Sablesword
TMF Master
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Here's something I started a long time ago, and then set aside when I couldn't get past the start. Then it popped up as a possibility for the story contest, and I finally managed to finish it.
Yvonne
by Sablesword
The sorceress-queen Yvonne smiled sourly as the demon Bekemal ogled down at her from within the summoning circle. He was as bald and red as a brick, but he at least had a loincloth. Yvonne, on the other hand, stood completely unclothed and unshod, her long dark hair hanging loose behind her. The smallest scrap of clothing – even a ribbon for her hair – would have caused the summoning spell to fail. Or worse.
Yvonne spoke the harsh and bitter words of the eldritch language that the demon was compelled to obey: “You will bring Willhem Foxbrother here, so that I may entertain him,” she commanded, gesturing at the implements of torment scattered about the tower. “You will bring him here unarmed and bound, so that I may remain unharmed by him. You will leave him here, so that I may take pleasure in the screams and howls he will produce.”
Bekemal folded both sets of arms over his chest. “When the dawn comes,” he rumbled. “I must return Willhem Foxbrother to the place from which I brought him.”
“Aye,” Yvonne answered shortly, no longer smiling at all.
“And while I may leave him here to produce howls and screams, I cannot do more. It is you who must strive to take pleasure from them.”
“Aye. Now go, and be swift!”
“I hear and obey, O Bitch-queen.” Bekemal vanished.
Outside the besieged tower, Willhem Foxbrother rolled quickly to his feet. Sword in hand he looked around for whatever it was that had awakened him. The world was unnaturally still and quiet. And there was a demon coming toward him.
“Hold, demon!” Willhem called. “And begone! This is a Whiteblade. If you come closer I will slice you!”
Bekemal paused. “Come closer I must, for the Bitch-queen Yvonne commands that I bring you swiftly to her.”
“It will not be so swift as that, between me and my blade,” Willhem answered. “But tell me, demon, what exactly did she command?”
Less than a minute later Bekemal reappeared in the summoning circle with Willhem standing in front of him. The barbarian chieftain who led the siege of Yvonne’s tower looked like a pale-skinned echo of the demon: Both figures had their arms folded across their chests and white loincloths wrapped around their waists.
“He is not bound,” Yvonne hissed.
“He is bound by his word, that he will not harm you for as long as I leave him here,” Bekemal said. Willhem nodded confirmation.
“I said to bring him swiftly!” Yvonne said.
“And so I did: More swiftly than if I had to fight him. He bore a Whiteblade. And as for the rest of your commands…” Bekemal clapped both pairs of hands, twice each.
The tower room changed. The rush mats vanished, replaced by rugs and cushions. The scattered implements of torture vanished, replaced by vases filled with brightly-colored feathers and other knick-knacks from decadent Uyole. The torches on the stone walls vanished, replaced by hanging lamps that filled the chamber with warm light. The walls themselves didn’t vanish, but were hidden by silken hangings.
Bekemal grinned hugely. “Take great pleasure, O Bitch-queen, in the screams and howls that this man will produce.” He clapped four hands one more time, and vanished.
Now Willhem was grinning, reminding Yvonne of how he had earned the name ‘Foxbrother.’ He must have been the one who twisted her commands to the demon. She watched as he sat down on a cushion and picked up a silken cord. “Come here, Your Majesty,” he said, “and I will tie you up and tickle you silly. And I will do my best to teach you to enjoy it.”
“Never!”
“As you will,” Willhem answered genially. “But if I don’t produce howls and screams from you, won’t your spell recoil, or burn up, or whatever the blight a demon-summoning does when it goes wrong?”
Yvonne felt herself grow pale. “I can apply the tickle-torment to you, instead,” she said, trying to hide her desperation.
“No,” came the answer. “I won’t let you. I might accidentally hurt you, in my struggles, and we can’t have that. So if you attack me, I’ll have to restrain you. For your own safety.” Mild words on top of that insufferable fox-grin.
“Blight take you!” Yvonne stood still for a long, long minute, seething. Struggling with the temptation to allow her spell to backlash. But that would be foolish. The backlash wouldn’t be worse than what this barbarian proposed to do to her, but it would last longer. Much longer. In the end she sat down angrily next to Willhem and, at his gesture, placed her hands behind her back for binding. “Enjoy your victory, barbarian,” she forced her voice to be falsely sweet. “It will be the last one you ever have.” His only answer was a fractional shrug and a continuation of that damn fox-grin.
Now Yvonne’s ankles were tied as well. Tied, and attached to an iron loop set in the floor. A third length of silk cord tied her large toes. She squirmed, and pulled at the bonds on her wrists. She could not cause them to hurt, no matter how hard she fought against them, but she couldn’t get loose, either. “A good job, eh?” Willhem said. “I lived for a bit in Uyole, in my misspent youth.”
