Francis Boyar pulled the straw pillow around his ears and rolled over, mumbling in his sleep.
A loud pounding sounded again outside the front door. Francis shook himself awake and propped up on one elbow, peering groggy-eyed into the darkness. The pounding resumed once more, and this time the door threatened to part with the rusted hinges.
“All right, all right, I’m coming,” he yelled, struggling with his pants.
A sharp voice edged with authority came from behind the door. “Open up in the name of the King!”
The King? Oh, Jehoshaphat, what’d he done now? His sleepiness suddenly replaced with alarm; he hastily made for the door and flung it open.
It was scarcely lighter outside that in his modest cottage, so Francis wasn’t sure if he imagined the grim expressions on the three men standing before him. They were guardsmen in King John’s retinue, armed and in full battle dress. The feeble light from the moon glinted softly from their chain mail armor and the pearly handles of their sheathed swords. Whatever their mission, it was apparent they weren’t on a social call.
“Do you wish something of me, my lords?” Francis knew a number of the King’s regulars, having lived in the neighboring village all his life, but he didn’t recognize this particular trio.
The tallest of the three spoke. “Come along, Francis Boyar. His Highness would have you in his service.” His words were crisp but not unkind. Francis decided to risk a question or two.
“Now? In the middle of the night? I would be honored indeed to be called by my King, but I fear that my apprenticeship might be forfeit if I should fail to report to the cobbler on the morrow.”
One of the guardsmen grasped his sword handle in a threatening gesture, but the one seemingly in charge held up a hand and waved him off. “Methinks more would be forfeit than your apprenticeship,” he said “if you disobey the King’s wishes.”
He stepped aside and swept his arm toward the street. “Come now. You need bring nothing; a guard will be posted by your home, and word will be sent to the cobbler ere you are missed.”
Francis didn’t really have any choice. He was relieved that a watch would be placed on his humble belongings, for that meant that his servitude would likely not mean an extended absence. He stopped just long enough to grab a cloak to wrap around his shoulders, then shut the door behind him and strode off toward the palace with his royal escort.
It would not be a long walk; the lofty tower of the castle loomed before them through the star-studded darkness o night. Two of the guardsmen fell in step behind Francis while the leader wordlessly set the pace ahead of him. They walked on for several minutes, ant it soon became obvious that the King’s men were not disposed toward conversation.
Francis’ anxiety grew with every step, until he thought he would explode with repressed fear and curiosity.
“Look, my lords. I have no clue as to my worthiness for His Highness. Have I done something wrong, for which I must be punished? If so, pray tell me.”
The one in front said nothing for a few moments, then his face softened a bit as he fell back to walk alongside his charge. He’d been given no orders not to converse with young Boyar, and he could well imagine how he’d feel if he were in the other’s place. But even he didn’t really know what the king wanted with him, although he had a pretty good idea.
“I was on patrol in the village early this morning,” he explained, “when my attention was caught by an outpouring of laughter coming from the direction of your cottage. I rode thither to investigate and saw you tickling a fair lass out in the courtyard. She was evidently on the way to churn butter, for she had two brimming buckets in her hands. It must have been a might struggle for her not to spill a drop, as you were playing a merry tune on her ribcage. Your reputation as a rogue is far from undeserved.”
Francis colored slightly. He hadn’t realized he’d been observed during his early-morning flirtations with Rowena. But then again, he’d been pretty much occupied at the time. She was usually up at the crack of dawn, as were most conscientious milkmaids, and he delighted in teasing her before the rest of the town was awake. Her tinkling laughter was music to his ears, and he really thought she enjoyed his regular rib tickling despite the fuss she’d invariably raise. Surely she hadn’t complained!
“I meant no harm, my lord. Has some charge been lodged against me for such child’s play?” He tugged imperiously at the guardsman’s armored sleeve.
“No, no, not that,” came the impatient reply. “No one witnessed it save I, and the lass would never say an unkind word against you. But the King has instructed us all to report directly any displays of such behavior. This I did.”
Francis was bewildered. “What say you? What behavior do you mean?”
The guardsman ignored him. “That isolated event would have meant nothing to His Highness,” he continued. “But similar such stories have been told of you in the past. The clincher methinks came yesterday afternoon, when you were observed brushing the dust from a young wench’s soles as she lay sleeping under a tree. Word has it that the lass was halfway up the bole ere she realized what was happening.” He barely stifled a grin upon recalling a comrade’s account of the incident.
