Vanillaphant
TMF Master
- Joined
- Jul 26, 2014
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This started out as my attempt to write something a bit darker in tone, but there is a strong undercurrent of irony running through it.
THE DICTATOR’S SON
Taking up the family business is a big responsibility; and when your family’s business is dictatorship, the stakes are very high. In other words, it is a very serious business. It is not my time yet, but my father, great though he may be, is not invincible. Age will take its inevitable toll, and as his heir apparent, it is my job to make sure that when the time comes, I am equal to the task. I believe that I am. After all, it is the job I was born to do. For now, though, I must continue in my role as head of internal security forces. Such a role, especially in these times of upheaval, is a trial. One that I have borne, and continue to bear with typical courage, grace and indefatigability.
Nevertheless. I am only human, so it is important, then – vital, even – in order that I might keep a level head when my best judgement is needed, for me to have a way to unwind. Something to relieve the stress engendered by such grave responsibilities. That thing used to be torture. It wasn’t so long ago that, when not immersed in my duties, you could find me in the old palace’s dungeon, sometimes spectating, but more often than not taking an active role in proceedings. “You get off now, Diaab,” I would say. “Your family awaits you. I’ll finish up here.” Yes, the guards were always pleased to see me. The prisoners less so.
I’ve had some good times in that dungeon, and it holds some fond childhood memories for me. When I was a young boy I would nag my father to let me see what was happening down below. “Take me to see hell, Daddy,” I would implore. (In my childish naivety, I was under the impression that, because it was underground, and because it contained all the ‘nasty’ people, the dungeon was hell itself! I suppose you could say I had a vivid imagination.) On my 10th birthday my father indulged me. “Take a look around, Sirhan,” he said, gesturing to the broken, writhing bodies before us. “These are our enemies. See how pathetic they are. Nobody can touch us!” and he laughed. We both did. That was my first time handling a red hot poker. It is still vivid in my mind: the radiance of the metal, the sound it made upon contact with the skin, the scream of the prisoner… I’m not sure who jumped more – me or him! That’s just a joke. I wasn’t scared at all.
I wouldn’t exactly say I’m ashamed of my activities in this respect, but it – torture, that is – is a little vulgar when you think about it. Necessary, but hardly befitting a man of my position and calibre. I imagined my dear mother looking down on me… She would not have approved. More than anything she wanted me to be a gentleman. God rest her soul. It was a phase, that’s all. Nothing more than that. And besides, if I’m honest, it was beginning to get a little tedious. After a while you find that there are no surprises in torture; people’s reactions to pain are all much of a muchness.
So now I have another passion. Tickling. This is not a fetish of mine: sexual fetishes are indicative of a diseased mind. It is a hobby. Like my father says: A man without a hobby is like a woman without a man. He never did explain exactly what that meant. Perhaps it is saying that the former needs the civilizing influence of the latter. Yes, I think that is probably it.
The procedure, then, is as follows. My scouts go out and find prospective candidates. They send me back photos of said females, each accompanied by a modest profile. If one catches my eye, I invite them (via the scout, naturally) to my palace for an Evening of Extreme (non-erotic) Pleasures. I specify ‘non-erotic’ because I do not wish to give these ladies the wrong impression. I am in a position of great power, and I could, if I wanted to, take advantage of that power in ways that are, shall we say, less than wholesome. It would be very easy for me to do that. But I choose not to. And why? Because I am not an animal, that’s why: I am a man of honour. These evenings are not about sexual gratification. As I have already indicated, my sexual interests are entirely in accordance with what one would expect to find in a healthy, virile adult male. Anything you might hear to the contrary is nothing more than a disgusting falsehood invented and propagated by enemies of the party. Remember that.
The evening kicks off with a luxury dinner – only the finest ingredients will suffice. My guest is permitted one glass of wine with her meal, no more – so as to limit the effects of neuron inhibition. After the evening meal I show her around the palace, pointing out various specimens of my outstanding art collection and dazzling her with my pitch perfect poetry recitals. “How beautiful!” she will invariably say, before enquiring as to their authorship. My guests are always delighted, though never shocked, when I reveal the truth: that they are self-penned compositions. I am a wonderful poet.
