need2tickle
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Tickling scene from "The Stonehurst Letters," reimagined: VERY explicit (MMF/F)--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Lucillah05-30-2005, 01:35 AM
I will say up front, out of honesty and for legal purposes, that the following story is my re-write of the one tickling scene in The Stonehurst Letters, an erotic novel by J.L. Jones that can be found
here (http://www.adultbookshops.com/acatalog/pb_stonehurst.html). It is not one of my favorite books, partly because most of the scenes therein are heavy BDSM, and in even greater part because the writing is somewhat less than inspired.
So I've rewritten it to match my own tastes, something I've been meaning to do for a few years. I hope you will enjoy it as much as I've enjoyed re-creating it.
Here is the necessary background: The year is 1832. The narrator, Derek Hunter, is a headmaster at a girls' school in England called Rosewood. He is traveling through the American countryside, more specifically visiting his old friend Neville Olford, another "educator" who has ways of taming wayward young females. The book is structured as Hunter's letters to a colleague of his back home, making notes of Olford's disciplinary techniques for their own use on naughty girls back at Rosewood.
*****
Early this morning, Bertrand, I watched as Amanda was put through an unusual punishment, one I think we should consider using on Rosewood girls who've committed only minor infractions of the rules.
As usual, I was in the library, beginning my day's work, when Neville dropped in and asked if I would like to see Amanda receive what he called a "feathering," and explained that it was a way of taking to task a girl who hadn't done quite enough to merit a flogging. Intrigued, I readily agreed, and followed Neville to the library.
In the middle of the room had been placed a flat couch about six feet square. Its sitting surface, at waist level to a man, was covered in soft calfskin. Its four legs protruded above this leather surface in the manner of bedposts, and it was to these posts that Hector, Neville's manservant, was tethering the wrists and ankles of a naked Amanda, who lay face-up on the couch.
As soon as he'd finished securing the last of her four limbs into a snug leather cuff, he reached below the surface of the couch and, although I could not see his hands, was obviously turning a crank that pulled tight the ropes attached to the cuffs. Amanda's already wide-flung arms and legs were slowly spread farther and farther apart until Olford said, "That will do, Hector. Well done, indeed."
I had to admire the appeal of the naked nymphet in this particular mode of restraint. Her lithe form was stretched so tightly that, other than turning her head or flexing her fingers or toes, she could barely move a muscle. Though she was not a scrawny lass, her pectoral muscles and ribs were noticeable under her taut skin -- as were the strained muscles of her inner thighs, for they were so wide apart that the fleshy flower of her sex was completely exposed, utterly vulnerable to whatever whim might strike her roguish master.
Speaking of that devil, Olford quickly moved to a small table that Hector had placed to the right of Amanda's couch. It was low enough for her to see not only the hinged and elaborately carved wooden box that rested on it, but the contents of the box itself as Neville opened the lid with great show for her benefit: several long, stiff feathers with wickedly pointed tips.
He took the first of these out, and, his eyes meeting the girl's, stroked the plume and ran the end of it lightly over his own fingertip.
"Tell me, Amanda," he said slyly, "have you ever been tickled?"
She licked her lips nervously, no doubt guessing what was soon about to befall her helpless flesh. "Why, yes, sir, I have," she replied.
"Who has tickled you, lass? Mr. Hunter and I would be very interested in hearing about it."
She drew in a breath, both for the telling of the tale and, I'm sure, to steel herself for a chastisement she hadn't been expecting.
"It was those two women who live on the farm bordering my family's land," she said.
Olford began to flick the tip of his feather over the girl's inner thighs, making her squirm and giggle slightly. "Tell us, Amanda. What did they do to you?"
I realized immediately that Neville already knew the story, through one of his informants. His goal was to shame the girl by making her tell it in detail in front of both of us as she lay naked and helpless, with him titillating her into undignified laughter and wriggling.
