Mirth in the Cathedral (f/m)

[A sequel to this can be found in my Deadlier Than the Male .]

MIRTH IN THE CATHEDRAL
another one of those stories

THIS STORY ONLY APPROPRIATE FOR THOSE WHO HAVE ATTAINED THE AGE OF KNIGHTHOOD (21, TO THOSE WITH NO KNOWLEDGE OF HISTORY).

It was dark and it was cold and the stones under him were hard, and the thin cotton tunic he wore didn't do much against the coldness or the hardness. But Martin knew he could endure. He'd passed the other ordeals with flying colors, and now only one ritual was left before he was confirmed as Sir Martin: the vigil. Like every other knight of the land before him, he would spend the entire night, from sunset to sunrise, lying before the altar in the high-ceilinged cathedral. Centuries ago, the great St. Julia the Steadfast had lain in prayer exactly where Martin was lying now, and when she arose, the outline of her body was miraculously imprinted on the flagstones. So it had become the custom for squires on the verge of knighthood to perform their vigil on the Mark of Julia, lying as the saint had lain, face-down with arms spread wide in supplication. The Mark was large enough to accommodate a tall man -- like Martin -- but only barely. He needed both his strength and the saint's favor to get through the night without moving a muscle from where he lay; come dawn, he would have to be able to honestly say to the senior knights that he had stayed awake and within the Mark all night. He had lost track of time long ago, and his body was becoming cold and sore from the flagstones and from enforced immobility, but it was nothing he could not endure.

Martin was silently repeating the Sixth Prayer to himself when he became aware of a faint golden light washing over the walls in front of him, glinting off the altarpieces. At first, he believed himself dreaming, but then realized someone with a candle had entered the cathedral. No one was supposed to disturb a squire in his vigil, but Martin, thinking it might be a further test of his resolution, did not speak. Then, to his astonishment, from behind him he heard a quiet but unmistakably feminine giggle. It was a sound that belonged in the high, austere cathedral as much as a waterfall belongs in the desert. Still Martin remained silent and immobile, fixing his eyes on the stern figure of St. Julia in her white gown above the altar, though the temptation to call out, or crane his head around to look, was almost irresistible.

The candlelight grew brighter. Soft footsteps sounded on the stones now, coming closer. Martin heard the rustle of skirts, felt the breeze disturbed by their swishing pass across his bare legs. "Look at you," whispered a female voice. "You look like you're making a snow angel."

Another test, Martin was sure. The senior knights knew of his ... fondness ... for women and had decided to make sure he could not be duped into abandoning his vigil by a sweet voice. He lay like a mannequin, resolute. "Are you ignoring me?" the woman asked quietly. "You did not do so, once ... "

The voice did sound vaguely familiar, but Martin could not place it. Perhaps Alys, the petite dark-haired tailor's daughter he had spent a week or so with before he got bored? She had been… Hastily Martin forced his thoughts away from subjects that should not be thought of in a cathedral, especially not in the Mark of Julia. But what would Alys be doing in the cathedral at midnight? Nobody was supposed to be here when a vigil was going on, not even a priest or monk.

"Still stubbornly silent?" Alys, if it were her, sounded more amused than anything. "I'm used to being attended to. Perhaps this will get you to notice me." And the next thing Martin felt was a fingertip touching, gently circling, the arch of his right foot. Only iron self-control kept him from jerking his foot away, and out of the Mark. As it was, he could not restrain a gasp of surprise. Martin was a well-trained squire, able to deal with heat or cold, fatigue, hunger, sickness, wounds, all the difficulties of a warrior's life -- but his training had never covered being tickled. She was trailing the backs of her fingers up his soles now, gliding her fingertips down in the other direction, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth ... Martin could practically feel his head swell as barely restrained giggles pounded at the barrier of his tight-pressed lips, and his calves were tight and hard as ivory as he fought to keep his tormented feet from moving. "Yes, I think you're paying attention to me and not to your exaggerated holiness now," said Alys (if it were Alys) with wicked delight. "It's hard to keep your mind in the clouds when your feet are being tickled, isn't it?"

