CHAPTER THREE
It took me a long time to solve the mysteries of the island of Lodive. I had to surmise much of its history from facts overheard during my stay. Some of the missing pieces weren't filled in until the very end. A less educated man then myself may have proven unequal to the task. To help the reader understand my story better, I will tell you that history in the beginning, instead of letting it slowly unfold as it did for me.
It seemed that Lodive had once been a normal place. Colonists had come from Europe to settle here, just as they had so many other islands. It had been a normal colony, filled with the hard work, toil and bloodshed of men and women trying to create a new life for themselves. Then the colonists had discovered that a native purple fruit about the size of an apple was edible. Desperate to increase their food supply, that fruit soon became a staple of their diet. That fruit had an unusual aide effect however. It gave the women of the colony, and only the women the strength of twenty men.
At first the women’s incredible strength was seen as a blessing. Life in the colony became easier as the women began to complete the jobs the men had been struggling with almost effortlessly. Roads could be built, trees fell, fields plowed and house built in record time. It was like the Garden of Eden.
But like the apple in the Garden of Eden, eating the purple fruit carried a terrible price. As the women assumed more and more of the labor of the colony, they began to take charge. At first the transfer of authority from men to women was subtle, but soon it was the fairer sex making and enforcing the laws.
The men accepted this for awhile, because these women were their wives, sisters and daughters, and because the women had made their lives so much easier. They had been raised from birth, however to consider themselves superior to women. Soon, however, their pride could take no more, and they began to grumble and complain. Then the punishments started. Men that protested their new role as second class citizens were given extra work or even imprisoned. When rumors started spreading of plans for harsher consequences in the future, the men knew it was time to act.
In great secrecy, they built rafts and small boats, keeping them on isolated beaches on the islands far coast. With the women doing more of the labour because of their greater strength, the men had the time to make quite a few. One night, while the women met in council to plan ways to make the men more obiedient, they crept out to the beaches and sailed away. The women were taken completely by surprise. They had been so busy building and running the colony, they had missed the whispered plans of their husbands, sons and brothers. The first time they even suspected something was wrong was when they saw the rafts headed for the horizion.
After some grief, the women soon decided they were better off without the weak men. They were, said many, burdens needing to be cared for. There was only one thing that they wanted that they needed the men to give them. Children.
That, of course, was why Aliphelea forced me to spill my seed. Over the years, men have arrived on their shores, either shipwreck survivors or those trying to escape trouble in more civilized countries. The women soon found that these men were no more willing to be second class citizens then their men had been. The natural solution to this problem was to enslave them.
Captured men’s seed became a form of currency on the island. Doctors like Aliphelea developed ways to keep the precious seed fresh for days at a time, and then to inject it into women during their fertile times. I was going to make Corina a rich woman. It seemed like male seed was a rare and therefore expensive commodity.
There were close to four thousand women on Lodive in villages scattered around the isle. Counting myself, there were no more than 100 male slaves. Even if we were all ‘milked’ every three days, we could produce no more than one thousand doses of seed a month. That might not seem like a small amount until you realized that the purple fruit that made increased the women’s strength also lowered their fertility. On average, a woman from Lodive had to be injected with three to five doses of seed during their fertile cycle to have even a small chance at pregnancy. Most women would need to try for years to have even one child.
It is only now, after so many years I can describe such a barbaric society in calm objective terms. The theft of a man’s seed, the process the Lodivians called milking disgusted me as nothing short of murdering infants of worshipping the Dark One could. The thought of selling it like you would turnips made me wish to vomit. For years after I returned to London, I would not venture near cows for any reason.
If there was any godly mercy in this abomination, it was that the women of Lodive were now only capable of bearing daughters. I couldn’t imagine them doing to their sons and brothers what they did to me.
As much as I hated the idea of being ‘milked’, I must say that my other duties as a slave other than that one were not too strenuous. Mostly, I cleaned Corina’s hut, prepared her meals and helped her harvest her garden. That would have been bearable if not for the constant punishment. Tickling.
Corina would tickle me horribly for any small misdeed. She seemed to enjoy reducing me to a hysterical lump of flesh. It was her favorite hobby, and she looked for any reason to engage in it. She never seemed to be happy if she wasn’t wiggling her fingers over my helpless body.
With her heightened strength, of course, there was no way of resisting. I became Corina’s plaything, vulnerable to her every whim. She was the master, and I the servant.
