goddess_nemesis
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THE SUMMONER'S TALE
We assembled in the common room of the Golden Feather the next day with a general feeling of expectation. The story we had heard from our hostess the previous day had inspired many of us to recall similar tales, and we were looking forward to our chance to amuse the company. I dare say some of us were inspired to more than remembrance, if the quiet laughter I had heard during the night was any indication. While we waited for the summoner to finish his drink and begin his story, I could not help but wonder who I had heard. The young lady whose trade I did not know, perhaps ... but she hardly looked the sort to be involved in such a thing...
A thump drew our attention as the summoner set down his mug and looked around to make sure we were all listening before he launched into his story. "The tale I have in mind involves a lady, but one quite unlike our hostess," he said, with a nod to that worthy.
***
Her name [the summoner continued] was Erszebet, and she was a baron's widow, not young but not yet of middle years. She was tall, raven-haired, and pale-faced, with heavy but pleasing features and a strong body. Though attractive, and possessed of good lands, she had few suitors, for a reason that shall become obvious.
It is common for ladies alone to take up a hobby, whether it be sewing or painting or verse, but some mischievous spirit moved Baroness Erszebet to an unusual pastime: tickling men. Though she extended the hospitality of her castle to any traveler, all males were expected to pay for their lodging with a night of tormented laughter -- more if the baroness found them particularly pleasing. She would welcome them to her hall, see to their comforts and feed them dinner, and then -- at the end of the meal -- she would demand her recompense, smiling faintly as her servants seized the protesting guests and bore them off to await her pleasure.
And so cunning was Baroness Erszebet's eye, so deft her fingers, that no one ever escaped without paying his toll of mirth in full. She knew well when and where to apply a coyly trailing fingernail, which spots on a victim's belly would reward rhythmically digging fingers, and when to throw subtlety aside and inflict a ruthless two-handed scrabbling. Once a man felt Erszebet's touch on his secret sensitive places, he would agree to anything in order to secure her mercy, which was never forthcoming. It is said she once tortured a holy monk into blaspheming against the He whom he served -- and then dealt him a penance he never forgot.
Even lords traveling with their ladies were not safe. Erszebet would have them locked in separate but adjoining rooms and torment the man to madness. She would promise him mercy only if he denounced his lady in the foulest possible terms. And such is the weakness of the flesh, and such was Erszebet's skill, many men took this evil bargain, even though they knew their ladies would hear every word. Erszebet delighted in seeing the vengeance these scorned women would then extract from the bound bodies of their former lovers. Many a romance ended at Erszebet's castle, which for that reason became known as the Castle of Woeful Mirth.
When travelers began to avoid the castle, Baroness Erszebet sent out her soldiers to seize them off the roads. And her ladies-in-waiting, who shared her interests, often left the castle to wander the countryside and woe betide any man they caught alone. It was truly a land of terror. Even so, there were still some men who came to the castle deliberately, believing themselves capable of taming the baroness and making her their wife. She took especial pleasure in these fools, keeping them prisoner for weeks or even months of tickling before she tired of them and had them rolled in tar and feathers and thrown naked out the postern gate. And there were even greater fools who came to her because they enjoyed being tickled. The fortunate among them she merely sent away, turning a deaf ear to their pleading. The unfortunate were given to the ladies-in-waiting for "practice," and their sanity was soon tickled away from them.
It is only natural that folk should begin to avoid Baroness Erszebet's lands entirely. Whole villages packed up their belongings and fled to more convivial lands. The baroness grew dark with frustration, toying with the idea of raiding one of her neighbors for fresh prey -- but her best general had been tickled silly long ago, as had half her army. (When there was no other fun to be had, she would resort to her servitors, but she found their coarse laughter and pale, muddy skin unsatisfying. Her jaded senses could only be pleased by a victim of the nobler classes.)
