Crackity Jones
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Hi all, this is my first foray into tickle fiction for about 5 years. All feedback, positive and negative, is welcomed. I've got further parts half-written so if you like it, there's more.
This is a story set in a dark fantasy version of the Roman Empire.
Imperial Inquisitor: Part 1- The Halls of Instruction
Inquisitor Natasha always found the Halls of Instruction a particularly soothing location. The constant, hysterical laughter of the victims in the dungeons gave her the opportunity to gather her thoughts. She knew other members of the Order preferred to reflect in their own chambers, or the solemn peace of the Hall of Records but Natasha had never been the most orthodox of Inquisitors.
Deciding that watching some of the acolytes in action might help calm her thoughts, Natasha descended one of the cast stone stairwells to the lower reaches of the keep. Before her lay a corridor of many wooden doors illuminated only by flickering candles. Opening a door at random, the sound of laughter was immediately magnified several-fold.
The scene she was confronted with was immediately familiar from her own days as a student. Against the far wall of the chamber three naked women were hanging from the ceiling, chained by their wrists, each barely able to stand on their bare toes. Although the position wasn’t physically painful, it exposed the upper bodies of the victims wonderfully for tickling. The trio were beautiful, with olive skin, taut bellies and small, perfectly round breasts. Natasha guessed from their plaited hair and painted faces they were whores from an illegal brothel she’d heard had been uncovered by the Guard the previous week. The pick of Rome’s criminals were given to the Inquisition for the purpose of training the students.
Each of the naked women had an inquisitorial acolyte front of them. Each was dressed in the traditional black robes of an inquisitor, with only their pale bare feet revealing their status as students. From the moment a girl of eighteen entered the Keep till the moment she graduated she would remain barefoot, to teach humility and respect for one’s elders.
The three acolytes were busy tickling the three restrained women all over their torsos and were so intent on their task that none of the six women noticed Natasha as she entered. She knew the reason why; this was not simply an instructional exercise. The three black-robed girls were tasked with causing the prisoner they had been assigned to laugh or beg or make any noise at all. The first student to achieve this would be rewarded with leave to spend a day at the public baths. The last to get a reaction from their victim would be punished by being taken to one of the other chambers, stripped naked and tickle tortured mercilessly by their two peers for failing. This was not merely an incentive to succeed; it was also a valuable lesson that inquisitors must be prepared to ply their trade on anyone, including members of their own order. Similarly, the prisoners had been informed that the last to make a noise would be given a full pardon.
In the corner sat an older woman in black robes, overseeing the exercise. She certainly didn’t fail to notice Natasha’s entrance and gave her a pointed look that suggested it was in Natasha’s best interests not too interrupt proceedings. The look from one of the Magistras was till enough to send a chill down her spine, despite her having been a full Inquisitor for a decade. The Magistras were the College’s overseers and teachers and were infamously strict. Many a time during her tenure as a student, Natasha had found herself strung upside down whilst one of these fearsome ladies tickled a lesson in obedience into her bare soles.
One of the students had already won the contest. She’d reduced her chained victim to begging for mercy by exploiting her most ticklish spot, just above her hips. She didn’t merely focus on this area; she swept her long fingernails all over the ribs, under-arms and belly of the woman, who was pulling futilely at her chains in an effort to protect herself. Rivulets of sweat were running down her whole body, and time and again the student, whose shoulder-length hair was as black as her robes would return to the hips of her victim, prompting fresh howls of laughter.
‘Please…please! Not there...I’m begging…’ The woman’s throaty appeals were curtailed by a fresh burst of laughter as the acolyte began lightly running her fingers over the taut skin of her stomach.
The girl could have stopped, her task already achieved, but was evidently enjoying herself too much to cease. Natasha admired her technique. The other two students were just probing randomly over the upper-bodies of their subjects, which worked to an extent but wouldn’t produce the kind of reaction needed for teasing out a confession from a pirate queen or reduce a cultist to selling out their sisters. The other two whores were still silent as a result, albeit struggling.
What the winning acolyte had evidently learned was what Natasha had long believed. Tickle torture was like playing an instrument. It wasn’t enough to merely be able to hit the right notes; one needed to play to play them in the right order. Rhythms needed to be found to reduce a victim to a quivering mass of ticklish flesh, but improvisation was required to prevent them from anticipating and becoming de-sensitised to the torture.
One of the other students, a tall gangly young woman with closely-cropped blonde hair was finally making progress. She’d discovered that her victim’s pert breasts were rather sensitive and was circling them with her fingers, going faster and faster getting closer to the nipple before stopping and starting again. The effect this was having on the woman chained before her was immediately apparent. She was thrashing her head from side to side with her hair in disarray and hanging in limp strands over her sweat-covered brow. Her eyes were screwed shut as if she could shut out the torture if she couldn’t see it.