“Yes,” Yvonne was forced to agree. She tried once more before giving up. The slavers of Uyole were notorious for their skills. “Yes,” she repeated. “Get on with it.”
“You must be patient, Your Majesty.”
Yvonne shot a glare at Willhem. Then she stared at the feather in his hand as it approached her vulnerable soles. She felt its tip touch, lightly, on her left instep, just below the ball of her foot. A soft touch. A teasing, squirm-provoking touch. A touch that was repeated and enhanced as Willhem dragged the feather’s tip slowly across her left sole and then her right.
Yvonne began to squirm. She could not escape that gentle touch. She pulled, again, at the bonds on her wrists, but Willhem had tied her too well. She tried to protect one foot with the other, but the silken cord wrapped around her two large toes prevented this. Worse, that silken grip seemed to make her feet more sensitive. It certainly made her more aware of her feet, and of the slow glide of the feather back and forth across her heels and insteps and the balls of her feet.
The back and forth changed into circles, and spirals, and meandering lines. Yvonne began to whimper, and then to giggle. A second feather joined the first, and Yvonne’s giggles became punctuated with squeals. The tickling touch of those wandering feather-tips could not be avoided and could not be ignored. And with every second the tickle sensations grew stronger and stronger.
Every so often Willhem would give the feathers a clever twist, provoking another squeal as another tickle-surge ran through the helpless sorceress-queen. Yvonne felt herself growing more and more desperate as the tickling continued, but she didn’t start to beg until the feathers wandered to tickle the tops of her feet as well as her soles.
“Eeeee hahaheehee oh eeeeaaah heeheeheehee please haha heehee no pleeeeseee heeheeheeheehee!” she cried.
“Don’t beg, Your Majesty,” Willhem chided as he continued the tickling without a pause. “It will only make things worse.” He then applied a quick, flicking, tickle, the feather tips softly whipping Yvonne’s vulnerable soles. Yvonne laughed out loud, and then screamed with laughter. “That’s better,” she heard Willhem say. “Don’t beg, and don’t try to resist.”
Yvonne couldn’t resist, not with those tickle-sensations shooting through her. Her feet felt like they were immersed in a pure tickle-liquid, one that soaked into her skin as the feathers continued to flick flick flick.
The tickling stopped. Willhem set down his feathers and shifted position. “Eep,” Yvonne said. Then “Ayeeee!” as Willhem’s fingers began to spider up and down her legs.
Those fingers tickled differently from the feathers, but just as much. They danced lightly up and down Yvonne’s legs, then up and down her sides. They ran over the outsides of her thighs, over her hips and ribs, and up to her arms and shoulders. Willhem shifted position again and tickled some more, one hand light on her neck and the other spidering over her belly. Yvonne laughed and laughed. Those tickling fingers seemed to be everywhere, and she couldn’t decide if squirming or trying to hold still made the tickling worse. Squirming made the tickling worse. No, trying to hold still made the tickling worse. No, squirming made it worse. No…
At last the tickling ended. Yvonne gasped for breath, and lay back, limp. She felt herself being untied, and she lifted a hand to wipe away the tears that had started toward the end of that tickle-session. “Have you had enough, Your Majesty?” she heard Willhem ask.
“Yes,” she answered faintly.
“Did you enjoy yourself?”
Yvonne considered that question before finally answering truthfully. “No.”
“Well, then,” the cheerful answer came. “You need more practice. We have a number of hours yet, Your Majesty.”
Yvonne felt herself lifted up again, this time to be tied to a satin-cushioned post. She knelt facing it, with her wrists bound together on the far side. The satin was a soft almost-tickle against her nude skin, and she found herself embracing it as Willhem tied her feet. Her ankles were perched on a padded support, and strapped in place a little distance apart so that neither foot could reach to protect the other. Willhem came around again to adjust her wrist-bindings, fastening them to an anchor-point set in the far side of the post. Further securing her. She felt her hair being pushed forward, leaving her back bare.
It was a whipping position, Yvonne realized. But Willhem couldn’t whip her. He didn’t dare; he had given his word, and if he broke it the demon Bekemal would come and punish him as thoroughly as she could ever desire. She heard Willhem pick something up, out of her sight, and found herself both dreading and hoping that it was a whip.