It couldn't be Alys, Martin thought as he struggled to remain still. She had been a pious girl, except at certain times. Could it be the Countess Ilse, who had taken him to her bed for her amusement and, when she had found he was ticklish on his belly, teased him to distraction? Her irreverence had shocked him, and the glee she took in playing with his body had disturbed him, and he had ended the liaison out of self-protection as much as anything. He was even more glad he was lying facedown now, but even with that protection, far too many of his sensitive spots were exposed. If she meant to explore further ... Martin offered a silent prayer to St. Julia for strength. If it were the Countess, he could expect no pity. The tickling on his feet was fast becoming unbearable, and Martin pressed his face into the stones to hide the broad, agonized grin that was spreading over it. Her fingernails scrabbled briskly around his arches, insinuated themselves between his tight-clenched toes. "You're going to start laughing now," his torturer crooned in a low, almost hypnotic voice. "If you laugh for me, I'll stop tickling your feet. You know you can't take it .... "

No, that husky voice ... it couldn't be the Countess's high, musical soprano, even disguised. Could it be the red-haired servant girl with the legs, what was her name? ...
he'd only known her for one night, but an outstanding night it was, and there had been that peculiar but sexy hoarseness in her voice as she shouted his name. He shuddered under the delicate precision of her onslaught. She was right -- his legs were twitching uncontrollably, and if she didn't stop soon, he'd squirm right out of the Mark. Breaking silence would be bad, but leaving the Mark was unthinkable. Martin's breath caught in his throat as she touched the undersides of his toes, and the laughter burst out of him. He'd meant to try and keep it quiet, but with her fingers goading him it came out frantic and unstoppable, echoing through the cathedral so loudly it seemed impossible the monks in the adjoining monastery did not hear it. She traced along one arch ... "Stop it, woman!" he said in a voice made unsteady by freshly building laughter. "Keep your promise!"

Why was he putting himself through this? It would be the work of a few seconds to twist around, grab her, and teach her an unforgettable lesson. No one would be the wiser ... but he'd have to lie to the senior knights in the morning when they asked if he had ever left the Mark of Julia. And he couldn't countenance that. So there was no other choice but to humiliate himself. "Stop it -- please!"

"Ahh." Her hands stilled in their work, though they rested lightly on his skin, ready to provoke him further at any moment. Martin was no longer cold. Sweat trailed down his sides, and to his embarrassment he had become aroused, his erection pressing hard against the cold stone. Being tickled had always done that to him, though he rarely let his lovers tickle him. The indignity of squirming and squealing was simply inappropriate for a man of his station (or at least, the station he hoped to attain). In fact, he couldn't even recall the redhead trying to tickle him, so maybe it wasn't her. Then who ... ? "So now you're a believer in the keeping of promises? Very well, I'll show you this small mercy. After all, both you and I know there are more entertaining places on you to tickle than your feet ... "

Goosebumps chased themselves around Martin's body as the cool hands slipped up his bare legs, up, up ... He felt her skirts brush his calves and knew she must be kneeling in the angle of his spread legs now. She touched the soft skin behind his knees, hands slipping around to pass up his thighs. Martin closed his eyes, tried to think of the codes of chivalry, ice water, rotting corpses, the ugly old woman he'd seen that morning. The tunic he wore came halfway down his thighs, and when his tormentor came to the hem, she took hold of it and tugged it upward, exposing him inch by inch. She giggled again as his embarrassment was revealed, and Martin could feel the blood rushing to his face. "Well, what's this? I knew you'd screw anything, Martin, but a cathedral floor? I thought you liked them a little softer and warmer ... " A very soft, very warm fingertip traced down the underside of his penis, and Martin groaned. Did she mean to make him actually spill his seed on the Mark? He couldn't allow that to happen, even if it meant failing the vigil. But surely no one, not even the Countess, would contemplate such sacrilege ...

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"What, you don't know?" She lightly grasped the head of his penis with a thumb and two fingers. "Oh, that makes it even more delightful. I can't blame you, though -- there must be dozens of women you've been unfaithful to. I'll tell you what: if you can remember my name, I'll stop and leave you alone." She paused as Martin began racking his memory. "But until then, you're going to *suffer*." He yelled aloud and almost levitated straight up off the cathedral floor. She had thrust a hand between his thighs, delicately fingernailing the tiny patch of sensitive skin just behind his balls, while her thumb rubbed the velvety skin of the head. The sensations would be intense enough separately. Together, and with Martin unable to wiggle his hips so much as an inch lest he roll out of the Mark, they were torture. He couldn't think of a name, or anything else, under such conditions. The waves of raw sensation and the overriding need to KEEP STILL blotted out everything else. Martin's head snapped back, his teeth in his lip and his features strained with the agony of overwhelming pleasure. "Stop it!" he screamed, uncaring as to who might hear. "Stop! Don't! Stooooooopppppp!" He couldn't restrain himself a second longer. He'd have to move, break contact with her -- but he couldn't move, he had to KEEP STILL -- but the Mark of Julia would be defiled if -- but -- "STOP!"

And she stopped, a hair shy of the moment of crisis. Her hands left him, and Martin slumped into a puddle of sweat, feeling his penis jerk disappointedly against the floor. She deftly caught what leaked from its tip and wiped her dampened fingers on the hem of his tunic. "Poor little Martin," she teased. "It doesn't take much to have you screaming for mercy, after all. If you go crusading after you're made a knight, you'd better hope those pagan women don't get their hands on you."