Unfortunately she was wrong. By way of a crescendo, the blonde acolyte brought her tongue to the woman’s right breast and began doing with her tongue what she’d previously been doing with her fingers. This was enough to tip the woman over the edge.
Like a dam being breached, the giggles came very lightly at first before pouring out in an unstoppable flood. Soon the woman was shaking with unstoppable howls of laughter without even having the breath to plead with her tormentor. Natasha idly wondered how the woman fared in the brothel with such sensitive tits.
The blonde girl stepped away from her defeated victim, satisfied that she had avoided the fate about to be visited upon her luckless classmate. The grey-haired Magistra rose from her stool in the corner of the dungeon.
‘Lienne, Zara, take Cassandra to chamber five. Disrobe her, rack her and give her your full attention for no less than one turn of the hourglass,’ she barked. The two students she had mentioned turned to the third, who upon turning Natasha saw was a plump girl with red hair and freckles. Her resigned expression suggested this wasn’t the first time she’d failed a task and suffered the consequent punishment. She stared down at her round toes as her fellow students marched her from the room. Meanwhile, the three chained prisoners began recovering from their ordeal, bosoms heaving as they drew in mouthfuls of air. The prisoner in the middle who’d been suffering Cassandra’s inexpert ministrations beamed as she realised her endurance had secured her freedom.
Once the younger women had left the room, the Magistra turned to Natasha. ‘What brings you to down to our humble classroom, Inquisitor?’ she asked, her mouth twitching in what Natasha supposed was a smile
‘Just collecting my thoughts before I face the tribunal tomorrow,’ replied Natasha
‘Ah yes, a full gathering of the council. Most unusual.’ The Magistras’ words did nothing to soothe Natasha’s anxieties. She’d was currently the resident Inquisitor for the entirety of the capital, one of the highest and most prestigious positions a Field Inquisitor could achieve. That morning she’d received a summons recalling her to the Inquisitorial Keep to face a full tribunal, a rare event which almost always presaged great strife for the Inquisitor concerned.
‘Well, in the meantime, I have another student in the next chamber if you’d care to join me,’ said the Magistra when Natasha didn’t respond. Nodding her consent, the two black-clad women left the naked prisoners in darkness as they left the dungeon chamber.
Once in the gloomy corridor they could already hear the muffled sounds of Cassandra squealing as her two fellow students carried out their instructions to the letter behind one of the doors. Natasha knew that behind each of the Oak doors was a woman or a group enduring some version of tickle torture. The laughter from these sessions was piped upward all through the Halls of Instruction to serve as a constant reminder of what students were supposed to achieve and what faced them if they were lax in their studies.
After entering one of these doors, Natasha and the teacher were confronted by a strange sight. Instead of the usual stone wall, half the chamber was shielded by a floor to ceiling mirror. Protruding from this mirror was a pair of apparently disembodied bare feet currently being feathered by another student, this one remarkably beautiful with piercing blue eyes and long blonde hair disappearing into her robes. She was sat on a stool in front of the mystery soles, dragging a feather up and down each sole, which were twitching madly.
‘What now, mistress?’ asked the student in a languid, sultry voice as she saw her instructor enter.
‘Fingernails. Assume these feet belong to a dissident you need to break to learn the details of an upcoming assault,’ was the terse response from Natasha’s companion.
Discarding the feathers, the blonde student began raking her nails up and down the soles in front of her. The response was immediate with the toes curling tightly and the feet wiggling as much as possible. Natasha realised that what she thought was a mirror was in fact moon glass. This substance could be made penetrable or solid with the right sorcery. Clearly there was someone sat on the other side that’d had their feet put through when the moon glass was permeable and then the wall was re-solidified. For what purpose, Natasha didn’t know, although an idea was forming in her mind.
Clearly this was no ordinary training exercise, as the acolyte was more than proficient in her craft. Despite no real feedback, she was doing a masterful job, alternating slow circling of the balls of the feet with fast movements all over the soles. She would hold the toes back before exploiting the vulnerable crevices underneath. Whoever was on the other side of that moon glass, mused Natasha, was evidently having a most unpleasant time.
The feet were well-maintained but slightly dusty which Natasha guessed meant they belonged to another student, who would have been walking barefoot. The soft bottoms suggested a recent entrant to the College, probably from the upper echelons of the Roman aristocracy where pedicures were frequent and slaves were expected to worship their mistresses’ feet regularly. Wealthy families would often send ther second or third daughter to the college to prevent fighting over inheritances.
