Sablesword
TMF Master
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Written in response to a request over at the TMF. A fantasy, because all my stuff is either science fiction or fantasy. And Part 1 because I have plans for Part 2.
[Note: Edited because part 1 got lightly re-written when I wrote part 2]
Kathleen
by Sablesword
Genies are not a unified nation. Like most other peoples, they are divided into tribes and clans; into kingdoms and city-states. Sometimes - often - they will make war upon each other, following the ancient djinn customs in victory and defeat. Thus when the genie city of Danjeer fell to the forces of the Warlord Urkmir ibn Fahri, he had the females of the captured city paraded past his victorious warriors.
Danjeer was a cosmopolitan place, as djinn cities went, and so the females varied from tall to short, from pale sky-blue to deep azure, with the long feminine djinn hair that came in either the lightest shades of white or pale gold, or the darkest shades of green-black, blue-black, and true-black. Today, however, the females of Danjeer were equal in their lack of clothing. They marched bound and nude past their captors, each with her hands tied behind her back and a rope running from her wrists to the neck of the captive who followed her. Thus they walked slowly past their captors, past the tickle-racks set up and waiting to receive them, and past the Warlord Urkmir himself.
The Warlord was huge and bald, his skin a purple so deep that it was almost red. Some said that he dyed his skin to that half-demonic shade with cosmetics or magic. Others whispered that he didn't need to, due to his ancestry. But whatever truth there might be in the whispers, Urkmir was the victor that day, and each female captive was brought briefly to a halt before him. To each captive he spoke three Words before intoning "While this spell lasts you will not speak without permission, nor speak the Words of Power for any spell at all." Then the captive was led away while the next genie woman was brought forward.
Occasionally the Warlord's Words would dissipate a spell that one of the captives attempted to smuggle past him. He would then grin and point, and the unfortunate female would be taken directly to the tickle-racks. In most cases, however, the magically-subdued female would be led to the holding pens. Their turn in the tickle racks would come later that night.
In the end, the captive females would all be sold in scattered markets, disposed of in small lots so as to not bring down their price. In this the Warlord Urkmir showed his streak of ruthless, practical mercy. For while being sold at auction is a tragedy, it is a greater one to be sold cheaply. And furthermore, the sages and prophets agree that a tickle-broken slave woman is of greater value than one beaten into submission by either spells or the whip.
Yet despite Warlord Urkmir's precautionary spell, one of the female captives almost escaped. She slipped out of the holding pens and past the inner guards, but a scout on the perimeter spotted her before she could vanish into the night. With a Word he set a feather-net falling onto her from above, and she fell to the sand, squirming and giggling as the woven feathers wiggled over her naked skin. The scout left her in the net as he took her to his lieutenant, and the lieutenant did likewise as he took her to his captain; and so by the time she was brought before the Warlord, she was well tickled indeed.
Released from the feather-net at last, she stood sweating as four pairs of male eyes appraised her. Her skin, normally a pale blue-green, flushed a deeper green from her exertions, and she looked down at her bare feet from beneath a mop of curly and outlandishly colored hair, hair that was neither djinn-dark or genie-light, but an exotic red-brown, the color of old copper. Yet despite her bowed head she stood very straight, taller and thinner than the average genie woman - almost as tall as the men, with the exception of the Warlord himself. He alone had the height to look down upon her as he listened to the reports of his underlings.
"And who is she, then?" Urkmir asked when the reports came to an end. The captain consulted a scrolled list of the captives.
"She is Kath- Kathleen the Halfbreed." The captain stumbled over her name, but in fairness it was an unusual name for a genie, a sidhe name from her mother's people.
"Fool!" Urkmir shouted, and the captain cowered before him. "Worthless beetle spawned from camel dung! Are you blind? Look at her skin, her eyes, her hair! Only her mother's daughter would have hair like that, and her mother is of the Sidhe of the Far Isles! This one has a Gift, passed from her mother along with the hair; that no spell woven of Words may bind her! So of course she escaped you, you blind offspring of runty swine! Now repair your error. Bring to me the chest of oak, with the sign of the lion branded on the lid."