So it was that, on a dark and stormy night, the baroness was overjoyed when a dripping young man was escorted before her. He gave his name as Oliver, and claimed to be a common peddler lost in the rain. But the baroness discerned the cultured tone of his speech, and noted well the rich fabric of his cloak, and knew that he was no more a peddler than she a washerwoman. Moreover, he was handsome, with striking green eyes and pale skin she longed to feel the smoothness of. So great was the baroness's desire that she made no pretense of hospitality, but had young Oliver seized on the spot. But she was no gourmand, to simply have him chained and glut herself on tickling until she had taken all she could from him. She meant to make this a night she -- and Oliver -- would recall the rest of her days, and began giving commands.
The castle kitchens worked overtime, and scant hours later the baroness's table was being set for a feast, to be attended only by the baroness and her eight favorite ladies. They laid the table with fruits and jellies, meats roasted, boiled, and stewed, vegetables spiced and chopped, all sorts of cakes and pastries (the baroness loved sweets), tall pitchers of old wine, loaves of fresh bread, and every other thing good to eat and drink. And in the midst of all the dishes lay Oliver, hands and feet chained to rings set in the table. He had been stripped, and his pale skin gleamed softly in the torchlight. He seemed strangely calm as the ladies seated themselves around the table, even though they giggled and made indelicate comments and teased him with the sight of the long feathers and soft sable-tipped brushes they held. A wedge had been placed under his head, so he looked straight down his body to the head of the table, where sat Baroness Erszebet. Her smile of anticipation would have struck terror in any man.
"A fine meal," Oliver said, looking around him. "But I see you lack for musicians."
The baroness's smile grew broader. "You are all the music we need." The ladies giggled again at that, and the baroness made a sign with her hand. As servants rushed to fill their cups and plates, the ladies began to eat -- and between each bite, each sip, they began to use the tools they bore on Oliver's helpless flesh.
Brushes and feathers glided up his flanks, circled the hollow of each armpit, twirled in his ears and down his neck, swept the fine skin of his soles. They moved smoothly, slowly, even lazily, but never stopped entirely as the ladies chattered, giggled, ate daintily, and tickled their captive. Oliver's entire body was subject to an ever-changing, completely unpredictable pattern of torture. A stone statue would have become hysterical under such delicate torment, and Oliver was flesh: he squirmed, giggled, chuckled, roared with laughter that grew increasingly desperate as the probing brushes and feathers found one too-sensitive place after another. He could barely move in his chains, and it would have done him no good even if he were free, for he would have needed eyes all around his head to guess where the next devastating tickle would come from. The eight wicked ladies strove to outdo one another in what they inflicted on him and so win honor in the baroness's eyes. One leaned out over the table, her gown nearly trailing into the soup, to flutter her feather-tip inside Oliver's navel, and was amply rewarded with a shriek of renewed mirth and a sudden buck of his hips that set the plates to rattling. Immediately feathers and brushes slipped from all over his body to explore his belly, giving him a terrible few minutes until another lady discovered that she could make him yell and jerk his leg by brushing along the tops of his toes. Many feathers and brushes congregated on his toes and soles then, bringing him into convulsions, while others roamed his body, seeking the next promising spot.
But there were limits. The whole procedure was carried out under the baroness's delighted but still watchful eye. When one overeager lady dared to actually touch the captive, twisting a fingertip into the soft space between two ribs, the baroness snapped her fingers. The unfortunate lady was immediately surrounded by soldiers and hauled, wailing, from the room; her fate must be left to my listeners' imaginations. One tickler gone out of eight afforded Oliver only scant relief, especially since the ladies -- made fearful by their sister's sudden departure -- tried even harder to prove themselves on his squirming body. Food went uneaten, cups untouched, as they threw themselves entirely into tickling Oliver. There was no sound to be heard in the hall but his screams of laughter and the clatter of chains as he writhed in ticklish agony.
The baroness's eyes shone, but one thing troubled her. Although Oliver's mirthfully struggling body was as delicious a sight and sound as she might ask for, never once in the midst of his laughter did he speak to beg for mercy. The baroness much loved to hear (and ignore) these laughter-choked, incoherent pleas from her victims, and it bothered her that Oliver had not come forth with so much as a simple "Please stop!" There was the strangest glint in his green eyes when his gaze fell on her, as well. No matter, the baroness decided, taking a candied fruit to nibble while she watched two of the ladies belabor Oliver's soles with the quills of their feathers. She would make him beg herself, she thought as she enjoyed the way his toes spread and curled.
