It's been a while since I posted anything in this forum. Been busy with a lot of writing, but unfortunately for the TMF, none of it tickling related.
However, this is a short piece I wrote tonight.
Much of my writing is inspired whilst listening to music, and I had the soundtrack for '300' on in the background. If you have the music, put the forlorn 'farewell to my wife' tracks or 'message for the queen' on in the second half of reading this and you'll probably get some idea of where my emotion is coming from.
Anyway, here it is.
Drums.
That’s what I feel most of all. The drums, like some ancient African tribal ritual, the thunderous rapture of the music that tears at your skin, ploughing deep inside, parting muscle from bone and reaching into your core. Wave upon wave of percussion entering the psyche, resounding within and vibrating every core of your being until you can’t tell if the music screams at you, or you with it.
Are you silent? Do you listen? Does the primeval urge to scream the depth of your feelings at the sky take hold so completely that you strain your voice to shake the earth, scare the gulls and blast the leaves from the trees?
All about you, the sisters pound the floor in unison, bare feet upon the sand. Wild eyed, hair billowing in the wind. Leather and hide skirts, tops, spears clutched in strong hands. Some are blond, some brunette, some dark, some light, one is a red, some are freckled. All sisters of the island. All bound by the cause. All bound by fate.
Eyes open, heads back, mouths open screaming at the storm we stand, in harmony, in descant, in unity.
Amazons, to the last.
We came here years ago. Children of a junior school whose plane crashed upon the island. Without adults, without boundaries, we ran, played in the surf, hunted in the forests until we knew we were the only humans on the island, so far off the map that the Earth had forgotten us.
Playtime turned to fear. How would we eat? Where would we sleep? How would we survive?
But we are children, and children always survive. We always find a way.
Ten years and more have passed. Our youngest eighteen, the eldest twenty two. Where children once played, young women now stand, beautiful and proud.
A scream brings me to my senses. Here in the firelight, the web is ready. Four poles stripped from the trees, tied together in a frame with vines. Loops at the corners for the captive to be placed within. This is our punishment. Life is sacred, and human blood we will not spill unless there is no other way.
Amongst ourselves, the greatest crimes are not punished by banishment, or death, or flogging. We discovered a far greater way. A fitting punishment. One that would not leave a mark.
Two of my sisters bring in the captive. She is an outsider, survivor of a plane crash the night before. She is older than us by not more than five years. Khaki trousers, boots, a shirt and vest, long hair unbound and thrashing about her head as she flails uselessly against my sister’s grasp.
She is brought before our leader. MaryAnne, the Prefect. Forced to kneel in the dirt, she can only sob as my sisters hold her steady, pushing down on her shoulders.
MaryAnne smiles, with warmth.
“Who are you? What do you want with me?” sobs the woman.
“You are not allowed in this part of the island” says MaryAnne.
“My plane crashed! There are survivors! Others…”
“you are not alone? Excellent”
“who are you?” asks the woman, trying to comprehend why she has been brought before this wild tribe.
“Amazons” says MaryAnne. “You are a trespasser and as such are bound by our law”.
The woman tries to regain some self control. She looks about her, wondering what we will do. We all stare back, calmly, waiting for the moment when the order will come.
“are you thirsty?” asks MaryAnne. The woman relaxes, nodding. She has staggered this far from the wreckage with no sustenance.
“Girls. Help her” says MaryAnne. The woman is held, kneeling in the sand near the web. She stares at it whilst the girls hold her arms and a third approaches with a hollowed out coconut. The milk mixed with extract from the plants on the island. Her head is pulled back gently, the mouth opened, and the intoxicating brew poured within.
“You are a trespasser” says MaryAnne as the woman drinks, “Trespassing is a high crime on this island. All women brought before me answer to my law. No sister is above the law”.
As she speaks, I approach on cue and kneel by the woman. Her laces open at my fingers and I tug her boots off her feet. She doesn’t resist as the drink takes its course. Reaching up the trousers, I take the hem of her sock and pull gently downwards, sliding the material over her heel and pulling forward until the fabric glides past her smooth, pink skin and slips off her unpainted toes. Her other foot comes into my hand and that sock slides off gently, barely registering in her mind. Barefoot, she drinks as I take the clothes to the fire and toss the boots and socks within.
She is helped to stand and only now notices the sand beneath her bare feet. My hands glide inside her shirt, popping buttons one at a time. Her arms are held, she can do nothing but stare at me without comprehension as I part the shirt, pushing the folds back over her shoulders- tanned, muscular- she would make a perfect Amazon.
