This is an idea I've been playing with off and on for a while now; hopefully part 2 will be forthcoming (posted as a response to this message). Feedback, as always, is entirely welcome. Enjoy!
Discourses on Tickling
by
Kid Indy
Count Tomaso de Montressor prepared his chamber for the distinguished scholar. He knew that if any man could make him powerful, this master of ancient wisdom could. The famed Lady Juila of Glasgow was his prisoner now, and she had not yet pledged her gigantic widow's inheritance to anyone yet. Her elderly husband, a famed merchant, had died without an heir or brother, and news travelled quickly along the sea routes that his significant fortune would soon be the property of a nunnery, the lady no doubt taking over as abbess. But before she could do that, she had to make a pilgrimage to the most holy Rome.
This is where Montressor struck; he knew that the property would become his if he became her husband, and she had to pass by Montressor's town on the way. His hired goons had brought in a prize more precious than even he knew; beyond being fabulously wealthy, she was stunningly beautiful. Her hair shone like fire on a cold night, and her green eyes cut through the heart. Judging by her youthful frame, she could not have been past twenty-six years old. Montressor immediately proposed marriage when he saw the ravishing young woman, but she had spit in his face. In a rage he had ordered her to the dungeon, and she had been there since. Not one to let such an opportunity pass easily, Montressor immediately sent word to Florence to summon the greatest of scholars and maker of kings.
When he walked in, Montressor was somewhat surprised. The man's face was smooth, only his eyes betraying the sea of wisdom concealed in his heart. He did not look like the famed devil that the church had made him to be. Montressor bowed and welcomed him. "Monsignior Machieavelli, the service of Count Montressor is at your disposal."
He wasted no time with pleasantries. "How long have you held her in the dungeon, Montressor?"
"Four days, Niccolo, long enough for you to get here."
"Have you fed her?"
"Bread and water."
"Not good enough, Montressor. Have you not read the martyrs' tales? Young women, especially young women with the hair of fire, withstand starvation too easily, and they die as martyrs. I want you to start feeding her well today."
"When shall we begin whipping her?"
"Whips, Montressor? Honestly, I would think that your fine family never had you pick up a book. You'll only succeed in making a martyr of her and a byword of your own proud name. No, the fiery women in the ancients always withstood pain unto death. We must find other means."
Montressor looked confused. "Then what shall we do?"
"Have you read the wisdom of the Saracens, good Count?"
Montressor spit on the ground. "I would never betray my proud people associating with the barbarians."
Machiavelli smiled slightly. "The one who would become powerful cannot dismiss wisdom, even the wisdom of the enemy. You do want the Brown inheritance, do you not?"
"But of course!"
"Then listen well. Feed her and keep her warm for one week. Anything she asks, short of her freedom, grant her. Let her bathe and sleep in comfort. Feed her the best wine and drink. During that week we'll talk about the wisdom of the Moors with regards to stubborn women."
* * * * * * *
The two men ascended stairs into the tower of the palace. Montressor was finally asking the things he had wondered during the week.
"Why, Niccolo, do we clothe her in fine clothes and feed her good food? Will that not allow her to recover strength?"
"Strength comes in many forms, Montressor. True, the fine food has allowed her body to heal and to avoid diseases. And the clothing might, in some circles, signify a kind of power that comes with rank. But treating her as a lady of the court will make her think of herself as a courtly lady, and this is to our advantage."
"Why, Machiavelli?"
"Women captives can either be courtly or martyrly. Martyr women, especially those with red hair, steel their own bodies to receive pain. In fact, their minds can convince themselves not to connect to their bodies. Her breath would stop long before her will would give out. She would not believe that her body mattered."
"What has a dress to do with that?"
"The mind and the body, Montressor, the body and the mind. Courtly women are bored. Bored women begin to think of their bodies as needy rather than inconsequential. Women of the court seek pleasure."