One example I remember clearly from those early days. I had dropped a dish while setting the table. It didn’t break, but clumsiness alone was reason to be punished. Using quick tickles to be waist and belly, Corina backed me into a corner. Then she pressed her body against mine, pinning me in that narrow space where the two walls came together.
She made sure my right arm was trapped between us. Then she grabbed my other arm and held it high over my head. That left my side and underarm completely open and vulnerable to tickle attack. She raked five long fingernails through the center of my armpit, slowly at first, then with lightning speed. She squeezed my ribs one by one, then played them all like a piano. She even flicked her tongue over my earlobe!
Of course I was hysterical with in moments. I fought her naturally, but it would have been easier to pull Excaliber from the stone the pull my left arm from her grasp. Her soft hands knew exactly how to extract every inch of laughter from my. She started swirling her index finger in my deep hollows, playing with the sparse hair that grows there, and poking her fingers into my hip. I was in agony!
But I wasn’t the only one! I soon found out that it was major form of torment on the island. The first day Corina had me harvesting fruit in the fields, I saw a slave being tickled. He was lying on the ground, with his arms pinned under his mistress’s knees. Her long red fingernails were scribbling in his underarms and scratching across his belly. The man was screaming himself hoarse and laughing at the top of his lungs.
Later I saw another slave lying on the ground being tickled my two young females just old enough to be considered women. One held the slave’s feet in the air while the other used her tongue and fingers on his soles and toes. I never heard such sounds come from a human before!
That had been a sight to see. The man had been quite large and the girls very small. The one that sat on his back holding his legs must have been half his size! Yet, even with her slender wrists and fingers (which didn't even go halfway around the man's ankels), she held his feet motionless as high up in the air as his legs could stretch. The man's mighty muscles, even with the help of gravity, couldn't break her grasp.
The other woman barely had to reach down to scribble her fingernails all over his arches or slip them between his toes. She could eaily lower her head until her tongue was lapping over the sensitive skin or her white teeth were nibbling on the balls of his feet. The feet were practically being served up to her on a silver platter!
Another time, a woman stopped by to visit Corina, with a slave standing behind her carrying a large package. He had the misfortune to cough while his mistress was talking, and she pounced on him, knocking him to the ground and tickling his buttocks and the backs of his knees. Her slender fingers zeroed in on his worst spots and drove the man insane. Before she was done, the poor slave’s face was as red as a tomato, and his hair soaked with sweat.
And it wasn’t only the men who were tickled! One day I was running an errand for Corina, I saw a crowd gathered in the center of the village. On a platform stood a statuesque bond, taller than Corina but not a full breasted, with green eyes that sparkled like the sea. She stood topless facing the crowd, and I marveled at the perfection of her breasts.
I wondered while she did not cover herself until I got closer. Then I noticed her arms seemed to be trapped behind her back, tied at the wrists by a bit of bluish vine. In front of the woman stood Aliphelea, shorter than the blond by a full foot, but holding herself with such authority, there was no doubt the redhead was in charge.
“According to the laws of Lodive, this citizen has been found guilty of entering the dwelling of another without permission and theft of personal belongings,” Aliphelea called out in a clear voice, “Punishment will now be administered.” From a pocket in her white robe, Aliphelea drew forth a stiff feather.
Aliphelea began feathering the woman’s firm breasts, dragging the stiff plume underneath, and circling around and around. The blond seemed to try and hold out, to stifle the laughter building up inside her. This ended when Aliphelea ran the feather across her nipples, making the blond cry out, then disolve into helpless laughter.
Her laughter was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard, a sweet musical laugh that caressed your ear. I couldn’t help but watch in fascination as Aliphelea wove her feather over every inch of the woman’s golden bosoms. Aliphelea became a musician on par with Beethoven or Mozart. Every flick of that feather or turn of her wrist changed the pitch and tone of the woman’s laughter. Stroking their undersides produced low-pitched rich tones, while the barest touch on the nipples made the woman erupt in high-pitched crescendos. The sides and tops of her bosoms created notes somewhere in between.
Aliphelea put all those sounds together into an aria more sensuous than any I’d heard before.
“heh ehHEE ehehe EHe eheheh nawwoooo eheheh eheheh Delphia lieeehehehedddd shheheheh lieeddd heheheeh!!!!” I can remember the tortured woman crying out. Tears streamed from her eyes and her face was bright red. She strained to pull free of her bonds but somehow, even with her great strength, could not (That was something I should have paid more attention to then. Sadly I was distracted.)
