This is a story that can be found on a few old sites. Enjoy!!!
PART 1
Scarlett O'Hara was devastated. Feeling suffocated amidst the satin sheets of her ornately decorated poster bed, she tossed and turned in mounting anguish as she sensed her world crumbling all around her. Why, only this afternoon she'd been so excited at the prospect of reigning supreme at tomorrow's barbecue at Twelve Oaks, with Ashley Wilkes hanging like a badge of honor from her bended arm. But then the Tarlton boys had spoiled everything by revealing that Ashley was planning to announce at the barbecue his engagement to Melanie Hamilton.
It was all so unfair! Scarlett kicked at the mattress petulantly, overwhelmed by the very thought that Ashley would choose anyone but herself. She had been in a complete fog all evening, hardly touching her supper, and her obvious inattention to her catechism had earned her several sharp rebukes from her mother.
The window was partially open, and a cooling breeze made the drapes flutter lazily in the darkness. Scarlett prayed for the blessed relief of sleep, which just wouldn't come. With a sigh, she slipped out of bed and tiptoed over to the window, being careful to avoid the places where the floorboards creaked. She didn't want to make the rest of the household wonder why she wasn't fast asleep like any decent girl should be at this hour. The stars twinkled brilliantly in the crystal-clear Georgia sky, and the bullfrogs were striking up a raucous chorus from some distant pond. The faintest hint of a crescent moon winked through the pine boughs near the western horizon, but the plantation grounds and cotton fields remained masked in darkness. It was a beautiful spring night, but Scarlett was far too upset to appreciate the tranquil setting of Tara by starlight.
She had already resolved not to let the untimely news of Ashley's impending engagement dampen her spirits for tomorrow's barbecue. She was going to go there with her head held high, she was going to have a mighty good time, and by golly, she was going to think of some way to get Ashley away from that goody-goody Melanie. She stared out the window at nothing in particular, planning and scheming in her own inimitable way.
She sat there pouting sullenly for some little while before the strange new sounds in the distance gradually broke through her consciousness. Suddenly alert, she listened intently. Yes, there it was again, off to the right. She squinted and strained to see what might be happening, but her eyes couldn't begin to penetrate the inky blackness. Whatever it was, it was coming from the row of dingy shacks where Tara's slave community lived. It sounded to Scarlett as if the darkies were having themselves a party to end all parties.
The slave quarters were a pretty good distance off, beyond the cotton fields, but Scarlett could hear distinctly the raucous laughter echoing through the warm night. Her Irish temper began to rise. She found it intolerable for anyone, least of all the slaves, to be having a good time while she was pining away alone in the throes of her heartfelt misery. She finally decided she was simply going to put a stop to it, right now. With single-minded purpose, she thrust her tiny feet into a pair of slippers, grabbed her housecoat and gathered it around her bare shoulders as she gingerly went down the staircase and unlocked the huge front door.
Safely outside, she trudged defiantly off across the plowed fields in the direction of the hooting and hollering that was coming from the shanty village. She knew full well that she had no business going anywhere near the slave quarters, even in broad daylight. And to be going up there at this time of night, and dressed the way she was--it was just unthinkable. Well, thought Scarlett, I don't care. I need my sleep in order to be fresh for the barbecue, and this inconsiderate cackling will keep me awake all night.
As Scarlett approached, she realized that what she was hearing was not the laughter of a group of darkies celebrating God knew what, but the shrieks of a single person. She was close enough now to hear the sounds quite well. They were definitely cries of distress, although from the mansion Scarlett would have sworn that they sounded like peals of polite social laughter, just like what she heard every day when the young misses of the household would titter reflexively to the rousing exploits and jokes as told by their expectant suitors.
A chill ran down Scarlett's spine as she listened with growing alarm to the insane wailing. What was going on here? Stepping very quietly now, she sneaked behind a run-down frame shack and inched softly around it until she could see without fear of being seen.
There was a little clearing with a crackling fire that threw out a dancing circle of light. A young child was holding a pan of chitterlings in the flames. Several old Negro nannies were clustered around a wooden bench stationed just outside the reach of the flickering light, so it was several seconds before Scarlett could make out what the women were doing. She choked off a short scream and brought a hand to her mouth as the full impact of the scene before her sank in.
A young black girl, not more than fourteen, was tied securely to the bench. She was being methodically tickled by her elder attendants. Scarlett couldn't make out much detail, but she could clearly see the rolling eyes and the flashing teeth as the little wretch shrieked and writhed in excruciating torment. Fascinated despite the cold sensations that grabbed at the pit of her stomach, Scarlett craned her neck to get a better view of the proceedings. Never in her life had she witnessed anything like this, and never before had she felt such a chill deep down in her bones.
The gnarled black fingers were poking, prodding, kneading and teasing every exposed area of the youngster's body. She hadn't been stripped completely naked, but her garb was typical of the rather skimpy warm weather garments worn by the slaves. Scarlett could see the pink flesh of the girl's soles being lightly scratched by an enormous mammy who had a bandanna wrapped around her head. The screams of hysterical agony were so high-pitched that they hurt Scarlett's ears. Why were they doing this to the poor child? What could she possibly have done to be punished so?
One of the women happened to look up just then. When she saw a white face peeking out from behind the nearby shack, she jumped to her feet with a shriek and pointed at Scarlett, babbling incoherently. She must have thought she'd seen a ghost, as none of the white folks ever came near their living quarters. Her fear was quickly communicated to the others, and as one they started cackling like frightened hens. All, that is, except the one with the bandanna, who recognized Scarlett in the dim light.
"Why, Miz Scarlett. What you doin' out heah in de middle of de night? Yo' father gwine whip you good if'n he find out." She wagged her finger reprovingly.