It wasn’t. Yvonne screamed as the broad soft-bristled brush ran down her spine, then giggled uncontrollably as it ran back up. She giggled and shrieked some more as Willhem continued to paint the soft dry tickles on her back. On her back. She never though that her back would be ticklish. Certainly not this ticklish. She hugged the post, its satin surface making a pleasant counterpoint to the tickling behind her. On her back. That she could not escape. The leather straps on her ankles and the silken cords on her wrists held her perfectly in place as the brush in Willhem’s hand ran across her shoulder blades. Up and down her spine. Back and forth across her lower back. Over her nude behind. And up again to her neck. Trailing impossible tickle-sensations on her helpless and vulnerable back.
Willhem continued brushing Yvonne’s back with that soft-bristled brush. Yvonne continued to giggle and squeal in response. As the tickling when on, she found herself alternating between hope and fear that he would switch to tickling her legs instead. And her feet. Several times she almost started to beg that he tickle her feet. Anything to end that horrible, wonderful tickle-brushing of her back. But the though of that soft bush on her bare soles brought her up short. Besides, he had said that begging would make things worse, and she sensed the truth in that. Even if nothing could be worse than that soft laughter-provoking brush on her back.
In the end, of course, Willhem did shift to tickling her legs. And her feet. She could wiggle her feet, and she did, but it didn’t help at all. If anything the wiggling made the tickling worse. Neither foot could protect the other, nor could either of them move far enough escape the soft bristles that brushed teasingly against them. Yvonne tried to hold her feet still, and found that she couldn’t in the face of that gentle assault. She wiggled her feet again and found that she couldn’t stand that, either. There wasn’t any plan or order to that tickling, just soft, quick, random touches here and there and everywhere on her sensitive feet.
The foot-tickling ended, but only because Willhem switched back to leg-tickling. Yvonne shrieked as the soft-bristled brush ran up and down the backs of her calves. That part of her body Yvonne could not move at all. She could scream with laughter as the broad brush ran lightly up and down the backs of her lower legs, she could wiggle her feet, she could fight the bonds on her wrists, she could fiercely hug the satin-soft post she faced. Her calves were held in place, however, and had to endure the tickle-sensations Willhem ladled out to them.
“Are you enjoying yourself yet, your Majesty?” Willhem asked.
“Ayee eee eee heeheehee eeeeee no! No! No! Hee ayeeee eeee heehee eeeeeee no!”
“Then you need more practice.”
Yvonne felt Willhem grasp the toes of her right foot, and then she felt the soft-bristled brush against her instep. “Hahahaha heehee hahahahaha!” she laughed. This tickling was different from when she could wiggle her feet. It was more focused, and it made wild laughter pour out of her. “Heehee hahahahaha!”
The tickle sensations sank into the instep of her right foot, and then into the heel and ball as Willhem brush-tickled them as well.
“Tickle tickle tickle!” Willhem said.
“Heehahaha hahahahaha!” came Yvonne’s answer at the brush-brush-brush back and forth over her sole. Then up and down. Then back and forth again. Deep soft tickle sensations that Yvonne could not escape, that she could not endure. That she had to endure. Maddening tickles, soft and unceasing. “Heehahaha hahahahaha!”
The tickling stopped. Briefly. Yvonne felt the toes of her left foot being grasped, and the soft brush applied to her left sole. “Hahaheehee hahahaha!” Yvonne hugged the satin pillar hard as the tickling continued. And continued. It went on and on while Yvonne squirmed and struggled and howled with laughter.
When Willhem finally untied her, Yvonne made herself sit up and glare at him. She snatched the water he offered, and drank it down thirstily. Then, with another glare, she let Willhem tie her again, this time on her back. Her ankles were bound to the satin post, a little above the floor, and her arms were stretched above her head and bound to the ring set in the floor. “We still have a way to go, Your Majesty,” Willhem commented as he tied her toes in place, preventing her from flexing her feet.
“Huh!” Yvonne snorted. She tried to direct a third glare at Willhem, but he was out of her sight. “Heeek!” she squealed as tickling fingers ran down both her soles. “Heehee eeeek heeheehahaha aaaaah eeeek!” The quick flicking of Willhem’s fingers seemed to find all her sensitive spots. And they were all sensitive. She screamed with laughter, and then giggled and giggled and giggled as the tickling sank in. Squirmy ticklish finger-tickling on the insteps of both feet, and the balls and the heels. And between the toes. Tickling that ran quickly up and down, up and down. Tickling that made Yvonne thrash as she giggled and squealed, as she found that she could tell just where the next tickling touch would land. And there was nothing, nothing she could do about it.
The tickling fingers moved over the tops of her feet, and down her legs. Yvonne squirmed and howled, not just for the tickle sensations sinking into her calves and behind her knees, but in anticipation for what was to come. In anticipation of that slow, steady tickle-front advancing down her legs.