Then Aliphelea started flicking the feather between the tortured woman’s legs, stroking that most tender of spots. The woman’s laughter jumped up, losing all musical quality. It spiked to near deafening tones, but was somehow no less beautiful.
“Can you resist the feather?” Aliphelea asked mockingly, raising the instrument of torment slightly higher, flicking it over the patch of woman hair.
“HEHEHE EHE EHEHE EHE EH NAWOOWOWOO EHEHEHE EHEHEH HE EHE EHEHE CANNNN NOTTTOTOTOTO HAHHEHE EHEHEHEHEH EHEHE EEHHEHEHEHEH!!!!!!” The woman screamed. Every muscle in her body was trembling.
“Do you want to be the feather’s slave?” Aliphelea asked again. By this time the woman was to far gone to answer. She rapidly shook her head as her body was ravaged by spasm after spasm of laughter. Even knowing how she felt, still I was compelled to watch. And at that moment I knew my hearts greatest desire was to wield that feather.
I listened to the symphony for far too long. By the time I managed to pull myself away, I was too late to complete my errand. I was severely punished by the time I got back to Corina. It was the only time, however, I felt the tickling not to arduous a price to pay for my deeds. Hearing that laughter was worth it.
But why did the Lodivians use tickling as a form of punishment? It was because while the purple fruit gave the women amazing strength, it did nothing to make them sturdier. It would take the same amount of force to break the leg of one of the Lodivians as a European woman. Early on, the women of Lodive learned they had to be very careful with violence. With their might, they could easily shatter each other’s bones. A simple punch would be deadly.
So the woman had worked hard at eliminating the violence from their new society. Tickling became the preferred means of punishment as well as dealing with aggressive feelings. It was just as effective and far less dangerous. I would have found this fascinating were I not experiencing that tickling almost every day.
Of course, in the beginning I knew nothing of this. My only goal was to escape before I was ‘milked’ again. What I didn’t know then was that the leather collar Corina had forced me to wear would make that impossible. That was a lesson I would have to learn the hard way.
It took me a long time to solve the mysteries of the island of Lodive. I had to surmise much of its history from facts overheard during my stay. Some of the missing pieces weren't filled in until the very end. A less educated man then myself may have proven unequal to the task. To help the reader understand my story better, I will tell you that history in the beginning, instead of letting it slowly unfold as it did for me.
It seemed that Lodive had once been a normal place. Colonists had come from Europe to settle here, just as they had so many other islands. It had been a normal colony, filled with the hard work, toil and bloodshed of men and women trying to create a new life for themselves. Then the colonists had discovered that a native purple fruit about the size of an apple was edible. Desperate to increase their food supply, that fruit soon became a staple of their diet. That fruit had an unusual aide effect however. It gave the women of the colony, and only the women the strength of twenty men.
At first the women’s incredible strength was seen as a blessing. Life in the colony became easier as the women began to complete the jobs the men had been struggling with almost effortlessly. Roads could be built, trees fell, fields plowed and house built in record time. It was like the Garden of Eden.
But like the apple in the Garden of Eden, eating the purple fruit carried a terrible price. As the women assumed more and more of the labor of the colony, they began to take charge. At first the transfer of authority from men to women was subtle, but soon it was the fairer sex making and enforcing the laws.
The men accepted this for awhile, because these women were their wives, sisters and daughters, and because the women had made their lives so much easier. They had been raised from birth, however to consider themselves superior to women. Soon, however, their pride could take no more, and they began to grumble and complain. Then the punishments started. Men that protested their new role as second class citizens were given extra work or even imprisoned. When rumors started spreading of plans for harsher consequences in the future, the men knew it was time to act.
In great secrecy, they built rafts and small boats, keeping them on isolated beaches on the islands far coast. With the women doing more of the labour because of their greater strength, the men had the time to make quite a few. One night, while the women met in council to plan ways to make the men more obiedient, they crept out to the beaches and sailed away. The women were taken completely by surprise. They had been so busy building and running the colony, they had missed the whispered plans of their husbands, sons and brothers. The first time they even suspected something was wrong was when they saw the rafts headed for the horizion.