The girls help the sleeves off her arms and I pull the vest upwards. The girls raise her arms and together we slip the vest over her head and pull it away. Like the shirt, it too is discarded in the fire to burn.
She can only stare at her clothes as they crackle within the fire, not noticing my hands at her trouser band, unbuttoning the front and sliding the fabric down over her hips, down her tanned thighs, past her delicate knees, to bunch at her ankles. I nod to the girls who lift her enough for me to pull the trousers away and discard them to the fire.
She shakes her head, realising what is to come.
“….No” she says, eyes pleading even within her intoxicated state.
“….Yes” I smile, reaching behind her back and unclasping her bra. The lacy material comes away from her shoulders, and the girls help it through her arms until it too is in my hands, discarded to its fate. My fingers touch the waistband of her pants and she shrinks away, as if the act itself could delay the inevitable.
My tanned fingers slide down her thighs, past her knees, to her bare ankles with her pants gathered within my grasp. At that moment, she surrenders, knowing there is no alternative, and lifts first one leg, then the other, for me to slide her pants away.
Her eyes follow her underwear to their fate and, naked, she is led to the web and turned to face the tribe. Held in place by the girls, I tie one hand then the other to the frame, then part the legs and strap each bare foot at the corners. Two more girls gather by the frame and she is lifted between the four, eyes never far from the fire that might soon be her home.
But unknown to her, we would never do that. After all, we are Amazons- not savages.
The frame is taken to four poles and suspended from the floor. She lies naked in our midst, looking up as we gather around.
Her head looks from one to the other, seeking some kind of mercy that does not come. We smile, at each other, at her, and at her body that we anticipate will be ours for the night.
MaryAnne’s hand raises, and the single drum beats. With each beat, she tenses, feeling the music deep within her. My hand stretches out, touching one bare foot before me. I feel the smoothness of the arch, unused to hard work. This one has rarely gone barefoot in her life. Unable to stop myself, my hand glides around the smooth flesh, caressing its curves, the subtle creases beyond the heel, the roundness of the ball, and the small, perfect toes protruding.
She smiles, grins, then gives an involuntary laugh. Grins break out around the Amazons. My caress folds round the front of her foot and her eyes close, head shuddering backwards with the release of endorphins. She truly is ticklish.
She is perfect.
She is naked.
And she is ours.
Layla sings a wordless song, voice alternating with the drum and the sound of a single flute. Primeval, a song long invented to cascade within the notes, of sadness, or loss, of rebirth, of things private to each and shared by all.
The single drum increases tempo. From single beats to double, double to a concordance, the rhythm pounding within each of us as my fingers start to work faster, stroking gentler, caressing the skin of her ankles down to her heel, around the toes and onto the soft flesh as the first peals of laughter escape her lips.
“Don’t tickle me!!!”
Hungry as wolves, we grin at her and each other. More hands reach, caressing under her armpits, her ribs, her thighs, knees, neck, and stomach. For me, there is no part of the body except the foot- one perfect, flawless foot before my fingers. For others, each takes their own preference.
Laurelai spider dances on her stomach, fluttering fingers back and forth, kneading the soft roll of her pink abdomen bringing gusts of laughter like squalls of summer rain.
Nataysha strokes her armpit, Jorgina the other, sometimes soft, sometimes scrabbling quickly that makes her buck and squirm.
Denize kneads the ribs and her back arches from the frame, mouth screaming for breathe as she tries to regain control but fails.
To my right, Aychel works on her other foot, tongue sliding between the toes and fingers stroking the soft arch that gives the most reaction.
The drumming softens, insistent, building, rising with repetition as MaryAnne takes her turn. She glides round the side, eyeing her prize with satisfaction. One slender hand, graceful fingers trace down the jaw, the soft neck, between breasts fondled and teased by Zarah and Tessa, down her flat stomach where Laurelai pauses her work to allow our Prefect her time. Down, as the drums build, to the soft, curly hairs surrounding her sex.
As the melody of the song folds within the music, the tickling stops from us all as MaryAnne slides her fingers over the hair, stroking within the curls and the woman gasps, all torment replaced by the most intimate of touch, desire building within her core as the music lifts her to rapture and the touch carries her beyond dreams, beyond hope, to abandonment of her control until all that is left, is the anticipation of the end.
Fingers probe, touching within the soft, moist flesh and the gasp comes anew. Gently stroking, kneading, harnessing the energy building within her womanhood so close now, so strong that no man could perceive what lies within the woman, so that we learn to love, to control, and to abandon ourselves, a feeling that makes us so complete as daughters of Eve.