"Fiddle-dee-dee. Don't you try to make out like I'M the guilty party here. What are you doing to this poor child anyway?" She looked over where the girl still lay stretched out tight on the bench like a cat gut, wet tracks running down both ebony cheeks.
One of the other nannies stepped forward. "Tell you what, Miz Scarlett. We won't tell on you if'n you don't tell on us. We's gettin' Lizzie married off tomorrow to a fine young buck, and we has to gets her ready fo' her new husband."
Scarlett frowned. "What do you mean, get her ready? What does that have to do with tickling her half to death? Never in my life! Did you ask her what SHE thought about it before you tied her up?"
"Now calm down, Miz Scarlett. We ain't gwine to do no harm to dis chile. We's helping her. Dey say back in the ole country dat in order to git a girl right fo' her man, you gots to tickle her the night befo' her wedding. It drives out de devil, it loosens her up, and it makes her mo' passionate. Lizzie would be sore at us if'n we DIDN'T do dis. And so would her man."
Scarlett stared with her mouth hanging open, hardly able to believe her ears. She knew the slaves had retained many of their outlandish tribal customs, but she had no idea they'd practiced this particular rite back in the jungle. Still, she had to admit it had a certain appeal. Getting a girl ready for her man, eh? Gazing thoughtfully at the young waif as she lay quietly moaning on the bench, Scarlett began to have the glimmerings of an idea.
She didn't really know what it would be like to be tickled, but she'd never given the matter much thought. She'd never been overpowered and tickled during her childhood, since her three brothers had all died as infants and her two mealy-mouthed sisters knew better than to try and tangle with her. Even after she'd reached adolescence and had begun to attract the attention of every beau in the county, she never had to worry about being toyed with in such a familiar manner. Being the daughter of a wealthy landowner, she knew it would be unthinkable for any of her squires to take such liberties. Since being ticklish was supposedly the trait of a lady, she supposed she was as ticklish as anyone else. However, the fact had never been demonstrated. She wondered idly what it would feel like. People being tickled usually laughed, and that must mean that the experience was a pleasant one.
To be sure, Scarlett had often tormented her sisters when they were younger when, catching them alone, she would sneak up behind them and dig her fingertips into their ribs. She was never sure how to interpret their inevitable shrieks--as evidence of pleasurable surprise, or of intolerable distress. One thing she was sure of, though: they invariably struggled furiously to elude her tight grasp as if their very lives depended on it.
She had also heard that the feet were very ticklish, but this was even more of a mystery to her. A lady simply did not ever exhibit her bare feet in public, and Scarlett didn't think anyone outside her immediate family had ever seen hers. Even her sisters felt acute embarrassment going barefoot in the privacy of their own home, and Scarlett couldn't remember the last time she'd seen either of them in bare feet. Although she'd been curious on occasion, she'd never had the opportunity to tickle someone else's feet. She wasn't even sure how it was done. Certainly you didn't knead them as you would the ribcage.
Sometimes late at night when she was having difficulty falling asleep, Scarlett would pass the time exploring her maturing body, not really caring what her parents would think if they knew. She found it very pleasant to fondle her expanding breasts, especially the nipples, and she loved to stroke the soft white flesh with her fingertips. During the first such excursion, she discovered to her surprise that when the cool tips of her fingers approached her silky underarms, she couldn't bear to let them venture into the hollows of her armpits. Every time she tried, she would back off in a cold sweat as if something evil were lurking there. Finally one night she closed her eyes, bit her lip and doggedly marched onward, and the ensuing sensation was impossible to describe. She didn't laugh, but her upraised arm involuntarily jerked down over the prowling fingers, bringing an abrupt end to the experiment. She had never tried it again, but from time to time she wondered idly what it would be like for someone else's fingers to glide across her armpits while her arms were held immobile over her head.
During her nighttime explorations, Scarlett would sometimes stop and poke herself tentatively in the ribs, but never with any tangible result. Maybe God just hadn't intended that she be ticklish in that area, but Scarlett hated to think that she lacked any characteristic that a true lady ought to have. Maybe what she'd heard was really true, that you couldn't actually tickle yourself, but rather that the response of involuntary laughter could only be triggered by external stimulation.
Nothing, however, intrigued Scarlett so much during these late-night activities as the multi-faceted sensations she enjoyed while playing with her feet. She would lie on her back in bed with her knees drawn up, then she would cross an ankle over one knee and critically appraise her small bare foot in the moonlight. She had very pretty feet and legs, as she well knew, and she resented the silly taboos that prevented her from showing them off to good advantage in social settings. Her feet were very white and very soft, never having been exposed to the rays of the sun or the rough soil of Tara.
Strange but warm feelings would shoot through her body when she stroked the sole ever so lightly with her fingertips. She could just barely stand it, even though she was in full command of the situation. The delicate tension that made her body steel as she brushed the sensitive skin was somehow an exciting tonic that made her feel very good indeed. Once in a while she would tryrunning a thumbnail along one sole, but every time she did this her foot would jerk spasmodically from its perch atop her knee. She could still see the vivid picture of the little slave girl's feet being blithely scratched by the huge nanny, and for an instant she felt she could appreciate the tortures of that experience.
All of these thoughts flashed through Scarlett's mind in the twinkling of an eye. The barbecue was tomorrow at Twelve Oaks, and Ashley would be there. She was determined to wrest him away from Melanie Hamilton, but she had no idea how she'd be able to do this. At least, not until now.
"Oh, Nanny," she gushed, "that sounds so thrillingly romantic!" Gone was Scarlett's initial skeptical look, as it no longer suited her purposes. "Why is it that white folks don't do that when they get married?"
The elderly matron, unwittingly falling prey to Scarlett's enthusiastic charm, showed her teeth in a wide grin and shook her head reprovingly. "Now you know dey's a lot o' dif'rence twixt you white folks and us darkies, Miz Scarlett. Some be good and some be bad, but we gits along as best we can. You be a good girl and go on back home, won't you now, chile?"