‘Continue this until I return,’ instructed the Magistra. Motioning for Natasha to leave, they both left the door and entered the corridor. The Magistra then indicated that they would enter the very next door along.
Upon entering the room, the other half of the scene was revealed. Another acolyte was sat on the stool, but her legs and feet appeared to be disappearing into a pane of glass. On the other side of the glass was the acolyte we’d just left, happily torturing the anonymous soles. The victim was unable to move, her feet trapped as they were by the sorcerous glass. She was hysterical with laughter, banging her fists against the glass in a futile attempt to get the attention of her torturer. She had no idea she was trapped in moon glass and that her tormentor was only able to see a reflection.
‘Please…Lydia...w…w…why are you doing this?’ she cried, evidently aware of whom her tormentor was. Natasha cast an inquiring eye at her companion. In a hushed voice to avoid the woman hearing (although she needn’t have bothered given the amount of wailing and begging the girl was doing) the Magistra explained all.
‘These two acolytes were discovered to have been having…relations.’
She didn’t need to say any more. Relationships were strictly forbidden in the College. Clearly it wasn’t enough merely to punish offenders however, as joint sessions in a dungeon would only have strengthened the bond. Instead, it was necessary to make sure the women never spoke again. This way the girl in front of them would hate Lydia with a burning passion for the perceived betrayal. Obviously, Lydia would later find herself in the stocks or on the rack when a very vengeful ex-lover would be given an opportunity to exact revenge. It was, Natasha, conceded, masterful, and typical of the College. She would have expected no less.
When outsiders learned of the harsh regime inside the college it was often decried as barbaric. Natasha knew better. The Inquisition was tasked with keeping in check some of the foulest forces that assailed the empire: cultists, witches, corruption. The college taught them not only how to fight and tickle and understand the law, but how to be as hard and un-sentimental as their task demanded. Mercy was a chink in the armour that the enemies of the empire would gleefully exploit. The Inquisitorial College created the kind of iron will needed to prevent this weakness.
Having seen this principle re-affirmed in the chambers, Natasha decided to return to her quarters and rest before facing the tribunal at dawn. After all, if the council found her guilty of some fault, she might well find herself back down here the next night, only now she would be the one chained to a wall begging for mercy. This unnerving thought wasn’t relieved by the sound of piped, hysterical laughter as she left the Halls of Instruction.
This is a story set in a dark fantasy version of the Roman Empire.
Imperial Inquisitor: Part 1- The Halls of Instruction
Inquisitor Natasha always found the Halls of Instruction a particularly soothing location. The constant, hysterical laughter of the victims in the dungeons gave her the opportunity to gather her thoughts. She knew other members of the Order preferred to reflect in their own chambers, or the solemn peace of the Hall of Records but Natasha had never been the most orthodox of Inquisitors.
Deciding that watching some of the acolytes in action might help calm her thoughts, Natasha descended one of the cast stone stairwells to the lower reaches of the keep. Before her lay a corridor of many wooden doors illuminated only by flickering candles. Opening a door at random, the sound of laughter was immediately magnified several-fold.
The scene she was confronted with was immediately familiar from her own days as a student. Against the far wall of the chamber three naked women were hanging from the ceiling, chained by their wrists, each barely able to stand on their bare toes. Although the position wasn’t physically painful, it exposed the upper bodies of the victims wonderfully for tickling. The trio were beautiful, with olive skin, taut bellies and small, perfectly round breasts. Natasha guessed from their plaited hair and painted faces they were whores from an illegal brothel she’d heard had been uncovered by the Guard the previous week. The pick of Rome’s criminals were given to the Inquisition for the purpose of training the students.
Each of the naked women had an inquisitorial acolyte front of them. Each was dressed in the traditional black robes of an inquisitor, with only their pale bare feet revealing their status as students. From the moment a girl of eighteen entered the Keep till the moment she graduated she would remain barefoot, to teach humility and respect for one’s elders.
The three acolytes were busy tickling the three restrained women all over their torsos and were so intent on their task that none of the six women noticed Natasha as she entered. She knew the reason why; this was not simply an instructional exercise. The three black-robed girls were tasked with causing the prisoner they had been assigned to laugh or beg or make any noise at all. The first student to achieve this would be rewarded with leave to spend a day at the public baths. The last to get a reaction from their victim would be punished by being taken to one of the other chambers, stripped naked and tickle tortured mercilessly by their two peers for failing. This was not merely an incentive to succeed; it was also a valuable lesson that inquisitors must be prepared to ply their trade on anyone, including members of their own order. Similarly, the prisoners had been informed that the last to make a noise would be given a full pardon.