The chest was brought forth, and Urkmir himself opened it. Kathleen tensed, but the Warlord ordered, casually, "Seize her," and she felt her arms grabbed from behind before she could make her move. Urkmir rummaged within the chest (like most such it was larger on the inside than the outside) and lifted out an iron circle. "This is the Iron Collar of Sisshoth the Horrible," he told Kathleen as he held it before her. "As its spells are woven of metal rather than words, it should serve to silence even you. To silence your words, that is, for you will still laugh long and loud on the tickle-racks tonight." He grinned an ugly grin. "And now, do you have any last words before your collaring?"
"Yes," Kathleen swallowed, and looked up to meet her captor's eyes. "Yes. I like being tickled, so you cannot torment me that way." She smiled thinly into Urkmir's grin as she sensed a valuable oriental vase falling and shattering far away in Urkmir's distant palace. As one of the Sidhe of the Far Isles, her mother had left her not only a Gift, but a Geas as well: If ever Kathleen should admit that the liked to be tickled, her interrogator would lose the price of three gems.
But Urkmir apparently didn't know of her Geas. "Brave last words," he mocked her, and then the collar snapped shut around Kathleen's neck. With the click of the collar's lock, Kathleen found herself unable to speak, and she knew she would remain mute until the collar was removed. Unfortunately, there were only two ways to do that. The first required the lost Iron Key of Sisshoth the Horrible, and the second required personal act of mercy from Sisshoth - who was also known as Sisshoth the Merciless. Again Kathleen looked down at her bare feet. "Take her to the tickle racks," she heard Warlord Urkmir say. "But you stay," he added to the Captain. "We must discuss your failure tonight."
They bound Kathleen's arms to a light pole set over her shoulders, and the scout snuck in a tickle to her sides, earning him a glare from his lieutenant. Then the two of them led Kathleen off, the scout on one side of her and the lieutenant on the other. They walked past a heap of bottles, on the way to the racks, and Kathleen shivered. Each bottle was sealed with the Seal of Suliman. It was true then, Kathleen thought, the Warlord Urkmir did consort with humans. Human sorcerers and shamans could cast the dark spells of summoning and binding, and were often callously cruel to the djinn and other spirits who were their victims. But on the other hand this could be taken as another example of Urkmir's hardheaded mercy. Genie warriors are hard to kill, unless they are beheaded, and beheading was the usual fate of those who fell wounded in battle. Urkmir, however, had spared the lives of his fallen foes. They would heal their wounds while trapped in their brass bottles, and then they would be sold to enrich the warlord's treasury. Such was his mercy, if mercy it was, for there were also stories of his deep cruelty to those enemies who refused to submit, and to underlings who had failed him.
Now Kathleen and her captors came to the tickle-racks, and began to make their way slowly through them. Each of the wooden devices held a genie woman who giggled and squirmed, unable to escape, as the Warlord's warriors applied feathers and fingers, and bits of silk and fleece to bare and vulnerable skin. Other warriors moved about them with red armbands, badges that forbade them from participating in the tickling itself, but that also authorized them to arrest any of their fellows who went beyond tickling into the more brutal torments. Here again, the Warlord's hardheaded mercy was visible: The women were ultimately loot, and damaging them would reduce the wealth they would bring to his army's coffers.
They walked by the tickle-rack holding the lady Alhena, formerly known to the denizens of Danjeer as Alhena the Arrogant. She howled with laughter as two warriors each took hold of one of her feet, and raked their fingers across bare soles of the softest and palest blue. "You may speak now, if you wish to beg," one of them told her.
"Pleeese!" Alhena burst out, temporarily released from the grip of the spell that the Warlord had placed upon her. "Hahahahahahee ah heehahaha! I can't hehahahee ha can't stand it hahahaheehahaha! Pleeeheeheehahaheeese!"
"She'll soon be ready," one of the tickler's commented, and the other nodded.
"Heehahahahee please heeheehee hahaha oh pleeeeese heeheeheeheehee!"
The tickling paused. "Will you submit to Torquemanda's Shield?" the second tickler asked.
"No! Never!" Alhena gasped. "I will never submit!" The tickling resumed. "Hahahahahee ah haha yes! Stop hahahahahahee! Please! Hahahahahee I've ah heehahaha I've changed my mind! Pleeese yes please heehahaha!"
The tickling paused once more. "Will you submit to Torquemanda's Shield?" the second tickler repeated.
"Yes! Yes! Yes!"
