Tales from the Laughing isles part 1
A story told.
Distinguishable feedback is appreciated.
I do hope you enjoy it.
Let me know if you like it and I will try to continue from where I leave off.
As always, lots of love to the tickling community.
Part 1:
The moon was a pale shade of red and had just passed its zenith by the time Barathel had arrived at the queen’s palace, but it hung low and burned a bloody crimson by the time she was finally ushered through many guarded gates and the regal doors of fine mahogany that sheltered the throne itself. The vast room looked like some kind of a temple to sadistic lust and sexually indulgent tortures, its high walls were lined from end to end with racks, stocks, and other elaborate arrangements bondage devices that had no practical name. Lying beside these were all manners of feathers and enchanted gloves, as well as the more expensive and exquisite implements of tickling: wands, staves, and orbs that held all manner of clever enchantments to weaken the will, soften the flesh, and stimulate the giddy weaknesses of its hapless victims. Barathel was trying very hard not to let her apprehension show. A task which became increasingly difficult as she approached the now empty throne, flanked on both sides with she had originally thought to be simply decorative stone columns, but she now realized were prisons, containing living girls within them, their soft flesh tight bound within the pillar of stone. The delicate bodies of the prisoners were mostly exposed, only receding into the stone just at the elbow and the knee, leaving the thighs, torso, and underarms fully vulnerable. Their bare breasts rose and fell with the rhythm of their soft breathing. She assumed they were asleep, though it was hard to tell as their heads sunk into the pillar just above the prisoner’s gagged mouths, effectively blindfolding them. Seeing the helpless girl’s delicate breasts rise and fall, so unsuspecting and susceptible to a gentle touch, she was suddenly beset by a powerful urge to tickle them relentlessly. She held her desires in check however, the queen was feared and loved for the creativity and zeal with which she tortured her prisoners, as well her reputation for being frighteningly possessive of her many slaves, and using her authority and any outlandish excuse she could think of to add to their number. A chill of fear ran down her spine as she considered this, and she reflexively shifted her feet in her boots. Barathel was cute, even by the exacting standards of her shapely race. More than simply being physically beautiful, she had a kind of girlish softness to her voice and features that, however she might try to the contrary, made her irresistibly adorable. She was already pressing her luck by rousing the queen at this untimely hour and depending on the mood she arrived in it could very easy be herself hanging helpless in a similar prison, subject to the same tickly attentions these poor fools likely endured on a daily basis. Not for the first time, she found herself wishing she had been born a male. As an elf of the laughing isles, she was born in servitude to the laughing maiden, the demonic queen who was said to have shaped her race and granted them the many powers they now enjoyed. They were similar to elves as they often appear. They were possessed of graceful features and a lasting youth with lifetimes that spanned centuries. However, because of the pacts her people had made with the Lady of Laughter the females of the race had undergone several physical estrangements from the norm. Their hair and eyes were now exclusively a fiery pink, and they unanimously became cripplingly ticklish on every inch of their bodies though the most severe ticklish spots varied to the individual, though in exchange for these weaknesses their spellcasting abilities became magnified hundredfold. Even the least gifted in the arcane arts could wield magic with a skill that rivaled that of an experienced mage. Males remained much the same as they had always been, though they also became afflicted with hair and eyes of radiant pink. With this newfound blessing the race easily overthrew its mortal enemies and has since ruled the known lands, now named the laughing isles in homage, with impunity. The terrible cost was realized too late, the demon queen of ticklish torment now ruled the entire race through the blood pacts that bound them all to serve in her name. The priesthood of the laughing maiden became the ruling class, militant and exclusively female and with its awesome spellpower backing it there were none who could stand in its way. Because of this, females were considered sacred toys of the demon goddess, and it was blasphemy to harm them physically. However, tickle torture and imprisonment were not only legal, but sacred and encouraged as the will of the goddess. Males, without exception, had little or no political power and while they were second class citizens they were also left mostly to their own devices. Not being valuable has it uses sometimes, Barathel thought to herself smugly. Though if they transgressed against the priesthood they would likely be brutally killed, if they simply laid low they were never in any real danger and had little expectations or responsibilities placed upon them.