"Pleasure? I thought we were going to force her consent, not buy it!"
"Pleasure is pleasant only so long as it might stop, Montressor. Courtly women want to laugh, but they want to stop laughing when they please. If they keep laughing but do not wish to, then they begin to wonder whether their original desires were right."
"What in the world are you talking about?"
"Your tortures would seek to break her will. That's impossible. Wills can only sometimes be broken. They can always be convinced. My methods will convince her body. Now that's not only possible but a source of great pleasure. As long as she cannot escape her body, her body will win."
Montressor fell silent; he really had no idea what Machiavelli had planned.
When the two men entered the room, two large guards stood at the door and one at the window. The creature inside was beyond compare. Her fair skin seemed to glow in the morning light from the window, and her lips, red and full, sat as rose buds below a classically beautiful nose and two gems of green eyes. Her red hair, tied before under a hood, now flowed freely over her shoulders, framing her face and giving hints of the lovely shoulders they covered. The ladies of the manor had given her a red dress to wear. She stood defiantly when the two entered.
"Montressor, in the name of Most Holy Christ I demand that you restore me to my pilgrimage."
Tomaso was taken aback at the force in her voice. Machiavelli stepped forward, pleased that this northern nymph spoke clear, albeit heavily accented, Italian. "My lady, my friend Tomaso wishes again to ask your hand in marriage. What with the unfortunate demise of your husband..."
"I will have no man but Christ now. I am to be a holy nun."
"Ah, but my lady, holiness is wasted on beauty such as your own." His eyes narrowed as he saw a slight flush come to her cheeks. She quickly steeled herself again.
"And who are you who would deny holiness?"
"You've likely heard of me and would hardly be surprised if you knew. Might I just be an admirer of your lady's person?"
"Out with it, man. What is your name?"
"You'll regret asking."
"Out with it."
"You may call me Niccolo Machiavelli."
Her blushing cheeks soon lost all color. She pointed and screamed in English, unintelligible to Montressor but perfectly clear to Machiavelli. "O Devil! O monstrous man! We know of your devilry in Scotland, villain!"
Machiavelli answered in Italian. "I'm no devil, my lady. I simply know what people want and how to get it. For instance, Tomaso here wants you for his wife. He makes no pretense but lacks the ability to convince. On the other hand, you have ability to take what you want but will not admit it."
Julia, collecting herself, returned to Italian. "I wish only for holiness!"
"No, Julia, I think not. Guard! Bring a chair and a footstool."
"What is this villainy? I'll never deny my holy oath!"
The guard brought a padded chair and ottoman in front of Machiavelli. "No, my lady. Nobody would have you deny anything. Now have a seat." Julia looked at the guards and began to move towards the chair. Machiavelli turned and said to Montressor, "You see? The lady is both courteous and reasonable, not wishing to force on us the unchivalric task of moving her lady's person by force." Julia stopped and looked askance at Machiavelli, but she quickly sat.
"Now put one foot on the stool."
"Why only one?"
"You're right, milady. If you should desire, you may put both on the stool." She complied but reluctantly, scowling as she moved into position. Her right foot now rested on the padded stool. "Now, Montressor, if you would, secure her ankle for me." Montressor moved quickly to do so, restraining the foot that was now trying to pull back.
"You can scourge or cut me, Devil, my foot or my head, but I will always belong to the Holy Order!"
"I'm glad you give me such permission, Lady, but I would never do such a disservice to a beauty as yourself." With this he pulled the slipper from her foot and cast it aside, revealing a slender, pale foot with long toes and a light pink hue on the bottom. "I think you're being entirely too serious. I would play a game with you."
"Lie not, heathen! My soul is God's alone! Do what you will with this corruptible flesh!"
"What I will? Alright. I will." He placed a finger on her heel. "Let's say this is Rome."
"What are you talking about?"
"And you're returning from there to Glasgow." With this he picked up his finger and re-placed it on her big toe.