"No, I won't," said Scarlett firmly, thrusting out her lower lip. "I'm thinking about telling Papa what's been going on here, and if I do I know there'll be a reckoning to come." She smiled slyly as the older women gasped in alarm, for they well knew how miserable life could be for them if Gerald O'Hara should go on a rampage.
"But I'll keep quiet if you'll all do me a little favor," she continued. "You see, I've got a man of my own who's caught my eye, and it's very important that I be just as attractive to him tomorrow as I can possibly be. This might be my last chance, and I'd hate the lot of you the rest of my days if you didn't help me win him over."
"But Miz Scarlett," said one of the nannies in an anguished tone, "what kin WE do 'bout dat?"
Scarlett clasped her hands tightly together and looked coyly down at the ground. She hesitated for a second, then took a deep breath as she made up her mind. After all, if it worked for them why shouldn't it work for her? Old wive's tale or not, it was at least worth a try. She cleared her throat and said softly: "You can tickle me for a little while, just like you did this lucky bride-to-be. It shouldn't be too much trouble."
They all clamored in shocked indignation at that, mortified that their owner's daughter could even suggest such a repulsive thing. There were so many reasons why her request was simply unthinkable that it didn't seem worthwhile even to raise them. Scarlett stood there a minute or so in stony silence as the women railed against her, but her mind was made up. And whenever Scarlett O'Hara set her sights on something, nothing under the sun could stand in her way. By and by, the old blacks became resigned to the fact that they were simply not going to be able to shake the fiery Scarlett's resolve. With a sigh, and with quavering fingers, one of them began to untie the previous victim. They all had good reason to be apprehensive, for if word of this should leak out to the white trash overseers they'd be as good as dead.
Scarlett peeled off her housecoat and handed it to one of the women as the youngster sat up with an effort and rubbed her chafed wrists and ankles. "You must tell me what to do, now," she said, trying bravely not to show the icy fear that was beginning to grip her. What in the world was she getting herself into? "After all, I've never done anything like this before."
"Jest lie down deah on de bench, Miz Scarlett, and put yo' arms up over yo' head." The bulkiest of the women watched sadly as the beautiful plantation heiress complied with easy grace, lifting her arms high without a hint of shame. "Is you sure you don't wants to jest fergit 'bout all dis foolishness and gwine back home?"
"Fiddle-dee-dee," she responded lightly, although she was far from feeling as self-assured as she sounded. Already her palms were growing moist with anticipation. "I wouldn't dare miss this opportunity. But mind you, I won't have my eyes on every young buck at the barbecue tomorrow, so you be sure to stop when you've gone on long enough to get me ready for the one man who interests me." She hated herself for lodging that roundabout advance plea for mercy, but she couldn't help it. She suddenly had the sinking feeling that she was making a very big mistake indeed.
She closed her eyes tightly as strong hands grasped her wrists and tied them together with stout rope. One of the nannies tested the knots briefly for security, then she tugged on the rope insistently until Scarlett's arms were stretched out straight over her head. She looped the remaining length of rope around the bench several times until she was satisfied that no amount of struggling could loosen the bonds. Scarlett was wearing a sleeveless nightgown that, while it covered her prematurely full bosom, left her smooth underarms exposed to view, and for a fleeting instant her cheeks grew hot with embarrassment. This feeling soon passed, however. After all, these were only old slave women--who cared what they thought?
Scarlett gasped involuntarily as firm but gentle fingers grasped her ankles and removed her slippers from her tiny feet,exposing her bare soles and toes to the damp night air. The moist skin felt cool as nervous perspiration began to evaporate in the soft evening breeze. She had a feeling of utter defenselessness and for a second she almost cried out to the nannies that she wanted to call the whole thing off. But she gritted her teeth and held her feelings in check until the panic began slowly to subside.
Her naked heels jutted over the end of the bench, and a warm tingling feeling stirred in her crotch as length after length of the binding rope circled tightly around her ankles and under the bench. She tried to move her feet but succeeded only in wriggling her toes. Never in her life had she felt so vulnerable, and so helpless, and the feeling made her want to scream. She didn't, though--not just yet.
The final touch was to lash her hips to the bench, after which one of the nannies invited Scarlett to try and break free. She twisted and turned, moaning softly as the ropes cut cruelly into her flesh, and soon discovered that she was ensnared as surely as a fly in a spider's web. There was hardly a sound in the still night air save the far-off chirping of the crickets and frogs, and Scarlett's heavy breathing. The old women looked at each other in resignation as they prepared to perform their unwelcome task.
One of them produced two dusters made with well-worn turkey feathers. She held one in each hand and swirled them lightly in Scarlett's naked armpits. At the same time, another one knelt at the far end of the bench and began lightly scratching Scarlett's bare soles just as she had with the young girl minutes earlier. The two remaining women stationed themselves on either side of the bench and began methodically kneading Scarlett's ribcage through the thin material of her nightgown.
Scarlett didn't even have time for a coherent thought before the awesome sensations mounted a devastating assault on her nervous system. She bit her tongue painfully in a reflex action as the messages arrived simultaneously at her brain, then she let loose with a burst of hysterical laughter that shattered the peaceful night with the force of a runaway locomotive.
Never in her wildest nightmares had she imagined that such tortures could be possible. She screamed in demonic fury as the various implements of tickling worked relentlessly on her sensitive flesh, unable even to frame a command for her torturers to stop.
Tiny bumps of goose flesh broke out all over her arms as the feathery dusters danced buoyantly in her armpits. She twisted her upper torso urgently in a vain effort to avoid the bounding fluff. She howled in renewed hysterical anguish when her strength gave out and she was forced to lie there exhausted, with nothing to occupy her attention but those awful sensations of tickling.