A noise snapped her out of her meditations, the queen had finally arrived. As the giant double doors swung shut behind her she marched up to her throne with a disinterested grace and a graceful disinterest that was well suited to the ruler of an elegant magical empire. A wispy nightshirt hung loosely over her sensual curves, an engaging vision to be sure, but Barathel’s sight was instantly pulled to the weapon held limply in her hand. It looked almost like an elongated feather duster, but in truth the long feathers were living tentacles and while they could be torturously gentle, they also magically strong and could easily rip flesh and stone into ruin. It marked her status as a high priestess and showed that she was at the very least, not pleased by being woken up unexpected. She fell leisurely across her thrown and threw up her adorable feet and playfully wiggled them up and down. She situated herself a couple of times and finally settled laying stretched across the arms of the densely padded throne so that she could use her fingers and toes to draw tickly circles across the exposed tummies of the helpless girls imprisoned in the stone pillars. The trapped girls gasped simultaneously beneath their gags, apparently they had been asleep, and the one under her toes began to squirm and giggle frantically, though the one under her dancing fingers simply fell limp and hung there laughing in helpless resignation. The feather whip lay strewn across her lap, and as Barathel watched, the feathery tendrils elongated and began to slither around the pillar holding the limply laughing girl. As they disappeared behind the pillar the formally languid prisoner shrieked and began thrashing wildly eliciting an amused giggle from the queen, evidently behind the pillars the prisoners helpless feet were exposed and from appearances, this was a spot where that particular girl was quite unbearably ticklish. After a few more moments of blatant indulgence the queen finally stopped torturing the poor girls held helpless in the stone, and gestured for Barathel to speak, though the one girl continued to writhe and giggle pitifully, the whips living feathers still playing with her trapped feet. Barathel steadied herself; the queen was staring down at her with a look that was bizarre mix between contempt, irritation, and lust. She had to make this convincing, or she was going to pay for it. Swallowing hard, she reminded herself that she was here on a mission of dire importance. She bowed low and began her story.
It had begun a few weeks prior, in her temple several miles to southwest; she had been in meditation in the dungeon shrine. Sitting crossed legged on the softly padded floor, letting the taunting coos her sadistic servants at work torturing slaves and the helpless peals of laughter from the slaves on which they honed their deviate skills lull her into a state of heightened spiritual awareness. The kind of trance experienced only by those who have devoted themselves to a deity who thrills in unwarranted and disproportionate cruelties. It was a cross between being helpless relaxation and suspicious tension, like a pause in the middle of a tickling, you know there is nothing you can do to stop the coming attack, but you watch for it nevertheless. Time began to slow itself, she felt steadily looser. Too loose, in fact, she was relaxing more than she intended, and she was still sinking deeper into daze. Panic bit at her senses, though it was a numb and distant feeling, she had lost control of herself. With an act of force she shot her eyes open, only to be greeted by darkness. Her first thought was that the goddess had stricken her blind on a whim; it had happened to priestesses before, being stripped of their sight and left helpless to be overpowered by the tickling fingers of their former servants. This was not the case with her however, as she was able to brighten the room by summoning a globe of softly glowing light. Her simple spell might have allayed her fear of blindness, but it granted her insight into an even greater terror. First, she was no longer in her temple, but rather a strange darkened bedroom, though it had obviously once been decadent in the extreme, it now looked desolate and desiccated as though it had been long ago abandoned. More than that, it carried the nameless reek of malice, like the very fibers of the architecture housed some kind of wicked intent. Second, as soon as she had cast her magic she found herself completely naked and was suddenly bound tightly within the tangles of a soft black rope that slithered from the within the lacey discarded pillows that were strewn about so thickly that the floor was completely hidden beneath them. Finally, as she wiggled about bound wrists and ankles over the endless sea of loose cushions she was forced to peer up to the vaulted ceiling. Floating above her was the shape of a young elf girl in a long wispy gown darker even that the shadowy room around her. She was pale, so much so as to be luminescent in the darkness, and her face was almost entirely hidden beneath her flowing black hair which twisted and writhed as though alive, and hung well below her delicate feet that glistened in the shadows just beneath the cut of her gown. Her mouth was her most visible feature, just below her cute button nose. It was Barathel realized, if such things were possible, a perfect mouth. Her smile was so slight, and so delicately mischievous that she felt she could simply stare into it forever. Suddenly