War Is Hell

Author Unknown

"War is hell, especially on spies," you think to yourself as the next spy is brought into the room. This is your job, and you do it well.

"Here he is," the soldiers tell you as they plop down yet another young man, tall and lanky, tying him to the special examining chair. "This one absolutely refuses to talk." You look at him, knowing that you can make him talk. That is your specialty. After they finish lacing him to the chair, they leave the room, knowing full well that the next time they enter, he will have spilled his guts. All this, and without even so much as a hand strike or one drop of blood.

You pace the floor. "You know, I will get the information I need from you."

The guy is blindfolded, but he follows your voice. "No way," he blurts out. "They couldn't get anything out of me."

"What's your name?" you ask.

He figures this couldn't hurt, so he answers. "Ben. That's all I'm going to tell you."

"Oh," you smile. "I think we're just beginning." You lean over and check the ropes, just to make sure they will hold. You have seen many almost make it out before releasing what pertinent information you need. "Yes, you'll be telling me everything, including stuff I don't want to know. That's why you're here."

You reach out and make sure the blindfold will hold. Feeling confident that everything is in order, you grab your usual chair.

Ben sneers. "What can you possibly do that will make me talk?"

You are silent. He will find out soon enough.

You unlace his boots. He waits, but is obviously unnerved. You yank them off, tossing them to the side. Slowly, you peel off his socks, revealing large, long bare feet with angular toes. Just to be on the safe side, you check the leather bonds that are holding his ankles in place. They are secure. Ben is now very uncomfortable. "Hey? Why did you take off my boots and socks?"

Without wasting time, you reach over to your table of instruments and select the right feather. Ben's bare feet are just right for a long, turkey feather, carefully selected for what you have planned.

You take the feather and begin to stroke it over his bare soles. Ben struggles, but he tries to hold it in. He contorts his face and wrenches at the bindings, but they hold. You know that freshly-bared feet are extremely ticklish, so you thrust the feather into his arches, digging the tip into his feet. Ben still holds. With long, flowing strides, you massage the length of the feather between each of his toes, writhing and trying to avoid the blows of the thing. Ben erupts in a small, short giggle, but still struggles.

You brush the tickling feather back and forth, over both of his bare feet, tickling his heels up to the tender skin under his toes. You take two more feathers and use all of them in a handful to caress Ben's bare soles. He begins to laugh, then bites his lip to stop.

You know the feathers are wearing off, so you turn to fingers. You use your fingertips to gently tickle the entire lengths of his bare feet. You stroke in-between his toes, holding each as you tickle them. They are long and toiling to keep the tickling fingers away. As soon as you torture the bare aches for the third time, Ben begins to scream in laughter. "I can't stand it! Stop!"

"Oh, but I must have the information I need!" you tell him, and launch a fresh attack on his bare feet. You scratch the entire sole, toes to heel. Ben tries his worst to evade the tickling torture, but he cannot, and you revel in that thought. One problem: Ben still won't talk. You have no alternative than to grab the brush. You grab the thing quickly. The bristles are stiff and can tickle a confession out of even the strongest man. It always seems to come to this. With flourishing movements, you take the brush and begin to sweep it over the bottoms of Ben's bare feet. He shrieks with laughter. You hold his thin instep and scrub the sole of each foot individually, tickling tortured laughs out of each one. Ben's giggling begins to weaken with each stroke, but you refuse to stop. The other end of the brush has smaller bristles which you use to tickle between each of his wiggling toes. This elicits prolonged chortles from Ben. You use the brush for what seems to be hours as you torture the bare, ticklish soles of your victim. You alternate between feathers, fingers, and the brush. The soles are extremely ticklish, and you know that Ben would have confessed already, but these super sensitive feet have prevented him from even getting a word out between laughs.

"I'll tell! I'll tell!" Ben screams when you decide to rest a moment.

"Go," you say. He begins to recite plan after plan after you flip on the tape recorder. He sighs when he is finished, and you turn the machine off.

"Are you going to kill me now?" he asks nervously.

You grin wickedly. "You might say you'll be tickled to death. You rip open his shirt, revealing a hairy chest, broad and heaving from the tickling. With feathers in hand, you begin to brush them along his armpits, down his ribs, and onto his firm stomach. Ben cries out and begins laughing yet again, but it is music to your ears, because you know you will not quit until they have to drag you off of him. You will tickle his feet again, and all of him until they realize, like they always did. But then, that's what they want from you...

Author Unknown