"Very well." The second tickler spoke a Word and gestured to shape the spell, named after the infamous human wizard who had invented it. Then the tickling resumed. But this time Alhena did not beg, not when the first djinn raked his fingers across both of Alhena's bare soles, one hand on each foot. And not while second lightly tickled her exposed belly with a small feather-fan. Thus was the power of Torquemanda's Shield: It transformed the most agonizing tickle-torment into a blissful pleasure - at the price of the victim's submission. By accepting the spell, Kathleen knew, Alhena had also accepted her fate as a tickle-slave of Warlord Urkmir's victorious army.
As the two underlings led Kathleen away from this scene, the scout who had captured her commented, "Soon you will be laughing too, half breed. Would that I could stay for that!"
"You still have the duty, this night. As do I," the lieutenant added wistfully.
"Yes, Sir, I know," the scout answered. "Still: Would that it were otherwise!"
They came to an empty rack near the edge of the group. "This one," the lieutenant decided, and the two warriors strapped Kathleen into place. As they finished binding her, the Warlord Urkmir came up with a human in tow. There was no sign of the captain, and the djinn lieutenant and scout both shrank slightly away from the man. A Turkic sorcerer, Kathleen guessed, from his face and the cut of his beard, for all that he was dressed in the commonplace silks of a djinn. Then she squirmed, embarrassed, as four pairs of male eyes once more took in her nude body.
"This is Bemal Son of Bemal," Warlord Urkmir told Kathleen. "He will prove your last words to be a lie." He handed the human a small purse. "Here is your reward for making this Kathleen fear the feather."
The human spoke in a light and melodious voice: "I will try, Great Lord. However I will not make a promise that I cannot be certain of keeping. The One Above All can always succeed, but a lesser being such as myself can only try his best."
"Do so, then," the Warlord scowled. He turned to the lieutenant and his scout, and the scowl became a beaming smile. "You did well to capture the half-breed. I release you from your duty this night." He made a shooing gesture. "Go. Enjoy yourselves."
"Thank you, Great Lord!" the Lieutenant grinned, bowing. The scout matched his bow, and then the two djinn warriors left quickly, followed more sedately by their Warlord.
Kathleen squirmed again, as best she could while strapped to the rack. She felt herself flush under the calm appraising gaze of the human sorcerer. "We will learn tonight just how much you like to be tickled," he told her. "But first..." He adjusted the straps holding her in place, making her lie on her side. Her wrists were bound before her, and held away from her body so that she couldn't touch herself. Her ankles were strapped down so that the toes of her left foot were just a palmspan behind the heel of her right, and the toes of both feet were then fixed in place, bound to a pair of vertical posts set into the rack. Bemal then wrapped her with a sheet of silk, slippery slick against her skin like ice made comfortably warm. He fastened it in place with a cord around her waist, and then brought the ends between her legs, tying them just snugly enough to make her aware of her tender female place.
Kathleen watched as Bemal then selected a wing-feather from a crane, then looked down again as he came forward to brush a strand of her dark curled hair from her face. Only her head and feet were exposed now, and she looked up again to watch as he moved back around. She watched him select a stool, the soft sound of its placement blanketed by the forced laughter of the other captives. She saw him sit, and looked down again when he looked up at her. Then she felt the tip of the feather touch her vulnerable left sole.
It touched lightly, and then, unhurried, another short soft stroke touched nearby. This was followed, without pausing but without hurrying, by the feather tip making a lazy and meandering path down the sole of Kathleen's right foot. An arc across the instep of her left sole, just below the ball of the foot, that made Kathleen giggle and squirm.
She could giggle, Kathleen realized. The spells on the collar locked around her neck were woven of iron, and like the iron bars of a cage they held in her every attempt to speak. But her giggles and laughter could slip through the bars, even if she was a captive.
A sudden awareness of her captivity washed over Kathleen. She could see her wrists bound before her, the ends of the cords tied to the tickle-rack to hold them in place. She could feel the slick silk covering her body, and the cord around her waist and between her legs. She could feel the straps holding her ankles, keeping her feet apart in a way that prevented either of them from even trying to protect the other, even if her toes were free, and she could feel the thongs holding her toes to the two vertical posts that had been set in the rack. She could feel the night air on her helpless soles. And she could feel the soft feather tip that touched and stroked them.
