—under stress, under suspicion—44-year-old Karen looked polished. But the strain was visible in her posture. In the slight, compulsive curl of her toes. In the way she hadn’t really exhaled since sunset. In the way she checked her phone every few minutes, despite knowing there'd be nothing.
Born and raised in the Boston area, Karen had always been seen as tough, straight-shooting, and razor-sharp, earning both a bachelors and masters degree. She had worked in finance, fought her way into spaces dominated by men, and made a career out of never flinching first. She could outlast a boardroom brawl, bulldoze an audit committee, and walk out unruffled. But now, after ten months of whispers and headlines, the cracks were harder to hide.
Her strength was still there—quiet, stubborn—but Laura Carlisle knew how to look past that.
Laura always looked past the surface.
Laura Carlisle, her defense attorney, was the kind of woman who turned heads without trying—tall, blonde, classically beautiful in a way that was almost intimidating. In her mid-thirties, Laura had built a reputation as a legal prodigy: Ivy League educated, clerked for a federal judge, and had never lost a major case. She was known for her poise, her strategic brilliance, and her ability to weaponize charm with surgical precision. She had a mind like a scalpel and the presence of a queen.
Winning a case like Karen’s—one that had captivated the country and polarized public opinion—could elevate her from respected attorney to household name. It was the kind of case that led to book deals, news panel invitations, maybe even a career that ended in politics or television. She was sharp enough to know it, but disciplined enough never to say it out loud.
Karen checked her phone again. Still nothing. She sighed, brushing a hand through her hair.
Then, without a knock, the door opened.
“Evening,” came Laura’s smooth, deliberate voice.
Karen looked up—and felt something in her chest tighten.
Laura stood in the doorway, her tailored navy trench coat wet from the rain, shoulders squared, an aura of control radiating off her. She stepped inside and shook off the chill, her heels clicking gently across the floor—black patent leather stilettos, razor-sharp. Her matching navy suit fit like a second skin, structured and unforgiving in its elegance. Beneath the blazer was a soft ivory blouse, silk, with just the faintest sheen. And her legs—long, toned—were covered in sheer nude tights that glimmered slightly in the low light as she moved.
Her blonde hair was sleek, pinned behind her ears, and her face was flawless—clean makeup, a touch of blush, neutral lipstick. Every inch of her said authority. Effortless. Controlled. Untouchable.
Karen blinked. “You do know it’s nighttime, right?”
“Late night at the office. No time to change.” Laura set her laptop bag down on the coffee table.
Karen smirked faintly. “Didn’t know lawyers ran on intimidation 24/7.”
“Only the good ones,” Laura replied, slipping off her coat and folding it neatly over a chair. She also removed her heels—wet from the rain—revealing her slender, size 10 stockinged feet. Laura’s dark toe polish shone through the ultra-sheer material. She flexed her toes once, casually.
Karen’s eyes flicked to the shimmer of Laura’s nylons as she sat down beside her on the couch. The way her skirt tugged slightly, how her posture didn’t waver. Karen hated how effortlessly composed and stunning the younger woman always looked.
She hated how aware she was of it.
Laura powered up the laptop.
“We got a new piece of footage today,” she said, her voice low. “Interior camera. Smart home setup. From inside the house. The night of the incident.”
Karen’s pulse jumped.
Laura continued, “It was one of those smart cameras—motion-activated. Mounted high. Not pointed in the right direction. Dark, mostly ambient sound. But it picked something up.”
She clicked play.
At first, just static ambience. A faint hum. Then—
“Stop! Stop—oh my god! Ahaha—no! Not—no-ho-ho-ho—oh my god! Fahckinnn STAHAHAHAP!”
Karen’s spine went rigid.
The laughter in the clip was unmistakable. That breathless, high-pitched quality. The panic behind it. The shrieking giggles that escalated sharply—then abruptly cut off with a thud and silence. The laughter was a perfect blend of girly squealing and that gruff Boston edge.
Laura said nothing. Just watched her.
Karen’s face burned. “That… that could be anything.”
Laura tilted her head. “Could it? Karen, is that you laughing?”
“I mean, it’s dark. There’s no video. You can’t see anything happening. It doesn’t prove a damn thing.”
“No,” Laura agreed slowly. “But if it is you in that timestamped clip, then you were inside the house. And if you were inside, you couldn’t have been… where the prosecution says you were at that time.”
Karen stared ahead, jaw tight. Her stomach churned. The walls suddenly felt smaller.
Laura watched her. And for the first time—doubted. That voice on the tape didn’t seem possible. Not from Karen. Not from the woman who’d faced a murder charge with dry eyes and a spine of granite. She couldn’t picture it. The softness. The surrender.
“Karen,” she asked quietly. “Is it you?”
Karen hesitated. Then nodded—once, reluctantly.