The baroness rose from her chair, her eyes fixed on Oliver's. "Leave me," she directed. The servants swiftly cleared the table of the remains of the feast and departed, followed by the soldiers and the seven tickling ladies, who cast many a regretful glance back at their former victim. Oliver did not look at them. He watched the baroness.
She gloried in the sight of him. The all-over stroking and brushing had brought the blood closer to the surface of the skin, so he was a soft, pearly pink, looking tender than ever. A thin film of sweat glimmered his body and darkened his curls. He breathed deeply, with a tiny involuntary tremor now and then. She knew, from watching his earlier torment, exactly where he was most vulnerable, and quivers of delight shook her in anticipation of the fun to come.
"Truly, Heaven has rewarded me by sending you," the baroness said softly.
"Truly," Oliver said, and once again there was that disconcerting flash of irony. The baroness's mood soured slightly.
"Your only imperfection, dear boy, is that you are not quite servile enough yet. Let us see what we can do about that ... " So saying, the baroness moved around the table, leaning over Oliver's body to put her hands on his shoulders. Feathers in the hollows of his arms had driven him to distraction, and she knew that the nails of her slender fingers could do worse than any plume on such taut, sensitive flesh.
"I do not serve," Oliver said firmly.
"Be quiet, child. You will learn." So saying, the baroness slipped her extended forefingers under Oliver's arms, circling them gently. Immediately, despite his weariness, the youth began to giggle helplessly and thrash as much as his bonds allowed. The baroness was at war within herself, half of her wanting to go slowly and draw out his torment as long as possible, the other half wanting to attack him mercilessly and overwhelm his defenses. The latter half won, for she wanted to hear him plead *now* -- and there would be time in the days and weeks to come for more subtle exploration of her new toy's weaknesses.
Oliver burst into full-throated laughter as all ten fingers began their dance in his stretched-open underarms. He was trying to roll over and succeeding in only raising one side of his body, then the other, before his restraints stopped him from moving farther. Each time he did so, the baroness darted out a hand and swiftly tickled the ribs on the upturned side, driving him back down again. It was not long before Oliver's squirming became less marked. The underarm tickling was still unbearable, but he dared not offer his ribs up to her again. The baroness could sense his desperation in the pitch of his laughter and the tension of his body, and she smiled to herself.
But still he said nothing. The baroness slowed her pace slightly so he might have more breath to beg with. "How delicate you are!" she said, hoping to provoke him to speech with her own teasing words. "I can lay a finger anywhere on you and it will tickle ... " And to prove her point, she drew her fingertips lightly across his stomach, making him quiver and giggle brokenly. As she pressed her fingers deeper into the trembling muscles, the giggles became chuckles, then guffaws, then the wild whooping laughter that comes only from being tickled past endurance. His hips wriggled, his head rolled from side to side as the laughter shook his body. "So ticklish, the least little touch is more than you can stand ... " she taunted as her fingers kneaded the soft spots just below the ribs. He bellowed wordlessly, his back arching for a moment before her relentless tickling forced him back down, controlling him with an ease born of long practice. "I don't think you'll last very long ... so I might as well have as much fun as I can with you."
With that, she withdrew, looking down at her quivering, sweat-slicked plaything with pleasure. "I am glad…you are enjoying yourself," Oliver gasped.
"Hush," the baroness warned. "I want to hear only two things from you -- your laughter and your submission." So saying, she moved to the base of the table, where she could reach his feet, and began to almost idly stroke them. Oliver's legs twitched, his toes curled, and he gasped. Slowly her fingers curved towards the most vulnerable spots -- the pale soft skin of the arches and under the toes, practically inviting a fingertip to glide over it. The tougher skin on the balls, which would not feel a finger but could be tickled horribly by a scratching nail or five. And Oliver's gasps became chuckles, then yelps as she began to tickle more busily. "I know just what to do to you," she said, pushing back the toes of one foot so she could rake her fingers down the taut length of the sole. Oliver laughed as one demented and yanked mightily on the leg, but his foot moved not an inch away from her tickling touch. "I will allow you to resist only so long as it amuses me to punish you…"
So saying, she climbed onto the table to kneel between his widespread legs, fluttering fingers moving up their length. Oliver jerked and giggled when she touched him behind the knees, and squirmed as unbearable sensations contorted his muscles as her fingers glided up the smoothness of his inner thighs. But that was nothing compared to the wild fit he threw when she began to gently tease the tight-drawn surface of his scrotum with her fingertips, simultaneously probing his navel with a nail. His face was dark red as he fought the bonds with single-minded possession, body twisting this way and that but finding no escape anywhere. Moans and shrieks fought their way out of him as she worked on him without cease, letting the torment build. His eyes were clamped tight shut as he screamed his laughter, but even if he had opened them, he would have seen nothing more than a wicked smile and sparkling eyes that promised only a lifetime of such ticklish agony.