Her eyes are closed, as are MaryAnne’s, each feeling, sharing, touching as the crescendo of soft music rises them from this mortal coil, through the haze of fire smoke, up into the trees where monkeys howl, beyond into the night sky ablaze with stars that share this moment for us and for them.
Yearning so hard the breath comes with labour, smiling as the sensation spreads a heat so complete the fire could not compare. Building, rising, as surely as the flames crackle the clothing of this woman to ashen threads, forever more to be naked, our plaything, our creature of laughter and desire. What life she led once is gone, what dreams she had harnessed, what promise of the future forgotten as her life is consumed by the now, the present, the desire and the laughter.
MaryAnne’s eyes open and smile at us. As one, we descend to our task, tickling softly as MariAnne leans in, down, down, withdrawing her fingers and gracing our captive with her tongue.
Laughter with desire, pleasure with torment, writhing at the bonds wound tight upon the web, skin aglow with perspiration as we explore every inch, every fold, every curve with our fingers, tongues, flesh upon flesh in waves of ecstasy building her to an inevitable climax of desire at our control.
And before the rest, our Prefect, our MariAnne, tongue gracing her body as she has done to others before, controlling us with our pleasures, showing us the abandonment of control lies with the tickler, not the ticklee. To pleasure another is to give yourself over to them completely. And MariAnne, our leader, first among the sisterhood, is first to serve all others. Her love for us is eternal, complete, constant as the stars, enduring as the sea.
Her tongue probes, darts, caresses, until our captive can cry no more but shudders in silent rapture, carried by the drums, the flutes, the fire, the chanting of voices that bring her home. What life she led must seem like a lie, a nightmare dreamed up in huts of the forlorn when all is lost and the night is darkest. For her the life of clothes upon the body, shoes upon the feet, must seem but a memory. Her life is now, her existence ours. Her ecstasy, forever.
And at the point where she can no longer laugh, nor cry, nor hold back the floodgates of pleasure no more, she relaxes against the waves from within, and pours her love upon us all. Shuddering, one after another, body arched, bare feet pressing, toes scrunching against the frame of the web, hands grasping as she cries a steady note, setting the tone of the song to come.
Our voices rise, our heads held high, matching her scream to the perfect note, joining in as many, joining in as one. We are the sisterhood, and she is reborn, as one to the fold.
And as she collapses upon the bier, MaryAnne looks at us, her eyes glowing in the firelight, smile gently reminding us that all is well, but more is yet to come.
“she said there were others….”
take it easy
Loquei
However, this is a short piece I wrote tonight.
Much of my writing is inspired whilst listening to music, and I had the soundtrack for '300' on in the background. If you have the music, put the forlorn 'farewell to my wife' tracks or 'message for the queen' on in the second half of reading this and you'll probably get some idea of where my emotion is coming from.
Anyway, here it is.
Drums.
That’s what I feel most of all. The drums, like some ancient African tribal ritual, the thunderous rapture of the music that tears at your skin, ploughing deep inside, parting muscle from bone and reaching into your core. Wave upon wave of percussion entering the psyche, resounding within and vibrating every core of your being until you can’t tell if the music screams at you, or you with it.
Are you silent? Do you listen? Does the primeval urge to scream the depth of your feelings at the sky take hold so completely that you strain your voice to shake the earth, scare the gulls and blast the leaves from the trees?
All about you, the sisters pound the floor in unison, bare feet upon the sand. Wild eyed, hair billowing in the wind. Leather and hide skirts, tops, spears clutched in strong hands. Some are blond, some brunette, some dark, some light, one is a red, some are freckled. All sisters of the island. All bound by the cause. All bound by fate.
Eyes open, heads back, mouths open screaming at the storm we stand, in harmony, in descant, in unity.
Amazons, to the last.
We came here years ago. Children of a junior school whose plane crashed upon the island. Without adults, without boundaries, we ran, played in the surf, hunted in the forests until we knew we were the only humans on the island, so far off the map that the Earth had forgotten us.
Playtime turned to fear. How would we eat? Where would we sleep? How would we survive?
But we are children, and children always survive. We always find a way.
Ten years and more have passed. Our youngest eighteen, the eldest twenty two. Where children once played, young women now stand, beautiful and proud.
A scream brings me to my senses. Here in the firelight, the web is ready. Four poles stripped from the trees, tied together in a frame with vines. Loops at the corners for the captive to be placed within. This is our punishment. Life is sacred, and human blood we will not spill unless there is no other way.
Amongst ourselves, the greatest crimes are not punished by banishment, or death, or flogging. We discovered a far greater way. A fitting punishment. One that would not leave a mark.