Willhem switched smoothly from his fingers to a feather fan, as the tickling advanced to the outsides and insides of Yvonne’s thighs. Twisting and thrashing, laughter pouring out of her, Yvonne was desperate to escape the feathery touch. And she could not. She could not. She couldn’t.
“Ayeee heeheeheeheehee! Oh! Oh! Ayeeeeeee! Hahahaha!” The fan feathers were stroking her belly now. Stroking her sides and ribs. Working slowly up to stroke her breasts and neck, and up her arms. And then, maddeningly, they started back down. Working their way slowly back across flushed and tickle-outraged skin. Yvonne couldn’t see from the tears of laughter pouring out of her eyes. And still the squeals and laughter came, forced out by the tickling that Willhem inflicted with such terrible skill.
The tickling switched back to fingers as it made its way down Yvonne’s legs. Then the soles of her feet once again hosted Willhem’s light and skillful tickle-touch. She felt him tickle between her toes, and back and forth across her insteps, and up and down from her heels to the base of her toes, and round and round the balls of her feet, and, and, and. And she couldn’t stand it. “EEEEEEE hahaheeheeheehee heeeheehee! Ah aha ah heeheeheeheeheeheehee!” But she had to stand it, as the tickling went on and on and on.
When Willhem untied her, Yvonne sprawled limply over a silken rug. She let Willhem feed her sweetmeats and water, too weak to resist. But she wasn’t beaten, she told herself. Enjoy your victory, Willhem Foxbrother. It will be the last one you ever have.
She repeated that thought as she let Willhem tie her once again. Enjoy your victory. This time her arms were tied behind her, her ankles crossed and bound, and a cord fixed to connect her bound wrists to her bound ankles as she lay on her belly. Enjoy your victory. Eeeek!
“Eeeek!” Yvonne squealed as Willhem’s fingers lightly stroked her sides. “Heehee heeheehee hahahahaha!” He was tickling her with quick touches and long pauses between each touch. Tickling her sides, and her hips, and her thighs. She squirmed on the silken rug as he continued the sharp, gentle, tickle-assaults on her helpless body. She found herself pressing against the soft silk, and made herself stop. She suppressed an urge to roll over on her side, in order to protect at least one side from those quick, soft tickle-touches. That would expose her belly, and her breasts. Whole fields for Willhem to apply his tickling to. She couldn’t let him do that, could she?
Yvonne shivered with anticipation as she realized that Willhem could roll her to her side any time he wanted. And that there was nothing she could to stop that tickle-attack. Just like she couldn’t stop squirming and giggling from the side- and leg-tickling he was currently inflicting on her.
The sharp quick tickles changed into long slow teasing strokes, smooth and gentle. They still made Yvonne squirm and giggle, even if she no longer shrieked with each touch. “That’s better, isn’t it?” Willhem asked.
“Heeheehee! No!” Yvonne answered.
“It isn’t?”
“Nooo! Heeheehahaheeheehee! No!”
The tickling stopped. “Well then, lets try this.” Yvonne lifted her head, and Willhem displayed an ivory comb.
“Oh,” Yvonne said. Willhem smiled and stepped around her, out of her sight. She had only a moment to realize that he was going to tickle her feeeet! “EEEEEK! Heeheehahaha heeheeheehee!”
Tickle sensations sank into her helpless soles as the blunt prongs of the comb raked across them. Back and forth across the ball of her left foot, then across the heel, then across the instep. Then across her right sole as well. It was a different tickle sensation from either the finger-tickling or the feather-tickling she had endured earlier. It was sweeter, and spicier. It made her scream with laughter and squirm on the rug, struggling wildly against her bonds.
She couldn’t help laughing. She couldn’t help struggling. She couldn’t help trying to escape, fighting her bonds as hard as she could. But she didn’t want this tickling to stop. It felt too good, the kiss and rake of the ivory prongs across her vulnerable soles. Willhem wielded the comb with exquisite skill, and each of his tickling strokes sent a wave of pleasure through her feet. Down her legs. Into her whole body. Every stroke was a tender torment that made her want the next raking touch. And the next. And the next.
She twisted and squirmed and struggled wildly, completely unable to escape. She screamed and giggled and shrieked and laughed and howled, unable to stop. The tickling when on and on and on, ending only when she absolutely couldn’t take any more. Even though she desperately wanted more.
Untied at last, Yvonne’s next rest period was a longer one. She ate and drank a little, fed by Willhem. She eagerly awaited the next bout of screaming pleasure he would inflict on her. He’d twisted her commands, but she didn’t care. After hours of tickling, she was too tickle-drunk to care.
Cheerfully, Yvonne put her hands behind her back for binding and watched Willhem as the tied her large toes and her ankles, anchoring her bound feet to that ring set into the floor. She squirmed as the feather once again approached her vulnerable soles, and giggled and squealed as it began to tickle.