Afterwards my guest is treated to one of my special massages. Needless to say, I do not administer the massage myself. No, that would be most inappropriate. She is guided to the massage parlour, where my own personal masseuse works her magic. It is a massage designed by my own fair hand, and whose principle function is to bring about a general increase in the subject’s sensitivity. Enough said. This period also allows me chance to check that everything is in place for the evening’s finale. Notice I am now referring to my guest as the ‘subject’. For what happens next is in the way of an experiment.
One of the exciting things about the tickling phase of the Evening of Extreme (non-erotic) Pleasures is that you never know what you’re going to get. My subjects are not vetted in this respect: some are ticklish, some are not. Or rather, some are extremely ticklish, and some only mildly so. I have never witnessed a non-reaction, not the way I do it. I like to be kept guessing till the last moment. That way, even the most tedious of my subjects-to-be retains about her character one aspect of mystery which is of interest to me. It gives me something to inwardly speculate over. Also, I like surprises. All this said, it is of course the uncommonly ticklish subject that one really hopes for. They are the ones who make the efforts all worthwhile, who repay my lavish attentions and hospitality. They are the diamonds in the diatreme, as I like to say. I have discovered that there are six basic stages to be witnessed where the uncommonly ticklish subject is concerned. They are as follows. 1. Playful/half-hearted protests. (This is during the restraining process, before the tickling commences.) 2. Reflexive laughter. 3. Hysteria. 4. Whole-hearted pleading. (If and when the subject is capable, that is; comfortable breathing tends to be an issue at this stage. Involuntary micturition often plays a part here also.) 5. Sobbing. 6. Whimpering coupled with what, in my torture days, I called the fixed mask of agony. (What are the chances that these two disparate diversions would have such a thing in common!)
Of course, in practice these stages are not so clearly delineated; one will find a lot of overlap. Panic attacks and even bouts of unconsciousness do occur from to time to time, it’s true. But no REAL harm ever comes to my subjects. Nor would I want it to. Like I say, I am beyond all that now. Stage 4 is an intriguing one from my perspective. One often finds that what follows urination is a subsidence in the subject’s importunity. The entreaties tend to lose their sense of urgency, in other words. This proves that, even where the uncommonly ticklish subject is concerned, their main thought is for me, your eloquent narrator. They are afraid lest they offend my sensibilities. Bless their hearts! In truth, they need not worry. I am not squeamish when it comes to matters of the body. But it is touching all the same.
I dare say you would like to know more about the tickling itself. Allow me to enlighten you with a musical analogy. Imagine the finale of the Evening of Extreme (non-erotic) Pleasures as a concert of sorts. You have the audience, you have the orchestra, you have the instruments, and you have the all-important conductor. My team of ticklers is the orchestra. The subject’s body parts are the instruments. I am both the conductor and audience rolled into one. This is all you need to know. And what a fine concert it is! – especially when viewed from my newly-built gallery. I know what you’re thinking: Wouldn’t it be more fun to be a one-man band? Ha. The answer is no – for two reasons: 1. Unlike torture, where, generally speaking, your implements and contraptions do most of the work for you, tickling is physically quite laborious, and as such manifestly infra dig, as you might say; and 2. Twelve hands are better than two. Really, you’d be amazed at the results you can achieve when you pitch the incentives right. Did I mention that my team is comprised of prisoners? Oh yes. Nobody wants to be the slacker in that group, I can tell you! Otherwise it’s – well, perhaps you can guess? That’s right – a lengthy stay in the old palace’s dungeon, where Diaab will show them what a committed performance looks like.
Yes. It’s nice to finally have a hobby that suits my character. I don’t think I’ll be going back to that dank, smelly dungeon anytime soon. Imagine, if you’d have met me just a few months ago, it’s possible you might have thought me a raging sadist! Ha ha. You’ve got to laugh. My subjects will tell you that.