however, the girl opened her mouth wide and fell into gales of laughter. It rang throughout the room with a hundred different voices, as though a thousand girls were being simultaneously tickled within the single room. She heard it in her mind, she felt in rippling against her very soul, overwhelming her being. It tickled! She couldn’t explain the feeling, but the laughter, so soft, so constant and unexpected was infectious beyond reason. It was as if its soft rhythm was somehow tickling her being from the inside out. Barathel was beside herself, bound as she was and completely overcome by the strange entities explosion of mirth she could do nothing more than lay there writhing around in hysterics. Just as she was sure she was about to pass out, hoarse from the constant laughter and light headed from the lack of air, the girl stopped. Though it took some moments to recover herself, after the lingering giggles and panting had finally stopped in full, she felt diminished and was surprised to find herself longing for it to return. It felt as if that overpowering alien mirth had become a part of her and without it she was something less than whole. It was then that it dawned on her just who this being before was. She was looking into the face of the goddess herself, only a being of such perfection of form and essence could wield such radiant harmony and resonate so surely within the heart of her faithful. She tried to speak, but whatever she was about to say was lost on her lips as the demon goddess in her delicate form floated down toward her and placed a single slender finger over lips. She suddenly saw visions, flashes of imagery where she saw legions of pink skinned tickle demons swarming of the landscape of her island home, priestesses stripped of their magic and made into helpless playthings, and the entrance of the demon goddesses living avatar bringing a reign of slavery, torture, and sexual exploitation that would cover all the lands in ticklish imprisonment. As the visions stopped and her sight returned, the goddess leaned in beside her and whispered softly in her ear with the same cacophony of girlish voices.
“Your time is up little dolls, I have played your game, and now it is time for you to play mine.”
She raised her hands before Barathel’s face and wiggled her fingers playfully. Smirking a perfect smirk, she lowered her dancing fingers onto her helpless form and she immediately exploded with tickling sensations. Her breasts, her ribs, her feet, her neck, under her arms, and even the soft little spots behind her knees felt like there were soft fingers wriggling all over them. She had never felt so ticklish before. She was blind with tears, her mirth pouring out of her like a waterfall, and she was never more in love. All elvish ladies of the goddess had been branded on their very spirits with not only an insatiable fetish for inflicting ticklish torment on others, but also for receiving it themselves. This was one of the reasons the elvish power structure was so rigid, those who took power knew that their enemies deep down inside wanted to be conquered. They longed to be tickled tortured, and slaves almost always fell helplessly in love with their masters. As it was, Barathel was falling quickly into a pleasure coma; being tickled so skillfully by someone so beautiful was more than she could bear. She had been aroused from the moment she realized she was bound and now under this ticklish assault she had already lost count of the orgasms pouring out of her in a debilitating and increasing succession. She had quickly lost her sense in the tumult of pleasurable emotions and hadn’t recovered herself until some days later. She was in bedridden and her servants had told her that she had simply passed out on the temple floor and been comatose since.
Her tale finished, Barathel looked expectantly at the queen for her reaction.
“An interesting tale I suppose,” the queen stated absently. She had returned to toying with the girls held in the pillars and looked thoroughly unconcerned, after a moment she added, “Though I can’t help but feel like you are wasting my time.”
“I promise it is true my lady!” Barathel insisted. Her desperation was apparent; she had to convince the queen to listen to her, even if it meant taking a risk. She hesitated a moment then blurted out “I… I’ve even lost my powers, ever since I had that vision I can’t feel my magic anymore. I think the lady of laughter has started weakening us, I think she is preparing to invade and enslave us, then feed on our mirth to empower herself!”
“Well obviously.” Replied the queen blandly, “Many priestesses have had similar visions already. The Laughing Maiden has indeed, in her infinite wisdom, seen fit to make her divine presence known to the mortal plane. The highest ranking priestesses, including myself, are already beginning preparations for the summoning.”
Barathel’s head was swimming, this couldn’t be! She was at the point of pleading, “Please mistress! You must realize what that would mean! You would be dooming our whole race to demonic servitude!”
The queen actually laughed aloud at this statement. Before Barathel could even register the moment she rolled out of the throne, picked up her many-feathered whip, and lashed out at her in a single fluid motion. The snakelike tendrils quickly wrapped around her slender waist and hoisted her into the air. The force of the sudden lift caused one of her loose fitting boots to tumble to the floor below her, exposing a single bare foot.