Two of my sisters bring in the captive. She is an outsider, survivor of a plane crash the night before. She is older than us by not more than five years. Khaki trousers, boots, a shirt and vest, long hair unbound and thrashing about her head as she flails uselessly against my sister’s grasp.
She is brought before our leader. MaryAnne, the Prefect. Forced to kneel in the dirt, she can only sob as my sisters hold her steady, pushing down on her shoulders.
MaryAnne smiles, with warmth.
“Who are you? What do you want with me?” sobs the woman.
“You are not allowed in this part of the island” says MaryAnne.
“My plane crashed! There are survivors! Others…”
“you are not alone? Excellent”
“who are you?” asks the woman, trying to comprehend why she has been brought before this wild tribe.
“Amazons” says MaryAnne. “You are a trespasser and as such are bound by our law”.
The woman tries to regain some self control. She looks about her, wondering what we will do. We all stare back, calmly, waiting for the moment when the order will come.
“are you thirsty?” asks MaryAnne. The woman relaxes, nodding. She has staggered this far from the wreckage with no sustenance.
“Girls. Help her” says MaryAnne. The woman is held, kneeling in the sand near the web. She stares at it whilst the girls hold her arms and a third approaches with a hollowed out coconut. The milk mixed with extract from the plants on the island. Her head is pulled back gently, the mouth opened, and the intoxicating brew poured within.
“You are a trespasser” says MaryAnne as the woman drinks, “Trespassing is a high crime on this island. All women brought before me answer to my law. No sister is above the law”.
As she speaks, I approach on cue and kneel by the woman. Her laces open at my fingers and I tug her boots off her feet. She doesn’t resist as the drink takes its course. Reaching up the trousers, I take the hem of her sock and pull gently downwards, sliding the material over her heel and pulling forward until the fabric glides past her smooth, pink skin and slips off her unpainted toes. Her other foot comes into my hand and that sock slides off gently, barely registering in her mind. Barefoot, she drinks as I take the clothes to the fire and toss the boots and socks within.
She is helped to stand and only now notices the sand beneath her bare feet. My hands glide inside her shirt, popping buttons one at a time. Her arms are held, she can do nothing but stare at me without comprehension as I part the shirt, pushing the folds back over her shoulders- tanned, muscular- she would make a perfect Amazon.
The girls help the sleeves off her arms and I pull the vest upwards. The girls raise her arms and together we slip the vest over her head and pull it away. Like the shirt, it too is discarded in the fire to burn.
She can only stare at her clothes as they crackle within the fire, not noticing my hands at her trouser band, unbuttoning the front and sliding the fabric down over her hips, down her tanned thighs, past her delicate knees, to bunch at her ankles. I nod to the girls who lift her enough for me to pull the trousers away and discard them to the fire.
She shakes her head, realising what is to come.
“….No” she says, eyes pleading even within her intoxicated state.
“….Yes” I smile, reaching behind her back and unclasping her bra. The lacy material comes away from her shoulders, and the girls help it through her arms until it too is in my hands, discarded to its fate. My fingers touch the waistband of her pants and she shrinks away, as if the act itself could delay the inevitable.
My tanned fingers slide down her thighs, past her knees, to her bare ankles with her pants gathered within my grasp. At that moment, she surrenders, knowing there is no alternative, and lifts first one leg, then the other, for me to slide her pants away.
Her eyes follow her underwear to their fate and, naked, she is led to the web and turned to face the tribe. Held in place by the girls, I tie one hand then the other to the frame, then part the legs and strap each bare foot at the corners. Two more girls gather by the frame and she is lifted between the four, eyes never far from the fire that might soon be her home.
But unknown to her, we would never do that. After all, we are Amazons- not savages.
The frame is taken to four poles and suspended from the floor. She lies naked in our midst, looking up as we gather around.
Her head looks from one to the other, seeking some kind of mercy that does not come. We smile, at each other, at her, and at her body that we anticipate will be ours for the night.
MaryAnne’s hand raises, and the single drum beats. With each beat, she tenses, feeling the music deep within her. My hand stretches out, touching one bare foot before me. I feel the smoothness of the arch, unused to hard work. This one has rarely gone barefoot in her life. Unable to stop myself, my hand glides around the smooth flesh, caressing its curves, the subtle creases beyond the heel, the roundness of the ball, and the small, perfect toes protruding.
She smiles, grins, then gives an involuntary laugh. Grins break out around the Amazons. My caress folds round the front of her foot and her eyes close, head shuddering backwards with the release of endorphins. She truly is ticklish.
She is perfect.
She is naked.
And she is ours.
Layla sings a wordless song, voice alternating with the drum and the sound of a single flute. Primeval, a song long invented to cascade within the notes, of sadness, or loss, of rebirth, of things private to each and shared by all.
