Payback

Payback.


The doorbell sounded sweet and clear, and Laura Davis, heart hammering with excitement, smirked. Her voluptuous figure, fiery eyes and vivacious nature had conquered many an unsuspecting soul and now, fresh from the fray, she would beguile and conquer once again.

Her most recent victim, Niamh Belle, gagged and bound at Laura's pleasure, was goaded to futile screams in the hope that whoever awaited at Laura's doorstep would hear her muffled protest. Perhaps they would prove to be her proverbial knight in shining armour, astride a strapping stallion, ready to ride to the fair maiden's distress.

Laura's guest certainly looked the part. John Hogan was a tall hurling player, with a dark weather-beaten face, and a pair of bright brown eyes that shone beneath coils of long, black hair. An easy smile came to his lips as Laura answered the door, embracing her with his gaze.

"John!" Laura chided. "It'd take you to be late when you live just down the road!"

"Only when it's you I'm visiting!" Came the amused reply. "So, do you mean to have me freeze to death out here, or are you going to invite me in?"

At the sound of John's voice, which carried across the threshold, Niamh ceased to struggle. Laura had said that Niamh was to pay. She hadn't said that John would meet the same fate! Or did Laura mean to renew her ticklish assault, only with John to aid her? The thought brought sorrow to Niamh's heart, which had soared at John's arrival. And here she had thought that John had liked her...

Meanwhile, Laura's kettle sang from the kitchen, ending the lively conversation which had flourished since John's arrival. Laura, eager to put her plan into motion, slipped a sleeping pill into his tea.

"He'll be a giggling wreck when I'm finished with him! I'll make him regret ever liking that little whore, Belle..."

Putting the kettle down with more force than she intended, Laura turned to return to the living room. Only the room was bereft of life. John was gone.

Initially, Laura need not have panicked. John had merely felt a very human urge, and had opted to use the bathroom. It was only then he realised that he hadn't the faintest clue as to just where it was. Unperturbed by this ignorance, John began to wander the house, marvelling at it's sheer size and majesty. The walls were panelled with lacquered oak, and upon them hung rows of paintings.

One painting had caught John's attention, but as he stopped to examine it, he heard a curious, muffled sound from the room opposite the painting. Intrigued, he eased open the door. What lay within astonished him.

There, bound upon the bed, lay Niamh Belle, bare foot, and gagged. John's eyes widened in horror at the sight of her in such as dishevelled state. Her face was streaked with tear trails, her uniform was utterly misalligned, while her hair was splayed across the pillow in total disarray.

Prompted by this pitiful sight, John rushed to her side and began to untie her. The bonds were tight, but persistence served to sever as sure as any blade. One bond at least. For a demonic scream, and a surge of pain in his right shoulder heralded Laura's arrival.

Laura was maddened. Her delicate scheme had been foiled by her would-be victim's curiosity. Now violence would out where subtlty had failed. With a high pitched wail akin to a Banshee, Laura charged at John, a hurl (Author's note: For the uninitated, a hurl is a wooden pole, slightly curved like a hockey stick, used to play the Irish sport of hurling.) in hand, which she made to bring down upon John's skull.

John had been lucky, inclining slightly right to undo Niamh's bonds. This slight movement had seen Laura's blow, which surely must have served to lay him low, crash upon his shoulder. He roared in pain, and rolled to narrowly avoid another incoming blow from the vicious weapon.

"Laura?! What the Hell are you doing!?"

His foe made no reply, save for a swift kick to the crotch. The poor man was now utterly defenseless, devoid of both sense and instinct as he rolled desperately upon the floor. Laura smirked, as she towered over her defeated enemy, preparing to deliver the coup de gras.

"I hope you like the smell down there," She sneered. "because you'll...".

What Adam would be, he never found out. For at that moment, with a crack akin to a gunshot, Laura fell to crumble unceremoniously upon the floor. Standing over her unconscious figure, was Niamh Belle. A bedside lamp in hand and demonic hatred upon her angelic face.

That fearsome expression however, was swiftly replaced by one of the utmost concern. Leaning over John as he had her, she sized his hand and helped him to rise.

"Are you okay?" Niamh asked.

"The bastard got me in the crown jewels, what do you think?!" Came her companion's flippant reply. "But never mind me, how the devil'd you wind up here?"

And so she told him. Niamh told of how she had been chloroformed, bound, gagged with her own socks (which she had pulled from her mouth upon freeing herself), before being brutally tickle tortured.

At these words, a sinister grin came across John face.

"Tickled, eh? Perhaps a taste of her own medicine wouldn't go too far amiss..."

*

When Laura awoke an hour later, her head still rang from the lamp's cold, ceramic touch. More notable however, was the foul odour which was invading her nostrils; a thick, cheesy sent which very nearly sent her reeling back to her hapless state. There, laid across her nose, was a worn pair of socks warm and damp upon her face. Her socks. Revolted, Laura made to pull them from her face, but found herself unable to. As irony would have it, she was now bound hand and foot, vulnerable to whatever fate her former captive should ordain.