The queen was laughing wildly, and Barathel had the sinking feeling she would soon be doing the same, though for far different reasons.
The queen of the elves stared directly into her face, amusement etched clearly into her features, “I like you like this Barathel, so confused, so helpless and vulnerable. You should have come to accept by now that we elves are merely the toys of the goddess. Lost your magic have you? I must admit I am flattered that would confide such personal weakness in me of all people, knowing full well that I would likely exploit it and tickle you senseless simply for being so cute. Tickling must be what you want, of course it is, and you know that in spite of yourself you just love it.”
With a quick gesture of her slender fingers the queen conjured a glistening radiance of pink that lit the room. The formless light separated suddenly and formed a multitude of tiny pink gloves, feathers, and bindings that shot up to harass Barathel alongside the living tendrils of the whip. She had been trying not to laugh as the whip had idly rolled along the length of her naked foot, but this new assault shot her over the edge. The bindings tied themselves around her wrists and ankles, locking them in midair. The tiny hands began to undo and discard her clothing, including her remaining boot, and the feathers both of magic and the living whip searched about her writhing form for the secret places that she was the most ticklish.
“Mistress..hahaha Pl-pleahehehehehehahahaha…No I…I hahahahaha,” Barathel sputtered between her bouts of mirth. Wholly naked now, the hands had also turned their dexterous attentions to her delicate flesh and whatever else she would have said was lost within the rising tide of giggles and shrieks.
“Such a shame, you were a talented magician too. Though it seems you could have been more pious, the goddess has obviously searched your soul and found your devotion lacking. This is penance you realize, for trying to go against the pact that binds our people in loving service to the lady of laughter. The rest of us all still wield our magic in full. In fact I think I shall personally take your punishment upon myself. Congratulations dear child, from this moment forward I declare you my slave! And yes, before you even ask I can assure you that you can have all the tickles you like.” The queen was beaming up at her new prize, though Barathel was too blinded by tears of hysterics to notice. This is it Barathel thought to herself, I’m finished.
A few hours later she finally passed out. The queen sent her to be locked away among the rest of her bountiful collection of slaves. Outside, the sun was just beginning to rise.
A story told.
Distinguishable feedback is appreciated.
I do hope you enjoy it.
Let me know if you like it and I will try to continue from where I leave off.
As always, lots of love to the tickling community.
Part 1:
The moon was a pale shade of red and had just passed its zenith by the time Barathel had arrived at the queen’s palace, but it hung low and burned a bloody crimson by the time she was finally ushered through many guarded gates and the regal doors of fine mahogany that sheltered the throne itself. The vast room looked like some kind of a temple to sadistic lust and sexually indulgent tortures, its high walls were lined from end to end with racks, stocks, and other elaborate arrangements bondage devices that had no practical name. Lying beside these were all manners of feathers and enchanted gloves, as well as the more expensive and exquisite implements of tickling: wands, staves, and orbs that held all manner of clever enchantments to weaken the will, soften the flesh, and stimulate the giddy weaknesses of its hapless victims. Barathel was trying very hard not to let her apprehension show. A task which became increasingly difficult as she approached the now empty throne, flanked on both sides with she had originally thought to be simply decorative stone columns, but she now realized were prisons, containing living girls within them, their soft flesh tight bound within the pillar of stone. The delicate bodies of the prisoners were mostly exposed, only receding into the stone just at the elbow and the knee, leaving the thighs, torso, and underarms fully vulnerable. Their bare breasts rose and fell with the rhythm of their soft breathing. She assumed they were asleep, though it was hard to tell as their heads sunk into the pillar just above the prisoner’s gagged mouths, effectively blindfolding them. Seeing the helpless girl’s delicate breasts rise and fall, so unsuspecting and susceptible to a gentle touch, she was suddenly beset by a powerful urge to tickle them relentlessly. She held her desires in check however, the queen was feared and loved for the creativity and zeal with which she tortured her prisoners, as well her reputation for being frighteningly possessive of her many slaves, and using her authority and any outlandish excuse she could think of to add to their number. A chill of fear ran down her spine as she considered this, and she reflexively shifted her feet in her boots. Barathel was cute, even by the exacting standards of her shapely race. More than simply being physically beautiful, she