The-Tickling-Master
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Hi! I'm a tickling writer trying to turn pro and maybe pay the bills with that.
If you like my work, my commissions are currently open. I am also setting up a Patreon you might find interesting.
Without more delay - here's today's story 🙂
-----------------
When you woke up from what should have been an eternal slumber, you were not as confused as one would imagine. You could feel a calling in your very essence. The guidance of Grace.
Tarnished as you were, you arose, ready to fulfill the unexplainable calling. Ready to become Elden Lord, and fix a world that was even more broken than when you first departed uncountable moons ago. You rose out of the catacombs, and even managed to best the horrifying beast of many limbs that guarded it’s exit. You were always the finest warrior of your region, after all.
And yet, as you stepped foot into Limgrave and felt the breeze like you haven’t in so long, you were welcome by a most intriguing figure. His words seemed untrustworthy… And yet, he communicated one truth you could not deny.
You were maidenless. And without a Maiden to convert Runes into strength, your chances of fulfilling your quest were nil. You would die, over and over, until you cursed your immortality and lost your mind in the frustration. There must be a better way…
And so, the shady figure – Varre – informed you that there was. The Finger Maidens were almost mythological on this day and age, but there was one still roaming the land. One that was without a Master, and thus able to set up an Accord. One that galloped on a spectral steed, looking for someone capable of helping her fulfill her mission.
And so, you set forth on your journey, facing terrible dangers on your way. Relying more on stealth than strength, evading whatever fights you could avoid. You trekked far further than one of your runeless skills should be capable of. And, finally, you cornered her. You captured her. And you had her chained at the bottom of a random abandoned dungeon. Standing upright, with her arms spread at an angle to each side, chained to the walls; her robes untangled to expose a chest that would make any noble swoon and lust. You were not above such feelings, and you had a knack she would have refused if you merely asked nicely. But you were in no position to be refused. You didn’t have that luxury, if you were to fulfil the itch that tormented your soul.
You would make her your Maiden. Her wishes were irrelevant on the matter.
But, as she stared back at you in dignified anger, you knew you’d have to convince her. Those were not the eyes of one who was willing to beg or plead. And that was quite alright. For, before you rose as Tarnished, you had a peculiar occupation in your old life. You were a fine warrior, sure, for fighting ran in your blood… But your life’s purpose was as a torturer and interrogator. And you were master of a particular method, usually reserved for the nobility for it left no permanent harm.
Her defiant stare vacillated ever so slightly when you withdrew a feather from your pouch of utilities. She recomposed herself quickly – but you’ve seen that type of expression often enough to catch the brief moment of hesitation. It told you everything you needed to know: That she was ticklish, and that she knew it would be torturous to withstand it. Which meant he knew he had already won. Everything until now and her servitude would be a hell of her own making.
The feather started flicking on her exposed breasts, lazily tracing patterns on the mounds. You watch her twitch and turn in place, trying her best – and failing spectacularly – at suppressing soft moans and huffing sounds. She was a woman of great dignity, that much was clear; dignity that was quickly being stripped away in this predicament, along with, well, her garments. With all her shaking and twisting, her open robes had slid further down her arms, baring her shoulder alongside her chest, and now they dangerously tethered on the precipice of falling down entirely. You certainly were… at least somewhat interested in that.
But you forced yourself to keep your focus. You had a mission. And this was nothing but foreplay. Slowly, you bring the feather further to the right, further into the sides of her breasts and under it; her sounds grow more desperate as you start to brush the triple nexus that connects breast, rib and armpit; her squirms grow in intensity. You smirk, and make a mental note of the target.
The feather travels upward then; armpit proper, ravaged by the softest of touches. She starts pulling against her chains, despite the light stimuli. You make a note of that too – seems that is her major weakness. Your other hand keeps playing with her breasts lazily, merely to strike at her psyche and dignity.
Then it’s time to bring it down; down her sternum, right between her breasts, which makes her shudder once more, until the giggles and huffs restart as you start feathering her navel and lower sides. Always evaluating. Always studying.
