I've been away for a while, but this is my latest offering. I'm about a quarter of the way through a sequel, and that should be ready within a week or so. For now, enjoy, and as always, feedback is greatly appreciated!
Discourses on Tickling
by
Kid Indy
Don Tomaso de Montressor hurried about and scolded servants, preparing his welcoming 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, Lucas Brown of Glasgow, 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. Now, his servants moving much too slowly for the nervous noble, a herald announced the arrival of the guest of honor.
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. "Machieavelli, the service of Don 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 ancient tales 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 floor. "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 food. 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. And when they wonder, the wise man can suggest more advantageous desires."
"What in the world are you talking about?"
"Your tortures would seek to break her will. That's impossible. Apart from the body, the will can only sometimes be broken. When the body takes the side of the wise, the will 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 slender 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 burn 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 soft, 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 Calais." 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 walk to Calais, would you walk through Spain?" 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 Calais?"
"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 her smooth sole 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 men 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!"
* * * * *
They returned to Julia's room after a fairly brief conversation about Saracen politics and the advancing Turks and the differences between the two. Montressor stopped cold as he entered the room; Julia was stark naked on her own bed, her ankles secured to two posts and her hands tied together to the headboard. Her naked form lay prone on the soft bed, her knees bent, as the ropes did not pull her completely tight. The soles of her soft feet lay waiting for more of what she had endured before. Machiavelli made his way to the bed with easy strides and beheld his beautiful captive; her statuesque body was a canvas waiting for an artist, and he was no mean painter.
"Now your true villainy shows through, devil! But my body will suffer even as Christ suffered! Even when you kill me, I will never be subject to you or any earthly lord!"
He sat next to her and whispered English in her ear, "I would never kill such a beautiful lady. But I will not refuse when you beg me for what you really want! Your body will soon be begging, and Montressor will be the lord who gives it the alms it so desperately needs!"
She fell silent, and that was fine with Machiavaelli. Montressor still stood in the doorway, still dumbstruck. Machiavelli looked from Julia to a guard. "Call Kalia back here, man. I think she would enjoy helping."
Montressor's jaw returned to his face to inquire, "Who is this Kalia?"
"Oh, you've not seen her? I think you'll like Kalia. She's my special assistant."
"You're going to wait for her, then?"
"Oh, no. She'll take some time to get here from my quarters. In the meantime, we can get our lady ready for her."
Julia's face had fallen completely pale. "A woman! I will not permit a woman to touch me!"
Machiavelli leaned in from his position at her side and whispered, "You don't have a choice, but I don't blame you for objecting. Her technique is nearly flawless." With that he reached down to her side and began to trail two fingers up and down her ribs. Having some mobility still, she shifted away from his hand, but he followed her as she scooted. Now in a full voice he said, "Before, I only had one foot. Now your entire body is here for the tickling, Julia. What think you of that?"
Julia's voice was taking on a higher pitch, but she still attempted defiance: "My soul and my chastity belong to the Lord!"
"I want neither of those, and neither does Montressor. So we'll just take your body and your lust. Is that a fair trade?"
Julia began to giggle, making her final protest seem even sillier: "I will not have..." Her sentence trailed off as Machiavelli's hand jumped up to her underarm and dug into the soft flesh. A high-pitched squeal finished her phrase, and Montressor nearly jumped.