Now Julia's eyes had gone from steely to curious. Montressor as well looked confused. "Now if you did want to go home, would you sail through the strait of Gibraltar?" As he asked this, he ran one fingertip from her heel to the outside edge of her sole, across the ball of her foot, and up to her big toe. She gasped as he did this. "Or would you go through the Holy Roman Empire?" He went again from the heel but went to her instep and up to her heel. A slight, high-pitched squeak came from her pursed lips. "Well? What would it be?"
"Don't do that!"
"But what is my answer?" He placed his index finger again on her heel.
"Neither! Neither!"
"Good! You know well your routes! In reality you would go back through France again, no?" With this he dragged the same finger directly up the middle of her sole, drawing another squeak. "What a squeak! Does something need oiled, Montressor?"
Montressor grinned hungrily and spoke for the first time since arriving. "We could find many things to do with oil!"
"Indeed. But forgive me, Lady Julia. We were talking about pilgrimages." His finger was again on her big toe, which was flexing and extending furiously to try to shake his finger off. "What's this? What's wrong with Glasgow?"
"Stop, you fiend! Let me go to Rome! Let me go back to my convent!"
"Ah, yes. Your convent. Then, when you got there, other sisters might want to make pilgrimage, no?" His finger was once again on her toe. "Then you would have nun after nun going to Rome, to Glasgow, to Rome, to Glasgow, to Rome, to Glasgow..." As he repeated this in a sing-song manner (it sounds more sing-songish in Italian), his finger went up and down the middle of her sole, making the foot jerk with every pass. She was obviously trying not to make any noise, but after not many pilgrimages at all, she suddenly shrieked in English.
"Stop! Stop that now!"
Still in Italian, Machiavelli retorted, "But so many of your devout sisters still must see Rome! And they must make haste!" He sped up the tickling strokes, tickling with three fingers now instead of one, and her sole crinkled as her toes flexed. Without much effort he pulled back her big toe with one hand while continuing to tickle with the other.
Julia began to shriek in staccatto bursts, alternating between Italian and English to curse him, her fair face turning red as Machiavelli's fingers ran over and over the smooth, warm, pink surface of her tender sole. Her hands gripped the cushions of the chair; leaning forward would be in vain with Montressor between foot and her tormentor. Machiavelli's fingers, though they traveled the same paths up and down, wrote the letters "R-I-S-A," making her belly heave and drowning her martyr's soul in her tender sole. He knew that he had her precisely where he wanted her, and he kept commanding her to laugh with his flickering fingertips.
And soon she obeyed the command that his fingers wrote. Machiavelli could tell she did not mean to laugh--she wanted to continue screaming at him. But suddenly her lips spread into a broad grin, her white teeth showing and her green eyes still beholding Machiavelli though nearly closed. She tried to demand her release again, but her voice was that of a young laughing woman, hardly the dignified call of a prophetess. Realizing that her voice was no longer a weapon, and that she was beyond her ability to resist this man's fingers, she threw her head back and let out the long, musical laugh that a young woman's voice ought to make. Montressor's mouth had curved into a wet, lustful grin. After several seconds of this wonderful sound, Machiavelli stopped the tickling.
"Very good, my girl! I'm glad to see that you've learned to laugh! Now let us laugh at your wedding!"
Her face was still trying to laugh as she said in a shaky voice, "I can't..." Her voice took on a bit more resolve as she shifted back into Italian: "My husband is Christ, and your torments cannot shake my soul!"
"They're no torments, Julia. I heard the delight in your giggling. And now we'll laugh together some more." He turned to the armed men, snapping them out of their staring. "Guards! I'll have my assistant come here and prepare our lady's new seat. Be sure that she doesn't do anything foolish in the meantime!" He turned back to Montressor. "Come, good man. Let us have a drink together, then we'll return and accept your beloved's proposal!"
"Do you mean let her accept mine?"