After some grief, the women soon decided they were better off without the weak men. They were, said many, burdens needing to be cared for. There was only one thing that they wanted that they needed the men to give them. Children.
That, of course, was why Aliphelea forced me to spill my seed. Over the years, men have arrived on their shores, either shipwreck survivors or those trying to escape trouble in more civilized countries. The women soon found that these men were no more willing to be second class citizens then their men had been. The natural solution to this problem was to enslave them.
Captured men’s seed became a form of currency on the island. Doctors like Aliphelea developed ways to keep the precious seed fresh for days at a time, and then to inject it into women during their fertile times. I was going to make Corina a rich woman. It seemed like male seed was a rare and therefore expensive commodity.
There were close to four thousand women on Lodive in villages scattered around the isle. Counting myself, there were no more than 100 male slaves. Even if we were all ‘milked’ every three days, we could produce no more than one thousand doses of seed a month. That might not seem like a small amount until you realized that the purple fruit that made increased the women’s strength also lowered their fertility. On average, a woman from Lodive had to be injected with three to five doses of seed during their fertile cycle to have even a small chance at pregnancy. Most women would need to try for years to have even one child.
It is only now, after so many years I can describe such a barbaric society in calm objective terms. The theft of a man’s seed, the process the Lodivians called milking disgusted me as nothing short of murdering infants of worshipping the Dark One could. The thought of selling it like you would turnips made me wish to vomit. For years after I returned to London, I would not venture near cows for any reason.
If there was any godly mercy in this abomination, it was that the women of Lodive were now only capable of bearing daughters. I couldn’t imagine them doing to their sons and brothers what they did to me.
As much as I hated the idea of being ‘milked’, I must say that my other duties as a slave other than that one were not too strenuous. Mostly, I cleaned Corina’s hut, prepared her meals and helped her harvest her garden. That would have been bearable if not for the constant punishment. Tickling.
Corina would tickle me horribly for any small misdeed. She seemed to enjoy reducing me to a hysterical lump of flesh. It was her favorite hobby, and she looked for any reason to engage in it. She never seemed to be happy if she wasn’t wiggling her fingers over my helpless body.
With her heightened strength, of course, there was no way of resisting. I became Corina’s plaything, vulnerable to her every whim. She was the master, and I the servant.
One example I remember clearly from those early days. I had dropped a dish while setting the table. It didn’t break, but clumsiness alone was reason to be punished. Using quick tickles to be waist and belly, Corina backed me into a corner. Then she pressed her body against mine, pinning me in that narrow space where the two walls came together.
She made sure my right arm was trapped between us. Then she grabbed my other arm and held it high over my head. That left my side and underarm completely open and vulnerable to tickle attack. She raked five long fingernails through the center of my armpit, slowly at first, then with lightning speed. She squeezed my ribs one by one, then played them all like a piano. She even flicked her tongue over my earlobe!
Of course I was hysterical with in moments. I fought her naturally, but it would have been easier to pull Excaliber from the stone the pull my left arm from her grasp. Her soft hands knew exactly how to extract every inch of laughter from my. She started swirling her index finger in my deep hollows, playing with the sparse hair that grows there, and poking her fingers into my hip. I was in agony!
But I wasn’t the only one! I soon found out that it was major form of torment on the island. The first day Corina had me harvesting fruit in the fields, I saw a slave being tickled. He was lying on the ground, with his arms pinned under his mistress’s knees. Her long red fingernails were scribbling in his underarms and scratching across his belly. The man was screaming himself hoarse and laughing at the top of his lungs.
Later I saw another slave lying on the ground being tickled my two young females just old enough to be considered women. One held the slave’s feet in the air while the other used her tongue and fingers on his soles and toes. I never heard such sounds come from a human before!
That had been a sight to see. The man had been quite large and the girls very small. The one that sat on his back holding his legs must have been half his size! Yet, even with her slender wrists and fingers (which didn't even go halfway around the man's ankels), she held his feet motionless as high up in the air as his legs could stretch. The man's mighty muscles, even with the help of gravity, couldn't break her grasp.
The other woman barely had to reach down to scribble her fingernails all over his arches or slip them between his toes. She could eaily lower her head until her tongue was lapping over the sensitive skin or her white teeth were nibbling on the balls of his feet. The feet were practically being served up to her on a silver platter!