It wasn't the vigorous tickling that the other captured genie women received - or that Kathleen herself had enjoyed in a happier past. Not the sort of tickling that made laughter gush out like water from a fountain, and caused the subject to struggle in mad, helpless efforts to evade it. This tickling was gentle, soft, constant. The human sorcerer sometimes applied brief touches, and sometimes long slow strokes, but he neither increased nor decreased the tempo from its languorous pace.
Kathleen giggled. The lazy tickling shouldn't have been enough to force giggles from her, but it was. At least after it had been going on for... a long time. Kathleen didn't know for how long. Long enough to make her giggle. And squirm. Kathleen felt the silk on her body as she squirmed, felt the cord tied tight between her legs, but these weren't enough to distract her from the slow tickling that the wicked human continued to apply to her soles. Her vulnerable soles, touched with the tip of a crane's wing-feather. Touched wherever the human sorcerer pleased, on her insteps or the base of her toes or the balls of her feet or her heels.
There was nothing Kathleen could do about it. She could giggle and squirm, but that only revealed her helplessness to all the world. The straps on her body, on her wrists and ankles held her to the rack, and her struggles would not bring her closer to freedom by even the width of a grain of sand. The collar on her neck stopped her from producing even the pleadings of a slavegirl, much less the Words needed for spells. The thongs on her toes held her bare soles to receive the kiss of the feather's tip, the lazy tickling that went on and on and on. Long strokes down the length of her right foot, then her left. Short arcs across her instep. Brief touches at the base of her toes. Spirals on her heels, and then on the balls of her feet. First on one foot, and then on the other. Not quick, not fierce, but the slow and steady pace of a tickling caravan on a long long journey.
Kathleen felt herself grow drowsy. Too drowsy to squirm, despite the continued gentle tickling of her feet. Her giggles became giggling whimpers, and her eyes closed.
Kathleen's ankles were now locked in stocks of crystal glass, and she faced a mirrored wall. Her bare soles, in the mirror, seemed to be two cubits long. Music played, and red feathers danced to the stately piping. Danced over Kathleen's bare soles, tickling them. Tickling them as if they were the most important thing in the world. Kathleen laughed. Her feet felt like they were the most ticklish things in the world, and watching the feather's dance made her feet feel even more ticklish. She could see her own feet trapped in the crystal stocks, looking their normal size of two and a half palmspans long. But they felt as if they were two cubits long and a cubit wide, just like their reflection in the mirror. Not only that, but she could feel the tickling touch of each of the twelve feathers she saw reflected in the mirror, dancing over the huge reflection of her sensitive soles. She laughed and laughed at their tickling touch, unable to stop, and from somewhere overhead her she heard the mellow male voice of the sorcerer Bemal. "The tickling will never stop," it repeated, over and over, as Kathleen laughed and laughed. "The tickling will never stop! The tickling will never stop! The tickling will never stop!"
The tickling stopped. "Idiot! Swine-headed fool!" Urkmir's voice roared. Kathleen's eyes snapped open, her dream vanishing like mist. Urkmir had pulled the sorcerer Bemal away from her feet. "The wench has fallen asleep, you spawn of a donkey's hind leg!"
"Great lord," Bemal began.
"Stand aside!" The Warlord stepped forward, taking a feather-fan in one hand and a blunt-tined wooden fork in the other, and began to tickle Kathleen's feet. As he did so, Kathleen became aware of the sensitivity of her nipples where the silken covering kissed her, and of the joyful burning between her legs where the tight cord rubbed against her. But these sensations didn't distract her from the sudden vigorous assault that the Warlord made against her exposed soles. Instead they distracted her from resisting the tickle sensations.
"Heeheehee hahaheeheehee!" Kathleen laughed as the wooden fork raked up and down her right sole, the Warlord applying a clever twist that make the fierce tickling even more irresistible. "Hahaha heeheeheehee!" she laughed as her left sole was feathered, the feather-fan tickling her entire foot all at once from toes to heel. "Hahahahah ah! heeheeheehee!" Kathleen struggled against the bonds holding her in place, learning once more that she Could. Not. Escape. The. Tickling!