had a kind of girlish softness to her voice and features that, however she might try to the contrary, made her irresistibly adorable. She was already pressing her luck by rousing the queen at this untimely hour and depending on the mood she arrived in it could very easy be herself hanging helpless in a similar prison, subject to the same tickly attentions these poor fools likely endured on a daily basis. Not for the first time, she found herself wishing she had been born a male. As an elf of the laughing isles, she was born in servitude to the laughing maiden, the demonic queen who was said to have shaped her race and granted them the many powers they now enjoyed. They were similar to elves as they often appear. They were possessed of graceful features and a lasting youth with lifetimes that spanned centuries. However, because of the pacts her people had made with the Lady of Laughter the females of the race had undergone several physical estrangements from the norm. Their hair and eyes were now exclusively a fiery pink, and they unanimously became cripplingly ticklish on every inch of their bodies though the most severe ticklish spots varied to the individual, though in exchange for these weaknesses their spellcasting abilities became magnified hundredfold. Even the least gifted in the arcane arts could wield magic with a skill that rivaled that of an experienced mage. Males remained much the same as they had always been, though they also became afflicted with hair and eyes of radiant pink. With this newfound blessing the race easily overthrew its mortal enemies and has since ruled the known lands, now named the laughing isles in homage, with impunity. The terrible cost was realized too late, the demon queen of ticklish torment now ruled the entire race through the blood pacts that bound them all to serve in her name. The priesthood of the laughing maiden became the ruling class, militant and exclusively female and with its awesome spellpower backing it there were none who could stand in its way. Because of this, females were considered sacred toys of the demon goddess, and it was blasphemy to harm them physically. However, tickle torture and imprisonment were not only legal, but sacred and encouraged as the will of the goddess. Males, without exception, had little or no political power and while they were second class citizens they were also left mostly to their own devices. Not being valuable has it uses sometimes, Barathel thought to herself smugly. Though if they transgressed against the priesthood they would likely be brutally killed, if they simply laid low they were never in any real danger and had little expectations or responsibilities placed upon them.
A noise snapped her out of her meditations, the queen had finally arrived. As the giant double doors swung shut behind her she marched up to her throne with a disinterested grace and a graceful disinterest that was well suited to the ruler of an elegant magical empire. A wispy nightshirt hung loosely over her sensual curves, an engaging vision to be sure, but Barathel’s sight was instantly pulled to the weapon held limply in her hand. It looked almost like an elongated feather duster, but in truth the long feathers were living tentacles and while they could be torturously gentle, they also magically strong and could easily rip flesh and stone into ruin. It marked her status as a high priestess and showed that she was at the very least, not pleased by being woken up unexpected. She fell leisurely across her thrown and threw up her adorable feet and playfully wiggled them up and down. She situated herself a couple of times and finally settled laying stretched across the arms of the densely padded throne so that she could use her fingers and toes to draw tickly circles across the exposed tummies of the helpless girls imprisoned in the stone pillars. The trapped girls gasped simultaneously beneath their gags, apparently they had been asleep, and the one under her toes began to squirm and giggle frantically, though the one under her dancing fingers simply fell limp and hung there laughing in helpless resignation. The feather whip lay strewn across her lap, and as Barathel watched, the feathery tendrils elongated and began to slither around the pillar holding the limply laughing girl. As they disappeared behind the pillar the formally languid prisoner shrieked and began thrashing wildly eliciting an amused giggle from the queen, evidently behind the pillars the prisoners helpless feet were exposed and from appearances, this was a spot where that particular girl was quite unbearably ticklish. After a few more moments of blatant indulgence the queen finally stopped torturing the poor girls held helpless in the stone, and gestured for Barathel to speak, though the one girl continued to writhe and giggle pitifully, the whips living feathers still playing with her trapped feet. Barathel steadied herself; the queen was staring down at her with a look that was bizarre mix between contempt, irritation, and lust. She had to make this convincing, or she was going to pay for it. Swallowing hard, she reminded herself that she was here on a mission of dire importance. She bowed low and began her story.