Fin
Yvonne
by Sablesword
The sorceress-queen Yvonne smiled sourly as the demon Bekemal ogled down at her from within the summoning circle. He was as bald and red as a brick, but he at least had a loincloth. Yvonne, on the other hand, stood completely unclothed and unshod, her long dark hair hanging loose behind her. The smallest scrap of clothing – even a ribbon for her hair – would have caused the summoning spell to fail. Or worse.
Yvonne spoke the harsh and bitter words of the eldritch language that the demon was compelled to obey: “You will bring Willhem Foxbrother here, so that I may entertain him,” she commanded, gesturing at the implements of torment scattered about the tower. “You will bring him here unarmed and bound, so that I may remain unharmed by him. You will leave him here, so that I may take pleasure in the screams and howls he will produce.”
Bekemal folded both sets of arms over his chest. “When the dawn comes,” he rumbled. “I must return Willhem Foxbrother to the place from which I brought him.”
“Aye,” Yvonne answered shortly, no longer smiling at all.
“And while I may leave him here to produce howls and screams, I cannot do more. It is you who must strive to take pleasure from them.”
“Aye. Now go, and be swift!”
“I hear and obey, O Bitch-queen.” Bekemal vanished.
#
Outside the besieged tower, Willhem Foxbrother rolled quickly to his feet. Sword in hand he looked around for whatever it was that had awakened him. The world was unnaturally still and quiet. And there was a demon coming toward him.
“Hold, demon!” Willhem called. “And begone! This is a Whiteblade. If you come closer I will slice you!”
Bekemal paused. “Come closer I must, for the Bitch-queen Yvonne commands that I bring you swiftly to her.”
“It will not be so swift as that, between me and my blade,” Willhem answered. “But tell me, demon, what exactly did she command?”
#
Less than a minute later Bekemal reappeared in the summoning circle with Willhem standing in front of him. The barbarian chieftain who led the siege of Yvonne’s tower looked like a pale-skinned echo of the demon: Both figures had their arms folded across their chests and white loincloths wrapped around their waists.
“He is not bound,” Yvonne hissed.
“He is bound by his word, that he will not harm you for as long as I leave him here,” Bekemal said. Willhem nodded confirmation.
“I said to bring him swiftly!” Yvonne said.
“And so I did: More swiftly than if I had to fight him. He bore a Whiteblade. And as for the rest of your commands…” Bekemal clapped both pairs of hands, twice each.
The tower room changed. The rush mats vanished, replaced by rugs and cushions. The scattered implements of torture vanished, replaced by vases filled with brightly-colored feathers and other knick-knacks from decadent Uyole. The torches on the stone walls vanished, replaced by hanging lamps that filled the chamber with warm light. The walls themselves didn’t vanish, but were hidden by silken hangings.
Bekemal grinned hugely. “Take great pleasure, O Bitch-queen, in the screams and howls that this man will produce.” He clapped four hands one more time, and vanished.
Now Willhem was grinning, reminding Yvonne of how he had earned the name ‘Foxbrother.’ He must have been the one who twisted her commands to the demon. She watched as he sat down on a cushion and picked up a silken cord. “Come here, Your Majesty,” he said, “and I will tie you up and tickle you silly. And I will do my best to teach you to enjoy it.”
“Never!”
“As you will,” Willhem answered genially. “But if I don’t produce howls and screams from you, won’t your spell recoil, or burn up, or whatever the blight a demon-summoning does when it goes wrong?”
Yvonne felt herself grow pale. “I can apply the tickle-torment to you, instead,” she said, trying to hide her desperation.
“No,” came the answer. “I won’t let you. I might accidentally hurt you, in my struggles, and we can’t have that. So if you attack me, I’ll have to restrain you. For your own safety.” Mild words on top of that insufferable fox-grin.
“Blight take you!” Yvonne stood still for a long, long minute, seething. Struggling with the temptation to allow her spell to backlash. But that would be foolish. The backlash wouldn’t be worse than what this barbarian proposed to do to her, but it would last longer. Much longer. In the end she sat down angrily next to Willhem and, at his gesture, placed her hands behind her back for binding. “Enjoy your victory, barbarian,” she forced her voice to be falsely sweet. “It will be the last one you ever have.” His only answer was a fractional shrug and a continuation of that damn fox-grin.
Now Yvonne’s ankles were tied as well. Tied, and attached to an iron loop set in the floor. A third length of silk cord tied her large toes. She squirmed, and pulled at the bonds on her wrists. She could not cause them to hurt, no matter how hard she fought against them, but she couldn’t get loose, either. “A good job, eh?” Willhem said. “I lived for a bit in Uyole, in my misspent youth.”