"Do you want me to stop?" the baroness asked coyly when she tired of the torture, allowing him to slump down and gasp for breath. Her fingernails crawled all the way up and down his sides, touching each vulnerability knowingly -- not quite tickling but still denying him relaxation.
"I -- iii -- if y-you wish -- aaah!" Oliver, exhausted and shaking, could no more control his voice than he could control the way he twitched and jumped every time she touched him.
The baroness frowned. "If you want me to stop, you must ask me humbly," she said, giving his ribs a warning tweak.
Oliver's head lolled from side to side, and it took her a moment to realize that he was shaking his head. "I ... will ... not," he managed to get out.
Fury roughened the baroness's voice and lent edges to her smile. "Yes, you will," she said in a dangerous purr, "and until you do .... " Leaning further forward over him, she filled each of his taut armpits with an army of swirling points. Oliver yelled, his body bumping against hers as he struggled. She could feel the heat of his skin even in that brief contact, and pressed against him, enjoying the feel of his thrashing form as her fingers raced tirelessly from underarms to ribs and back again. She was completely caught up in the pleasure now -- she could no more stop tickling him than he could suppress his shrieks as she clawed his ribs. Oliver's mouth was open in an unending, silent scream of breathless laughter, and he was flushed scarlet all over. Tears leaked out the corners of his screwed-up eyes, running over his cheeks. But the frustrated baroness allowed him no respite. It was not enough that his body acknowledged her mastery; she would not be content until he submitted in his mind as well. And if she had to tickle him to unconsciousness or madness to do that ... it would not have been the first time.
Finally, in a faint croak, came the words she had been longing to hear. "Mercy ... have mercy."
Baroness Erszebet permitted herself a long, slow smile. "No." And she reached back to attack the cringing soles of his feet with her fingernails, bringing fresh screams of mirth from him.
The scarlet flush on Oliver's body deepened to crimson, and the chains shattered and fell away from him as he rose from the table. Horns grew from his forehead, his teeth became sharp points, and huge wings akin to those of a bat unfolded from behind him. The baroness fell to her knees in terror as the monstrous figure reached for her -- but it only stroked her hair with one red-hot palm.
"Well done, my dear," it said in a voice like a scream of despair. "I have need of you in my realm." And with a terrible rending sound, the hill beneath the Castle of Woeful Mirth split asunder, plummeting the castle down -- down -- to depths no living man has ever plumbed.
***
The summoner concluded his tale with a stern look around the room. While it was apparent that many of us had been moved by his weird story, the harpist was frowning unhappily. "Is that all?" she burst out.
"All? How do you mean?" the summoner asked.
"It seems unjust. Your baroness may have been a wicked woman, but her crimes hardly deserved the sort of punishment you have her suffering..."
"Punishment?" the summoner echoed. "Not a bit of it! The baroness and her ladies were RECRUITED. Even now, their shades roam the underworld, seeking out the souls of those condemned for unfaithfulness or sensuality ... and dealing out a vengeance as only they can. I mean the story as a warning to those who would endanger their souls in this world."
The soldier snorted. "I would hardly call that a punishment to be feared ... " And he and the summoner began a half-serious argument as the rest of us turned back to our tasks.
After the last meal of the day, the solemn Webster rose. "I would like to claim tomorrow's tale, for I believe it will go pleasingly with the one we have heard." The company assented to this, and we separated to go to our several rooms.