“But of what possible interest could this be to the King? Forsooth, I find myself smitten by ticklish damsels, but such sport is surely not worthy of royal attention.” Francis was now more apprehensive than before. He had absolutely no idea what was in store for him.
They were at the edge of the moat, which ringed the king’s palace. The head guardsman shouted a password and waited as the drawbridge began to descend noisily. As they crossed over into the open maw of the portal, he looked over at Francis with a strangely warm look and said: “I dare say you’ll find out soon enough what this is all about. And I don’t think you’ll be at all disappointed.”
The three guardsmen turned him over to a couple of robed gentlemen just inside the fortress then strode off to report to the office of the watch. Francis watched their receding backs for a moment before facing his new custodians.
“I’m at your service, my lords. What is it you would have me do?” He was not at all as confident as he tried to make himself sound.
If anything, these two were even more reticent than their predecessors had been. Neither said a word. One looked stonily at Francis while the other beckoned in the direction of the stairwell.
Francis thought he’d be taken to the King’s chambers up in the turret, but he was mistaken. The silent figures, their flowing robes trailing behind them on the stairs, led him downward into the depths of the castle. He decided against trying to make idle conversation and concentrated on keeping his footing on the slippery steps.
The stairs continued to wind down relentlessly, and Francis shivered in the dank air. The torches spaced along the walls grew fewer and fewer until he could barely see the dim shape of the fellow ahead of him. He heard dripping noises as if far off in the darkness, and more than once he thought he caught a glimpse of something small scurrying just beyond the range of the feeble light.
On and on they walked. Francis began to get the impression that their passage was beginning to level off, but it was so dark that he couldn’t tell for sure.
Off to his left, he thought he could hear some sounds that were as yet unidentifiable. He strained his ears and concentrated. There! Wasn’t that a scream? They walked some more, and the sounds grew disconcertingly more distinct until their origin became horrifyingly obvious. Even as another disembodied shriek pierced the inky blackness, Francis realized with a sinking feeling that he was listening to the lost souls of the damned. This must be the King’s torture chamber, a repository of utter despair to those poor wretches unlucky enough to be held within its bloodstained walls.
He was nearly overcome with a sudden urge to scramble back up the way he’d come, but he knew that his chances of escape were virtually nonexistent. No one ever left the nether reaches of the King’s domain unbidden. Those who tried were made to live to regret their foolhardiness. Petrified, he clenched his chattering teeth and groped along the stairwell.
If his escorts noticed his discomfiture, they didn’t let on. They continued walking in silence, and they stoically ignored the now-constant groans and shrieks. Francis wanted to clamp his hands over his ears to shut out the awful sounds, but he didn’t dare.
They kept on moving until the stairs gradually thinned out to a level path, and Francis sensed that the robed figure ahead of him had made a turn away from the bedlam of torture they’d just approached. After a few minutes more he was sure of it. The sounds were slowly but surely receding in the distance and he almost fainted with relief when he realized that at least this was not to be his fate.
His legs were beginning to cramp from dampness and fatigue. Where were they going? He couldn’t imagine that there could be any pleasant destination this far in the bowels of the castle, but he doggedly refrained from questioning his escort.
What was that just ahead? Francis could have sworn he’d heard the sound of high-pitched feminine laughter out of the gloom in front of him, although it had stopped before he could tell for sure. He listened intently. There it was again, a little louder this time.
It continued for over a minute, and he knew that there could be no doubt about what it was. He’d heard that sound too many times to be mistaken about its origin, having thrived on it time and again since his early youth.
The laughter was joined by other intermittent shrieks which continued to grow in loudness until Francis became absolutely convinced that the destination, if not the purpose, of his summons was a mystery no longer.
The came to a halt before a huge wooden door set in the stone wall, and the lead figure knocked heavily on it in a curious rhythm. All sound momentarily ceased from within as Francis waited to see what would happen next. Then he heard a bolt slide free from the other side, and the mammoth door began creaking on its hinges as it was slowly opened. A shaft of light shot out into the nearly absolute darkness of the corridor, blinding him for an instant. He felt himself being led inside and decided not to offer any resistance.
When his eyes became adjusted to the light, he found himself in a large chamber that was brilliantly lit with scores of torches ringing the walls. He looked around, curious, and was nearly jolted by the sight that met his eyes. The image had hardly registered in his brain before he was spun around roughly and brought face to face with a much more unpleasant sight.
He was a muscular brute of a fellow, but with ruggedly handsome features partially covered by a black hood and a compelling grin that smirked in mocking appraisal. He placed his hands on his hips and looked Francis up and down.