Another time, a woman stopped by to visit Corina, with a slave standing behind her carrying a large package. He had the misfortune to cough while his mistress was talking, and she pounced on him, knocking him to the ground and tickling his buttocks and the backs of his knees. Her slender fingers zeroed in on his worst spots and drove the man insane. Before she was done, the poor slave’s face was as red as a tomato, and his hair soaked with sweat.
And it wasn’t only the men who were tickled! One day I was running an errand for Corina, I saw a crowd gathered in the center of the village. On a platform stood a statuesque bond, taller than Corina but not a full breasted, with green eyes that sparkled like the sea. She stood topless facing the crowd, and I marveled at the perfection of her breasts.
I wondered while she did not cover herself until I got closer. Then I noticed her arms seemed to be trapped behind her back, tied at the wrists by a bit of bluish vine. In front of the woman stood Aliphelea, shorter than the blond by a full foot, but holding herself with such authority, there was no doubt the redhead was in charge.
“According to the laws of Lodive, this citizen has been found guilty of entering the dwelling of another without permission and theft of personal belongings,” Aliphelea called out in a clear voice, “Punishment will now be administered.” From a pocket in her white robe, Aliphelea drew forth a stiff feather.
Aliphelea began feathering the woman’s firm breasts, dragging the stiff plume underneath, and circling around and around. The blond seemed to try and hold out, to stifle the laughter building up inside her. This ended when Aliphelea ran the feather across her nipples, making the blond cry out, then disolve into helpless laughter.
Her laughter was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard, a sweet musical laugh that caressed your ear. I couldn’t help but watch in fascination as Aliphelea wove her feather over every inch of the woman’s golden bosoms. Aliphelea became a musician on par with Beethoven or Mozart. Every flick of that feather or turn of her wrist changed the pitch and tone of the woman’s laughter. Stroking their undersides produced low-pitched rich tones, while the barest touch on the nipples made the woman erupt in high-pitched crescendos. The sides and tops of her bosoms created notes somewhere in between.
Aliphelea put all those sounds together into an aria more sensuous than any I’d heard before.
“heh ehHEE ehehe EHe eheheh nawwoooo eheheh eheheh Delphia lieeehehehedddd shheheheh lieeddd heheheeh!!!!” I can remember the tortured woman crying out. Tears streamed from her eyes and her face was bright red. She strained to pull free of her bonds but somehow, even with her great strength, could not (That was something I should have paid more attention to then. Sadly I was distracted.)
Then Aliphelea started flicking the feather between the tortured woman’s legs, stroking that most tender of spots. The woman’s laughter jumped up, losing all musical quality. It spiked to near deafening tones, but was somehow no less beautiful.
“Can you resist the feather?” Aliphelea asked mockingly, raising the instrument of torment slightly higher, flicking it over the patch of woman hair.
“HEHEHE EHE EHEHE EHE EH NAWOOWOWOO EHEHEHE EHEHEH HE EHE EHEHE CANNNN NOTTTOTOTOTO HAHHEHE EHEHEHEHEH EHEHE EEHHEHEHEHEH!!!!!!” The woman screamed. Every muscle in her body was trembling.
“Do you want to be the feather’s slave?” Aliphelea asked again. By this time the woman was to far gone to answer. She rapidly shook her head as her body was ravaged by spasm after spasm of laughter. Even knowing how she felt, still I was compelled to watch. And at that moment I knew my hearts greatest desire was to wield that feather.
I listened to the symphony for far too long. By the time I managed to pull myself away, I was too late to complete my errand. I was severely punished by the time I got back to Corina. It was the only time, however, I felt the tickling not to arduous a price to pay for my deeds. Hearing that laughter was worth it.
But why did the Lodivians use tickling as a form of punishment? It was because while the purple fruit gave the women amazing strength, it did nothing to make them sturdier. It would take the same amount of force to break the leg of one of the Lodivians as a European woman. Early on, the women of Lodive learned they had to be very careful with violence. With their might, they could easily shatter each other’s bones. A simple punch would be deadly.
So the woman had worked hard at eliminating the violence from their new society. Tickling became the preferred means of punishment as well as dealing with aggressive feelings. It was just as effective and far less dangerous. I would have found this fascinating were I not experiencing that tickling almost every day.
Of course, in the beginning I knew nothing of this. My only goal was to escape before I was ‘milked’ again. What I didn’t know then was that the leather collar Corina had forced me to wear would make that impossible. That was a lesson I would have to learn the hard way.
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