Tickle-sensations roared over her feet like a great wind. Pleasure poured through her like rain from the heavens. The fire between her legs roared to burn happily in her belly, and across her breasts. Thunder came, and an orgasmic monsoon took her. She screamed with ecstasy, proving to all the world that she liked to be tickled.
to be continued
[Note: Edited because part 1 got lightly re-written when I wrote part 2]
Kathleen
by Sablesword
Genies are not a unified nation. Like most other peoples, they are divided into tribes and clans; into kingdoms and city-states. Sometimes - often - they will make war upon each other, following the ancient djinn customs in victory and defeat. Thus when the genie city of Danjeer fell to the forces of the Warlord Urkmir ibn Fahri, he had the females of the captured city paraded past his victorious warriors.
Danjeer was a cosmopolitan place, as djinn cities went, and so the females varied from tall to short, from pale sky-blue to deep azure, with the long feminine djinn hair that came in either the lightest shades of white or pale gold, or the darkest shades of green-black, blue-black, and true-black. Today, however, the females of Danjeer were equal in their lack of clothing. They marched bound and nude past their captors, each with her hands tied behind her back and a rope running from her wrists to the neck of the captive who followed her. Thus they walked slowly past their captors, past the tickle-racks set up and waiting to receive them, and past the Warlord Urkmir himself.
The Warlord was huge and bald, his skin a purple so deep that it was almost red. Some said that he dyed his skin to that half-demonic shade with cosmetics or magic. Others whispered that he didn't need to, due to his ancestry. But whatever truth there might be in the whispers, Urkmir was the victor that day, and each female captive was brought briefly to a halt before him. To each captive he spoke three Words before intoning "While this spell lasts you will not speak without permission, nor speak the Words of Power for any spell at all." Then the captive was led away while the next genie woman was brought forward.
Occasionally the Warlord's Words would dissipate a spell that one of the captives attempted to smuggle past him. He would then grin and point, and the unfortunate female would be taken directly to the tickle-racks. In most cases, however, the magically-subdued female would be led to the holding pens. Their turn in the tickle racks would come later that night.
In the end, the captive females would all be sold in scattered markets, disposed of in small lots so as to not bring down their price. In this the Warlord Urkmir showed his streak of ruthless, practical mercy. For while being sold at auction is a tragedy, it is a greater one to be sold cheaply. And furthermore, the sages and prophets agree that a tickle-broken slave woman is of greater value than one beaten into submission by either spells or the whip.
Yet despite Warlord Urkmir's precautionary spell, one of the female captives almost escaped. She slipped out of the holding pens and past the inner guards, but a scout on the perimeter spotted her before she could vanish into the night. With a Word he set a feather-net falling onto her from above, and she fell to the sand, squirming and giggling as the woven feathers wiggled over her naked skin. The scout left her in the net as he took her to his lieutenant, and the lieutenant did likewise as he took her to his captain; and so by the time she was brought before the Warlord, she was well tickled indeed.
Released from the feather-net at last, she stood sweating as four pairs of male eyes appraised her. Her skin, normally a pale blue-green, flushed a deeper green from her exertions, and she looked down at her bare feet from beneath a mop of curly and outlandishly colored hair, hair that was neither djinn-dark or genie-light, but an exotic red-brown, the color of old copper. Yet despite her bowed head she stood very straight, taller and thinner than the average genie woman - almost as tall as the men, with the exception of the Warlord himself. He alone had the height to look down upon her as he listened to the reports of his underlings.
"And who is she, then?" Urkmir asked when the reports came to an end. The captain consulted a scrolled list of the captives.
"She is Kath- Kathleen the Halfbreed." The captain stumbled over her name, but in fairness it was an unusual name for a genie, a sidhe name from her mother's people.
"Fool!" Urkmir shouted, and the captain cowered before him. "Worthless beetle spawned from camel dung! Are you blind? Look at her skin, her eyes, her hair! Only her mother's daughter would have hair like that, and her mother is of the Sidhe of the Far Isles! This one has a Gift, passed from her mother along with the hair; that no spell woven of Words may bind her! So of course she escaped you, you blind offspring of runty swine! Now repair your error. Bring to me the chest of oak, with the sign of the lion branded on the lid."