"Well, we've already found a pleasant spot, have we not?" Reaching across her torso, his hand prepared to dig into the other. "Is this one just as pleasant?" Julia attempted to say something, but his hands were faster; whatever speech she would have made turned into another squeak. Now in utter control, Machiavelli dug his fingers into both armpits. Her reaction was volcanic; her hips bucked, her knees attempted to bend further, her head thrashed, and a scream degenerated within seconds into a steady, giggling laughter. Whereas before she attempted to keep her knees together and maintain what was left of modesty, now her limbs flailed in reactions to Machiavelli's touches, some stroking and some prodding, some as light as the first snow and some coming with the force of a charging horseman. He continued this only for a minute or two, and her breathing was already timed around her peals of laughing. He alternated hands, digging with his left while skating and stroking with his right. Either hand, every few seconds, would trace from her armpit down her ribs, across her soft side to her hip. Julia's sides squirmed as her instincts overcame her reason, trying to escape the touches and bringing her other side to be victimized even further. From side to side she thrashed, head, hips, knees, while his hands explored and stroked and tortured her ticklish skin. Her eyes were clamped shut until his right hand stopped tickling; when she lifted her head to see what had happened, she saw him reaching into the folds of his cloak. When she saw the small, stiff feather he produced, another screaming giggle escaped, even though the tickling had not yet increased.
His left hand slid down to her ribs and began poking her and breaking her long laughs into short, reactive giggles. His right twirled the feather between finger and thumb as it drew nearer her navel. When it made contact, she began bucking with full strength, but his skilled eye followed her form and kept the feather licking the rim of her belly button. Montressor was visibly drooling. Machiavelli, his hands still furiously tickling, leaned in and whispered in English so that Montressor could not hear, just loud enough that Julia could her him over her own laughter.
"I know, of course, what this is doing to you. And only in a few minutes, I'll give you what you want more than anything else right now. But for now, I'm enjoying this. Tickling your legs is going to make me very happy." His hand darted into his robe again and came out without the feather. Both hands now went to work on her hips, pinching and rubbing, making her pink feet buck and her soprano songbird laughter return to long, melodious lines. Julia, responding to the threat against her legs as much as her ticklish hips would allow, shook her head even as she laughed. She had figured out how to force out words between laughs, and she attempted to talk, in English, with her tormentor:
"Please... no... convent... please..." She must have been thinking about a joke concerning nuns, because every word fought through laughter to emerge. After several minutes of tickling her hips, Machiavelli stopped and let her breathe. He turned to Montressor and explained himself:
"You see, my good Montressor, this particularly Saracen torment not only makes our young lady wish she had taken us up on our offer. No, it will also inflame her body's desires and make her desire a man, perhaps as she has never desired one before. Am I right, Julia?"
She could only manage a soft plea: "Please, please. My sisters await me. I must return..." She giggled in spite of herself.
"Am I right, Julia?"
"Please..."
Machiavelli placed his left hand gently on her cheek. In English, he whispered, "Soon, Julia, I will give you a new sister. Kalia, if Montressor will allow her, will be your sister even as you marry this good man." Her eyes still pleading, she turned her head away as his hand left.
"God will protect me."
Machiavelli chuckled. "God will give you exactly what you most desire, once you tell me what that is, Julia. I promise." With that, he scooted down the bed and reached for her left leg. His left hand grasped her just above the knee and started squeezing, and the right began to descend towards her inner thigh. Julia's restraints, anchored to the bedposts, would not let her legs come together, and soon his fingers were raking up and down just inches from her womanhood. Having rested a couple minutes, her initial scream had some of the energy of her first protest. Her hips bucked as his hands tickled, and Montressor almost believed that she was trying to invite his hand in... but no. This tickling was obviously getting the best of her; her body was thrashing with the same intensity, and between laughs Montressor could occasionally hear a moan of pleasure. His own robe could bearly conceal how much he enjoyed it.
Machiavelli's right hand departed Julia's thigh, and his left slid up to continue the torment. Julia's head again lifted to see Machiavelli produce the feather from his cloak. She tried to shake the bonds free with frantic hip twists, but to no avail. Machiavelli began again to twirl the feather, and Julia again screamed, her green eyes nearly glowing in their intensity. But when the feather got near her navel, it did not stop but began to curve toward's Julia's right breast. Her eyes became as wide as saucers, and her laughter's pitch rose. Montressor wiped away a bit of drool that he did not even pretend to hide. The feather flicked, then danced, then stroked her nipple, arching Julia's back with each pass. The laughter that her thigh wanted had to wait just a moment with each slow pass of the feather--her gasps of pleasure were even more powerful than her flowing, tormented laughter. Machiavelli kept her wavering between giggle and gasp, teasing one nipple, then the other, as his left hand tickled thigh, hip, bellly, armpit. He knew that both Montressor and Lady Julia were losing any grasp on time as the torment maintained its torturous intensity, and only he saw Kalia enter the back of the room.