The End
THE DICTATOR’S SON
Taking up the family business is a big responsibility; and when your family’s business is dictatorship, the stakes are very high. In other words, it is a very serious business. It is not my time yet, but my father, great though he may be, is not invincible. Age will take its inevitable toll, and as his heir apparent, it is my job to make sure that when the time comes, I am equal to the task. I believe that I am. After all, it is the job I was born to do. For now, though, I must continue in my role as head of internal security forces. Such a role, especially in these times of upheaval, is a trial. One that I have borne, and continue to bear with typical courage, grace and indefatigability.
Nevertheless. I am only human, so it is important, then – vital, even – in order that I might keep a level head when my best judgement is needed, for me to have a way to unwind. Something to relieve the stress engendered by such grave responsibilities. That thing used to be torture. It wasn’t so long ago that, when not immersed in my duties, you could find me in the old palace’s dungeon, sometimes spectating, but more often than not taking an active role in proceedings. “You get off now, Diaab,” I would say. “Your family awaits you. I’ll finish up here.” Yes, the guards were always pleased to see me. The prisoners less so.
I’ve had some good times in that dungeon, and it holds some fond childhood memories for me. When I was a young boy I would nag my father to let me see what was happening down below. “Take me to see hell, Daddy,” I would implore. (In my childish naivety, I was under the impression that, because it was underground, and because it contained all the ‘nasty’ people, the dungeon was hell itself! I suppose you could say I had a vivid imagination.) On my 10th birthday my father indulged me. “Take a look around, Sirhan,” he said, gesturing to the broken, writhing bodies before us. “These are our enemies. See how pathetic they are. Nobody can touch us!” and he laughed. We both did. That was my first time handling a red hot poker. It is still vivid in my mind: the radiance of the metal, the sound it made upon contact with the skin, the scream of the prisoner… I’m not sure who jumped more – me or him! That’s just a joke. I wasn’t scared at all.
I wouldn’t exactly say I’m ashamed of my activities in this respect, but it – torture, that is – is a little vulgar when you think about it. Necessary, but hardly befitting a man of my position and calibre. I imagined my dear mother looking down on me… She would not have approved. More than anything she wanted me to be a gentleman. God rest her soul. It was a phase, that’s all. Nothing more than that. And besides, if I’m honest, it was beginning to get a little tedious. After a while you find that there are no surprises in torture; people’s reactions to pain are all much of a muchness.
So now I have another passion. Tickling. This is not a fetish of mine: sexual fetishes are indicative of a diseased mind. It is a hobby. Like my father says: A man without a hobby is like a woman without a man. He never did explain exactly what that meant. Perhaps it is saying that the former needs the civilizing influence of the latter. Yes, I think that is probably it.
The procedure, then, is as follows. My scouts go out and find prospective candidates. They send me back photos of said females, each accompanied by a modest profile. If one catches my eye, I invite them (via the scout, naturally) to my palace for an Evening of Extreme (non-erotic) Pleasures. I specify ‘non-erotic’ because I do not wish to give these ladies the wrong impression. I am in a position of great power, and I could, if I wanted to, take advantage of that power in ways that are, shall we say, less than wholesome. It would be very easy for me to do that. But I choose not to. And why? Because I am not an animal, that’s why: I am a man of honour. These evenings are not about sexual gratification. As I have already indicated, my sexual interests are entirely in accordance with what one would expect to find in a healthy, virile adult male. Anything you might hear to the contrary is nothing more than a disgusting falsehood invented and propagated by enemies of the party. Remember that.
The evening kicks off with a luxury dinner – only the finest ingredients will suffice. My guest is permitted one glass of wine with her meal, no more – so as to limit the effects of neuron inhibition. After the evening meal I show her around the palace, pointing out various specimens of my outstanding art collection and dazzling her with my pitch perfect poetry recitals. “How beautiful!” she will invariably say, before enquiring as to their authorship. My guests are always delighted, though never shocked, when I reveal the truth: that they are self-penned compositions. I am a wonderful poet.