We assembled in the common room of the Golden Feather the next day with a general feeling of expectation. The story we had heard from our hostess the previous day had inspired many of us to recall similar tales, and we were looking forward to our chance to amuse the company. I dare say some of us were inspired to more than remembrance, if the quiet laughter I had heard during the night was any indication. While we waited for the summoner to finish his drink and begin his story, I could not help but wonder who I had heard. The young lady whose trade I did not know, perhaps ... but she hardly looked the sort to be involved in such a thing...
A thump drew our attention as the summoner set down his mug and looked around to make sure we were all listening before he launched into his story. "The tale I have in mind involves a lady, but one quite unlike our hostess," he said, with a nod to that worthy.
***
Her name [the summoner continued] was Erszebet, and she was a baron's widow, not young but not yet of middle years. She was tall, raven-haired, and pale-faced, with heavy but pleasing features and a strong body. Though attractive, and possessed of good lands, she had few suitors, for a reason that shall become obvious.
It is common for ladies alone to take up a hobby, whether it be sewing or painting or verse, but some mischievous spirit moved Baroness Erszebet to an unusual pastime: tickling men. Though she extended the hospitality of her castle to any traveler, all males were expected to pay for their lodging with a night of tormented laughter -- more if the baroness found them particularly pleasing. She would welcome them to her hall, see to their comforts and feed them dinner, and then -- at the end of the meal -- she would demand her recompense, smiling faintly as her servants seized the protesting guests and bore them off to await her pleasure.
And so cunning was Baroness Erszebet's eye, so deft her fingers, that no one ever escaped without paying his toll of mirth in full. She knew well when and where to apply a coyly trailing fingernail, which spots on a victim's belly would reward rhythmically digging fingers, and when to throw subtlety aside and inflict a ruthless two-handed scrabbling. Once a man felt Erszebet's touch on his secret sensitive places, he would agree to anything in order to secure her mercy, which was never forthcoming. It is said she once tortured a holy monk into blaspheming against the He whom he served -- and then dealt him a penance he never forgot.
Even lords traveling with their ladies were not safe. Erszebet would have them locked in separate but adjoining rooms and torment the man to madness. She would promise him mercy only if he denounced his lady in the foulest possible terms. And such is the weakness of the flesh, and such was Erszebet's skill, many men took this evil bargain, even though they knew their ladies would hear every word. Erszebet delighted in seeing the vengeance these scorned women would then extract from the bound bodies of their former lovers. Many a romance ended at Erszebet's castle, which for that reason became known as the Castle of Woeful Mirth.
When travelers began to avoid the castle, Baroness Erszebet sent out her soldiers to seize them off the roads. And her ladies-in-waiting, who shared her interests, often left the castle to wander the countryside and woe betide any man they caught alone. It was truly a land of terror. Even so, there were still some men who came to the castle deliberately, believing themselves capable of taming the baroness and making her their wife. She took especial pleasure in these fools, keeping them prisoner for weeks or even months of tickling before she tired of them and had them rolled in tar and feathers and thrown naked out the postern gate. And there were even greater fools who came to her because they enjoyed being tickled. The fortunate among them she merely sent away, turning a deaf ear to their pleading. The unfortunate were given to the ladies-in-waiting for "practice," and their sanity was soon tickled away from them.
It is only natural that folk should begin to avoid Baroness Erszebet's lands entirely. Whole villages packed up their belongings and fled to more convivial lands. The baroness grew dark with frustration, toying with the idea of raiding one of her neighbors for fresh prey -- but her best general had been tickled silly long ago, as had half her army. (When there was no other fun to be had, she would resort to her servitors, but she found their coarse laughter and pale, muddy skin unsatisfying. Her jaded senses could only be pleased by a victim of the nobler classes.)
So it was that, on a dark and stormy night, the baroness was overjoyed when a dripping young man was escorted before her. He gave his name as Oliver, and claimed to be a common peddler lost in the rain. But the baroness discerned the cultured tone of his speech, and noted well the rich fabric of his cloak, and knew that he was no more a peddler than she a washerwoman. Moreover, he was handsome, with striking green eyes and pale skin she longed to feel the smoothness of. So great was the baroness's desire that she made no pretense of hospitality, but had young Oliver seized on the spot. But she was no gourmand, to simply have him chained and glut herself on tickling until she had taken all she could from him. She meant to make this a night she -- and Oliver -- would recall the rest of her days, and began giving commands.