With a triumphant grin, Machiavelli stopped tickling with his left hand and slid it all the way up her leg, giving her exactly what she wanted. With only a few thrusts of a finger (and the continued attention of the feather on her breasts), Machiavelli earned a cry and then a slow, loud moan. He placed the feather back in his pocket and retrieved a handkerchief on which he promptly wiped his hand. Julia's chest heaved slowly, her entire form seeming to pulse with energy.
Montressor, taking a few seconds still to return from his stupor, exclaimed, "She has died, Machiavelli! She has died!"
"Yes, in the best poetic sense. And now the secrets of the Saracens come into play. You see, Kalia here actually taught me most of what I know about tickle torture. One of the most delightful things is that after a woman dies in her passions, her skin becomes even more alive. And Kalia is quite skilled in the use of certain devices that bring out that life. Behold, Montressor." The Don turned to see a beautiful, dark-haired woman with eyes as deep as the night. Her flowing clothes were those of a gypsy traveler, and her skin was the rich light brown hue of a desert dweller. Despite Montressor's own fears of the Turkish invaders, he could not help but be stunned by this exotic beauty. As he marveled, she reached into a satchel at her side and withdrew one kid-skin glove. Montressor leaned in closer to see that from the tips of the glove's fingers protruded short, thin, shiny bundles of what looked like horse hair. She pulled the tight skin down over her long fingers, licking her lips as she beheld Julia's panting body. Her hand now looked like a cat's claw, the ticklish extensions waving and dancing at her exquisite command. "If you can convince me with suitable gold, Montressor, Kalia would not object to staying as Julia's friend and your tutor. If your new bride should prove disagreeable, you and Kalia can improve her humor in just the short time that we've spent here."
"New bride? She has not yet consented!"
"True, Montressor, true. But watch. Kalia, I'll let you have her right foot. Let's see if she's realized what she really wants in life."
Julia stirred and attempted to squirm, but her too-often-tickled limbs would not lend their support as Kalia closed in on her delicious pink foot. Her left hand was swift and strong as it grabbed the foot, her fingers wrapped around the top and her thumb across the sole. Her other, gloved hand moved in for the kill. Montressor's mouth again hung open as the inch-long, needle-like paintbrushes found their ways between Julia's toes, skittering across the skin between. Julia's face lit up as she screamed with renewed vigor. Her face was awash with pleasure as she laughed and thrashed; whatever pride had sustained her before was broken, and her torment was now moving her body without restraint. Kalia tickled in all four gaps at once, only to withdraw and work down the line, then leapfrog gaps and skitter along the undersides of her pink toes. Julia's arms flexed and straightened as she giggled, and her free leg kicked into the air, the rope keeping it from ever approaching her supple feminine tormentor. Kalia's grip shifted suddenly, grasping the toes now, and the horse hair bristles began to trace patterns on Julia's tender soles. Her laughter became even more melodious, and her head ceased to thrash. Her head pressed backwards into the pillow, her free foot's toes flexing and extending as the hip attempted to kick, Julia's piety and pride had given way to pure sensation. Machiavelli walked over to her side and withdrew two feathers from his pockets, holding one in each hand. He began a two-front assault on her breasts, causing Julia's poor hips nearly to vibrate as the sensations overloaded her nerves. He leaned in as he continued to tickle, calling as one might to a child.
"Julia!"
She laughed without any protest.
"Julia!"
She was only ticklish laughter; the saint was gone.
"What do you wish more than anything in the world?"
Julia's eyes opened, and from between the giggles, from a source that astonished even Machiavelli, emerged, "No, please!"