“So this is my new assistant, no?” he said, his steely eyes leering from behind the coal-black hood. “Many thanks, gents. You can leave him to me.”
The two hooded figures bowed silently and went back the way they’d come, and the big fellow closed and locked the door behind them. Francis kept his gaze fixed on his sweaty back, afraid that if he looked around again his eyes would fail to confirm the lovely vision he’d experienced scant seconds before.
The brute faced him once more. “Well,” he said, “I can’t say as I’m sorry to have your with us. It always seems as if there’re fewer and fewer of us, and more and more of them.” He brought a thick arm expansively across the room, but Francis was still afraid to test the evidence of his own eyes. Looking straight ahead, he stammered weakly:
“I am Francis Boyar. I’m pleased to be of service, sir, but I must confess my ignorance of your wishes.”
The big one roared with laughter and clapped a meaty hand against the other’s back. “I see. So they didn’t tell you. Well, young Francis, turn around and become acquainted with your new calling.” He took the younger man firmly by the shoulders and spun him around while the latter held his breath.
Everything was as he’d first seen it.
And what a sight it was! A long row of strange devices arranged head to toe lined one wall. Beautiful young women, all of whom were quite naked, occupied several of them. What’s more, they were fettered in a unique way that allowed virtually no freedom of movement. Their arms were encased in wooden caskets that fit tightly around their torsos to prevent any movement of the upper body. Their bare feet were set in individual stocks. A leather thong had been laced around each toe then attached to metal hooks fixed to the stocks. The toes had been pulled back by tightening the thongs, bringing the soles taut and rendering both feet absolutely immobile.
Francis’ knees almost buckled at the sight. Such bondage could be for one purpose and one purpose only! He let his eyes wander about the well-lit room, comfortably warm with the heat of the blazing torches—and perhaps a modest measure of body heat as well!
A disturbance near the opposite wall of the chamber drew Francis’s attention. There reposed a sturdy wooden rack of a different design from the others. Two other fellows wearing black hoods similar to that of the big one were busily affixing a stunningly beautiful blond to the device. She was struggling furiously, but she was no match for her captors. She had been stripped naked except for a pair of sandals. She cursed, then pleaded, as the two men forced her onto the device, pulled her arms up and locked them securely in wooden fetters attached to the top of the rack. Her shapely legs kicked out at her tormentors, but she was quickly subdued when the big fellow rushed over. He pinned her ankles and held them in the lower semi-circles of wooden stocks attached to the end of the rack while one of the others deftly lowered the upper plank, trapping her ankles in the padded, leather-lined openings.
Now her delectable body was bound, with her arms pinioned above her head while the stocks held her ankles. Both her arms and legs were held apart slightly wider than her body’s width. Each of the two men then operated cranks located at each end of the rack. As the cranks were turned, the restraints holding the woman’s wrists and ankles moved in opposite directions. When the hooded figures finally stopped, she was stretched to a point of near immobility, with every part of her naked anatomy exposed to the beck and call of her custodians.
The rugged brute turned to Francis and gave him a lopsided grin that was meant to be more reassuring than it appeared.
“This one’s Roger, and this one’s Edward,” he said, indicating his two assistants. “You can call me Bullard. As far as this place goes, you might call it a highly specialized torture chamber. I call the shots, at least whenever His Highness doesn’t take charge himself.”
He waved a beefy hand at the struggling women bound here and there in the chamber. “These wenches have all displeased the King in some fashion. The must be punished. Now, the King is quite fond of tickling, and he has decreed that all females of a certain age and breeding be punished in this manner. In fact, he oftentimes comes down himself and exacts his tribute in person.”
Bullard walked over to the row of caskets and foot stocks, Francis following. Three women were in residence there, all of who glowered at their captor in unvoiced hatred. Bullard didn’t seem to mind.
“Now these here,” he continued, “are charged with relatively minor offenses that merit less harsh treatment.” He paused to kick viciously at a cat that had suddenly gotten underfoot, sending it cowering toward the far corner of the chamber. Francis looked around in surprise. There were a LOT of cats in here. Probably necessary to keep down the rat population, he thought.
“As I was saying,” said Bullard, “the King has told us that a mere tickling of the feet is ample punishment for these miscreants, at least for first offenders.” He nodded to one of his assistants, who eagerly took a pitcher of cream and poured a healthy dollop over the delicate bare soles of each woman so bound. The sudden appearance of the thick white fluid drew a horde of cats like a magnet.