Every fiber of her being was pulled taut by the overpowering impulses triggered by the marauding fingers, and she gave vent to the only reaction that was possible for her at the moment. She shrieked in mindless, constant hysteria, oblivious to everything save the crashing waves of raw sensation that rushed through every pore. She jerked, lurched, and twisted in helpless agony, the laughter pouring from her gaping mouth in furious torrents.
The Negro slave women were visibly shaken, as they'd never before encountered anyone as ticklish as Miz Scarlett despite the large number of wide-eyed urchins they'd prepared for marriage in days gone by. Still, their instructions had been to keep on until they felt that Scarlett was "done up right" for her man, so they continued with skillful attention to her ultrasensitive anatomy.
The one at the end of the bench maintained the delicate raking of her rough-edged nails across the soles of Scarlett's feet, which were twisting and flexing with such sinuous energy that she found it difficult to maintain the proper touch. It was pleasant to tickle these feet, though--she'd never seen a pair so soft and so white. There was no social stigma attached to slave girls' running around barefoot. Most of them had no shoes anyway, so it was common for hard layers of skin to encase their feet at an early age. Sometimes this affected their response to tickling, and sometimes it didn't. On the other hand, Scarlett's feet were as soft and as tender as the day she was born. They twitched and curled spasmodically as the experienced fingers ran lazily up and down the tortured flesh, accompanied by the strains of mind-wrenching laughter that billowed forth from Scarlett's overtaxed lungs. The pink little toes, slender and rather long in relation to her tiny feet, alternatingly curled and flexed like the fingers of a boy squeezing a rubber ball for exercise. They exuded a hint of musk that the older woman found not to be unpleasant at all.
Meanwhile, the other women were attending to their task with unwavering diligence. Those posted at Scarlett's sides poked with questing fingers in her ribcage all the way from her armpits to her waist. Since she was still wearing her nightgown their efforts were somewhat hampered, yet there was no pretense of finesse. The two of them simply groped along quite independent of each other, never realizing the effectiveness of their combined manipulations. After all, there was formidable competition in the person of the two ticklers at either end of the bench.
The two feather dusters busily at work at one end were simply devastating in their own right. Like puppets on a string, their wielder brought them up and down, bouncing here, skating along there, but always maintaining just the right pressure against the flawless skin of Scarlett's armpits. She'd begun secretly shaving them the year before, although only heaven knew why. Sleeveless dresses were as yet an unknown innovation, so there was scant opportunity for anyone to catch a glimpse of her bare underarms in a decent social setting. But Scarlett was ever mindful of the chance for an indecent interlude or two, which perhaps explained many of her otherwise inexplicable actions. In any event, she'd recently shaved, so her tightly stretched armpits afforded a breathtakingly smooth expanse along which the dancing feathers glided in animated frivolity.
It would really be impossible for the casual observer (if one could imagine a casual observer under these circumstances!) to detect where Scarlett was most ticklish, but in truth her hysterics would be very nearly as deafening if only one--any one--of the nannies were now working her devilish magic on her. This combined assault, this sustained stimulation of the most sensitive parts of her body served only to drive all conscious thought from her mind save the one overriding obsession to bring an end to the incessant tickling. The muscles in her neck stood out as her head jerked from side to side, her long black hair matted in wet circlets against her flushed cheeks, her mascara running in crooked trails down her temples.
And then there was the laughter. Ah, such laughter! Not the merry tinkling of an amused gentlewoman, but rather the raucous din from a nightmare come alive. Not laughter spaced with periods of polite silence, but constant, endless, mindless laughter. It rattled from the rotting rooftops of the nearby shacks down the dewy fields of cotton, penetrating every sense, making its presence insistently felt in every quarter of the shanty town. Perhaps, even, at the mansion not so very far away.
This had gone on long enough. The feather dusters abruptly stopped churning, and the other women dutifully followed suit and ceased their tickling assault. Although anyone unimaginative enough to have timed the ordeal would have been amazed at the brevity of Scarlett's torture, it seemed to all present that she had had enough. Besides, no one wished to think about what might happen if one of the overseers should hear and come over to investigate. No, enough was enough, and Scarlett had certainly received a good deal more than she had bargained for.
She was heaving in a most unladylike fashion, her ample bosom rising and falling jerkily as large drops of sweat ran down her underarms and heels and splashed to the ground. Her nightgown was thoroughly soaked, outlining her curvaceous body in such detail that the slave women were overcome with shame. One of them began cooing words of comfort and encouragement into the girl's ear as she groped at the knots holding her wrists fast to the wooden bench.
Suddenly, three shapeless forms burst noisily from hiding and shooed the terrified nannies away. It was Wilkerson, the white trash overseer, and his two strapping boys, both of whom were well- endowed physically but woefully weak in the mental department. They were responsible for keeping the slaves in line, and they'd been clothed with absolute dominion in this regard. It was no wonder the blacks fled in terror at their explosive entrance, lest they be recognized and cruelly punished.
The men had heard Scarlett's cries of distress and had dressed hastily before arriving on the gallop to investigate. The shrieking hysteria had been so intense that they'd been able to approach the clearing undetected. Then, morbidly fascinated by what was transpiring before their eyes, they'd hidden behind the same shack Scarlett had chosen and had watched in silence while their passions were quickly driven to unbearable heights. The show had ended all too soon, and they wanted an encore. They meant to see to it they had one.
Old Man Wilkerson stooped down and leered in Scarlett's face, his oppressive breath causing her nose to wrinkle in distaste. She was fast recovering from the ravaging effects of her ordeal, and her station in life lent her a sense of command over the situation despite the fact that she was still stretched out helplessly like a length of cowhide. The overseers surely knew better than to trifle with her, although she was a bit discomfited by their lecherous expressions and the stiff bulges between their legs.