"What is the only thing in the world that you want?"
She laughed uncontrollably. The feather's strokes across her breasts brought out her heavy, breathy answer: "A man!"
"What would make you happier than anything else?"
She screamed through a high-pitched squeal: "A MAN!!"
"Beg me for the one thing that you desire!"
Her laughing voice sang: "A MAN!"
"Who do you want, Julia?"
"YOU, Machiavelli!"
Kalia stopped, astonished, and Machiavelli was taken aback. When the sheer momentum of the tickling allowed her to stop laughing, Julia's face assumed an expression of horror. Montressor's low brow began to cloud. Machiavelli regained his composure, and he made a hand motion to Kalia. "No, Julia, that will hardly do. Kalia, remind her which man she really desires. Her left foot is now yours." Julia screamed as Kalia began a tickling that would extend only minutes but bonded Montressor and Julia to the moment for what seemed years, perhaps lifetimes. Within moments, neither remembered the young woman's outcry. Machiavelli stared out the window, deep in thought, as the young woman's body was taken beyond despair into realms of sensuality that would not even allow memory of hope or recollection of holiness. He motioned Kalia away with a silent wave of the hand and asked once more, "Who do you want, Julia?"
"Montressor."
* * * * * *
A priest arrived in the night an hour later and performed the wedding. Machiavelli and Montressor settled on a price for the services quickly and took longer to decide a price for Kalia to stay on. Montressor and Machiavelli became wealthier, and Julia remained a terribly ticklish, ravishingly beautiful woman. She and Kalia continued to share a bond that was the stuff of aristocratic gossip for years. When Machiavelli returned to Florence, he knew what his next treatise must be. Finding a new assistant would come later, and he would enjoy it, but now he must write. Drawing a feather pen from his collection, taking a moment to smile at the double, perhaps triple use of such an instrument, he began to set his pen to paper to write a treatise that would go into hiding for centuries hence, not to be discovered until a properly fiendish mind would emerge, one who would not only use but enjoy its wisdom. His pen finished the title: "On the Ticklish Flesh of Young Women and its Uses in Policy."
Discourses on Tickling
by
Kid Indy
Don Tomaso de Montressor hurried about and scolded servants, preparing his welcoming 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, Lucas Brown of Glasgow, 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. Now, his servants moving much too slowly for the nervous noble, a herald announced the arrival of the guest of honor.
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. "Machieavelli, the service of Don 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 ancient tales 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 floor. "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 food. 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. And when they wonder, the wise man can suggest more advantageous desires."
"What in the world are you talking about?"
"Your tortures would seek to break her will. That's impossible. Apart from the body, the will can only sometimes be broken. When the body takes the side of the wise, the will 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 slender 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 burn 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 soft, 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 Calais." 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 walk to Calais, would you walk through Spain?" 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 Calais?"
"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 her smooth sole 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 men 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!"
* * * * *
They returned to Julia's room after a fairly brief conversation about Saracen politics and the advancing Turks and the differences between the two. Montressor stopped cold as he entered the room; Julia was stark naked on her own bed, her ankles secured to two posts and her hands tied together to the headboard. Her naked form lay prone on the soft bed, her knees bent, as the ropes did not pull her completely tight. The soles of her soft feet lay waiting for more of what she had endured before. Machiavelli made his way to the bed with easy strides and beheld his beautiful captive; her statuesque body was a canvas waiting for an artist, and he was no mean painter.
"Now your true villainy shows through, devil! But my body will suffer even as Christ suffered! Even when you kill me, I will never be subject to you or any earthly lord!"
He sat next to her and whispered English in her ear, "I would never kill such a beautiful lady. But I will not refuse when you beg me for what you really want! Your body will soon be begging, and Montressor will be the lord who gives it the alms it so desperately needs!"
She fell silent, and that was fine with Machiavaelli. Montressor still stood in the doorway, still dumbstruck. Machiavelli looked from Julia to a guard. "Call Kalia back here, man. I think she would enjoy helping."