The castle kitchens worked overtime, and scant hours later the baroness's table was being set for a feast, to be attended only by the baroness and her eight favorite ladies. They laid the table with fruits and jellies, meats roasted, boiled, and stewed, vegetables spiced and chopped, all sorts of cakes and pastries (the baroness loved sweets), tall pitchers of old wine, loaves of fresh bread, and every other thing good to eat and drink. And in the midst of all the dishes lay Oliver, hands and feet chained to rings set in the table. He had been stripped, and his pale skin gleamed softly in the torchlight. He seemed strangely calm as the ladies seated themselves around the table, even though they giggled and made indelicate comments and teased him with the sight of the long feathers and soft sable-tipped brushes they held. A wedge had been placed under his head, so he looked straight down his body to the head of the table, where sat Baroness Erszebet. Her smile of anticipation would have struck terror in any man.
"A fine meal," Oliver said, looking around him. "But I see you lack for musicians."
The baroness's smile grew broader. "You are all the music we need." The ladies giggled again at that, and the baroness made a sign with her hand. As servants rushed to fill their cups and plates, the ladies began to eat -- and between each bite, each sip, they began to use the tools they bore on Oliver's helpless flesh.
Brushes and feathers glided up his flanks, circled the hollow of each armpit, twirled in his ears and down his neck, swept the fine skin of his soles. They moved smoothly, slowly, even lazily, but never stopped entirely as the ladies chattered, giggled, ate daintily, and tickled their captive. Oliver's entire body was subject to an ever-changing, completely unpredictable pattern of torture. A stone statue would have become hysterical under such delicate torment, and Oliver was flesh: he squirmed, giggled, chuckled, roared with laughter that grew increasingly desperate as the probing brushes and feathers found one too-sensitive place after another. He could barely move in his chains, and it would have done him no good even if he were free, for he would have needed eyes all around his head to guess where the next devastating tickle would come from. The eight wicked ladies strove to outdo one another in what they inflicted on him and so win honor in the baroness's eyes. One leaned out over the table, her gown nearly trailing into the soup, to flutter her feather-tip inside Oliver's navel, and was amply rewarded with a shriek of renewed mirth and a sudden buck of his hips that set the plates to rattling. Immediately feathers and brushes slipped from all over his body to explore his belly, giving him a terrible few minutes until another lady discovered that she could make him yell and jerk his leg by brushing along the tops of his toes. Many feathers and brushes congregated on his toes and soles then, bringing him into convulsions, while others roamed his body, seeking the next promising spot.
But there were limits. The whole procedure was carried out under the baroness's delighted but still watchful eye. When one overeager lady dared to actually touch the captive, twisting a fingertip into the soft space between two ribs, the baroness snapped her fingers. The unfortunate lady was immediately surrounded by soldiers and hauled, wailing, from the room; her fate must be left to my listeners' imaginations. One tickler gone out of eight afforded Oliver only scant relief, especially since the ladies -- made fearful by their sister's sudden departure -- tried even harder to prove themselves on his squirming body. Food went uneaten, cups untouched, as they threw themselves entirely into tickling Oliver. There was no sound to be heard in the hall but his screams of laughter and the clatter of chains as he writhed in ticklish agony.
The baroness's eyes shone, but one thing troubled her. Although Oliver's mirthfully struggling body was as delicious a sight and sound as she might ask for, never once in the midst of his laughter did he speak to beg for mercy. The baroness much loved to hear (and ignore) these laughter-choked, incoherent pleas from her victims, and it bothered her that Oliver had not come forth with so much as a simple "Please stop!" There was the strangest glint in his green eyes when his gaze fell on her, as well. No matter, the baroness decided, taking a candied fruit to nibble while she watched two of the ladies belabor Oliver's soles with the quills of their feathers. She would make him beg herself, she thought as she enjoyed the way his toes spread and curled.