The chest was brought forth, and Urkmir himself opened it. Kathleen tensed, but the Warlord ordered, casually, "Seize her," and she felt her arms grabbed from behind before she could make her move. Urkmir rummaged within the chest (like most such it was larger on the inside than the outside) and lifted out an iron circle. "This is the Iron Collar of Sisshoth the Horrible," he told Kathleen as he held it before her. "As its spells are woven of metal rather than words, it should serve to silence even you. To silence your words, that is, for you will still laugh long and loud on the tickle-racks tonight." He grinned an ugly grin. "And now, do you have any last words before your collaring?"
"Yes," Kathleen swallowed, and looked up to meet her captor's eyes. "Yes. I like being tickled, so you cannot torment me that way." She smiled thinly into Urkmir's grin as she sensed a valuable oriental vase falling and shattering far away in Urkmir's distant palace. As one of the Sidhe of the Far Isles, her mother had left her not only a Gift, but a Geas as well: If ever Kathleen should admit that the liked to be tickled, her interrogator would lose the price of three gems.
But Urkmir apparently didn't know of her Geas. "Brave last words," he mocked her, and then the collar snapped shut around Kathleen's neck. With the click of the collar's lock, Kathleen found herself unable to speak, and she knew she would remain mute until the collar was removed. Unfortunately, there were only two ways to do that. The first required the lost Iron Key of Sisshoth the Horrible, and the second required personal act of mercy from Sisshoth - who was also known as Sisshoth the Merciless. Again Kathleen looked down at her bare feet. "Take her to the tickle racks," she heard Warlord Urkmir say. "But you stay," he added to the Captain. "We must discuss your failure tonight."
They bound Kathleen's arms to a light pole set over her shoulders, and the scout snuck in a tickle to her sides, earning him a glare from his lieutenant. Then the two of them led Kathleen off, the scout on one side of her and the lieutenant on the other. They walked past a heap of bottles, on the way to the racks, and Kathleen shivered. Each bottle was sealed with the Seal of Suliman. It was true then, Kathleen thought, the Warlord Urkmir did consort with humans. Human sorcerers and shamans could cast the dark spells of summoning and binding, and were often callously cruel to the djinn and other spirits who were their victims. But on the other hand this could be taken as another example of Urkmir's hardheaded mercy. Genie warriors are hard to kill, unless they are beheaded, and beheading was the usual fate of those who fell wounded in battle. Urkmir, however, had spared the lives of his fallen foes. They would heal their wounds while trapped in their brass bottles, and then they would be sold to enrich the warlord's treasury. Such was his mercy, if mercy it was, for there were also stories of his deep cruelty to those enemies who refused to submit, and to underlings who had failed him.
Now Kathleen and her captors came to the tickle-racks, and began to make their way slowly through them. Each of the wooden devices held a genie woman who giggled and squirmed, unable to escape, as the Warlord's warriors applied feathers and fingers, and bits of silk and fleece to bare and vulnerable skin. Other warriors moved about them with red armbands, badges that forbade them from participating in the tickling itself, but that also authorized them to arrest any of their fellows who went beyond tickling into the more brutal torments. Here again, the Warlord's hardheaded mercy was visible: The women were ultimately loot, and damaging them would reduce the wealth they would bring to his army's coffers.
They walked by the tickle-rack holding the lady Alhena, formerly known to the denizens of Danjeer as Alhena the Arrogant. She howled with laughter as two warriors each took hold of one of her feet, and raked their fingers across bare soles of the softest and palest blue. "You may speak now, if you wish to beg," one of them told her.
"Pleeese!" Alhena burst out, temporarily released from the grip of the spell that the Warlord had placed upon her. "Hahahahahahee ah heehahaha! I can't hehahahee ha can't stand it hahahaheehahaha! Pleeeheeheehahaheeese!"
"She'll soon be ready," one of the tickler's commented, and the other nodded.
"Heehahahahee please heeheehee hahaha oh pleeeeese heeheeheeheehee!"
The tickling paused. "Will you submit to Torquemanda's Shield?" the second tickler asked.
"No! Never!" Alhena gasped. "I will never submit!" The tickling resumed. "Hahahahahee ah haha yes! Stop hahahahahahee! Please! Hahahahahee I've ah heehahaha I've changed my mind! Pleeese yes please heehahaha!"
The tickling paused once more. "Will you submit to Torquemanda's Shield?" the second tickler repeated.
"Yes! Yes! Yes!"