In the corner sat an older woman in black robes, overseeing the exercise. She certainly didn’t fail to notice Natasha’s entrance and gave her a pointed look that suggested it was in Natasha’s best interests not too interrupt proceedings. The look from one of the Magistras was till enough to send a chill down her spine, despite her having been a full Inquisitor for a decade. The Magistras were the College’s overseers and teachers and were infamously strict. Many a time during her tenure as a student, Natasha had found herself strung upside down whilst one of these fearsome ladies tickled a lesson in obedience into her bare soles.
One of the students had already won the contest. She’d reduced her chained victim to begging for mercy by exploiting her most ticklish spot, just above her hips. She didn’t merely focus on this area; she swept her long fingernails all over the ribs, under-arms and belly of the woman, who was pulling futilely at her chains in an effort to protect herself. Rivulets of sweat were running down her whole body, and time and again the student, whose shoulder-length hair was as black as her robes would return to the hips of her victim, prompting fresh howls of laughter.
‘Please…please! Not there...I’m begging…’ The woman’s throaty appeals were curtailed by a fresh burst of laughter as the acolyte began lightly running her fingers over the taut skin of her stomach.
The girl could have stopped, her task already achieved, but was evidently enjoying herself too much to cease. Natasha admired her technique. The other two students were just probing randomly over the upper-bodies of their subjects, which worked to an extent but wouldn’t produce the kind of reaction needed for teasing out a confession from a pirate queen or reduce a cultist to selling out their sisters. The other two whores were still silent as a result, albeit struggling.
What the winning acolyte had evidently learned was what Natasha had long believed. Tickle torture was like playing an instrument. It wasn’t enough to merely be able to hit the right notes; one needed to play to play them in the right order. Rhythms needed to be found to reduce a victim to a quivering mass of ticklish flesh, but improvisation was required to prevent them from anticipating and becoming de-sensitised to the torture.
One of the other students, a tall gangly young woman with closely-cropped blonde hair was finally making progress. She’d discovered that her victim’s pert breasts were rather sensitive and was circling them with her fingers, going faster and faster getting closer to the nipple before stopping and starting again. The effect this was having on the woman chained before her was immediately apparent. She was thrashing her head from side to side with her hair in disarray and hanging in limp strands over her sweat-covered brow. Her eyes were screwed shut as if she could shut out the torture if she couldn’t see it.
Unfortunately she was wrong. By way of a crescendo, the blonde acolyte brought her tongue to the woman’s right breast and began doing with her tongue what she’d previously been doing with her fingers. This was enough to tip the woman over the edge.
Like a dam being breached, the giggles came very lightly at first before pouring out in an unstoppable flood. Soon the woman was shaking with unstoppable howls of laughter without even having the breath to plead with her tormentor. Natasha idly wondered how the woman fared in the brothel with such sensitive tits.
The blonde girl stepped away from her defeated victim, satisfied that she had avoided the fate about to be visited upon her luckless classmate. The grey-haired Magistra rose from her stool in the corner of the dungeon.
‘Lienne, Zara, take Cassandra to chamber five. Disrobe her, rack her and give her your full attention for no less than one turn of the hourglass,’ she barked. The two students she had mentioned turned to the third, who upon turning Natasha saw was a plump girl with red hair and freckles. Her resigned expression suggested this wasn’t the first time she’d failed a task and suffered the consequent punishment. She stared down at her round toes as her fellow students marched her from the room. Meanwhile, the three chained prisoners began recovering from their ordeal, bosoms heaving as they drew in mouthfuls of air. The prisoner in the middle who’d been suffering Cassandra’s inexpert ministrations beamed as she realised her endurance had secured her freedom.
Once the younger women had left the room, the Magistra turned to Natasha. ‘What brings you to down to our humble classroom, Inquisitor?’ she asked, her mouth twitching in what Natasha supposed was a smile
‘Just collecting my thoughts before I face the tribunal tomorrow,’ replied Natasha
‘Ah yes, a full gathering of the council. Most unusual.’ The Magistras’ words did nothing to soothe Natasha’s anxieties. She’d was currently the resident Inquisitor for the entirety of the capital, one of the highest and most prestigious positions a Field Inquisitor could achieve. That morning she’d received a summons recalling her to the Inquisitorial Keep to face a full tribunal, a rare event which almost always presaged great strife for the Inquisitor concerned.
‘Well, in the meantime, I have another student in the next chamber if you’d care to join me,’ said the Magistra when Natasha didn’t respond. Nodding her consent, the two black-clad women left the naked prisoners in darkness as they left the dungeon chamber.