PART 1
Scarlett O'Hara was devastated. Feeling suffocated amidst the satin sheets of her ornately decorated poster bed, she tossed and turned in mounting anguish as she sensed her world crumbling all around her. Why, only this afternoon she'd been so excited at the prospect of reigning supreme at tomorrow's barbecue at Twelve Oaks, with Ashley Wilkes hanging like a badge of honor from her bended arm. But then the Tarlton boys had spoiled everything by revealing that Ashley was planning to announce at the barbecue his engagement to Melanie Hamilton.
It was all so unfair! Scarlett kicked at the mattress petulantly, overwhelmed by the very thought that Ashley would choose anyone but herself. She had been in a complete fog all evening, hardly touching her supper, and her obvious inattention to her catechism had earned her several sharp rebukes from her mother.
The window was partially open, and a cooling breeze made the drapes flutter lazily in the darkness. Scarlett prayed for the blessed relief of sleep, which just wouldn't come. With a sigh, she slipped out of bed and tiptoed over to the window, being careful to avoid the places where the floorboards creaked. She didn't want to make the rest of the household wonder why she wasn't fast asleep like any decent girl should be at this hour. The stars twinkled brilliantly in the crystal-clear Georgia sky, and the bullfrogs were striking up a raucous chorus from some distant pond. The faintest hint of a crescent moon winked through the pine boughs near the western horizon, but the plantation grounds and cotton fields remained masked in darkness. It was a beautiful spring night, but Scarlett was far too upset to appreciate the tranquil setting of Tara by starlight.
She had already resolved not to let the untimely news of Ashley's impending engagement dampen her spirits for tomorrow's barbecue. She was going to go there with her head held high, she was going to have a mighty good time, and by golly, she was going to think of some way to get Ashley away from that goody-goody Melanie. She stared out the window at nothing in particular, planning and scheming in her own inimitable way.
She sat there pouting sullenly for some little while before the strange new sounds in the distance gradually broke through her consciousness. Suddenly alert, she listened intently. Yes, there it was again, off to the right. She squinted and strained to see what might be happening, but her eyes couldn't begin to penetrate the inky blackness. Whatever it was, it was coming from the row of dingy shacks where Tara's slave community lived. It sounded to Scarlett as if the darkies were having themselves a party to end all parties.
The slave quarters were a pretty good distance off, beyond the cotton fields, but Scarlett could hear distinctly the raucous laughter echoing through the warm night. Her Irish temper began to rise. She found it intolerable for anyone, least of all the slaves, to be having a good time while she was pining away alone in the throes of her heartfelt misery. She finally decided she was simply going to put a stop to it, right now. With single-minded purpose, she thrust her tiny feet into a pair of slippers, grabbed her housecoat and gathered it around her bare shoulders as she gingerly went down the staircase and unlocked the huge front door.
Safely outside, she trudged defiantly off across the plowed fields in the direction of the hooting and hollering that was coming from the shanty village. She knew full well that she had no business going anywhere near the slave quarters, even in broad daylight. And to be going up there at this time of night, and dressed the way she was--it was just unthinkable. Well, thought Scarlett, I don't care. I need my sleep in order to be fresh for the barbecue, and this inconsiderate cackling will keep me awake all night.
As Scarlett approached, she realized that what she was hearing was not the laughter of a group of darkies celebrating God knew what, but the shrieks of a single person. She was close enough now to hear the sounds quite well. They were definitely cries of distress, although from the mansion Scarlett would have sworn that they sounded like peals of polite social laughter, just like what she heard every day when the young misses of the household would titter reflexively to the rousing exploits and jokes as told by their expectant suitors.
A chill ran down Scarlett's spine as she listened with growing alarm to the insane wailing. What was going on here? Stepping very quietly now, she sneaked behind a run-down frame shack and inched softly around it until she could see without fear of being seen.
There was a little clearing with a crackling fire that threw out a dancing circle of light. A young child was holding a pan of chitterlings in the flames. Several old Negro nannies were clustered around a wooden bench stationed just outside the reach of the flickering light, so it was several seconds before Scarlett could make out what the women were doing. She choked off a short scream and brought a hand to her mouth as the full impact of the scene before her sank in.
A young black girl, not more than fourteen, was tied securely to the bench. She was being methodically tickled by her elder attendants. Scarlett couldn't make out much detail, but she could clearly see the rolling eyes and the flashing teeth as the little wretch shrieked and writhed in excruciating torment. Fascinated despite the cold sensations that grabbed at the pit of her stomach, Scarlett craned her neck to get a better view of the proceedings. Never in her life had she witnessed anything like this, and never before had she felt such a chill deep down in her bones.
The gnarled black fingers were poking, prodding, kneading and teasing every exposed area of the youngster's body. She hadn't been stripped completely naked, but her garb was typical of the rather skimpy warm weather garments worn by the slaves. Scarlett could see the pink flesh of the girl's soles being lightly scratched by an enormous mammy who had a bandanna wrapped around her head. The screams of hysterical agony were so high-pitched that they hurt Scarlett's ears. Why were they doing this to the poor child? What could she possibly have done to be punished so?
One of the women happened to look up just then. When she saw a white face peeking out from behind the nearby shack, she jumped to her feet with a shriek and pointed at Scarlett, babbling incoherently. She must have thought she'd seen a ghost, as none of the white folks ever came near their living quarters. Her fear was quickly communicated to the others, and as one they started cackling like frightened hens. All, that is, except the one with the bandanna, who recognized Scarlett in the dim light.
"Why, Miz Scarlett. What you doin' out heah in de middle of de night? Yo' father gwine whip you good if'n he find out." She wagged her finger reprovingly.