"Well -- hee! -- I encountered them -- oh! ha-ha! -- in the woods, and -- ahh! -- they asked me to play a game of find-it-where-you-can -- ahahaha!!" Amanda seemed to be finding it increasingly difficult to speak as Olford, a fiendish and lecherous smile on his face, drew the feathertip all over the lass's soft and quivering belly, especially around her winking navel. As tight as she was bound to the couch, there was just enough slack in her fetters to permit her to squirm in a way that made her pert-nippled breasts bounce up and down on her chest and her hips twitch to and fro, a most captivating spectacle.
"Go on, Amanda," Neville said sternly, moving the ticklish intrument upwards to titillate her ribcage.
"They -- oh! -- pulled me to the ground and pulled off my clothes -- hee! -- and bound me up with rope to some fallen tree limbs, with my legs wide apart, and -- and -- ahaha!! -- tickled me mercilessly -- agh!"
The pitch of Amanda's giggles, and the harsh gasps for air she took in between them, made it obvious that she found the "feathering" to be not entirely comfortable. "Please stop, Mr. Olford," she begged, squirming in that fetching manner between peals of laughter. "This is so awful, it's like what those women did to me!"
"Well, perhaps you should think of the consequences before you go about raising a ruckus," he said without a lick of sympathy as he plied the feather again on her inner thighs, then ran it downwards until he was tickling the hollow of her knee. When he moved southwards again, toward her small bare foot, the first true look of horror appeared on her face, and she pleaded, "Oh, not there! Anywhere but there!"
It was the wrong thing to say. Neville's eyes flashed -- he'd found her most sensitive spot.
"Mr. Hunter," he said, reaching over to the box once again and picking up another, identical feather, "unfortunately I can only tickle one of Amanda's pretty little feet at a time, given the spread of her lovely legs. Would you be so kind as to take care of her right foot while I minister to her left?"
"Oh, no!" Amanda moaned, her toes curling downward in anticipation of the imminent feathery assault her on pink soles.
"Certainly," I said, and took the feather from him.
On closer examination, I noted, as I hadn't before, that the usually barefoot Amanda had undergone a pedicure, such that the soles of her feet had been smoothed of calluses, leaving them soft, pink, and utterly defenseless against titillation by fingers or feathers.
I had never tickled a girl's feet before, and I found myself enchanted by how she screamed and squirmed as Neville and I each drew our plumes up and down those sensitive surfaces, occasionally stroking her toes and the vulnerable hollows between. She shrieked with demented laughter and pleaded desperately for mercy. But, following the knowing tilt of Neville's head, I saw how stiff the nipples on her bobbing breasts had become, and how her cunny, whose lips now pouted much further apart than when we had entered the library, was glistening with her love-juices.
After several minutes of this, Neville desisted and gestured for me to do the same. As Amanda panted, catching her breath, he brought her interrogation to a higher, more refined level of cruelty.
"And I'll wager they tickled your ****, too. Did they not, Amanda?"
Closing her eyes with shame, she murmered, "Yes, sir, they did."
I believe it was no coincidence that this was the moment Ilsa chose to enter the library. The statuesque housekeeper took but one look at the bare, disheveled, and frankly aroused maiden strapped to the couch, then at the feathers in our hands, before a cruel smile enveloped her chiseled face.
"Ilsa," Olford said, "Amanda desperately needs her sex tickled. Mr. Hunter and I would be so grateful if you would oblige."
Ilsa merely accepted a third instrument of ticklish torture from the hinged box and walked over to Amanda, the heels of her shoes clicking with ominous determination on the wooden library floor. For a moment, there was no sound but Amanda's apprehensive breathing as the Teutonic housekeeper held the plume threateningly over the girl's quivering mound.
Neville gave Ilsa a brief recount of Amanda's adventures in the woods. The housekeeper smirked and said scornfully, "Ah, yes, I am acquainted with those ladies. I believe such women are called 'Sapphists,' are they not? Yes, and they seem to take immense pleasure in toying with insatiable little sluts, like the one staked out here. And I have no doubt that she teased those women into making a pleasure-toy out of her."