The single drum increases tempo. From single beats to double, double to a concordance, the rhythm pounding within each of us as my fingers start to work faster, stroking gentler, caressing the skin of her ankles down to her heel, around the toes and onto the soft flesh as the first peals of laughter escape her lips.
“Don’t tickle me!!!”
Hungry as wolves, we grin at her and each other. More hands reach, caressing under her armpits, her ribs, her thighs, knees, neck, and stomach. For me, there is no part of the body except the foot- one perfect, flawless foot before my fingers. For others, each takes their own preference.
Laurelai spider dances on her stomach, fluttering fingers back and forth, kneading the soft roll of her pink abdomen bringing gusts of laughter like squalls of summer rain.
Nataysha strokes her armpit, Jorgina the other, sometimes soft, sometimes scrabbling quickly that makes her buck and squirm.
Denize kneads the ribs and her back arches from the frame, mouth screaming for breathe as she tries to regain control but fails.
To my right, Aychel works on her other foot, tongue sliding between the toes and fingers stroking the soft arch that gives the most reaction.
The drumming softens, insistent, building, rising with repetition as MaryAnne takes her turn. She glides round the side, eyeing her prize with satisfaction. One slender hand, graceful fingers trace down the jaw, the soft neck, between breasts fondled and teased by Zarah and Tessa, down her flat stomach where Laurelai pauses her work to allow our Prefect her time. Down, as the drums build, to the soft, curly hairs surrounding her sex.
As the melody of the song folds within the music, the tickling stops from us all as MaryAnne slides her fingers over the hair, stroking within the curls and the woman gasps, all torment replaced by the most intimate of touch, desire building within her core as the music lifts her to rapture and the touch carries her beyond dreams, beyond hope, to abandonment of her control until all that is left, is the anticipation of the end.
Fingers probe, touching within the soft, moist flesh and the gasp comes anew. Gently stroking, kneading, harnessing the energy building within her womanhood so close now, so strong that no man could perceive what lies within the woman, so that we learn to love, to control, and to abandon ourselves, a feeling that makes us so complete as daughters of Eve.
Her eyes are closed, as are MaryAnne’s, each feeling, sharing, touching as the crescendo of soft music rises them from this mortal coil, through the haze of fire smoke, up into the trees where monkeys howl, beyond into the night sky ablaze with stars that share this moment for us and for them.
Yearning so hard the breath comes with labour, smiling as the sensation spreads a heat so complete the fire could not compare. Building, rising, as surely as the flames crackle the clothing of this woman to ashen threads, forever more to be naked, our plaything, our creature of laughter and desire. What life she led once is gone, what dreams she had harnessed, what promise of the future forgotten as her life is consumed by the now, the present, the desire and the laughter.
MaryAnne’s eyes open and smile at us. As one, we descend to our task, tickling softly as MariAnne leans in, down, down, withdrawing her fingers and gracing our captive with her tongue.
Laughter with desire, pleasure with torment, writhing at the bonds wound tight upon the web, skin aglow with perspiration as we explore every inch, every fold, every curve with our fingers, tongues, flesh upon flesh in waves of ecstasy building her to an inevitable climax of desire at our control.
And before the rest, our Prefect, our MariAnne, tongue gracing her body as she has done to others before, controlling us with our pleasures, showing us the abandonment of control lies with the tickler, not the ticklee. To pleasure another is to give yourself over to them completely. And MariAnne, our leader, first among the sisterhood, is first to serve all others. Her love for us is eternal, complete, constant as the stars, enduring as the sea.
Her tongue probes, darts, caresses, until our captive can cry no more but shudders in silent rapture, carried by the drums, the flutes, the fire, the chanting of voices that bring her home. What life she led must seem like a lie, a nightmare dreamed up in huts of the forlorn when all is lost and the night is darkest. For her the life of clothes upon the body, shoes upon the feet, must seem but a memory. Her life is now, her existence ours. Her ecstasy, forever.
And at the point where she can no longer laugh, nor cry, nor hold back the floodgates of pleasure no more, she relaxes against the waves from within, and pours her love upon us all. Shuddering, one after another, body arched, bare feet pressing, toes scrunching against the frame of the web, hands grasping as she cries a steady note, setting the tone of the song to come.
Our voices rise, our heads held high, matching her scream to the perfect note, joining in as many, joining in as one. We are the sisterhood, and she is reborn, as one to the fold.
And as she collapses upon the bier, MaryAnne looks at us, her eyes glowing in the firelight, smile gently reminding us that all is well, but more is yet to come.
“she said there were others….”
take it easy
Loquei