"Fiddle-dee-dee. Don't you try to make out like I'M the guilty party here. What are you doing to this poor child anyway?" She looked over where the girl still lay stretched out tight on the bench like a cat gut, wet tracks running down both ebony cheeks.
One of the other nannies stepped forward. "Tell you what, Miz Scarlett. We won't tell on you if'n you don't tell on us. We's gettin' Lizzie married off tomorrow to a fine young buck, and we has to gets her ready fo' her new husband."
Scarlett frowned. "What do you mean, get her ready? What does that have to do with tickling her half to death? Never in my life! Did you ask her what SHE thought about it before you tied her up?"
"Now calm down, Miz Scarlett. We ain't gwine to do no harm to dis chile. We's helping her. Dey say back in the ole country dat in order to git a girl right fo' her man, you gots to tickle her the night befo' her wedding. It drives out de devil, it loosens her up, and it makes her mo' passionate. Lizzie would be sore at us if'n we DIDN'T do dis. And so would her man."
Scarlett stared with her mouth hanging open, hardly able to believe her ears. She knew the slaves had retained many of their outlandish tribal customs, but she had no idea they'd practiced this particular rite back in the jungle. Still, she had to admit it had a certain appeal. Getting a girl ready for her man, eh? Gazing thoughtfully at the young waif as she lay quietly moaning on the bench, Scarlett began to have the glimmerings of an idea.
She didn't really know what it would be like to be tickled, but she'd never given the matter much thought. She'd never been overpowered and tickled during her childhood, since her three brothers had all died as infants and her two mealy-mouthed sisters knew better than to try and tangle with her. Even after she'd reached adolescence and had begun to attract the attention of every beau in the county, she never had to worry about being toyed with in such a familiar manner. Being the daughter of a wealthy landowner, she knew it would be unthinkable for any of her squires to take such liberties. Since being ticklish was supposedly the trait of a lady, she supposed she was as ticklish as anyone else. However, the fact had never been demonstrated. She wondered idly what it would feel like. People being tickled usually laughed, and that must mean that the experience was a pleasant one.
To be sure, Scarlett had often tormented her sisters when they were younger when, catching them alone, she would sneak up behind them and dig her fingertips into their ribs. She was never sure how to interpret their inevitable shrieks--as evidence of pleasurable surprise, or of intolerable distress. One thing she was sure of, though: they invariably struggled furiously to elude her tight grasp as if their very lives depended on it.
She had also heard that the feet were very ticklish, but this was even more of a mystery to her. A lady simply did not ever exhibit her bare feet in public, and Scarlett didn't think anyone outside her immediate family had ever seen hers. Even her sisters felt acute embarrassment going barefoot in the privacy of their own home, and Scarlett couldn't remember the last time she'd seen either of them in bare feet. Although she'd been curious on occasion, she'd never had the opportunity to tickle someone else's feet. She wasn't even sure how it was done. Certainly you didn't knead them as you would the ribcage.
Sometimes late at night when she was having difficulty falling asleep, Scarlett would pass the time exploring her maturing body, not really caring what her parents would think if they knew. She found it very pleasant to fondle her expanding breasts, especially the nipples, and she loved to stroke the soft white flesh with her fingertips. During the first such excursion, she discovered to her surprise that when the cool tips of her fingers approached her silky underarms, she couldn't bear to let them venture into the hollows of her armpits. Every time she tried, she would back off in a cold sweat as if something evil were lurking there. Finally one night she closed her eyes, bit her lip and doggedly marched onward, and the ensuing sensation was impossible to describe. She didn't laugh, but her upraised arm involuntarily jerked down over the prowling fingers, bringing an abrupt end to the experiment. She had never tried it again, but from time to time she wondered idly what it would be like for someone else's fingers to glide across her armpits while her arms were held immobile over her head.
During her nighttime explorations, Scarlett would sometimes stop and poke herself tentatively in the ribs, but never with any tangible result. Maybe God just hadn't intended that she be ticklish in that area, but Scarlett hated to think that she lacked any characteristic that a true lady ought to have. Maybe what she'd heard was really true, that you couldn't actually tickle yourself, but rather that the response of involuntary laughter could only be triggered by external stimulation.
Nothing, however, intrigued Scarlett so much during these late-night activities as the multi-faceted sensations she enjoyed while playing with her feet. She would lie on her back in bed with her knees drawn up, then she would cross an ankle over one knee and critically appraise her small bare foot in the moonlight. She had very pretty feet and legs, as she well knew, and she resented the silly taboos that prevented her from showing them off to good advantage in social settings. Her feet were very white and very soft, never having been exposed to the rays of the sun or the rough soil of Tara.
Strange but warm feelings would shoot through her body when she stroked the sole ever so lightly with her fingertips. She could just barely stand it, even though she was in full command of the situation. The delicate tension that made her body steel as she brushed the sensitive skin was somehow an exciting tonic that made her feel very good indeed. Once in a while she would tryrunning a thumbnail along one sole, but every time she did this her foot would jerk spasmodically from its perch atop her knee. She could still see the vivid picture of the little slave girl's feet being blithely scratched by the huge nanny, and for an instant she felt she could appreciate the tortures of that experience.
All of these thoughts flashed through Scarlett's mind in the twinkling of an eye. The barbecue was tomorrow at Twelve Oaks, and Ashley would be there. She was determined to wrest him away from Melanie Hamilton, but she had no idea how she'd be able to do this. At least, not until now.
"Oh, Nanny," she gushed, "that sounds so thrillingly romantic!" Gone was Scarlett's initial skeptical look, as it no longer suited her purposes. "Why is it that white folks don't do that when they get married?"
The elderly matron, unwittingly falling prey to Scarlett's enthusiastic charm, showed her teeth in a wide grin and shook her head reprovingly. "Now you know dey's a lot o' dif'rence twixt you white folks and us darkies, Miz Scarlett. Some be good and some be bad, but we gits along as best we can. You be a good girl and go on back home, won't you now, chile?"