"Very well." The second tickler spoke a Word and gestured to shape the spell, named after the infamous human wizard who had invented it. Then the tickling resumed. But this time Alhena did not beg, not when the first djinn raked his fingers across both of Alhena's bare soles, one hand on each foot. And not while second lightly tickled her exposed belly with a small feather-fan. Thus was the power of Torquemanda's Shield: It transformed the most agonizing tickle-torment into a blissful pleasure - at the price of the victim's submission. By accepting the spell, Kathleen knew, Alhena had also accepted her fate as a tickle-slave of Warlord Urkmir's victorious army.
As the two underlings led Kathleen away from this scene, the scout who had captured her commented, "Soon you will be laughing too, half breed. Would that I could stay for that!"
"You still have the duty, this night. As do I," the lieutenant added wistfully.
"Yes, Sir, I know," the scout answered. "Still: Would that it were otherwise!"
They came to an empty rack near the edge of the group. "This one," the lieutenant decided, and the two warriors strapped Kathleen into place. As they finished binding her, the Warlord Urkmir came up with a human in tow. There was no sign of the captain, and the djinn lieutenant and scout both shrank slightly away from the man. A Turkic sorcerer, Kathleen guessed, from his face and the cut of his beard, for all that he was dressed in the commonplace silks of a djinn. Then she squirmed, embarrassed, as four pairs of male eyes once more took in her nude body.
"This is Bemal Son of Bemal," Warlord Urkmir told Kathleen. "He will prove your last words to be a lie." He handed the human a small purse. "Here is your reward for making this Kathleen fear the feather."
The human spoke in a light and melodious voice: "I will try, Great Lord. However I will not make a promise that I cannot be certain of keeping. The One Above All can always succeed, but a lesser being such as myself can only try his best."
"Do so, then," the Warlord scowled. He turned to the lieutenant and his scout, and the scowl became a beaming smile. "You did well to capture the half-breed. I release you from your duty this night." He made a shooing gesture. "Go. Enjoy yourselves."
"Thank you, Great Lord!" the Lieutenant grinned, bowing. The scout matched his bow, and then the two djinn warriors left quickly, followed more sedately by their Warlord.
Kathleen squirmed again, as best she could while strapped to the rack. She felt herself flush under the calm appraising gaze of the human sorcerer. "We will learn tonight just how much you like to be tickled," he told her. "But first..." He adjusted the straps holding her in place, making her lie on her side. Her wrists were bound before her, and held away from her body so that she couldn't touch herself. Her ankles were strapped down so that the toes of her left foot were just a palmspan behind the heel of her right, and the toes of both feet were then fixed in place, bound to a pair of vertical posts set into the rack. Bemal then wrapped her with a sheet of silk, slippery slick against her skin like ice made comfortably warm. He fastened it in place with a cord around her waist, and then brought the ends between her legs, tying them just snugly enough to make her aware of her tender female place.
Kathleen watched as Bemal then selected a wing-feather from a crane, then looked down again as he came forward to brush a strand of her dark curled hair from her face. Only her head and feet were exposed now, and she looked up again to watch as he moved back around. She watched him select a stool, the soft sound of its placement blanketed by the forced laughter of the other captives. She saw him sit, and looked down again when he looked up at her. Then she felt the tip of the feather touch her vulnerable left sole.
It touched lightly, and then, unhurried, another short soft stroke touched nearby. This was followed, without pausing but without hurrying, by the feather tip making a lazy and meandering path down the sole of Kathleen's right foot. An arc across the instep of her left sole, just below the ball of the foot, that made Kathleen giggle and squirm.
She could giggle, Kathleen realized. The spells on the collar locked around her neck were woven of iron, and like the iron bars of a cage they held in her every attempt to speak. But her giggles and laughter could slip through the bars, even if she was a captive.
A sudden awareness of her captivity washed over Kathleen. She could see her wrists bound before her, the ends of the cords tied to the tickle-rack to hold them in place. She could feel the slick silk covering her body, and the cord around her waist and between her legs. She could feel the straps holding her ankles, keeping her feet apart in a way that prevented either of them from even trying to protect the other, even if her toes were free, and she could feel the thongs holding her toes to the two vertical posts that had been set in the rack. She could feel the night air on her helpless soles. And she could feel the soft feather tip that touched and stroked them.