You finally finished your tour through her body; she could merely glare at you as she tried to catch up her breath and her strength. It was evident that she understood that she was in trouble. She caught up quickly that tickling was not child’s play, and this torture method would be very real, and very effective on her, if allowed to continue. And yet, her glare showed nothing but raw defiance; the notion that, somehow, she’d pull through, she’d endure – and she’d outlast you.
You merely smirked back. You were so eager to prove her wrong.
“It can stop at any time. You just need to accept the Accord.” You say.
“Mine Accord is to be struck with one that can become the Elden Lord. It is plain by your character that thou art not one such.” She spat back, and you laughed. Very well. Have it your way, miss.
You pulled off the excuse of a rag that was so pathetically clung to her body after all the twitching she had done, finally revealing her torso and bosom in all its glory; Melina’s cheeks flushed profusely, and you came to realize that the term Maiden was no exaggeration. Oh, poor thing. Perhaps that, too, was something you could fix in her, in time.
But today, that was a weakness to exploit. You pinched her nipples lightly, making her squirm uncomfortably in the deterioration of her modesty. Then, slowly, you start to slide your hands to the sides, dragging the palm over her breasts. Feeling the tender skin, the little Goosebumps forming in her flesh. She left out pathetic little whimpers, simultaneously protesting and needy. She tried looking away, the sight of your smirk more than what she could bear under that state. Finally, your fingers started skittering at the flesh covering the flanks of her mounds, and the huffing sounds started getting more desperate, as the pleasurable sensations started to mix with the tormenting, ticklish stimuli, bringing the poor, touch-starved girl into madness.
Still, she tried to resist. Gods above, she tried her best. She looked fixedly at the ground, pressing her lips together in an effort to hold out the laughter. Her face started getting redder and redder, both out of shame and out of effort. Your smirk widened, as you knew the fruitlessness of that effort. You merely pressed her further, fingers picking up speed, digging ever so slightly deeper into the flesh. She cracked in under a minute; finally expelling a huff through her nose that turned into a long, pained giggle – and, after that, the laughter rolled in more and more, until she was cackling properly, finally.
“Isn’t it much easier to just laugh?” You ask, as your fingers start spreading further and further to the sides, palm leaving her nipples to focus all your efforts solely on the torture by scratching her hollows once more, this time with the fingers. The result in her weakened willpower is explosive and immediate.
“NOHOHOHOH!!!” She finally raised her eyes to you; eyes full of anger, but anger that is starting to be repressed due to fear. She is starting to understand opposing you might be useless. You know the next step: Slowly, the anger and defiance start turning into pleas for mercy, hoping to grasp into something human and empathetic on the captor. Thankfully, you are well-trained to either harness that hope into something useful… or snuff it out. You wonder what approach would be more fun.
“Please what?” You taunt, and she looks away once more; seems she isn’t at the point of abandoning her pride fully yet. No problem. You’d guide her there.
Her armpits seem to be her most sensitive spot from all you’ve gathered, but this doesn’t mean the rest of her isn’t incredibly ticklish as well. Besides, variety is the spice of life. A good torturer doesn’t cling to the same spot for more than a few minutes, or he risks desensitizing the target for a while. With that in mind, your fingers start traveling downwards, digging into each individual rib with deliberate care and attention. You pressed your fingers against a rib on each side, and then vibrated your hands quickly while maintaining the contact; a technique you learned on your training and that always has devastating effects. Melina howled like a banshee, pulling fiercely against her chains. Following her body as she tried to jump away was a bit challenging, but you had the practice, and she got no reprieve no matter what side she bounced to. As you switched to each rib, you waited for a few seconds, watching in amusement as she stared at you with fearful eyes, wondering if the next second was the one that would restart the hellish touching, wondering if maybe she could convince you to not with a pleading glance. Every single time, her hopes were dashed, and the moments waiting on edge made the eventual fall even more devastating.
As you reached her last set of lower ribs, your hands converged once more, skittering fingers meeting around her bellybutton; her laughter got a more shivering, less desperate tone, but that was until you dug one hand into her bellybutton; as you did, she flopped like a fish once more, screaming. It was not so much ticklishness, you could tell - it was just a weird, unpleasant feeling that threw her mind for a loop. Still – any discomfort was useful in the effort to forcefully change a Maiden’s mind.