"Montressor, you underestimate the wisdom of the East. When we're through, she'll be proposing to you!"
Discourses on Tickling
by
Kid Indy
Count Tomaso de Montressor prepared his chamber for the distinguished scholar. He knew that if any man could make him powerful, this master of ancient wisdom could. The famed Lady Juila of Glasgow was his prisoner now, and she had not yet pledged her gigantic widow's inheritance to anyone yet. Her elderly husband, a famed merchant, had died without an heir or brother, and news travelled quickly along the sea routes that his significant fortune would soon be the property of a nunnery, the lady no doubt taking over as abbess. But before she could do that, she had to make a pilgrimage to the most holy Rome.
This is where Montressor struck; he knew that the property would become his if he became her husband, and she had to pass by Montressor's town on the way. His hired goons had brought in a prize more precious than even he knew; beyond being fabulously wealthy, she was stunningly beautiful. Her hair shone like fire on a cold night, and her green eyes cut through the heart. Judging by her youthful frame, she could not have been past twenty-six years old. Montressor immediately proposed marriage when he saw the ravishing young woman, but she had spit in his face. In a rage he had ordered her to the dungeon, and she had been there since. Not one to let such an opportunity pass easily, Montressor immediately sent word to Florence to summon the greatest of scholars and maker of kings.
When he walked in, Montressor was somewhat surprised. The man's face was smooth, only his eyes betraying the sea of wisdom concealed in his heart. He did not look like the famed devil that the church had made him to be. Montressor bowed and welcomed him. "Monsignior Machieavelli, the service of Count Montressor is at your disposal."
He wasted no time with pleasantries. "How long have you held her in the dungeon, Montressor?"
"Four days, Niccolo, long enough for you to get here."
"Have you fed her?"
"Bread and water."
"Not good enough, Montressor. Have you not read the martyrs' tales? Young women, especially young women with the hair of fire, withstand starvation too easily, and they die as martyrs. I want you to start feeding her well today."
"When shall we begin whipping her?"
"Whips, Montressor? Honestly, I would think that your fine family never had you pick up a book. You'll only succeed in making a martyr of her and a byword of your own proud name. No, the fiery women in the ancients always withstood pain unto death. We must find other means."
Montressor looked confused. "Then what shall we do?"
"Have you read the wisdom of the Saracens, good Count?"
Montressor spit on the ground. "I would never betray my proud people associating with the barbarians."
Machiavelli smiled slightly. "The one who would become powerful cannot dismiss wisdom, even the wisdom of the enemy. You do want the Brown inheritance, do you not?"
"But of course!"
"Then listen well. Feed her and keep her warm for one week. Anything she asks, short of her freedom, grant her. Let her bathe and sleep in comfort. Feed her the best wine and drink. During that week we'll talk about the wisdom of the Moors with regards to stubborn women."
* * * * * * *
The two men ascended stairs into the tower of the palace. Montressor was finally asking the things he had wondered during the week.
"Why, Niccolo, do we clothe her in fine clothes and feed her good food? Will that not allow her to recover strength?"
"Strength comes in many forms, Montressor. True, the fine food has allowed her body to heal and to avoid diseases. And the clothing might, in some circles, signify a kind of power that comes with rank. But treating her as a lady of the court will make her think of herself as a courtly lady, and this is to our advantage."
"Why, Machiavelli?"
"Women captives can either be courtly or martyrly. Martyr women, especially those with red hair, steel their own bodies to receive pain. In fact, their minds can convince themselves not to connect to their bodies. Her breath would stop long before her will would give out. She would not believe that her body mattered."
"What has a dress to do with that?"
"The mind and the body, Montressor, the body and the mind. Courtly women are bored. Bored women begin to think of their bodies as needy rather than inconsequential. Women of the court seek pleasure."
"Pleasure? I thought we were going to force her consent, not buy it!"