The baroness rose from her chair, her eyes fixed on Oliver's. "Leave me," she directed. The servants swiftly cleared the table of the remains of the feast and departed, followed by the soldiers and the seven tickling ladies, who cast many a regretful glance back at their former victim. Oliver did not look at them. He watched the baroness.
She gloried in the sight of him. The all-over stroking and brushing had brought the blood closer to the surface of the skin, so he was a soft, pearly pink, looking tender than ever. A thin film of sweat glimmered his body and darkened his curls. He breathed deeply, with a tiny involuntary tremor now and then. She knew, from watching his earlier torment, exactly where he was most vulnerable, and quivers of delight shook her in anticipation of the fun to come.
"Truly, Heaven has rewarded me by sending you," the baroness said softly.
"Truly," Oliver said, and once again there was that disconcerting flash of irony. The baroness's mood soured slightly.
"Your only imperfection, dear boy, is that you are not quite servile enough yet. Let us see what we can do about that ... " So saying, the baroness moved around the table, leaning over Oliver's body to put her hands on his shoulders. Feathers in the hollows of his arms had driven him to distraction, and she knew that the nails of her slender fingers could do worse than any plume on such taut, sensitive flesh.
"I do not serve," Oliver said firmly.
"Be quiet, child. You will learn." So saying, the baroness slipped her extended forefingers under Oliver's arms, circling them gently. Immediately, despite his weariness, the youth began to giggle helplessly and thrash as much as his bonds allowed. The baroness was at war within herself, half of her wanting to go slowly and draw out his torment as long as possible, the other half wanting to attack him mercilessly and overwhelm his defenses. The latter half won, for she wanted to hear him plead *now* -- and there would be time in the days and weeks to come for more subtle exploration of her new toy's weaknesses.
Oliver burst into full-throated laughter as all ten fingers began their dance in his stretched-open underarms. He was trying to roll over and succeeding in only raising one side of his body, then the other, before his restraints stopped him from moving farther. Each time he did so, the baroness darted out a hand and swiftly tickled the ribs on the upturned side, driving him back down again. It was not long before Oliver's squirming became less marked. The underarm tickling was still unbearable, but he dared not offer his ribs up to her again. The baroness could sense his desperation in the pitch of his laughter and the tension of his body, and she smiled to herself.
But still he said nothing. The baroness slowed her pace slightly so he might have more breath to beg with. "How delicate you are!" she said, hoping to provoke him to speech with her own teasing words. "I can lay a finger anywhere on you and it will tickle ... " And to prove her point, she drew her fingertips lightly across his stomach, making him quiver and giggle brokenly. As she pressed her fingers deeper into the trembling muscles, the giggles became chuckles, then guffaws, then the wild whooping laughter that comes only from being tickled past endurance. His hips wriggled, his head rolled from side to side as the laughter shook his body. "So ticklish, the least little touch is more than you can stand ... " she taunted as her fingers kneaded the soft spots just below the ribs. He bellowed wordlessly, his back arching for a moment before her relentless tickling forced him back down, controlling him with an ease born of long practice. "I don't think you'll last very long ... so I might as well have as much fun as I can with you."
With that, she withdrew, looking down at her quivering, sweat-slicked plaything with pleasure. "I am glad…you are enjoying yourself," Oliver gasped.
"Hush," the baroness warned. "I want to hear only two things from you -- your laughter and your submission." So saying, she moved to the base of the table, where she could reach his feet, and began to almost idly stroke them. Oliver's legs twitched, his toes curled, and he gasped. Slowly her fingers curved towards the most vulnerable spots -- the pale soft skin of the arches and under the toes, practically inviting a fingertip to glide over it. The tougher skin on the balls, which would not feel a finger but could be tickled horribly by a scratching nail or five. And Oliver's gasps became chuckles, then yelps as she began to tickle more busily. "I know just what to do to you," she said, pushing back the toes of one foot so she could rake her fingers down the taut length of the sole. Oliver laughed as one demented and yanked mightily on the leg, but his foot moved not an inch away from her tickling touch. "I will allow you to resist only so long as it amuses me to punish you…"
So saying, she climbed onto the table to kneel between his widespread legs, fluttering fingers moving up their length. Oliver jerked and giggled when she touched him behind the knees, and squirmed as unbearable sensations contorted his muscles as her fingers glided up the smoothness of his inner thighs. But that was nothing compared to the wild fit he threw when she began to gently tease the tight-drawn surface of his scrotum with her fingertips, simultaneously probing his navel with a nail. His face was dark red as he fought the bonds with single-minded possession, body twisting this way and that but finding no escape anywhere. Moans and shrieks fought their way out of him as she worked on him without cease, letting the torment build. His eyes were clamped tight shut as he screamed his laughter, but even if he had opened them, he would have seen nothing more than a wicked smile and sparkling eyes that promised only a lifetime of such ticklish agony.