“Yes,” Yvonne was forced to agree. She tried once more before giving up. The slavers of Uyole were notorious for their skills. “Yes,” she repeated. “Get on with it.”
“You must be patient, Your Majesty.”
Yvonne shot a glare at Willhem. Then she stared at the feather in his hand as it approached her vulnerable soles. She felt its tip touch, lightly, on her left instep, just below the ball of her foot. A soft touch. A teasing, squirm-provoking touch. A touch that was repeated and enhanced as Willhem dragged the feather’s tip slowly across her left sole and then her right.
Yvonne began to squirm. She could not escape that gentle touch. She pulled, again, at the bonds on her wrists, but Willhem had tied her too well. She tried to protect one foot with the other, but the silken cord wrapped around her two large toes prevented this. Worse, that silken grip seemed to make her feet more sensitive. It certainly made her more aware of her feet, and of the slow glide of the feather back and forth across her heels and insteps and the balls of her feet.
The back and forth changed into circles, and spirals, and meandering lines. Yvonne began to whimper, and then to giggle. A second feather joined the first, and Yvonne’s giggles became punctuated with squeals. The tickling touch of those wandering feather-tips could not be avoided and could not be ignored. And with every second the tickle sensations grew stronger and stronger.
Every so often Willhem would give the feathers a clever twist, provoking another squeal as another tickle-surge ran through the helpless sorceress-queen. Yvonne felt herself growing more and more desperate as the tickling continued, but she didn’t start to beg until the feathers wandered to tickle the tops of her feet as well as her soles.
“Eeeee hahaheehee oh eeeeaaah heeheeheehee please haha heehee no pleeeeseee heeheeheeheehee!” she cried.
“Don’t beg, Your Majesty,” Willhem chided as he continued the tickling without a pause. “It will only make things worse.” He then applied a quick, flicking, tickle, the feather tips softly whipping Yvonne’s vulnerable soles. Yvonne laughed out loud, and then screamed with laughter. “That’s better,” she heard Willhem say. “Don’t beg, and don’t try to resist.”
Yvonne couldn’t resist, not with those tickle-sensations shooting through her. Her feet felt like they were immersed in a pure tickle-liquid, one that soaked into her skin as the feathers continued to flick flick flick.
The tickling stopped. Willhem set down his feathers and shifted position. “Eep,” Yvonne said. Then “Ayeeee!” as Willhem’s fingers began to spider up and down her legs.
Those fingers tickled differently from the feathers, but just as much. They danced lightly up and down Yvonne’s legs, then up and down her sides. They ran over the outsides of her thighs, over her hips and ribs, and up to her arms and shoulders. Willhem shifted position again and tickled some more, one hand light on her neck and the other spidering over her belly. Yvonne laughed and laughed. Those tickling fingers seemed to be everywhere, and she couldn’t decide if squirming or trying to hold still made the tickling worse. Squirming made the tickling worse. No, trying to hold still made the tickling worse. No, squirming made it worse. No…
#
At last the tickling ended. Yvonne gasped for breath, and lay back, limp. She felt herself being untied, and she lifted a hand to wipe away the tears that had started toward the end of that tickle-session. “Have you had enough, Your Majesty?” she heard Willhem ask.
“Yes,” she answered faintly.
“Did you enjoy yourself?”
Yvonne considered that question before finally answering truthfully. “No.”
“Well, then,” the cheerful answer came. “You need more practice. We have a number of hours yet, Your Majesty.”
Yvonne felt herself lifted up again, this time to be tied to a satin-cushioned post. She knelt facing it, with her wrists bound together on the far side. The satin was a soft almost-tickle against her nude skin, and she found herself embracing it as Willhem tied her feet. Her ankles were perched on a padded support, and strapped in place a little distance apart so that neither foot could reach to protect the other. Willhem came around again to adjust her wrist-bindings, fastening them to an anchor-point set in the far side of the post. Further securing her. She felt her hair being pushed forward, leaving her back bare.
It was a whipping position, Yvonne realized. But Willhem couldn’t whip her. He didn’t dare; he had given his word, and if he broke it the demon Bekemal would come and punish him as thoroughly as she could ever desire. She heard Willhem pick something up, out of her sight, and found herself both dreading and hoping that it was a whip.
It wasn’t. Yvonne screamed as the broad soft-bristled brush ran down her spine, then giggled uncontrollably as it ran back up. She giggled and shrieked some more as Willhem continued to paint the soft dry tickles on her back. On her back. She never though that her back would be ticklish. Certainly not this ticklish. She hugged the post, its satin surface making a pleasant counterpoint to the tickling behind her. On her back. That she could not escape. The leather straps on her ankles and the silken cords on her wrists held her perfectly in place as the brush in Willhem’s hand ran across her shoulder blades. Up and down her spine. Back and forth across her lower back. Over her nude behind. And up again to her neck. Trailing impossible tickle-sensations on her helpless and vulnerable back.