Speaking of discomfort, and Maidenhood, you decided it was time to assault her on that angle once more. She did have some pretty beautiful legs, now exposed by the open robes… you adopt a different approach. You start slow once more, just ever so lightly dragging your fingers through the pair of thighs, more of a tease than a torment; she started protesting almost immediately, each word with less intent and a lower tone than the previous. You even tease her crotch, exactly once, making her let out a soft moan – and then you strike, unleashing a ticklish assault on her legs all of a sudden, quickly ramping up and overloading her mental defenses. The effect was beautiful, a strong hint of frustration mixing in with the desperate nature of the laughter this time around. You squeezed her inner thighs, stimulating the deeper muscles, but causing no pain – although you bet she’d prefer a more painful treatment, at this point, over this.
“FUHUHUHUHCKCK YOHOHOHUU!!!” She screamed, her frustration boiling over into rage.
“This can stop at any moment.” You say. “You simply have to strike an accord with me.” As you say that, your hands quickly shift, digging into her armpits once more; her laughter increases many octaves, caught by surprise by the ramping up once more. Slowly, you start to increase the pace of your fingers, tickling more, harder, faster. For therein lied the secret to the art of tickling torture: Finding a way to make the next second worse than the previous, and making the target getting worried about how bad it could possibly get, until the fear of the next second overcame their desire to not comply.
You checked her eyes. You could see in her eyes the conflicting expression that often preceded the end: A conflict that she hated herself for feeling, and maybe even tried to deny to herself, but absolutely could not hide from you. At least for a flash of an instance, the idea of giving up crossed her mind, even if, at the end, she decided to just spit at you once more. It only made your smirk widen. Now that the seed of compliance was planted, you just needed to nurture it with torment and water it with her tears until it finally blossomed into your triumph.
You dug your hands deeper still, making her jump in place as if being electrocuted by a strong current. Punishing her for the insolence, not because you were particularly bothered, but because you needed to make the lesson stick.
This time, you kept going for a much longer stretch of time, assaulting her overly-sensitive armpits. You started noticing as her furious glances turned into confused glances as the minutes piled in; you had gotten her used to switching spots every few minutes, and as this particularly torturous assault stretched and stretched, confusion started turning into fear. What if you never stopped? Soon, she learned that desensitization can only help so long when your weakest spot is being attacked so relentlessly, by hands so skillful. Like a shark smelling blood, you continued, for many moments still.
More than that, you stopped acknowledging her much. No teasing smirk, no evaluating glances. You just tickled and let her lose her mind. Her glances to you became more and more prominent; a subconscious attempt to get your attention. Humans have a need for communication, and that need can be harnessed when in distress.
“STOHOHOHOPP!!! PLEHEHEHAHAHAHSSEHEHEH!!” She finally screamed, unable to just laugh by her lonesome anymore.
“Ready to be my Maiden?” You ask, coldly. The teasing and playfulness of your methods were gone; you wanted her to know she was in the deep end now.
“I CHAHAHANTT!! NOHOHOH NOHOHOT THEHEHREE NOHOHOH MOREHEHEHEHE!!!” She pleaded. You suppress your smirk for the sake of your methods, but the feeling of triumph was still sweet. For a girl like her, the barrier of pride was the hardest to break. Everything moving forward was just a matter of time.
She could make it end at any time – but if she wished to suffer more, you’d be happy to oblige.
Her eyes still had a degree of resistance in them. Reluctant – perhaps even regretful – but still present. Smirking at the sight, you snapped your fingers; focusing your sorcery, you conjured a few translucent blue hands floating in the air. It was sorcery of the Glintstone line, but geared to your particular needs. They wouldn’t fare well in combat, for the energy was used for dexterity rather than strength – very fine dexterity.
At the sight of the multiple hands forming, Melina’s eyes widened, and the resistant glint was almost instantly snuffed out. You two have been at it for long enough for her mind to immediately connect the new appendages to what their immediate uses would be; to fantasize all the horrible things about to happen, conjuring worse and worse ideas in her mind. From the volume of her screams, however, it seems you may have managed to surpass her own creativity – something that, naturally, brought you quite a bit of pride.