Laura’s voice stayed even. “Who was with you?”
Karen closed her eyes. “I don’t remember everything. It was fast. It got chaotic, we'd all been drinkin.”
“And the laughing… what happened?”
Karen’s voice was barely audible. “Someone… one of the guys there, grabbed me. Started ticklin me.”
Laura blinked. “Tickling?”
“This is absurd,” Karen whispered. “Humiliatin'.”
“I’m not judging you,” Laura said softly. “Just tell me. Where were you tickled?”
A long beat passed.
“…My feet.”
Laura’s eyes flicked, just for a second, to Karen’s bare feet. Tense. Toes curled tightly.
“You were laughing like that just from someone… tickling your feet?”
Karen flushed. “Look... I'm a little ticklish okay?” She said, looking away, downplaying the severity of her weakness.
Laura didn’t speak for a moment. Her expression was unreadable, but her silence said plenty. Disbelief. Confusion. Maybe even curiosity.
“Sounds like more than a little the way you lost control.” she said, clinical now. “That kind of reaction… it sounded almost—”
“Hysterical?” Karen cut in bitterly. “Yea I was caught off guard”
Laura still didn’t quite look convinced. “I’m just… trying to reconcile it. That was intense laughter, Karen. You’re composed to the point of icy in court. It doesn’t add up.”
Karen, insecure about being so ticklish, was getting annoyed. “I can’t explain it eithah.” her Boston accent, that she tried to tone down in professional settings, came through
Her mind flicked—against her will—to that stupid pedicure a few weeks back. The spa chair. The lavender soak. The nail tech barely started scrubbing when Karen flinched so violently she almost kicked the basin. She’d clamped a hand over her mouth, trying to stifle the giggles. The woman had smiled knowingly.
“Ticklish, yes?”
Karen had just nodded, red-faced and mortified. The nail tech had to hold down her ankle just to finish the scrubbing the bottom of her foot with the pumice stone. Karen laughed out loud, bucking in her massage chair and causing a scene in front of the entire salon.
She could still feel the embarrassment. And now—it was back. Karen was ashamed of this weakness, especially given her usual bitchy demeanor.
Laura bit her lip and looked Karen in the eyes. “You trust me, don’t you?”
Karen nodded tightly. She did. Against her better judgment.
“Then pass me your feet,” Laura said.
“…Excuse me?” Karen blinked.
“Look, this is a major breakthrough. A gamechanger for the case,” Laura explained. “I need to hear you laugh, though.” She gave a slow, devious smirk. “Properly.”
Karen stared at Laura, lips parted. “You’re seriously going to…”
“Pass me your feet,” Laura said again, calmly—like she was asking Karen for her phone, not her dignity. "You're a grown ass woman, what are you so worried about?"
Karen hesitated, her stomach twisting. But the look on Laura’s face—serious, expectant—left no room for argument.
With a tight jaw and a burning face, she swung her legs up onto the couch and slowly extended her feet toward Laura’s lap.
Her sleeves covered her hands now, as if hiding her face wasn’t enough. Her toes curled instinctively, the muscles in her soles already twitching with anticipation. The humiliation made her chest tight. She was about to be tickled—like a child, like a joke—by her lawyer. A woman she respected. A woman she feared. A woman she was terrified of disappointing.
Laura’s eyes swept over Karen’s bare feet, her expression unreadable. They were exquisite—slender, with long toes, high arches, and pink-polished nails gleaming under the firelight. No blemishes. No calluses. Just soft, pampered skin—taut and trembling now, her feet flexing reflexively against the cool air.
Laura raised one sculpted eyebrow. “I’m not even touching you yet and you're already flinching.”
Karen groaned and sank deeper into the couch. “This is a nightmare…”
Laura didn’t answer. She simply lowered one perfectly manicured nail and drew a slow, delicate line along the heel of Karen’s right foot.
Karen shrieked.
“EEEEEK!”
Her whole body jolted like she'd been shocked. Her hands flew up from her sleeves and grabbed her own sweater collar, yanking it over her mouth to stifle the squeals already bubbling up.
Laura’s smirk grew. “Wow. I barely grazed you.”
“D-don’t do that again,” Karen begged, muffled behind the fabric. “Don’t you dayuhh…” The Boston in her coming out again.
Laura ignored her. She pressed her nail back to the soft center of Karen’s arch and traced another feather-light circle. Then another.
Karen flinched violently, her foot yanking away—only for Laura to catch her ankle in a firm, elegant grip. Her grip was practiced. Calm. Confident.
“Hold still,” Laura said.
Karen’s eyes widened. “Like hell I—”
She didn’t finish. Laura’s fingertip pressed—just one finger—lightly to the center of Karen’s arch. Not scratching. Not even moving. Just resting there.