Willhem continued brushing Yvonne’s back with that soft-bristled brush. Yvonne continued to giggle and squeal in response. As the tickling when on, she found herself alternating between hope and fear that he would switch to tickling her legs instead. And her feet. Several times she almost started to beg that he tickle her feet. Anything to end that horrible, wonderful tickle-brushing of her back. But the though of that soft bush on her bare soles brought her up short. Besides, he had said that begging would make things worse, and she sensed the truth in that. Even if nothing could be worse than that soft laughter-provoking brush on her back.
In the end, of course, Willhem did shift to tickling her legs. And her feet. She could wiggle her feet, and she did, but it didn’t help at all. If anything the wiggling made the tickling worse. Neither foot could protect the other, nor could either of them move far enough escape the soft bristles that brushed teasingly against them. Yvonne tried to hold her feet still, and found that she couldn’t in the face of that gentle assault. She wiggled her feet again and found that she couldn’t stand that, either. There wasn’t any plan or order to that tickling, just soft, quick, random touches here and there and everywhere on her sensitive feet.
The foot-tickling ended, but only because Willhem switched back to leg-tickling. Yvonne shrieked as the soft-bristled brush ran up and down the backs of her calves. That part of her body Yvonne could not move at all. She could scream with laughter as the broad brush ran lightly up and down the backs of her lower legs, she could wiggle her feet, she could fight the bonds on her wrists, she could fiercely hug the satin-soft post she faced. Her calves were held in place, however, and had to endure the tickle-sensations Willhem ladled out to them.
“Are you enjoying yourself yet, your Majesty?” Willhem asked.
“Ayee eee eee heeheehee eeeeee no! No! No! Hee ayeeee eeee heehee eeeeeee no!”
“Then you need more practice.”
Yvonne felt Willhem grasp the toes of her right foot, and then she felt the soft-bristled brush against her instep. “Hahahaha heehee hahahahaha!” she laughed. This tickling was different from when she could wiggle her feet. It was more focused, and it made wild laughter pour out of her. “Heehee hahahahaha!”
The tickle sensations sank into the instep of her right foot, and then into the heel and ball as Willhem brush-tickled them as well.
“Tickle tickle tickle!” Willhem said.
“Heehahaha hahahahaha!” came Yvonne’s answer at the brush-brush-brush back and forth over her sole. Then up and down. Then back and forth again. Deep soft tickle sensations that Yvonne could not escape, that she could not endure. That she had to endure. Maddening tickles, soft and unceasing. “Heehahaha hahahahaha!”
The tickling stopped. Briefly. Yvonne felt the toes of her left foot being grasped, and the soft brush applied to her left sole. “Hahaheehee hahahaha!” Yvonne hugged the satin pillar hard as the tickling continued. And continued. It went on and on while Yvonne squirmed and struggled and howled with laughter.
When Willhem finally untied her, Yvonne made herself sit up and glare at him. She snatched the water he offered, and drank it down thirstily. Then, with another glare, she let Willhem tie her again, this time on her back. Her ankles were bound to the satin post, a little above the floor, and her arms were stretched above her head and bound to the ring set in the floor. “We still have a way to go, Your Majesty,” Willhem commented as he tied her toes in place, preventing her from flexing her feet.
“Huh!” Yvonne snorted. She tried to direct a third glare at Willhem, but he was out of her sight. “Heeek!” she squealed as tickling fingers ran down both her soles. “Heehee eeeek heeheehahaha aaaaah eeeek!” The quick flicking of Willhem’s fingers seemed to find all her sensitive spots. And they were all sensitive. She screamed with laughter, and then giggled and giggled and giggled as the tickling sank in. Squirmy ticklish finger-tickling on the insteps of both feet, and the balls and the heels. And between the toes. Tickling that ran quickly up and down, up and down. Tickling that made Yvonne thrash as she giggled and squealed, as she found that she could tell just where the next tickling touch would land. And there was nothing, nothing she could do about it.
The tickling fingers moved over the tops of her feet, and down her legs. Yvonne squirmed and howled, not just for the tickle sensations sinking into her calves and behind her knees, but in anticipation for what was to come. In anticipation of that slow, steady tickle-front advancing down her legs.
Willhem switched smoothly from his fingers to a feather fan, as the tickling advanced to the outsides and insides of Yvonne’s thighs. Twisting and thrashing, laughter pouring out of her, Yvonne was desperate to escape the feathery touch. And she could not. She could not. She couldn’t.