One hand went on each armpit, of course. Three went to explore her midsection, goosing sides and teasing navel; an entire four were dedicated to her breasts, two holding them in place while two teased the nipples, making her shiver and moan amidst the laughter; and, finally, you stepped forward yourself, dragging your digits through her legs to wrap up the torment.
The girl was flopping like a fish against her restraints now, but the multiple floating hands could add some pressure towards keeping her in place by pushing against her body with their unflinching, magical strength, on top of bringing torment to her with their fingers. On top of that, whatever direction she bounced into, she was just met with hands eager to tickle her, making any hopes of relief or reprieve completely useless.
The buckling slowly gave room to screaming and mad laughter, which soon became pleading and begging. Finally, the mental desperation caught up to the physical exhaustion.
“IHIHIHIHIT’S TOHOHOHOH MUHUHUHUCCHCHCH!!” She screamed, and you merely laughed at her; you could see the hurt in her eyes in result to that response. It seems it was not what she was expecting – and that, too, was by design. You kept a much more stoic figure throughout the whole ordeal to hone in the cruelty in this ending stretch, adding an extra layer of assault on her mind.
“I gave you all the opportunities you could ask for to make it stop. You have no one to blame but yourself.” You said simply, as you continue stroking her thighs, and the multitude of hands continued destroying her body with soft touches and prodding fingers.
You lifted your gaze to meet hers, and saw the conflicting feelings arising from your words. She could recognize that you were’t wrong; that her pride and resistance led to the intolerable conditions she was currently experiencing. That she did have the power to end this torture.
“IHIHIHIHLL DOHOHOHO IHIHITTT!” She sfreams, finally. Once again, you just laugh – which makes her eyes widen.
“The time for that is past.” You say, coldly. “You had the chance to make it end already. You rejected it. You’ll have another, in due time. In my time. I suggest you don’t be as foolish then as you were so far.”
Tears ran down her face as you said that, and she shook her head in denial. Over and over, she kept repeating she’d do it, she’d be your Maiden. Your cruelty, as always, had a point. It wasn’t done merely for the enjoyment of tormenting the pretty lady – although you won’t deny some degree of that, either. But, no – the main point is to reinforce the lesson. You had pushed her to her breaking point, sure. You were certain she’d absolutely sign the Accord to make the torture stop. But, since you embarked on this route to get her cooperation, you knew that any chances of getting her loyalty through love and care were completely off the window. She’d sign the accord, but performing it well and ensuring you wouldn’t be betrayed needed an extra care.
If getting her loyalty through love was going to be impossible, you were left with only one tool. Achieving it through fear. And for fear to take root, enough for you to weild it like a tool, then simply bringing her to the breaking point wasn’t enough. You needed to push her past it. You needed to inflict a mental scar so profound that thoughts of betrayal would never cross her mind, for she would nor dare to risk going through the punishing ordeal again.
And that, all that, you meticulously explained to her.
“And this is why…” You said, with a sadistic smirk. “We’re going to keep this going for the next hour. Then we will sign our Accord – and your training will begin.” You said, simply, as her eyes full of disbelief faced back at you.
“Please… I promise…” She whimpered, catching her breath in the very brief pause you gave her.
“I know you’re willing to promise anything. But I need to be able to trust your promises. And that will take some time… and much suffering.” You said, snapping your fingers to make the hands strike back; the girl immediately roared in laughter and pleas once more. “But don’t worry. I know it feels like you can’t take it, but I assure you that you can. No permanent harm will be done to your body, and you will be capable of serving as Maiden just as well…” You say. “I look forward to developing a long, fruitful relationship, my Maiden.”
She said nothing. She could say nothing. She could only laugh, cry, and curse her previous resistance. Curse herself. Hate herself, for bringing her to such a situation. That self-hatred would be a powerful tool to mold her in what you needed her to be.
You looked forward to the next days. Perhaps, once you took the throne of Elder Lord, Melina would make an excellent feature of your palace – as the royal tickling concubine.