Montressor's jaw returned to his face to inquire, "Who is this Kalia?"
"Oh, you've not seen her? I think you'll like Kalia. She's my special assistant."
"You're going to wait for her, then?"
"Oh, no. She'll take some time to get here from my quarters. In the meantime, we can get our lady ready for her."
Julia's face had fallen completely pale. "A woman! I will not permit a woman to touch me!"
Machiavelli leaned in from his position at her side and whispered, "You don't have a choice, but I don't blame you for objecting. Her technique is nearly flawless." With that he reached down to her side and began to trail two fingers up and down her ribs. Having some mobility still, she shifted away from his hand, but he followed her as she scooted. Now in a full voice he said, "Before, I only had one foot. Now your entire body is here for the tickling, Julia. What think you of that?"
Julia's voice was taking on a higher pitch, but she still attempted defiance: "My soul and my chastity belong to the Lord!"
"I want neither of those, and neither does Montressor. So we'll just take your body and your lust. Is that a fair trade?"
Julia began to giggle, making her final protest seem even sillier: "I will not have..." Her sentence trailed off as Machiavelli's hand jumped up to her underarm and dug into the soft flesh. A high-pitched squeal finished her phrase, and Montressor nearly jumped.
"Well, we've already found a pleasant spot, have we not?" Reaching across her torso, his hand prepared to dig into the other. "Is this one just as pleasant?" Julia attempted to say something, but his hands were faster; whatever speech she would have made turned into another squeak. Now in utter control, Machiavelli dug his fingers into both armpits. Her reaction was volcanic; her hips bucked, her knees attempted to bend further, her head thrashed, and a scream degenerated within seconds into a steady, giggling laughter. Whereas before she attempted to keep her knees together and maintain what was left of modesty, now her limbs flailed in reactions to Machiavelli's touches, some stroking and some prodding, some as light as the first snow and some coming with the force of a charging horseman. He continued this only for a minute or two, and her breathing was already timed around her peals of laughing. He alternated hands, digging with his left while skating and stroking with his right. Either hand, every few seconds, would trace from her armpit down her ribs, across her soft side to her hip. Julia's sides squirmed as her instincts overcame her reason, trying to escape the touches and bringing her other side to be victimized even further. From side to side she thrashed, head, hips, knees, while his hands explored and stroked and tortured her ticklish skin. Her eyes were clamped shut until his right hand stopped tickling; when she lifted her head to see what had happened, she saw him reaching into the folds of his cloak. When she saw the small, stiff feather he produced, another screaming giggle escaped, even though the tickling had not yet increased.
His left hand slid down to her ribs and began poking her and breaking her long laughs into short, reactive giggles. His right twirled the feather between finger and thumb as it drew nearer her navel. When it made contact, she began bucking with full strength, but his skilled eye followed her form and kept the feather licking the rim of her belly button. Montressor was visibly drooling. Machiavelli, his hands still furiously tickling, leaned in and whispered in English so that Montressor could not hear, just loud enough that Julia could her him over her own laughter.
"I know, of course, what this is doing to you. And only in a few minutes, I'll give you what you want more than anything else right now. But for now, I'm enjoying this. Tickling your legs is going to make me very happy." His hand darted into his robe again and came out without the feather. Both hands now went to work on her hips, pinching and rubbing, making her pink feet buck and her soprano songbird laughter return to long, melodious lines. Julia, responding to the threat against her legs as much as her ticklish hips would allow, shook her head even as she laughed. She had figured out how to force out words between laughs, and she attempted to talk, in English, with her tormentor:
"Please... no... convent... please..." She must have been thinking about a joke concerning nuns, because every word fought through laughter to emerge. After several minutes of tickling her hips, Machiavelli stopped and let her breathe. He turned to Montressor and explained himself:
"You see, my good Montressor, this particularly Saracen torment not only makes our young lady wish she had taken us up on our offer. No, it will also inflame her body's desires and make her desire a man, perhaps as she has never desired one before. Am I right, Julia?"