"Do you want me to stop?" the baroness asked coyly when she tired of the torture, allowing him to slump down and gasp for breath. Her fingernails crawled all the way up and down his sides, touching each vulnerability knowingly -- not quite tickling but still denying him relaxation.
"I -- iii -- if y-you wish -- aaah!" Oliver, exhausted and shaking, could no more control his voice than he could control the way he twitched and jumped every time she touched him.
The baroness frowned. "If you want me to stop, you must ask me humbly," she said, giving his ribs a warning tweak.
Oliver's head lolled from side to side, and it took her a moment to realize that he was shaking his head. "I ... will ... not," he managed to get out.
Fury roughened the baroness's voice and lent edges to her smile. "Yes, you will," she said in a dangerous purr, "and until you do .... " Leaning further forward over him, she filled each of his taut armpits with an army of swirling points. Oliver yelled, his body bumping against hers as he struggled. She could feel the heat of his skin even in that brief contact, and pressed against him, enjoying the feel of his thrashing form as her fingers raced tirelessly from underarms to ribs and back again. She was completely caught up in the pleasure now -- she could no more stop tickling him than he could suppress his shrieks as she clawed his ribs. Oliver's mouth was open in an unending, silent scream of breathless laughter, and he was flushed scarlet all over. Tears leaked out the corners of his screwed-up eyes, running over his cheeks. But the frustrated baroness allowed him no respite. It was not enough that his body acknowledged her mastery; she would not be content until he submitted in his mind as well. And if she had to tickle him to unconsciousness or madness to do that ... it would not have been the first time.
Finally, in a faint croak, came the words she had been longing to hear. "Mercy ... have mercy."
Baroness Erszebet permitted herself a long, slow smile. "No." And she reached back to attack the cringing soles of his feet with her fingernails, bringing fresh screams of mirth from him.
The scarlet flush on Oliver's body deepened to crimson, and the chains shattered and fell away from him as he rose from the table. Horns grew from his forehead, his teeth became sharp points, and huge wings akin to those of a bat unfolded from behind him. The baroness fell to her knees in terror as the monstrous figure reached for her -- but it only stroked her hair with one red-hot palm.
"Well done, my dear," it said in a voice like a scream of despair. "I have need of you in my realm." And with a terrible rending sound, the hill beneath the Castle of Woeful Mirth split asunder, plummeting the castle down -- down -- to depths no living man has ever plumbed.
***
The summoner concluded his tale with a stern look around the room. While it was apparent that many of us had been moved by his weird story, the harpist was frowning unhappily. "Is that all?" she burst out.
"All? How do you mean?" the summoner asked.
"It seems unjust. Your baroness may have been a wicked woman, but her crimes hardly deserved the sort of punishment you have her suffering..."
"Punishment?" the summoner echoed. "Not a bit of it! The baroness and her ladies were RECRUITED. Even now, their shades roam the underworld, seeking out the souls of those condemned for unfaithfulness or sensuality ... and dealing out a vengeance as only they can. I mean the story as a warning to those who would endanger their souls in this world."
The soldier snorted. "I would hardly call that a punishment to be feared ... " And he and the summoner began a half-serious argument as the rest of us turned back to our tasks.
After the last meal of the day, the solemn Webster rose. "I would like to claim tomorrow's tale, for I believe it will go pleasingly with the one we have heard." The company assented to this, and we separated to go to our several rooms.