If you like my work, my commissions are currently open. I am also setting up a Patreon you might find interesting.
Without more delay - here's today's story 🙂
-----------------
When you woke up from what should have been an eternal slumber, you were not as confused as one would imagine. You could feel a calling in your very essence. The guidance of Grace.
Tarnished as you were, you arose, ready to fulfill the unexplainable calling. Ready to become Elden Lord, and fix a world that was even more broken than when you first departed uncountable moons ago. You rose out of the catacombs, and even managed to best the horrifying beast of many limbs that guarded it’s exit. You were always the finest warrior of your region, after all.
And yet, as you stepped foot into Limgrave and felt the breeze like you haven’t in so long, you were welcome by a most intriguing figure. His words seemed untrustworthy… And yet, he communicated one truth you could not deny.
You were maidenless. And without a Maiden to convert Runes into strength, your chances of fulfilling your quest were nil. You would die, over and over, until you cursed your immortality and lost your mind in the frustration. There must be a better way…
And so, the shady figure – Varre – informed you that there was. The Finger Maidens were almost mythological on this day and age, but there was one still roaming the land. One that was without a Master, and thus able to set up an Accord. One that galloped on a spectral steed, looking for someone capable of helping her fulfill her mission.
And so, you set forth on your journey, facing terrible dangers on your way. Relying more on stealth than strength, evading whatever fights you could avoid. You trekked far further than one of your runeless skills should be capable of. And, finally, you cornered her. You captured her. And you had her chained at the bottom of a random abandoned dungeon. Standing upright, with her arms spread at an angle to each side, chained to the walls; her robes untangled to expose a chest that would make any noble swoon and lust. You were not above such feelings, and you had a knack she would have refused if you merely asked nicely. But you were in no position to be refused. You didn’t have that luxury, if you were to fulfil the itch that tormented your soul.
You would make her your Maiden. Her wishes were irrelevant on the matter.
But, as she stared back at you in dignified anger, you knew you’d have to convince her. Those were not the eyes of one who was willing to beg or plead. And that was quite alright. For, before you rose as Tarnished, you had a peculiar occupation in your old life. You were a fine warrior, sure, for fighting ran in your blood… But your life’s purpose was as a torturer and interrogator. And you were master of a particular method, usually reserved for the nobility for it left no permanent harm.
Her defiant stare vacillated ever so slightly when you withdrew a feather from your pouch of utilities. She recomposed herself quickly – but you’ve seen that type of expression often enough to catch the brief moment of hesitation. It told you everything you needed to know: That she was ticklish, and that she knew it would be torturous to withstand it. Which meant he knew he had already won. Everything until now and her servitude would be a hell of her own making.
The feather started flicking on her exposed breasts, lazily tracing patterns on the mounds. You watch her twitch and turn in place, trying her best – and failing spectacularly – at suppressing soft moans and huffing sounds. She was a woman of great dignity, that much was clear; dignity that was quickly being stripped away in this predicament, along with, well, her garments. With all her shaking and twisting, her open robes had slid further down her arms, baring her shoulder alongside her chest, and now they dangerously tethered on the precipice of falling down entirely. You certainly were… at least somewhat interested in that.
But you forced yourself to keep your focus. You had a mission. And this was nothing but foreplay. Slowly, you bring the feather further to the right, further into the sides of her breasts and under it; her sounds grow more desperate as you start to brush the triple nexus that connects breast, rib and armpit; her squirms grow in intensity. You smirk, and make a mental note of the target.
The feather travels upward then; armpit proper, ravaged by the softest of touches. She starts pulling against her chains, despite the light stimuli. You make a note of that too – seems that is her major weakness. Your other hand keeps playing with her breasts lazily, merely to strike at her psyche and dignity.
Then it’s time to bring it down; down her sternum, right between her breasts, which makes her shudder once more, until the giggles and huffs restart as you start feathering her navel and lower sides. Always evaluating. Always studying.