A captive, who not only sought to sup from the cup of vengeance, but had also a companion drunk of it. Now, as Niamh and John watched Laura squirm against her bonds, they made ready for her 'treatment'.

Upon catching sight of the duo, Laura launched into an abusive tirade, giving no verbal quarter. It mattered not.

"Seems the shoe," John remarked "is on the other foot. Shall we?"

"With pleasure! Niamh grinned "I just hope little Laura isn't... ticklish."

It was only then that Laura realised that her feet were bared. Her cute size 5 feet were a sight to behold, slender, pale and well-proportioned with full, round toes. Her soles had a silk-like softness which accentuated their unearthly nature. They were feet fit for a seductive subbucuss, a creature of otherworldly beauty, and ungodly morals.

"Only one way to find out!" John smirked.

And thus heralded Laura's entry into Hell. Niamh began the attack, slowly dragging her finger down Laura's sole. The slow and sensuous touch sent ticklish shiver down Laura's spine, who fought desperately to remain expressionless, as John swept his hand across her foot.

Defiance had been bred into Laura's bone. Her family had fought against the British in 1916, and she refused to allow something as trivial as tickling break such steely resolve. Yet it was. By now, both captors had abandoned their probing and were spider tickling her soles, a tactic which was slowly eroding her iron facade.

It was tongue and talk that finally routed Laura's composure. With a roguish grin, Niamh fell to her knees and began to run her tongue up and down Laura's arch. Slowly, Laura began to smile.

"Awww," John smirked "Coochie coochie koo!"

Laura's blood surged with indignation, but was swiftly cooled by a ticklish touch between her toes. She cracked. Slowly at first, her hard expression turning to a reluctant smile, followed by a furious fit of giggles that she could do naught to control.

Her reaction was met by a cheer, as Laura's ticklers redoubled their efforts. Laura laughed. Though she had conquered man after hapless man, she could do nothing to master the pair's ticklish administrations, which were rendering her silent with laughter.

"PLEEEEASEE!!! STAHAHAHAHAAAHHAHAHP!"

Niamh was the first to respond.

""Stop?" She quoted, her tone heavy with irony. "But you look like you're having so much fun!""

"NIIIAAAMH! I'M SOAOAOHAHAHARY!"

Niamh, lacking Laura's interest in tickling, wished only to humiliate her assailant. How better, thought she, than to make Laura worship her feet?

Without seeking John approval, Niamh clambered onto the bed, and bade Laura be silent. Laura, utterly humiliated by the situation, made haste to comply.

"Now, bitch, since you seemed to like my feet so much, you're gonna love this!" Niamh called, placing her feet upon Laura's ample cleavage. Slowly, she began to drag her pudgy size 6 feet across Laura's chest, raising them slowly to her tear-stained face.

Without preamble, Niamh began to rub her perpetually sweaty feet across Laura's face. Their tang hung heavily upon the air, lending horribly with the smell of Laura's own socks. This was far from enough as far as Niamh was concerned. Placing her feet upon Laura's socks, she slowly forced them into Laura's mouth, causing the victim to gag.

"Now suck 'em, you little slut."

What little dignity and defiance Laura had had left, had long since burnt away in a blaze of ignimony. Shamelessly, she enrounded Niamh's pudgy toes with her lips, and began to suck the sweat from the tips. Her tongue swilled about the gaps, causing Niamh to gasp with unexpected pleasure. Revenge, she thought, was sweet.

"Time we ended this. Night, slut."

Niamh had almost begun to feel pity for this once-proud woman. Best to end her suffering. Making certain the socks were still lodged firmly in Laura's mouth, Niamh placed her toes about Laura's nose. Laura submitted. The noxious scent flooded her nostrils, depriving her of oxygen, and forced her into a reluctant and dreamless sleep.

John had looked on, astonished by Niamh's vivacity.

"I'd hate to get on your bad side." He uttered in wonder, as he gazed upon Laura's unconscious form.

Niamh glanced down.

"Looks like you enjoyed it all the same!" She grinned mischievously.

John turned scarlet swifter than sun would banish shadow. He mumbled an apology, and attempted to amend his body's reaction.

Niamh's laugh sounded sweet and clear, a contrast to liven a day of mixed fortunes.

"That's what I've always loved about you, you were always such a gentle lad." She smiled, her eyes bringing light and love to where lust and envy had reigned.

Such was so of a true woman, John thought. One who could be a beacon against the rigours of reality and reason. An island in a sea of despair. A bastion of purest hope and tenderness.

Without thinking, John leaned forward and kissed her tenderly upon the cheek.

"Let's not linger. I'll untie her, and then... then we can talk." He smiled, stooping to untie Laura.

That task accomplished, John took Niamh's hand and walked from the house. They had entered as puppets to a perverse pleasure and intent. They departed a couple. A couple forged in fire and blossoming in peace.