Martin's brain was racing, trying to remember all the women of his past and pick out the one who matched the merciless phantom behind him. What about Sir Theodor's sister, Pura? She'd had a fine sense of just how far he could be pushed before exploding, which she used to prolong their lovemaking sessions to lengths he considered absurd. And they'd quarreled when he left her for another woman ... and she knew he was ticklish, from a night when they were both drunk. "A ... are you Pura?" he asked, trying to unobtrusively crane his head around to look over his shoulder. All he could see was a bit of white dress ...

"No." She began pushing his tunic higher. "I should really give out some kind of punishment for a wrong guess," she said as she continued baring him, "but to be honest, I can't think of any punishment that's worse than what I'm going to do to you." She took hold of his neck and firmly turned his face back down to the floor. "And no looking, or the deal's off and I'll stay here all night." Martin stared at the ground, very conscious of the cool touch on his skin. He thought of ice water again, huge vats of it, teeth-crackingly cold ... "Do you have anything more to say before you start screaming again?" She was leaning over him now, hands on his back, and if she wasn't aware of the weakness of his ribs and sides, she would find out before long. Unless he came up with the right name.

"Um ... Colwen?" She'd worn white a lot, hadn't she? Martin was too scrambled to remember, but he had to say *something*.

Silence. Then: "Oh, dear. You're -- " Her hands withdrew, her weight leaving him, and Martin felt tremendous relief for about five seconds. " -- wrong!" she squealed triumphantly. Hooked fingers, strong and cruel as raptor claws, seized hold of his ribcage, and any hopes that Martin might have that she was unfamiliar with his body were swept away on a torrent of laughter. She tickled his ribs fast and hard, exactly the way Martin hated it most because it made him laugh himself breathless quickly, leaving him writhing -- or rather, trying to writhe but not too much -- in the grip of debilitating, soundless laughter. His hands clenched and spasmed as if he were trying to get a fingerhold on the floor, and his elbows twitched with the frustrated need to draw close to the body, defend his sides from this pitiless attack. Why couldn't the saint have laid herself down straight instead of in this ridiculous spread-out position?

Her clothes rustled as she rearranged herself behind him. She was lying down now, her elbows bracketing his hips and her torso supported on his buttocks -- and her hands, as always, on his vulnerable ribs. His penis and balls were buried under what felt like a ruffled shirtfront, the lacy ruffles scraping and brushing him maddeningly with every shift in their positions. And just beyond the lace he could feel the warm, inviting weight of her ... between that and the tickling, the ice water had flash-boiled into steam. At least this way, his legs were partially secure, and he could focus on keeping his upper body still. He could smell her now, a faint flowery scent. Not Pernelle, then -- she'd drenched herself in rosewater every morning. Maybe ...

"Mercy," Martin gasped.

"I don't think so."

"No ... a name. Mercy -- hahahahahaha! -- the shepherdess."

"Still wrong." Her stiffened fingers probed the undersides of his ribs, and Martin, howling, had to clutch at the floor again to keep from rolling off the Mark. "But do keep trying to guess. When I hear all these names, it makes it clear how unimportant I must have been to you." She had slowed the rib-tickling, but that afforded Martin no relief, for she had traded speed for precision. Lazy playful fingers wandered his sides in search of particularly ticklish spots and found them, one by one by one. Every time Martin, gasping like a beached fish, thought he was about to recover his breath, a slyly wriggling finger would bring paroxysms of laughter and leave him breathless once more. He could feel her body above him, quivering with suppressed giggles as she enjoyed his predicament.

Under her coaxing touch, name after name was forced out of Martin, some of them of women he hadn't seen since his early teens, some of women he'd only met once, and even some he invented on the spot. Had anyone happened to be passing through the cathedral at that time of night, he would have heard a most unusual litany: "Stop it ... DianaAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHA ... don't *do* thatHAHAHAHAHAHA ... sorry, sorry, do whatever you wan -- noHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA ... (gasp, giggle) Katerina? Katrin? Is it -- no, don't! -- heeheeheeheeheeheeeeeeee ... Lyssa, I'm sorry -- no, wait, don't, I meant AnnekeHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA ......... just stop, please, I can't take any more, you know what's going to heeheeheeheehee ... oh, all right, all right, Moira? Nooooooo...."
And coupled with that, a quieter voice, whispering silkily with mock sympathy or devilish glee as the victim's laughter rose and fell.