"Pleasure is pleasant only so long as it might stop, Montressor. Courtly women want to laugh, but they want to stop laughing when they please. If they keep laughing but do not wish to, then they begin to wonder whether their original desires were right."
"What in the world are you talking about?"
"Your tortures would seek to break her will. That's impossible. Wills can only sometimes be broken. They can always be convinced. My methods will convince her body. Now that's not only possible but a source of great pleasure. As long as she cannot escape her body, her body will win."
Montressor fell silent; he really had no idea what Machiavelli had planned.
When the two men entered the room, two large guards stood at the door and one at the window. The creature inside was beyond compare. Her fair skin seemed to glow in the morning light from the window, and her lips, red and full, sat as rose buds below a classically beautiful nose and two gems of green eyes. Her red hair, tied before under a hood, now flowed freely over her shoulders, framing her face and giving hints of the lovely shoulders they covered. The ladies of the manor had given her a red dress to wear. She stood defiantly when the two entered.
"Montressor, in the name of Most Holy Christ I demand that you restore me to my pilgrimage."
Tomaso was taken aback at the force in her voice. Machiavelli stepped forward, pleased that this northern nymph spoke clear, albeit heavily accented, Italian. "My lady, my friend Tomaso wishes again to ask your hand in marriage. What with the unfortunate demise of your husband..."
"I will have no man but Christ now. I am to be a holy nun."
"Ah, but my lady, holiness is wasted on beauty such as your own." His eyes narrowed as he saw a slight flush come to her cheeks. She quickly steeled herself again.
"And who are you who would deny holiness?"
"You've likely heard of me and would hardly be surprised if you knew. Might I just be an admirer of your lady's person?"
"Out with it, man. What is your name?"
"You'll regret asking."
"Out with it."
"You may call me Niccolo Machiavelli."
Her blushing cheeks soon lost all color. She pointed and screamed in English, unintelligible to Montressor but perfectly clear to Machiavelli. "O Devil! O monstrous man! We know of your devilry in Scotland, villain!"
Machiavelli answered in Italian. "I'm no devil, my lady. I simply know what people want and how to get it. For instance, Tomaso here wants you for his wife. He makes no pretense but lacks the ability to convince. On the other hand, you have ability to take what you want but will not admit it."
Julia, collecting herself, returned to Italian. "I wish only for holiness!"
"No, Julia, I think not. Guard! Bring a chair and a footstool."
"What is this villainy? I'll never deny my holy oath!"
The guard brought a padded chair and ottoman in front of Machiavelli. "No, my lady. Nobody would have you deny anything. Now have a seat." Julia looked at the guards and began to move towards the chair. Machiavelli turned and said to Montressor, "You see? The lady is both courteous and reasonable, not wishing to force on us the unchivalric task of moving her lady's person by force." Julia stopped and looked askance at Machiavelli, but she quickly sat.
"Now put one foot on the stool."
"Why only one?"
"You're right, milady. If you should desire, you may put both on the stool." She complied but reluctantly, scowling as she moved into position. Her right foot now rested on the padded stool. "Now, Montressor, if you would, secure her ankle for me." Montressor moved quickly to do so, restraining the foot that was now trying to pull back.
"You can scourge or cut me, Devil, my foot or my head, but I will always belong to the Holy Order!"
"I'm glad you give me such permission, Lady, but I would never do such a disservice to a beauty as yourself." With this he pulled the slipper from her foot and cast it aside, revealing a slender, pale foot with long toes and a light pink hue on the bottom. "I think you're being entirely too serious. I would play a game with you."
"Lie not, heathen! My soul is God's alone! Do what you will with this corruptible flesh!"
"What I will? Alright. I will." He placed a finger on her heel. "Let's say this is Rome."
"What are you talking about?"
"And you're returning from there to Glasgow." With this he picked up his finger and re-placed it on her big toe.