You finally finished your tour through her body; she could merely glare at you as she tried to catch up her breath and her strength. It was evident that she understood that she was in trouble. She caught up quickly that tickling was not child’s play, and this torture method would be very real, and very effective on her, if allowed to continue. And yet, her glare showed nothing but raw defiance; the notion that, somehow, she’d pull through, she’d endure – and she’d outlast you.
You merely smirked back. You were so eager to prove her wrong.
“It can stop at any time. You just need to accept the Accord.” You say.
“Mine Accord is to be struck with one that can become the Elden Lord. It is plain by your character that thou art not one such.” She spat back, and you laughed. Very well. Have it your way, miss.
You pulled off the excuse of a rag that was so pathetically clung to her body after all the twitching she had done, finally revealing her torso and bosom in all its glory; Melina’s cheeks flushed profusely, and you came to realize that the term Maiden was no exaggeration. Oh, poor thing. Perhaps that, too, was something you could fix in her, in time.
But today, that was a weakness to exploit. You pinched her nipples lightly, making her squirm uncomfortably in the deterioration of her modesty. Then, slowly, you start to slide your hands to the sides, dragging the palm over her breasts. Feeling the tender skin, the little Goosebumps forming in her flesh. She left out pathetic little whimpers, simultaneously protesting and needy. She tried looking away, the sight of your smirk more than what she could bear under that state. Finally, your fingers started skittering at the flesh covering the flanks of her mounds, and the huffing sounds started getting more desperate, as the pleasurable sensations started to mix with the tormenting, ticklish stimuli, bringing the poor, touch-starved girl into madness.
Still, she tried to resist. Gods above, she tried her best. She looked fixedly at the ground, pressing her lips together in an effort to hold out the laughter. Her face started getting redder and redder, both out of shame and out of effort. Your smirk widened, as you knew the fruitlessness of that effort. You merely pressed her further, fingers picking up speed, digging ever so slightly deeper into the flesh. She cracked in under a minute; finally expelling a huff through her nose that turned into a long, pained giggle – and, after that, the laughter rolled in more and more, until she was cackling properly, finally.
“Isn’t it much easier to just laugh?” You ask, as your fingers start spreading further and further to the sides, palm leaving her nipples to focus all your efforts solely on the torture by scratching her hollows once more, this time with the fingers. The result in her weakened willpower is explosive and immediate.
“NOHOHOHOH!!!” She finally raised her eyes to you; eyes full of anger, but anger that is starting to be repressed due to fear. She is starting to understand opposing you might be useless. You know the next step: Slowly, the anger and defiance start turning into pleas for mercy, hoping to grasp into something human and empathetic on the captor. Thankfully, you are well-trained to either harness that hope into something useful… or snuff it out. You wonder what approach would be more fun.
“Please what?” You taunt, and she looks away once more; seems she isn’t at the point of abandoning her pride fully yet. No problem. You’d guide her there.
Her armpits seem to be her most sensitive spot from all you’ve gathered, but this doesn’t mean the rest of her isn’t incredibly ticklish as well. Besides, variety is the spice of life. A good torturer doesn’t cling to the same spot for more than a few minutes, or he risks desensitizing the target for a while. With that in mind, your fingers start traveling downwards, digging into each individual rib with deliberate care and attention. You pressed your fingers against a rib on each side, and then vibrated your hands quickly while maintaining the contact; a technique you learned on your training and that always has devastating effects. Melina howled like a banshee, pulling fiercely against her chains. Following her body as she tried to jump away was a bit challenging, but you had the practice, and she got no reprieve no matter what side she bounced to. As you switched to each rib, you waited for a few seconds, watching in amusement as she stared at you with fearful eyes, wondering if the next second was the one that would restart the hellish touching, wondering if maybe she could convince you to not with a pleading glance. Every single time, her hopes were dashed, and the moments waiting on edge made the eventual fall even more devastating.
As you reached her last set of lower ribs, your hands converged once more, skittering fingers meeting around her bellybutton; her laughter got a more shivering, less desperate tone, but that was until you dug one hand into her bellybutton; as you did, she flopped like a fish once more, screaming. It was not so much ticklishness, you could tell - it was just a weird, unpleasant feeling that threw her mind for a loop. Still – any discomfort was useful in the effort to forcefully change a Maiden’s mind.