“Ayeee heeheeheeheehee! Oh! Oh! Ayeeeeeee! Hahahaha!” The fan feathers were stroking her belly now. Stroking her sides and ribs. Working slowly up to stroke her breasts and neck, and up her arms. And then, maddeningly, they started back down. Working their way slowly back across flushed and tickle-outraged skin. Yvonne couldn’t see from the tears of laughter pouring out of her eyes. And still the squeals and laughter came, forced out by the tickling that Willhem inflicted with such terrible skill.
The tickling switched back to fingers as it made its way down Yvonne’s legs. Then the soles of her feet once again hosted Willhem’s light and skillful tickle-touch. She felt him tickle between her toes, and back and forth across her insteps, and up and down from her heels to the base of her toes, and round and round the balls of her feet, and, and, and. And she couldn’t stand it. “EEEEEEE hahaheeheeheehee heeeheehee! Ah aha ah heeheeheeheeheeheehee!” But she had to stand it, as the tickling went on and on and on.
#
When Willhem untied her, Yvonne sprawled limply over a silken rug. She let Willhem feed her sweetmeats and water, too weak to resist. But she wasn’t beaten, she told herself. Enjoy your victory, Willhem Foxbrother. It will be the last one you ever have.
She repeated that thought as she let Willhem tie her once again. Enjoy your victory. This time her arms were tied behind her, her ankles crossed and bound, and a cord fixed to connect her bound wrists to her bound ankles as she lay on her belly. Enjoy your victory. Eeeek!
“Eeeek!” Yvonne squealed as Willhem’s fingers lightly stroked her sides. “Heehee heeheehee hahahahaha!” He was tickling her with quick touches and long pauses between each touch. Tickling her sides, and her hips, and her thighs. She squirmed on the silken rug as he continued the sharp, gentle, tickle-assaults on her helpless body. She found herself pressing against the soft silk, and made herself stop. She suppressed an urge to roll over on her side, in order to protect at least one side from those quick, soft tickle-touches. That would expose her belly, and her breasts. Whole fields for Willhem to apply his tickling to. She couldn’t let him do that, could she?
Yvonne shivered with anticipation as she realized that Willhem could roll her to her side any time he wanted. And that there was nothing she could to stop that tickle-attack. Just like she couldn’t stop squirming and giggling from the side- and leg-tickling he was currently inflicting on her.
The sharp quick tickles changed into long slow teasing strokes, smooth and gentle. They still made Yvonne squirm and giggle, even if she no longer shrieked with each touch. “That’s better, isn’t it?” Willhem asked.
“Heeheehee! No!” Yvonne answered.
“It isn’t?”
“Nooo! Heeheehahaheeheehee! No!”
The tickling stopped. “Well then, lets try this.” Yvonne lifted her head, and Willhem displayed an ivory comb.
“Oh,” Yvonne said. Willhem smiled and stepped around her, out of her sight. She had only a moment to realize that he was going to tickle her feeeet! “EEEEEK! Heeheehahaha heeheeheehee!”
Tickle sensations sank into her helpless soles as the blunt prongs of the comb raked across them. Back and forth across the ball of her left foot, then across the heel, then across the instep. Then across her right sole as well. It was a different tickle sensation from either the finger-tickling or the feather-tickling she had endured earlier. It was sweeter, and spicier. It made her scream with laughter and squirm on the rug, struggling wildly against her bonds.
She couldn’t help laughing. She couldn’t help struggling. She couldn’t help trying to escape, fighting her bonds as hard as she could. But she didn’t want this tickling to stop. It felt too good, the kiss and rake of the ivory prongs across her vulnerable soles. Willhem wielded the comb with exquisite skill, and each of his tickling strokes sent a wave of pleasure through her feet. Down her legs. Into her whole body. Every stroke was a tender torment that made her want the next raking touch. And the next. And the next.
She twisted and squirmed and struggled wildly, completely unable to escape. She screamed and giggled and shrieked and laughed and howled, unable to stop. The tickling when on and on and on, ending only when she absolutely couldn’t take any more. Even though she desperately wanted more.
Untied at last, Yvonne’s next rest period was a longer one. She ate and drank a little, fed by Willhem. She eagerly awaited the next bout of screaming pleasure he would inflict on her. He’d twisted her commands, but she didn’t care. After hours of tickling, she was too tickle-drunk to care.
Cheerfully, Yvonne put her hands behind her back for binding and watched Willhem as the tied her large toes and her ankles, anchoring her bound feet to that ring set into the floor. She squirmed as the feather once again approached her vulnerable soles, and giggled and squealed as it began to tickle.
Fin