"No, I won't," said Scarlett firmly, thrusting out her lower lip. "I'm thinking about telling Papa what's been going on here, and if I do I know there'll be a reckoning to come." She smiled slyly as the older women gasped in alarm, for they well knew how miserable life could be for them if Gerald O'Hara should go on a rampage.
"But I'll keep quiet if you'll all do me a little favor," she continued. "You see, I've got a man of my own who's caught my eye, and it's very important that I be just as attractive to him tomorrow as I can possibly be. This might be my last chance, and I'd hate the lot of you the rest of my days if you didn't help me win him over."
"But Miz Scarlett," said one of the nannies in an anguished tone, "what kin WE do 'bout dat?"
Scarlett clasped her hands tightly together and looked coyly down at the ground. She hesitated for a second, then took a deep breath as she made up her mind. After all, if it worked for them why shouldn't it work for her? Old wive's tale or not, it was at least worth a try. She cleared her throat and said softly: "You can tickle me for a little while, just like you did this lucky bride-to-be. It shouldn't be too much trouble."
They all clamored in shocked indignation at that, mortified that their owner's daughter could even suggest such a repulsive thing. There were so many reasons why her request was simply unthinkable that it didn't seem worthwhile even to raise them. Scarlett stood there a minute or so in stony silence as the women railed against her, but her mind was made up. And whenever Scarlett O'Hara set her sights on something, nothing under the sun could stand in her way. By and by, the old blacks became resigned to the fact that they were simply not going to be able to shake the fiery Scarlett's resolve. With a sigh, and with quavering fingers, one of them began to untie the previous victim. They all had good reason to be apprehensive, for if word of this should leak out to the white trash overseers they'd be as good as dead.
Scarlett peeled off her housecoat and handed it to one of the women as the youngster sat up with an effort and rubbed her chafed wrists and ankles. "You must tell me what to do, now," she said, trying bravely not to show the icy fear that was beginning to grip her. What in the world was she getting herself into? "After all, I've never done anything like this before."
"Jest lie down deah on de bench, Miz Scarlett, and put yo' arms up over yo' head." The bulkiest of the women watched sadly as the beautiful plantation heiress complied with easy grace, lifting her arms high without a hint of shame. "Is you sure you don't wants to jest fergit 'bout all dis foolishness and gwine back home?"
"Fiddle-dee-dee," she responded lightly, although she was far from feeling as self-assured as she sounded. Already her palms were growing moist with anticipation. "I wouldn't dare miss this opportunity. But mind you, I won't have my eyes on every young buck at the barbecue tomorrow, so you be sure to stop when you've gone on long enough to get me ready for the one man who interests me." She hated herself for lodging that roundabout advance plea for mercy, but she couldn't help it. She suddenly had the sinking feeling that she was making a very big mistake indeed.
She closed her eyes tightly as strong hands grasped her wrists and tied them together with stout rope. One of the nannies tested the knots briefly for security, then she tugged on the rope insistently until Scarlett's arms were stretched out straight over her head. She looped the remaining length of rope around the bench several times until she was satisfied that no amount of struggling could loosen the bonds. Scarlett was wearing a sleeveless nightgown that, while it covered her prematurely full bosom, left her smooth underarms exposed to view, and for a fleeting instant her cheeks grew hot with embarrassment. This feeling soon passed, however. After all, these were only old slave women--who cared what they thought?
Scarlett gasped involuntarily as firm but gentle fingers grasped her ankles and removed her slippers from her tiny feet,exposing her bare soles and toes to the damp night air. The moist skin felt cool as nervous perspiration began to evaporate in the soft evening breeze. She had a feeling of utter defenselessness and for a second she almost cried out to the nannies that she wanted to call the whole thing off. But she gritted her teeth and held her feelings in check until the panic began slowly to subside.
Her naked heels jutted over the end of the bench, and a warm tingling feeling stirred in her crotch as length after length of the binding rope circled tightly around her ankles and under the bench. She tried to move her feet but succeeded only in wriggling her toes. Never in her life had she felt so vulnerable, and so helpless, and the feeling made her want to scream. She didn't, though--not just yet.
The final touch was to lash her hips to the bench, after which one of the nannies invited Scarlett to try and break free. She twisted and turned, moaning softly as the ropes cut cruelly into her flesh, and soon discovered that she was ensnared as surely as a fly in a spider's web. There was hardly a sound in the still night air save the far-off chirping of the crickets and frogs, and Scarlett's heavy breathing. The old women looked at each other in resignation as they prepared to perform their unwelcome task.
One of them produced two dusters made with well-worn turkey feathers. She held one in each hand and swirled them lightly in Scarlett's naked armpits. At the same time, another one knelt at the far end of the bench and began lightly scratching Scarlett's bare soles just as she had with the young girl minutes earlier. The two remaining women stationed themselves on either side of the bench and began methodically kneading Scarlett's ribcage through the thin material of her nightgown.
Scarlett didn't even have time for a coherent thought before the awesome sensations mounted a devastating assault on her nervous system. She bit her tongue painfully in a reflex action as the messages arrived simultaneously at her brain, then she let loose with a burst of hysterical laughter that shattered the peaceful night with the force of a runaway locomotive.
Never in her wildest nightmares had she imagined that such tortures could be possible. She screamed in demonic fury as the various implements of tickling worked relentlessly on her sensitive flesh, unable even to frame a command for her torturers to stop.
Tiny bumps of goose flesh broke out all over her arms as the feathery dusters danced buoyantly in her armpits. She twisted her upper torso urgently in a vain effort to avoid the bounding fluff. She howled in renewed hysterical anguish when her strength gave out and she was forced to lie there exhausted, with nothing to occupy her attention but those awful sensations of tickling.