She could only manage a soft plea: "Please, please. My sisters await me. I must return..." She giggled in spite of herself.
"Am I right, Julia?"
"Please..."
Machiavelli placed his left hand gently on her cheek. In English, he whispered, "Soon, Julia, I will give you a new sister. Kalia, if Montressor will allow her, will be your sister even as you marry this good man." Her eyes still pleading, she turned her head away as his hand left.
"God will protect me."
Machiavelli chuckled. "God will give you exactly what you most desire, once you tell me what that is, Julia. I promise." With that, he scooted down the bed and reached for her left leg. His left hand grasped her just above the knee and started squeezing, and the right began to descend towards her inner thigh. Julia's restraints, anchored to the bedposts, would not let her legs come together, and soon his fingers were raking up and down just inches from her womanhood. Having rested a couple minutes, her initial scream had some of the energy of her first protest. Her hips bucked as his hands tickled, and Montressor almost believed that she was trying to invite his hand in... but no. This tickling was obviously getting the best of her; her body was thrashing with the same intensity, and between laughs Montressor could occasionally hear a moan of pleasure. His own robe could bearly conceal how much he enjoyed it.
Machiavelli's right hand departed Julia's thigh, and his left slid up to continue the torment. Julia's head again lifted to see Machiavelli produce the feather from his cloak. She tried to shake the bonds free with frantic hip twists, but to no avail. Machiavelli began again to twirl the feather, and Julia again screamed, her green eyes nearly glowing in their intensity. But when the feather got near her navel, it did not stop but began to curve toward's Julia's right breast. Her eyes became as wide as saucers, and her laughter's pitch rose. Montressor wiped away a bit of drool that he did not even pretend to hide. The feather flicked, then danced, then stroked her nipple, arching Julia's back with each pass. The laughter that her thigh wanted had to wait just a moment with each slow pass of the feather--her gasps of pleasure were even more powerful than her flowing, tormented laughter. Machiavelli kept her wavering between giggle and gasp, teasing one nipple, then the other, as his left hand tickled thigh, hip, bellly, armpit. He knew that both Montressor and Lady Julia were losing any grasp on time as the torment maintained its torturous intensity, and only he saw Kalia enter the back of the room.
With a triumphant grin, Machiavelli stopped tickling with his left hand and slid it all the way up her leg, giving her exactly what she wanted. With only a few thrusts of a finger (and the continued attention of the feather on her breasts), Machiavelli earned a cry and then a slow, loud moan. He placed the feather back in his pocket and retrieved a handkerchief on which he promptly wiped his hand. Julia's chest heaved slowly, her entire form seeming to pulse with energy.
Montressor, taking a few seconds still to return from his stupor, exclaimed, "She has died, Machiavelli! She has died!"
"Yes, in the best poetic sense. And now the secrets of the Saracens come into play. You see, Kalia here actually taught me most of what I know about tickle torture. One of the most delightful things is that after a woman dies in her passions, her skin becomes even more alive. And Kalia is quite skilled in the use of certain devices that bring out that life. Behold, Montressor." The Don turned to see a beautiful, dark-haired woman with eyes as deep as the night. Her flowing clothes were those of a gypsy traveler, and her skin was the rich light brown hue of a desert dweller. Despite Montressor's own fears of the Turkish invaders, he could not help but be stunned by this exotic beauty. As he marveled, she reached into a satchel at her side and withdrew one kid-skin glove. Montressor leaned in closer to see that from the tips of the glove's fingers protruded short, thin, shiny bundles of what looked like horse hair. She pulled the tight skin down over her long fingers, licking her lips as she beheld Julia's panting body. Her hand now looked like a cat's claw, the ticklish extensions waving and dancing at her exquisite command. "If you can convince me with suitable gold, Montressor, Kalia would not object to staying as Julia's friend and your tutor. If your new bride should prove disagreeable, you and Kalia can improve her humor in just the short time that we've spent here."