Once in the gloomy corridor they could already hear the muffled sounds of Cassandra squealing as her two fellow students carried out their instructions to the letter behind one of the doors. Natasha knew that behind each of the Oak doors was a woman or a group enduring some version of tickle torture. The laughter from these sessions was piped upward all through the Halls of Instruction to serve as a constant reminder of what students were supposed to achieve and what faced them if they were lax in their studies.
After entering one of these doors, Natasha and the teacher were confronted by a strange sight. Instead of the usual stone wall, half the chamber was shielded by a floor to ceiling mirror. Protruding from this mirror was a pair of apparently disembodied bare feet currently being feathered by another student, this one remarkably beautiful with piercing blue eyes and long blonde hair disappearing into her robes. She was sat on a stool in front of the mystery soles, dragging a feather up and down each sole, which were twitching madly.
‘What now, mistress?’ asked the student in a languid, sultry voice as she saw her instructor enter.
‘Fingernails. Assume these feet belong to a dissident you need to break to learn the details of an upcoming assault,’ was the terse response from Natasha’s companion.
Discarding the feathers, the blonde student began raking her nails up and down the soles in front of her. The response was immediate with the toes curling tightly and the feet wiggling as much as possible. Natasha realised that what she thought was a mirror was in fact moon glass. This substance could be made penetrable or solid with the right sorcery. Clearly there was someone sat on the other side that’d had their feet put through when the moon glass was permeable and then the wall was re-solidified. For what purpose, Natasha didn’t know, although an idea was forming in her mind.
Clearly this was no ordinary training exercise, as the acolyte was more than proficient in her craft. Despite no real feedback, she was doing a masterful job, alternating slow circling of the balls of the feet with fast movements all over the soles. She would hold the toes back before exploiting the vulnerable crevices underneath. Whoever was on the other side of that moon glass, mused Natasha, was evidently having a most unpleasant time.
The feet were well-maintained but slightly dusty which Natasha guessed meant they belonged to another student, who would have been walking barefoot. The soft bottoms suggested a recent entrant to the College, probably from the upper echelons of the Roman aristocracy where pedicures were frequent and slaves were expected to worship their mistresses’ feet regularly. Wealthy families would often send ther second or third daughter to the college to prevent fighting over inheritances.
‘Continue this until I return,’ instructed the Magistra. Motioning for Natasha to leave, they both left the door and entered the corridor. The Magistra then indicated that they would enter the very next door along.
Upon entering the room, the other half of the scene was revealed. Another acolyte was sat on the stool, but her legs and feet appeared to be disappearing into a pane of glass. On the other side of the glass was the acolyte we’d just left, happily torturing the anonymous soles. The victim was unable to move, her feet trapped as they were by the sorcerous glass. She was hysterical with laughter, banging her fists against the glass in a futile attempt to get the attention of her torturer. She had no idea she was trapped in moon glass and that her tormentor was only able to see a reflection.
‘Please…Lydia...w…w…why are you doing this?’ she cried, evidently aware of whom her tormentor was. Natasha cast an inquiring eye at her companion. In a hushed voice to avoid the woman hearing (although she needn’t have bothered given the amount of wailing and begging the girl was doing) the Magistra explained all.
‘These two acolytes were discovered to have been having…relations.’
She didn’t need to say any more. Relationships were strictly forbidden in the College. Clearly it wasn’t enough merely to punish offenders however, as joint sessions in a dungeon would only have strengthened the bond. Instead, it was necessary to make sure the women never spoke again. This way the girl in front of them would hate Lydia with a burning passion for the perceived betrayal. Obviously, Lydia would later find herself in the stocks or on the rack when a very vengeful ex-lover would be given an opportunity to exact revenge. It was, Natasha, conceded, masterful, and typical of the College. She would have expected no less.
When outsiders learned of the harsh regime inside the college it was often decried as barbaric. Natasha knew better. The Inquisition was tasked with keeping in check some of the foulest forces that assailed the empire: cultists, witches, corruption. The college taught them not only how to fight and tickle and understand the law, but how to be as hard and un-sentimental as their task demanded. Mercy was a chink in the armour that the enemies of the empire would gleefully exploit. The Inquisitorial College created the kind of iron will needed to prevent this weakness.
Having seen this principle re-affirmed in the chambers, Natasha decided to return to her quarters and rest before facing the tribunal at dawn. After all, if the council found her guilty of some fault, she might well find herself back down here the next night, only now she would be the one chained to a wall begging for mercy. This unnerving thought wasn’t relieved by the sound of piped, hysterical laughter as she left the Halls of Instruction.