It wasn't the vigorous tickling that the other captured genie women received - or that Kathleen herself had enjoyed in a happier past. Not the sort of tickling that made laughter gush out like water from a fountain, and caused the subject to struggle in mad, helpless efforts to evade it. This tickling was gentle, soft, constant. The human sorcerer sometimes applied brief touches, and sometimes long slow strokes, but he neither increased nor decreased the tempo from its languorous pace.
Kathleen giggled. The lazy tickling shouldn't have been enough to force giggles from her, but it was. At least after it had been going on for... a long time. Kathleen didn't know for how long. Long enough to make her giggle. And squirm. Kathleen felt the silk on her body as she squirmed, felt the cord tied tight between her legs, but these weren't enough to distract her from the slow tickling that the wicked human continued to apply to her soles. Her vulnerable soles, touched with the tip of a crane's wing-feather. Touched wherever the human sorcerer pleased, on her insteps or the base of her toes or the balls of her feet or her heels.
There was nothing Kathleen could do about it. She could giggle and squirm, but that only revealed her helplessness to all the world. The straps on her body, on her wrists and ankles held her to the rack, and her struggles would not bring her closer to freedom by even the width of a grain of sand. The collar on her neck stopped her from producing even the pleadings of a slavegirl, much less the Words needed for spells. The thongs on her toes held her bare soles to receive the kiss of the feather's tip, the lazy tickling that went on and on and on. Long strokes down the length of her right foot, then her left. Short arcs across her instep. Brief touches at the base of her toes. Spirals on her heels, and then on the balls of her feet. First on one foot, and then on the other. Not quick, not fierce, but the slow and steady pace of a tickling caravan on a long long journey.
Kathleen felt herself grow drowsy. Too drowsy to squirm, despite the continued gentle tickling of her feet. Her giggles became giggling whimpers, and her eyes closed.
Kathleen's ankles were now locked in stocks of crystal glass, and she faced a mirrored wall. Her bare soles, in the mirror, seemed to be two cubits long. Music played, and red feathers danced to the stately piping. Danced over Kathleen's bare soles, tickling them. Tickling them as if they were the most important thing in the world. Kathleen laughed. Her feet felt like they were the most ticklish things in the world, and watching the feather's dance made her feet feel even more ticklish. She could see her own feet trapped in the crystal stocks, looking their normal size of two and a half palmspans long. But they felt as if they were two cubits long and a cubit wide, just like their reflection in the mirror. Not only that, but she could feel the tickling touch of each of the twelve feathers she saw reflected in the mirror, dancing over the huge reflection of her sensitive soles. She laughed and laughed at their tickling touch, unable to stop, and from somewhere overhead her she heard the mellow male voice of the sorcerer Bemal. "The tickling will never stop," it repeated, over and over, as Kathleen laughed and laughed. "The tickling will never stop! The tickling will never stop! The tickling will never stop!"
The tickling stopped. "Idiot! Swine-headed fool!" Urkmir's voice roared. Kathleen's eyes snapped open, her dream vanishing like mist. Urkmir had pulled the sorcerer Bemal away from her feet. "The wench has fallen asleep, you spawn of a donkey's hind leg!"
"Great lord," Bemal began.
"Stand aside!" The Warlord stepped forward, taking a feather-fan in one hand and a blunt-tined wooden fork in the other, and began to tickle Kathleen's feet. As he did so, Kathleen became aware of the sensitivity of her nipples where the silken covering kissed her, and of the joyful burning between her legs where the tight cord rubbed against her. But these sensations didn't distract her from the sudden vigorous assault that the Warlord made against her exposed soles. Instead they distracted her from resisting the tickle sensations.
"Heeheehee hahaheeheehee!" Kathleen laughed as the wooden fork raked up and down her right sole, the Warlord applying a clever twist that make the fierce tickling even more irresistible. "Hahaha heeheeheehee!" she laughed as her left sole was feathered, the feather-fan tickling her entire foot all at once from toes to heel. "Hahahahah ah! heeheeheehee!" Kathleen struggled against the bonds holding her in place, learning once more that she Could. Not. Escape. The. Tickling!
Tickle-sensations roared over her feet like a great wind. Pleasure poured through her like rain from the heavens. The fire between her legs roared to burn happily in her belly, and across her breasts. Thunder came, and an orgasmic monsoon took her. She screamed with ecstasy, proving to all the world that she liked to be tickled.
to be continued
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