Speaking of discomfort, and Maidenhood, you decided it was time to assault her on that angle once more. She did have some pretty beautiful legs, now exposed by the open robes… you adopt a different approach. You start slow once more, just ever so lightly dragging your fingers through the pair of thighs, more of a tease than a torment; she started protesting almost immediately, each word with less intent and a lower tone than the previous. You even tease her crotch, exactly once, making her let out a soft moan – and then you strike, unleashing a ticklish assault on her legs all of a sudden, quickly ramping up and overloading her mental defenses. The effect was beautiful, a strong hint of frustration mixing in with the desperate nature of the laughter this time around. You squeezed her inner thighs, stimulating the deeper muscles, but causing no pain – although you bet she’d prefer a more painful treatment, at this point, over this.
“FUHUHUHUHCKCK YOHOHOHUU!!!” She screamed, her frustration boiling over into rage.
“This can stop at any moment.” You say. “You simply have to strike an accord with me.” As you say that, your hands quickly shift, digging into her armpits once more; her laughter increases many octaves, caught by surprise by the ramping up once more. Slowly, you start to increase the pace of your fingers, tickling more, harder, faster. For therein lied the secret to the art of tickling torture: Finding a way to make the next second worse than the previous, and making the target getting worried about how bad it could possibly get, until the fear of the next second overcame their desire to not comply.
You checked her eyes. You could see in her eyes the conflicting expression that often preceded the end: A conflict that she hated herself for feeling, and maybe even tried to deny to herself, but absolutely could not hide from you. At least for a flash of an instance, the idea of giving up crossed her mind, even if, at the end, she decided to just spit at you once more. It only made your smirk widen. Now that the seed of compliance was planted, you just needed to nurture it with torment and water it with her tears until it finally blossomed into your triumph.
You dug your hands deeper still, making her jump in place as if being electrocuted by a strong current. Punishing her for the insolence, not because you were particularly bothered, but because you needed to make the lesson stick.
This time, you kept going for a much longer stretch of time, assaulting her overly-sensitive armpits. You started noticing as her furious glances turned into confused glances as the minutes piled in; you had gotten her used to switching spots every few minutes, and as this particularly torturous assault stretched and stretched, confusion started turning into fear. What if you never stopped? Soon, she learned that desensitization can only help so long when your weakest spot is being attacked so relentlessly, by hands so skillful. Like a shark smelling blood, you continued, for many moments still.
More than that, you stopped acknowledging her much. No teasing smirk, no evaluating glances. You just tickled and let her lose her mind. Her glances to you became more and more prominent; a subconscious attempt to get your attention. Humans have a need for communication, and that need can be harnessed when in distress.
“STOHOHOHOPP!!! PLEHEHEHAHAHAHSSEHEHEH!!” She finally screamed, unable to just laugh by her lonesome anymore.
“Ready to be my Maiden?” You ask, coldly. The teasing and playfulness of your methods were gone; you wanted her to know she was in the deep end now.
“I CHAHAHANTT!! NOHOHOH NOHOHOT THEHEHREE NOHOHOH MOREHEHEHEHE!!!” She pleaded. You suppress your smirk for the sake of your methods, but the feeling of triumph was still sweet. For a girl like her, the barrier of pride was the hardest to break. Everything moving forward was just a matter of time.
She could make it end at any time – but if she wished to suffer more, you’d be happy to oblige.
Her eyes still had a degree of resistance in them. Reluctant – perhaps even regretful – but still present. Smirking at the sight, you snapped your fingers; focusing your sorcery, you conjured a few translucent blue hands floating in the air. It was sorcery of the Glintstone line, but geared to your particular needs. They wouldn’t fare well in combat, for the energy was used for dexterity rather than strength – very fine dexterity.
At the sight of the multiple hands forming, Melina’s eyes widened, and the resistant glint was almost instantly snuffed out. You two have been at it for long enough for her mind to immediately connect the new appendages to what their immediate uses would be; to fantasize all the horrible things about to happen, conjuring worse and worse ideas in her mind. From the volume of her screams, however, it seems you may have managed to surpass her own creativity – something that, naturally, brought you quite a bit of pride.