It had begun a few weeks prior, in her temple several miles to southwest; she had been in meditation in the dungeon shrine. Sitting crossed legged on the softly padded floor, letting the taunting coos her sadistic servants at work torturing slaves and the helpless peals of laughter from the slaves on which they honed their deviate skills lull her into a state of heightened spiritual awareness. The kind of trance experienced only by those who have devoted themselves to a deity who thrills in unwarranted and disproportionate cruelties. It was a cross between being helpless relaxation and suspicious tension, like a pause in the middle of a tickling, you know there is nothing you can do to stop the coming attack, but you watch for it nevertheless. Time began to slow itself, she felt steadily looser. Too loose, in fact, she was relaxing more than she intended, and she was still sinking deeper into daze. Panic bit at her senses, though it was a numb and distant feeling, she had lost control of herself. With an act of force she shot her eyes open, only to be greeted by darkness. Her first thought was that the goddess had stricken her blind on a whim; it had happened to priestesses before, being stripped of their sight and left helpless to be overpowered by the tickling fingers of their former servants. This was not the case with her however, as she was able to brighten the room by summoning a globe of softly glowing light. Her simple spell might have allayed her fear of blindness, but it granted her insight into an even greater terror. First, she was no longer in her temple, but rather a strange darkened bedroom, though it had obviously once been decadent in the extreme, it now looked desolate and desiccated as though it had been long ago abandoned. More than that, it carried the nameless reek of malice, like the very fibers of the architecture housed some kind of wicked intent. Second, as soon as she had cast her magic she found herself completely naked and was suddenly bound tightly within the tangles of a soft black rope that slithered from the within the lacey discarded pillows that were strewn about so thickly that the floor was completely hidden beneath them. Finally, as she wiggled about bound wrists and ankles over the endless sea of loose cushions she was forced to peer up to the vaulted ceiling. Floating above her was the shape of a young elf girl in a long wispy gown darker even that the shadowy room around her. She was pale, so much so as to be luminescent in the darkness, and her face was almost entirely hidden beneath her flowing black hair which twisted and writhed as though alive, and hung well below her delicate feet that glistened in the shadows just beneath the cut of her gown. Her mouth was her most visible feature, just below her cute button nose. It was Barathel realized, if such things were possible, a perfect mouth. Her smile was so slight, and so delicately mischievous that she felt she could simply stare into it forever. Suddenly however, the girl opened her mouth wide and fell into gales of laughter. It rang throughout the room with a hundred different voices, as though a thousand girls were being simultaneously tickled within the single room. She heard it in her mind, she felt in rippling against her very soul, overwhelming her being. It tickled! She couldn’t explain the feeling, but the laughter, so soft, so constant and unexpected was infectious beyond reason. It was as if its soft rhythm was somehow tickling her being from the inside out. Barathel was beside herself, bound as she was and completely overcome by the strange entities explosion of mirth she could do nothing more than lay there writhing around in hysterics. Just as she was sure she was about to pass out, hoarse from the constant laughter and light headed from the lack of air, the girl stopped. Though it took some moments to recover herself, after the lingering giggles and panting had finally stopped in full, she felt diminished and was surprised to find herself longing for it to return. It felt as if that overpowering alien mirth had become a part of her and without it she was something less than whole. It was then that it dawned on her just who this being before was. She was looking into the face of the goddess herself, only a being of such perfection of form and essence could wield such radiant harmony and resonate so surely within the heart of her faithful. She tried to speak, but whatever she was about to say was lost on her lips as the demon goddess in her delicate form floated down toward her and placed a single slender finger over lips. She suddenly saw visions, flashes of imagery where she saw legions of pink skinned tickle demons swarming of the landscape of her island home, priestesses stripped of their magic and made into helpless playthings, and the entrance of the demon goddesses living avatar bringing a reign of slavery, torture, and sexual exploitation that would cover all the lands in ticklish imprisonment. As the visions stopped and her sight returned, the goddess leaned in beside her and whispered softly in her ear with the same cacophony of girlish voices.
“Your time is up little dolls, I have played your game, and now it is time for you to play mine.”