Karen flinched.
Then Laura began to move it. Slow, soft circles—barely any pressure at all.
Karen bit her lip hard. Her face twitched.
Laura tilted her head, amused. “You’re trying to fight it, huh?”
Karen didn’t answer. Her jaw was locked, her hands gripping the throw pillow in her lap like a lifeline. She stared straight ahead, breathing through her nose, visibly straining to maintain composure.
Laura kept her fingertip moving in lazy spirals. “This is one finger, Karen. One. You really can’t handle even this?”
Karen's leg twitched again, her face turned to the left then snapped back right, her erratic movements were becoming more apparent.
Then her lip betrayed her—tugging up at the corner. Just slightly. She let out a tiny, involuntary snrk sound before clamping her hand over her mouth.
Laura grinned.
“Ohh… you’re trying so hard to keep it together, aren’t you?”
Karen shook her head desperately, eyes pleading.
But it was no use.
The moment Laura started trailing that one long manicured nail up toward the ball of her foot—so lightly it was maddening—Karen broke.
“Pfft—HAHA—no! Don’t—oh no-ho-ho-ho!”
Her whole body jolted. Her hands flew to her face as the laughter burst out, shrill and unfiltered.
Laura laughed softly. “Wow. One finger.”
She didn’t even pause. Her hand came alive now—five fingers moving in a quick, spidering dance across both soles, flicking and scratching with maddening precision.
“OH MY GAHAHAWD! STAHAHAHAP! JESUS—HAHA—LAURA I’M—YOU CAN’T—!”
Her voice dissolved into helpless shrieking giggles. Her legs kicked wildly, her upper body twisting toward the couch cushions in a desperate attempt to escape.
Laura raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh my you're ridiculously ticklish Karen.”
Karen thrashed like she was on fire. Her ponytail whipped across her face, and she tried to brace herself—but her coordination was gone, scrambled by the sensory overload. She laughed so hard she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.
And all the while, Laura kept going—slow, deliberate strokes followed by quick, playful scritches. The contrast drove Karen insane.
“I swear to GAWD! STAHAHAHAP! I’M GONNA—OH MY—NOT THERE—NOOOOO!”
Laura’s fingers slid up to the base of her toes, where the skin was satin-soft. She scratched gently beneath them, right in the center crease.
Karen screamed, her body now flailing violently as she desperately tried to pull free.
“NOOOO-HO-HO-HO! NOT THE TOES! OH MY GAHD, I CAN’T—PLEEEHEHEHEAASSEEE—I’M GONNA DIE!”
Laura laughed softly. “You’re going to be fine.”
Then she leaned forward and wrapped both arms around Karen’s lower leg, hugging it tightly to her waist. The movement knocked her slightly off balance, but she held tight. Karen’s foot, now totally immobilized, flexed helplessly in her grip.
Her other leg flailed, but it was useless—Laura had her.
Karen could feel the silk of Laura’s blouse against her skin. Could feel her breath as she bent over her foot. The intimacy of it—the control—made her want to disappear.
“Oh my god, you’re so ticklish, Karen,” Laura murmured, her voice rich with fascination. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Karen was shrieking, her Boston accent slurred thick through her hysterics.
“FUCK YOUUUU! YOU MANIAC! STAHAHAHA—I’M GONNA—I SWEAH—!”
“Language,” Laura teased. “Is that how you talk to your attorney?”
She scratched the ball of Karen’s foot with light, rhythmic flicks of her nails, pausing occasionally to tap her fingertip gently between her toes.
Karen squealed again, nearly tearing the pillow off the couch. Her head was buried now, forehead pressed against the armrest as her whole body convulsed with high-pitched, uncontrollable laughter.
Inside her mind, she was spiraling. This is humiliating. She’s not just seeing me break—she’s doing it. She's enjoying it. Oh god, I can't stop. I sound like an idiot. I'm gonna choke. I'm gonna—
And still—Laura didn’t stop.
She whispered now, just loud enough for Karen to hear. “Is this what it was like that night? Someone had your feet, just like this? You couldn’t stop laughing?”
Karen howled. “YES—AHAHAHA—YESSS! NOW LET GO! OH MY GAAAHD—LAURA!”
“Mm,” Laura said thoughtfully, dragging a single nail up the underside of Karen’s trembling big toe. “No wonder the laugh on that recording is so vivid. You’re absolutely feral when you’re tickled. I've literally never seen anyone this ticklish in my life”
Karen made a choking sound. Her face was soaked with tears, mascara running in streaks, sweat beading at her temples. She kicked once more, then went limp—utterly spent.
Laura stopped.
Karen lay there, her foot still trapped, her chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged breaths. Her hair was a mess. Her mouth hung open slightly, trying to recover.