Now Julia's eyes had gone from steely to curious. Montressor as well looked confused. "Now if you did want to go home, would you sail through the strait of Gibraltar?" As he asked this, he ran one fingertip from her heel to the outside edge of her sole, across the ball of her foot, and up to her big toe. She gasped as he did this. "Or would you go through the Holy Roman Empire?" He went again from the heel but went to her instep and up to her heel. A slight, high-pitched squeak came from her pursed lips. "Well? What would it be?"
"Don't do that!"
"But what is my answer?" He placed his index finger again on her heel.
"Neither! Neither!"
"Good! You know well your routes! In reality you would go back through France again, no?" With this he dragged the same finger directly up the middle of her sole, drawing another squeak. "What a squeak! Does something need oiled, Montressor?"
Montressor grinned hungrily and spoke for the first time since arriving. "We could find many things to do with oil!"
"Indeed. But forgive me, Lady Julia. We were talking about pilgrimages." His finger was again on her big toe, which was flexing and extending furiously to try to shake his finger off. "What's this? What's wrong with Glasgow?"
"Stop, you fiend! Let me go to Rome! Let me go back to my convent!"
"Ah, yes. Your convent. Then, when you got there, other sisters might want to make pilgrimage, no?" His finger was once again on her toe. "Then you would have nun after nun going to Rome, to Glasgow, to Rome, to Glasgow, to Rome, to Glasgow..." As he repeated this in a sing-song manner (it sounds more sing-songish in Italian), his finger went up and down the middle of her sole, making the foot jerk with every pass. She was obviously trying not to make any noise, but after not many pilgrimages at all, she suddenly shrieked in English.
"Stop! Stop that now!"
Still in Italian, Machiavelli retorted, "But so many of your devout sisters still must see Rome! And they must make haste!" He sped up the tickling strokes, tickling with three fingers now instead of one, and her sole crinkled as her toes flexed. Without much effort he pulled back her big toe with one hand while continuing to tickle with the other.
Julia began to shriek in staccatto bursts, alternating between Italian and English to curse him, her fair face turning red as Machiavelli's fingers ran over and over the smooth, warm, pink surface of her tender sole. Her hands gripped the cushions of the chair; leaning forward would be in vain with Montressor between foot and her tormentor. Machiavelli's fingers, though they traveled the same paths up and down, wrote the letters "R-I-S-A," making her belly heave and drowning her martyr's soul in her tender sole. He knew that he had her precisely where he wanted her, and he kept commanding her to laugh with his flickering fingertips.
And soon she obeyed the command that his fingers wrote. Machiavelli could tell she did not mean to laugh--she wanted to continue screaming at him. But suddenly her lips spread into a broad grin, her white teeth showing and her green eyes still beholding Machiavelli though nearly closed. She tried to demand her release again, but her voice was that of a young laughing woman, hardly the dignified call of a prophetess. Realizing that her voice was no longer a weapon, and that she was beyond her ability to resist this man's fingers, she threw her head back and let out the long, musical laugh that a young woman's voice ought to make. Montressor's mouth had curved into a wet, lustful grin. After several seconds of this wonderful sound, Machiavelli stopped the tickling.
"Very good, my girl! I'm glad to see that you've learned to laugh! Now let us laugh at your wedding!"
Her face was still trying to laugh as she said in a shaky voice, "I can't..." Her voice took on a bit more resolve as she shifted back into Italian: "My husband is Christ, and your torments cannot shake my soul!"
"They're no torments, Julia. I heard the delight in your giggling. And now we'll laugh together some more." He turned to the armed men, snapping them out of their staring. "Guards! I'll have my assistant come here and prepare our lady's new seat. Be sure that she doesn't do anything foolish in the meantime!" He turned back to Montressor. "Come, good man. Let us have a drink together, then we'll return and accept your beloved's proposal!"
"Do you mean let her accept mine?"
"Montressor, you underestimate the wisdom of the East. When we're through, she'll be proposing to you!"