Afterwards my guest is treated to one of my special massages. Needless to say, I do not administer the massage myself. No, that would be most inappropriate. She is guided to the massage parlour, where my own personal masseuse works her magic. It is a massage designed by my own fair hand, and whose principle function is to bring about a general increase in the subject’s sensitivity. Enough said. This period also allows me chance to check that everything is in place for the evening’s finale. Notice I am now referring to my guest as the ‘subject’. For what happens next is in the way of an experiment.
One of the exciting things about the tickling phase of the Evening of Extreme (non-erotic) Pleasures is that you never know what you’re going to get. My subjects are not vetted in this respect: some are ticklish, some are not. Or rather, some are extremely ticklish, and some only mildly so. I have never witnessed a non-reaction, not the way I do it. I like to be kept guessing till the last moment. That way, even the most tedious of my subjects-to-be retains about her character one aspect of mystery which is of interest to me. It gives me something to inwardly speculate over. Also, I like surprises. All this said, it is of course the uncommonly ticklish subject that one really hopes for. They are the ones who make the efforts all worthwhile, who repay my lavish attentions and hospitality. They are the diamonds in the diatreme, as I like to say. I have discovered that there are six basic stages to be witnessed where the uncommonly ticklish subject is concerned. They are as follows. 1. Playful/half-hearted protests. (This is during the restraining process, before the tickling commences.) 2. Reflexive laughter. 3. Hysteria. 4. Whole-hearted pleading. (If and when the subject is capable, that is; comfortable breathing tends to be an issue at this stage. Involuntary micturition often plays a part here also.) 5. Sobbing. 6. Whimpering coupled with what, in my torture days, I called the fixed mask of agony. (What are the chances that these two disparate diversions would have such a thing in common!)
Of course, in practice these stages are not so clearly delineated; one will find a lot of overlap. Panic attacks and even bouts of unconsciousness do occur from to time to time, it’s true. But no REAL harm ever comes to my subjects. Nor would I want it to. Like I say, I am beyond all that now. Stage 4 is an intriguing one from my perspective. One often finds that what follows urination is a subsidence in the subject’s importunity. The entreaties tend to lose their sense of urgency, in other words. This proves that, even where the uncommonly ticklish subject is concerned, their main thought is for me, your eloquent narrator. They are afraid lest they offend my sensibilities. Bless their hearts! In truth, they need not worry. I am not squeamish when it comes to matters of the body. But it is touching all the same.
I dare say you would like to know more about the tickling itself. Allow me to enlighten you with a musical analogy. Imagine the finale of the Evening of Extreme (non-erotic) Pleasures as a concert of sorts. You have the audience, you have the orchestra, you have the instruments, and you have the all-important conductor. My team of ticklers is the orchestra. The subject’s body parts are the instruments. I am both the conductor and audience rolled into one. This is all you need to know. And what a fine concert it is! – especially when viewed from my newly-built gallery. I know what you’re thinking: Wouldn’t it be more fun to be a one-man band? Ha. The answer is no – for two reasons: 1. Unlike torture, where, generally speaking, your implements and contraptions do most of the work for you, tickling is physically quite laborious, and as such manifestly infra dig, as you might say; and 2. Twelve hands are better than two. Really, you’d be amazed at the results you can achieve when you pitch the incentives right. Did I mention that my team is comprised of prisoners? Oh yes. Nobody wants to be the slacker in that group, I can tell you! Otherwise it’s – well, perhaps you can guess? That’s right – a lengthy stay in the old palace’s dungeon, where Diaab will show them what a committed performance looks like.
Yes. It’s nice to finally have a hobby that suits my character. I don’t think I’ll be going back to that dank, smelly dungeon anytime soon. Imagine, if you’d have met me just a few months ago, it’s possible you might have thought me a raging sadist! Ha ha. You’ve got to laugh. My subjects will tell you that.
The End