"It's not true!" Amanda whined piteously. "They were bigger and stronger than me, and they tied me down..."
But Ilsa's smile of scorn merely broadened as she slowly lowered the feather and began to flick it over that smoothly-shaven delta, making Amanda wriggle and giggle anew. After maybe a minute or two of teasing the girl's bare pubis, she began tracing the plump outer lips of Amanda's sex with the feather; and, soon after that, the soft, wet, and fleshy inner slit.
Amanda continued to twist in her bonds in a manner suggesting no control over her movements or, more likely, no care for how wanton they made her seem. But the sounds she emitted had changed. No longer did she laugh or plead; she now moaned softly but with growing urgency as Ilsa titillated the pulsating center of her body.
Ilsa's evil rictus grew positively demonic as, with her long-nailed fingers, she parted the upper juncture of Amanda's labia to expose the trembling nub of the clitoris, which jutted out in shameless supplication. With fine, practiced movements, she stroked this defenseless pearl of flesh with the feather's very tip, completing the girl's degradation before our eyes.
The moment her clitoris was touched, Amanda's entire body went rigid for perhaps two seconds. Then she began to tremble, then, again, to writhe. Her eyes were closed and her moans were ever more high-pitched and desperate, and I could see a small pool of her wetness trickling down from her tormented crevice onto the leather surface of the couch.
"And I will further conjecture," the sadistic housekeeper hissed, "that those two women made liberal use of the **** I'm taking the feather to now."
"Is that true, Amanda?" Olford demanded. "Tell us, or perhaps you would like Ilsa to use a riding whip instead of a feather on that hungry little sex of yours?"
The threat was unnecessary; the girl was so far gone in her ecstasy that she spilled the entire tale with a lack of concern as if she were merely talking in her sleep.
"Yes," she groaned, arching her back as if to give herself entirely to the feather, "yes, they did. They rubbed it and tickled it, and they thrust their fingers inside it. Then they kissed it, and licked it, and even stuck their tongues into me. They made me faint!"
Ilsa's cruel laugh rang throughout the library. "Made her faint, did they? If so, only because they drove her into orgasm. A slut like this girl isn't particular about who or what makes her peak."
Suddenly Neville moved back to Amanda's left foot, and motioned to me to do the same. Struck by the brilliance of his idea, I followed his lead in reapplying the ticklish plume to her soft, sensitive sole.
"Oh, NOOOOOOO!!!! STOP!!!" Amanda screamed, but her renewed pleas didn't last long: Ilsa's cruelly refined ministrations had kept her on the verge of climax for several minutes, but the pleasurable feathering of her cunny, combined with the rather more excruciating feathering of each foot, drove her right over the edge of ecstasy. The three of us continued to flick our feathertips over her most sensitive regions as she bucked and cried out repeatedly, then her body slumped motionless to the couch.
Neville dismissed Ilsa and began to chat with me about mundane matters, as if Amanda were not even in the library, let alone her post-orgasmic moans and murmurs punctuating his words. As we conversed, I looked over my shoulder and noticed her still trembling slightly in her bonds, her vulva contracting and expanding in the aftermath of her ordeal.
But Olford wasn't quite done with the charming captive. After we'd chatted for perhaps five minutes, he returned to Amanda's side and drew an inquisitive fingertip up her exposed and still-dripping cleft. The girl groaned and jutted herself upwards again, obviously in want of further relief.
"It seems she's in need of a bit more gratification," Neville said to me. "Would you be so good as to give us a bit of privacy?"
But he had already taken his swollen member out of his trousers and begun to mount her before I was completely out the library door. The last I saw of her, she was arching toward him once more, seeking to be filled.
I mention this incident, Bertrand, because, as I noted earlier, I think this would be a most instructive punishment for some of our students. The shame per se would be the largest part of the chastising experience — being feathered while naked, bound, and spread out wide could effectively humble Rosewood girls in need of humbling but not of flogging, perhaps so much that they need not ever taste the whip in the future. I suggest we consider putting feathering on our docket of punishments for the next term.