And beneath the haze of exhaustion, she was burning with shame.
What the hell is wrong with me? she thought, dazed. That wasn’t just laughter. That was a meltdown. She saw everything.
Laura slowly loosened her grip and laid Karen’s foot gently down on the couch.
She gave it one last, soft tap under the toes—more affectionate than teasing this time. “Your toes are really bad, huh?”
Karen didn’t answer. Couldn’t. She was too mortified to speak. She used the edges of her sleeves to wipe the tears from her cheeks, thoroughly embarrassed that shed reacted to her feet being tickled that violently in front of her defense attorney.
She curled onto her side, hands over her face, praying for the floor to open up. Her body was still twitching, still reeling.
"And here I thought this whole time you were just some rugged corporate woman. I kinda assumed ticklishness wore off into your 40s... clearly not the case for you" Laura laughed as she clicked play on the audio clip again.
“Ahaha—no! Noeehehee! No-ho-ho-ho—oh my god! Fahckinnn STAHAHAHAP!”
Karen winced as she heard her own voice echo from the speakers. She sounded frantic. Breathless. Utterly broken.
When the clip ended, Laura looked at her.
“That’s a match.”
Karen didn’t move. She just lay there in silence, her lips trembling.
Laura stood, smoothing her skirt back into place. Not a hair out of line. She started packing her things and pulled her high heels back on to her stockinged feet
“Tomorrow,” she said, gathering her things. “I’m bringing two members of my team. We’re going to analyze this angle properly. Replication, acoustic comparisons, controlled testing. We’ll need your cooperation.”
Karen peeked from beneath her sleeve. Her voice was barely audible. “You’re seriously doing more of this?”
Laura gave her a small, razor-sharp smile.
“Karen, you're the most ticklish person I’ve ever met, it's actually impressive. That laugh is going to keep you out of prison... Bet you never thought being this ticklish would help you out.” Laura noticed Karen's arms up as she fixed her ponytail, she playfully reached down from behind the couch and squeezed Karen's sides.
Karen yelped, her elbows shooting down immediately.
Laura turned toward the door, her high heels clicking on the hardwood floor as she walked.
“Try to get some sleep,” she added. “You’ll need your strength. Tomorrow, I’m not holding back. Also—dress how you did that night.”
As the door clicked shut behind Laura, the silence rushed in like a wave.
Karen didn’t move for a long time.
She stayed curled on the couch, hair disheveled, sweater damp with sweat, her bare feet still tingling. Her whole body ached—not from exertion, but from tension. From being seen in a way she wasn’t used to. Not by cops, or the press, or the public. But by her.
She was still shaking. Still burning.
I sounded like an idiot, she thought. Like a little girl getting tickled on the playground. That was.... Demoralizing
Her toes flexed involuntarily at the memory. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to will away the sting of tears that hadn’t quite fallen.
Eventually, she stood, legs unsteady. She crossed to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed the first bottle of wine she saw—a half-full pinot grigio. No glass. She unscrewed the cap and took a long, bitter swig straight from the bottle.
Then she took another.
She stared out the window over the sink. Rain slicked down the glass in thin rivulets. The storm was heavier now—steady, relentless. Karen set the bottle down on the counter, her hand lingering on the neck for a moment before she turned and headed upstairs.
Her bedroom was dimly lit by the glow of a salt lamp. She peeled off her sweatshirt and tossed it to the side. Her joggers followed. She stepped out of them slowly, her movements stiff and automatic.
Then she stood there in just her panties, staring at herself in the mirror above the dresser.
Mascara streaked down her face. Her eyes looked wild. Her lips were slightly parted, still flushed from laughing too hard. She looked like a woman who’d been undone.
She reached up and pulled her hair loose from the ponytail, letting it fall around her shoulders. Then she turned toward the master bath.
Steam began to rise as the tub filled. She added a splash of eucalyptus bubble soak and stripped the rest of the way down, tossing her underwear in the corner. The mirror fogged as she stepped in, the hot water enveloping her immediately.
Karen sank into the heat with a low, unsteady exhale. The tension in her body eased by degrees, but the knot in her stomach remained.
She tilted her head back and let the water lap up to her collarbone. Closed her eyes. Tried not to think about Laura. About that look on her face when she said, Pass me your feet.
Tried not to hear the recording again in her head—the shrieking giggles, the desperate cries, the squeals between gasps.
But it was no use.
The laughter was there, playing on a loop in her memory. Her own voice. Helpless. Broken.
She reached for the wine bottle, which she’d carried upstairs, and took another long swig.
As the rain tapped against the bathroom window and the bubbles crept higher around her bare knees. Her sensitive little pink toes poked out from the bubbles on the other end. Karen closed her eyes and whispered under her breath:
“Jesus Christ, what the hell did I get myself into…”