One hand went on each armpit, of course. Three went to explore her midsection, goosing sides and teasing navel; an entire four were dedicated to her breasts, two holding them in place while two teased the nipples, making her shiver and moan amidst the laughter; and, finally, you stepped forward yourself, dragging your digits through her legs to wrap up the torment.
The girl was flopping like a fish against her restraints now, but the multiple floating hands could add some pressure towards keeping her in place by pushing against her body with their unflinching, magical strength, on top of bringing torment to her with their fingers. On top of that, whatever direction she bounced into, she was just met with hands eager to tickle her, making any hopes of relief or reprieve completely useless.
The buckling slowly gave room to screaming and mad laughter, which soon became pleading and begging. Finally, the mental desperation caught up to the physical exhaustion.
“IHIHIHIHIT’S TOHOHOHOH MUHUHUHUCCHCHCH!!” She screamed, and you merely laughed at her; you could see the hurt in her eyes in result to that response. It seems it was not what she was expecting – and that, too, was by design. You kept a much more stoic figure throughout the whole ordeal to hone in the cruelty in this ending stretch, adding an extra layer of assault on her mind.
“I gave you all the opportunities you could ask for to make it stop. You have no one to blame but yourself.” You said simply, as you continue stroking her thighs, and the multitude of hands continued destroying her body with soft touches and prodding fingers.
You lifted your gaze to meet hers, and saw the conflicting feelings arising from your words. She could recognize that you were’t wrong; that her pride and resistance led to the intolerable conditions she was currently experiencing. That she did have the power to end this torture.
“IHIHIHIHLL DOHOHOHO IHIHITTT!” She sfreams, finally. Once again, you just laugh – which makes her eyes widen.
“The time for that is past.” You say, coldly. “You had the chance to make it end already. You rejected it. You’ll have another, in due time. In my time. I suggest you don’t be as foolish then as you were so far.”
Tears ran down her face as you said that, and she shook her head in denial. Over and over, she kept repeating she’d do it, she’d be your Maiden. Your cruelty, as always, had a point. It wasn’t done merely for the enjoyment of tormenting the pretty lady – although you won’t deny some degree of that, either. But, no – the main point is to reinforce the lesson. You had pushed her to her breaking point, sure. You were certain she’d absolutely sign the Accord to make the torture stop. But, since you embarked on this route to get her cooperation, you knew that any chances of getting her loyalty through love and care were completely off the window. She’d sign the accord, but performing it well and ensuring you wouldn’t be betrayed needed an extra care.
If getting her loyalty through love was going to be impossible, you were left with only one tool. Achieving it through fear. And for fear to take root, enough for you to weild it like a tool, then simply bringing her to the breaking point wasn’t enough. You needed to push her past it. You needed to inflict a mental scar so profound that thoughts of betrayal would never cross her mind, for she would nor dare to risk going through the punishing ordeal again.
And that, all that, you meticulously explained to her.
“And this is why…” You said, with a sadistic smirk. “We’re going to keep this going for the next hour. Then we will sign our Accord – and your training will begin.” You said, simply, as her eyes full of disbelief faced back at you.
“Please… I promise…” She whimpered, catching her breath in the very brief pause you gave her.
“I know you’re willing to promise anything. But I need to be able to trust your promises. And that will take some time… and much suffering.” You said, snapping your fingers to make the hands strike back; the girl immediately roared in laughter and pleas once more. “But don’t worry. I know it feels like you can’t take it, but I assure you that you can. No permanent harm will be done to your body, and you will be capable of serving as Maiden just as well…” You say. “I look forward to developing a long, fruitful relationship, my Maiden.”
She said nothing. She could say nothing. She could only laugh, cry, and curse her previous resistance. Curse herself. Hate herself, for bringing her to such a situation. That self-hatred would be a powerful tool to mold her in what you needed her to be.
You looked forward to the next days. Perhaps, once you took the throne of Elder Lord, Melina would make an excellent feature of your palace – as the royal tickling concubine.