Every fiber of her being was pulled taut by the overpowering impulses triggered by the marauding fingers, and she gave vent to the only reaction that was possible for her at the moment. She shrieked in mindless, constant hysteria, oblivious to everything save the crashing waves of raw sensation that rushed through every pore. She jerked, lurched, and twisted in helpless agony, the laughter pouring from her gaping mouth in furious torrents.
The Negro slave women were visibly shaken, as they'd never before encountered anyone as ticklish as Miz Scarlett despite the large number of wide-eyed urchins they'd prepared for marriage in days gone by. Still, their instructions had been to keep on until they felt that Scarlett was "done up right" for her man, so they continued with skillful attention to her ultrasensitive anatomy.
The one at the end of the bench maintained the delicate raking of her rough-edged nails across the soles of Scarlett's feet, which were twisting and flexing with such sinuous energy that she found it difficult to maintain the proper touch. It was pleasant to tickle these feet, though--she'd never seen a pair so soft and so white. There was no social stigma attached to slave girls' running around barefoot. Most of them had no shoes anyway, so it was common for hard layers of skin to encase their feet at an early age. Sometimes this affected their response to tickling, and sometimes it didn't. On the other hand, Scarlett's feet were as soft and as tender as the day she was born. They twitched and curled spasmodically as the experienced fingers ran lazily up and down the tortured flesh, accompanied by the strains of mind-wrenching laughter that billowed forth from Scarlett's overtaxed lungs. The pink little toes, slender and rather long in relation to her tiny feet, alternatingly curled and flexed like the fingers of a boy squeezing a rubber ball for exercise. They exuded a hint of musk that the older woman found not to be unpleasant at all.
Meanwhile, the other women were attending to their task with unwavering diligence. Those posted at Scarlett's sides poked with questing fingers in her ribcage all the way from her armpits to her waist. Since she was still wearing her nightgown their efforts were somewhat hampered, yet there was no pretense of finesse. The two of them simply groped along quite independent of each other, never realizing the effectiveness of their combined manipulations. After all, there was formidable competition in the person of the two ticklers at either end of the bench.
The two feather dusters busily at work at one end were simply devastating in their own right. Like puppets on a string, their wielder brought them up and down, bouncing here, skating along there, but always maintaining just the right pressure against the flawless skin of Scarlett's armpits. She'd begun secretly shaving them the year before, although only heaven knew why. Sleeveless dresses were as yet an unknown innovation, so there was scant opportunity for anyone to catch a glimpse of her bare underarms in a decent social setting. But Scarlett was ever mindful of the chance for an indecent interlude or two, which perhaps explained many of her otherwise inexplicable actions. In any event, she'd recently shaved, so her tightly stretched armpits afforded a breathtakingly smooth expanse along which the dancing feathers glided in animated frivolity.
It would really be impossible for the casual observer (if one could imagine a casual observer under these circumstances!) to detect where Scarlett was most ticklish, but in truth her hysterics would be very nearly as deafening if only one--any one--of the nannies were now working her devilish magic on her. This combined assault, this sustained stimulation of the most sensitive parts of her body served only to drive all conscious thought from her mind save the one overriding obsession to bring an end to the incessant tickling. The muscles in her neck stood out as her head jerked from side to side, her long black hair matted in wet circlets against her flushed cheeks, her mascara running in crooked trails down her temples.
And then there was the laughter. Ah, such laughter! Not the merry tinkling of an amused gentlewoman, but rather the raucous din from a nightmare come alive. Not laughter spaced with periods of polite silence, but constant, endless, mindless laughter. It rattled from the rotting rooftops of the nearby shacks down the dewy fields of cotton, penetrating every sense, making its presence insistently felt in every quarter of the shanty town. Perhaps, even, at the mansion not so very far away.
This had gone on long enough. The feather dusters abruptly stopped churning, and the other women dutifully followed suit and ceased their tickling assault. Although anyone unimaginative enough to have timed the ordeal would have been amazed at the brevity of Scarlett's torture, it seemed to all present that she had had enough. Besides, no one wished to think about what might happen if one of the overseers should hear and come over to investigate. No, enough was enough, and Scarlett had certainly received a good deal more than she had bargained for.
She was heaving in a most unladylike fashion, her ample bosom rising and falling jerkily as large drops of sweat ran down her underarms and heels and splashed to the ground. Her nightgown was thoroughly soaked, outlining her curvaceous body in such detail that the slave women were overcome with shame. One of them began cooing words of comfort and encouragement into the girl's ear as she groped at the knots holding her wrists fast to the wooden bench.
Suddenly, three shapeless forms burst noisily from hiding and shooed the terrified nannies away. It was Wilkerson, the white trash overseer, and his two strapping boys, both of whom were well- endowed physically but woefully weak in the mental department. They were responsible for keeping the slaves in line, and they'd been clothed with absolute dominion in this regard. It was no wonder the blacks fled in terror at their explosive entrance, lest they be recognized and cruelly punished.
The men had heard Scarlett's cries of distress and had dressed hastily before arriving on the gallop to investigate. The shrieking hysteria had been so intense that they'd been able to approach the clearing undetected. Then, morbidly fascinated by what was transpiring before their eyes, they'd hidden behind the same shack Scarlett had chosen and had watched in silence while their passions were quickly driven to unbearable heights. The show had ended all too soon, and they wanted an encore. They meant to see to it they had one.
Old Man Wilkerson stooped down and leered in Scarlett's face, his oppressive breath causing her nose to wrinkle in distaste. She was fast recovering from the ravaging effects of her ordeal, and her station in life lent her a sense of command over the situation despite the fact that she was still stretched out helplessly like a length of cowhide. The overseers surely knew better than to trifle with her, although she was a bit discomfited by their lecherous expressions and the stiff bulges between their legs.