She raised her hands before Barathel’s face and wiggled her fingers playfully. Smirking a perfect smirk, she lowered her dancing fingers onto her helpless form and she immediately exploded with tickling sensations. Her breasts, her ribs, her feet, her neck, under her arms, and even the soft little spots behind her knees felt like there were soft fingers wriggling all over them. She had never felt so ticklish before. She was blind with tears, her mirth pouring out of her like a waterfall, and she was never more in love. All elvish ladies of the goddess had been branded on their very spirits with not only an insatiable fetish for inflicting ticklish torment on others, but also for receiving it themselves. This was one of the reasons the elvish power structure was so rigid, those who took power knew that their enemies deep down inside wanted to be conquered. They longed to be tickled tortured, and slaves almost always fell helplessly in love with their masters. As it was, Barathel was falling quickly into a pleasure coma; being tickled so skillfully by someone so beautiful was more than she could bear. She had been aroused from the moment she realized she was bound and now under this ticklish assault she had already lost count of the orgasms pouring out of her in a debilitating and increasing succession. She had quickly lost her sense in the tumult of pleasurable emotions and hadn’t recovered herself until some days later. She was in bedridden and her servants had told her that she had simply passed out on the temple floor and been comatose since.
Her tale finished, Barathel looked expectantly at the queen for her reaction.
“An interesting tale I suppose,” the queen stated absently. She had returned to toying with the girls held in the pillars and looked thoroughly unconcerned, after a moment she added, “Though I can’t help but feel like you are wasting my time.”
“I promise it is true my lady!” Barathel insisted. Her desperation was apparent; she had to convince the queen to listen to her, even if it meant taking a risk. She hesitated a moment then blurted out “I… I’ve even lost my powers, ever since I had that vision I can’t feel my magic anymore. I think the lady of laughter has started weakening us, I think she is preparing to invade and enslave us, then feed on our mirth to empower herself!”
“Well obviously.” Replied the queen blandly, “Many priestesses have had similar visions already. The Laughing Maiden has indeed, in her infinite wisdom, seen fit to make her divine presence known to the mortal plane. The highest ranking priestesses, including myself, are already beginning preparations for the summoning.”
Barathel’s head was swimming, this couldn’t be! She was at the point of pleading, “Please mistress! You must realize what that would mean! You would be dooming our whole race to demonic servitude!”
The queen actually laughed aloud at this statement. Before Barathel could even register the moment she rolled out of the throne, picked up her many-feathered whip, and lashed out at her in a single fluid motion. The snakelike tendrils quickly wrapped around her slender waist and hoisted her into the air. The force of the sudden lift caused one of her loose fitting boots to tumble to the floor below her, exposing a single bare foot.
The queen was laughing wildly, and Barathel had the sinking feeling she would soon be doing the same, though for far different reasons.
The queen of the elves stared directly into her face, amusement etched clearly into her features, “I like you like this Barathel, so confused, so helpless and vulnerable. You should have come to accept by now that we elves are merely the toys of the goddess. Lost your magic have you? I must admit I am flattered that would confide such personal weakness in me of all people, knowing full well that I would likely exploit it and tickle you senseless simply for being so cute. Tickling must be what you want, of course it is, and you know that in spite of yourself you just love it.”
With a quick gesture of her slender fingers the queen conjured a glistening radiance of pink that lit the room. The formless light separated suddenly and formed a multitude of tiny pink gloves, feathers, and bindings that shot up to harass Barathel alongside the living tendrils of the whip. She had been trying not to laugh as the whip had idly rolled along the length of her naked foot, but this new assault shot her over the edge. The bindings tied themselves around her wrists and ankles, locking them in midair. The tiny hands began to undo and discard her clothing, including her remaining boot, and the feathers both of magic and the living whip searched about her writhing form for the secret places that she was the most ticklish.
“Mistress..hahaha Pl-pleahehehehehehahahaha…No I…I hahahahaha,” Barathel sputtered between her bouts of mirth. Wholly naked now, the hands had also turned their dexterous attentions to her delicate flesh and whatever else she would have said was lost within the rising tide of giggles and shrieks.
“Such a shame, you were a talented magician too. Though it seems you could have been more pious, the goddess has obviously searched your soul and found your devotion lacking. This is penance you realize, for trying to go against the pact that binds our people in loving service to the lady of laughter. The rest of us all still wield our magic in full. In fact I think I shall personally take your punishment upon myself. Congratulations dear child, from this moment forward I declare you my slave! And yes, before you even ask I can assure you that you can have all the tickles you like.” The queen was beaming up at her new prize, though Barathel was too blinded by tears of hysterics to notice. This is it Barathel thought to herself, I’m finished.
A few hours later she finally passed out. The queen sent her to be locked away among the rest of her bountiful collection of slaves. Outside, the sun was just beginning to rise.