She was tickling his stomach now, and Martin was nearly mad with laughter. He wondered if the business of the names was another cruel joke. Even if he'd shrieked out the right name, would she acknowledge it and end her fun? She'd curled her fingers around his body, digging into the sides of his belly and making Martin rock back and forth and arch his body ever so slightly in a hopeless effort to escape. Every wriggle let her push her hands farther under his body. They were pinned between him and the floor now, but far from helpless -- the fingers could still wiggle, which they did endlessly, kneading Martin's sensitive flesh. And he'd believed himself protected because he was lying facedown! His own weight was pressing him down onto those unmerciful fingers, and trying to raise himself up only put strain on his calves and shoulders and made it harder for him to keep to the Mark of Julia. The frustration of being unable to *do* anything was almost as bad as the tickling. Almost.

And still the names poured from him between bouts of wild mirth: Bernice, Ulla, Lilias, the other Lilias, Yndri, Madelaine ... each earning him only more tickling. Even he was faintly astonished with the number of female names he was producing. Finally, he gasped, "No more ... no more."

"We've only just started, Martin. You still have something to tell me." She twisted a fingertip or two in the vulnerable skin around his navel, and Martin's hips twisted almost in response.

"Hahahahahahaha ... no ... I mean no more names. I've told you all I can remember, honestly." He cringed, awaiting the ticklestorm of gleeful revenge he must have just unleashed on himself.

"Really?" She straightened back up to her knees, hands trailing across his hot skin. "I'm very disappointed in you, Martin. Fortunately, we have time to start all over. Maybe you'll pay attention this time ... " Her fingertips were walking across his behind (stopping for a pinch), down his thighs, the back of his legs ...

"Please," Martin whined. "Please -- if you tickle me any more, I won't be able to hold still. Just leave me alone to finish the vigil, and I'll do anything you ask."

"Of course you will." She stroked his hard calves. "But you're here and helpless now. I like it this way." A fingertip alighted on his arch, the first caress of what would be an irresistible wave of tickling ...

Inspiration, born of desperation, struck Martin. "If you make me squirm off the Mark, I won't have any reason -- heeheeheeheeheehee -- let me fiiiiiinish -- not to grab you -- stop!"

"That's true," she said thoughtfully, and for a blessed moment stopped tickling his feet.

"Can't you please forgive me?" Martin pleaded. "Haven't I suffered enough already for the offense I gave you?" Never had he wanted more to see her face, to judge whether she was listening or just letting him babble on while she plotted her next tickling assault.

Shockingly, she laughed. "We've never met," she said. "I just enjoy coming in here during a vigil to tease the squires. But you're far and away the most delightfully ticklish -- and gullible -- boy I've had the pleasure to play with. It's hard to give you up ... " And as if to illustrate how hard, she began tickling Martin's feet again, four fingers sweeping up and down each foot in unison like the bristles of a brush. Martin burned -- with embarrassment, lust, anger, and of course ticklishness. How dare she
-- ! How could he avenge himself? How could he have her? Why wouldn't she *stop*? He yelled the last thought aloud and received only a soft laugh in response.

"Oh, I just thought of something." She drew lazy figure-eights with a forefinger on each sole in turn, from one to the other and back again.

"What?!" Martin yelped.

"Maybe if you promised me something ... " The tickling stopped. "Promise me that you'll stay with the next woman you take as a lover. Marry her, maybe. Don't just throw her aside when something more interesting seizes your attention. Be faithful."

"I could do that ... especially if it were you."

She laughed again, with real pleasure this time. "Oh, no, Martin, you'll never have *me*! But it's sweet of you to say so. Maybe you've been enjoying this little game more than you've let on?" A fingernail scratched his sole, almost in parody of the torment she'd just put him through, and Martin jerked.

"I ... uh ... " he said, flustered.

"But will you make the promise?" His tormentor's voice turned serious. "And I mean it now. I can be very ... inventive ... with oathbreakers."

"I ... I promise." It wouldn't be so bad, he told himself. If she let him complete the vigil, and he made the knighthood, it would be a good time to marry. And he could be faithful, maybe, even though at the moment the thought made his insides crawl.

She squeezed his buttocks, pulling them apart briefly. "Good boy, Martin. Well, now that I've warmed you up, you should have no trouble finishing your vigil." The candlelight wavered as she picked up the candle and turned away, footsteps pattering on the flagstones.

"Wait!" Martin shouted.

"What?" The footsteps paused.

"What is your name?"

She said nothing for a moment. Then: "Call me Julia." The candlelight went out, and he heard a wild giggle -- and, for an instant, the sound of wings.

So it was that, come dawn, Martin was found by the senior knights -- still firmly immobile, still within the Mark of Julia, but with his tunic rucked up around his waist and with a pure white plume, pointing upward, clamped between the cheeks of his buttocks.