"New bride? She has not yet consented!"
"True, Montressor, true. But watch. Kalia, I'll let you have her right foot. Let's see if she's realized what she really wants in life."
Julia stirred and attempted to squirm, but her too-often-tickled limbs would not lend their support as Kalia closed in on her delicious pink foot. Her left hand was swift and strong as it grabbed the foot, her fingers wrapped around the top and her thumb across the sole. Her other, gloved hand moved in for the kill. Montressor's mouth again hung open as the inch-long, needle-like paintbrushes found their ways between Julia's toes, skittering across the skin between. Julia's face lit up as she screamed with renewed vigor. Her face was awash with pleasure as she laughed and thrashed; whatever pride had sustained her before was broken, and her torment was now moving her body without restraint. Kalia tickled in all four gaps at once, only to withdraw and work down the line, then leapfrog gaps and skitter along the undersides of her pink toes. Julia's arms flexed and straightened as she giggled, and her free leg kicked into the air, the rope keeping it from ever approaching her supple feminine tormentor. Kalia's grip shifted suddenly, grasping the toes now, and the horse hair bristles began to trace patterns on Julia's tender soles. Her laughter became even more melodious, and her head ceased to thrash. Her head pressed backwards into the pillow, her free foot's toes flexing and extending as the hip attempted to kick, Julia's piety and pride had given way to pure sensation. Machiavelli walked over to her side and withdrew two feathers from his pockets, holding one in each hand. He began a two-front assault on her breasts, causing Julia's poor hips nearly to vibrate as the sensations overloaded her nerves. He leaned in as he continued to tickle, calling as one might to a child.
"Julia!"
She laughed without any protest.
"Julia!"
She was only ticklish laughter; the saint was gone.
"What do you wish more than anything in the world?"
Julia's eyes opened, and from between the giggles, from a source that astonished even Machiavelli, emerged, "No, please!"
"What is the only thing in the world that you want?"
She laughed uncontrollably. The feather's strokes across her breasts brought out her heavy, breathy answer: "A man!"
"What would make you happier than anything else?"
She screamed through a high-pitched squeal: "A MAN!!"
"Beg me for the one thing that you desire!"
Her laughing voice sang: "A MAN!"
"Who do you want, Julia?"
"YOU, Machiavelli!"
Kalia stopped, astonished, and Machiavelli was taken aback. When the sheer momentum of the tickling allowed her to stop laughing, Julia's face assumed an expression of horror. Montressor's low brow began to cloud. Machiavelli regained his composure, and he made a hand motion to Kalia. "No, Julia, that will hardly do. Kalia, remind her which man she really desires. Her left foot is now yours." Julia screamed as Kalia began a tickling that would extend only minutes but bonded Montressor and Julia to the moment for what seemed years, perhaps lifetimes. Within moments, neither remembered the young woman's outcry. Machiavelli stared out the window, deep in thought, as the young woman's body was taken beyond despair into realms of sensuality that would not even allow memory of hope or recollection of holiness. He motioned Kalia away with a silent wave of the hand and asked once more, "Who do you want, Julia?"
"Montressor."
* * * * * *
A priest arrived in the night an hour later and performed the wedding. Machiavelli and Montressor settled on a price for the services quickly and took longer to decide a price for Kalia to stay on. Montressor and Machiavelli became wealthier, and Julia remained a terribly ticklish, ravishingly beautiful woman. She and Kalia continued to share a bond that was the stuff of aristocratic gossip for years. When Machiavelli returned to Florence, he knew what his next treatise must be. Finding a new assistant would come later, and he would enjoy it, but now he must write. Drawing a feather pen from his collection, taking a moment to smile at the double, perhaps triple use of such an instrument, he began to set his pen to paper to write a treatise that would go into hiding for centuries hence, not to be discovered until a properly fiendish mind would emerge, one who would not only use but enjoy its wisdom. His pen finished the title: "On the Ticklish Flesh of Young Women and its Uses in Policy."