They seemed starved. Fighting with one another for a perch in front of the cream-drenched feet, the frenzied felines greedily ran their tongues over the slippery surfaces while Bullard chuckled in glee.
The cozy chamber was immediately filled with hysterical laughter in three-part harmony. Each of the young beauties had feet that were excruciatingly ticklish, and Francis wondered idly if these victims had been chosen precisely because of this quality. His spirits lifted tremendously as he watched the three slowly dissolve in a cacophony of hysterical laughter. He had his doubts that these were first offenders!
Bullard guffawed at Francis’ child-like fascination with the torture unfolding before his eyes.
“Go on,” he roared, “Don’t be timid, my boy. Take a closer look if you wish.”
Francis obliged. Roger was pouring a second helping of cream over each tender little foot, and the cats kept licking away with unparalleled gusto while the shrieking hysteria continued unabated. Francis ambled over to what he considered to be the comeliest victim and kneeled down before her feet. Upon such close examination he could see that the immobilization was absolute. Her ankles were thrust into stocks and her toes were pulled upright by the leather thong and restraining rings. She was absolutely powerless either to rotate her feet or flex them away from the marauding tongues that were wreaking such havoc on her soles. Her toes were only able to twitch feebly. Her laughter seemed to Francis like a palpable thing, much more intense than he had ever experienced back in the village when playfully kneading a young maiden’s ribs. He found that he rather preferred it this way as he felt his erection straining at his trousers.
He must have knelt there for long minutes, drinking in the breathtaking sight of the cream-soaked soles being licked to a dry softness and basking in the sweet sounds of hysteria, oblivious to all other stimuli of time and space. The intensity of his concentration grew to such proportions that he felt his heart would burst from beating so fast just as the most ticklish of the three women passed out from her ordeal.
Panting from sheer lust, he collapsed on the floor of the chamber while Bullard looked on with approval and chuckled knowingly.
“I know just how you feel, my boy,” he said. “I reacted much the same way during my first weeks as apprentice here. The thrill has never escaped me, but it was so much more enjoyable those first few times.”
After a minute or so, he pulled Francis to his feet. “Snap out of it now,” he said gruffly. “After all, you’re supposed to be helping out here, not just observing. We’ve got work to do.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the handsome lass stretched out on the rack, who’d been left unattended while the attention of her custodians had been focused on causing the incessant laughter of the three women in the foot stocks.
Francis gulped as he walked toward the helpless woman. She certainly was beautiful. Her golden hair fell back in cascades about her neck and shoulders, and her lips were curled in hatred as she screamed foul epithets at her captors. Francis cringed at some of the language that met his ears, but he marveled at the breasts that rose and fell with her quickening breaths. He lustily counted each rib that poked through an absolutely flawless midriff. She raised her head and watched Francis move down the length of the rack. Her legs were long and sleek and she saw them disappear into the stocks at the end of the device to which she was bound.
Francis frowned as he moved around to the end of the rack when his gaze rested on the sandals still shielding her well-formed feet. Emboldened, he strode over to the struggling woman’s feet and unfastened the straps. Then, against her protests and futile attempts to prevent it, he slipped off the sandals and dropped them to the floor.
Bullard noticed Francis’s erection straining at his trousers and clapped happily. “I see you approve, my lad. This one’s a serious case, but seeing as how this is your first day on the job I believe I’ll give you the honors”.
Francis wasn’t about to refuse, but he was suddenly curious. “But what was her crime?” he asked.
Bullard shrugged. “I think she’s crazy. She had the audacity to stand up in the square this evening and proclaim the King was a cowardly tyrant who stole from the villagers in the form of high taxes and didn’t deserve to rule. She was arrested by the King’s guardsmen and brought here. I think she’ll be here at least a week for that.” He glared at Francis and tossed him a spare hood to put on. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
Francis needed no further urging. He threw off his cloak, donned the hood, and turned to the woman’s wriggling feet. They weren’t as totally immobilized as those in the other racks, but they were nonetheless quite satisfactorily restrained. Knowing the what was about to happen, she pleaded for Francis not to touch her feet. Ignoring her, he eagerly ran his fingertips over the heels and soles of the tender surfaces. She immediately exploded into a kaleidoscope of rippling hysteria and shook her head from side to side as her feet jerked spasmodically in response to the suddenly intolerable stimulus.
She was so ticklish that now she could not even frame a coherent plea to beg her torturer to stop. He had no inclination of doing so in any event, and he maintained the steady prancing of flesh and fingernails against flesh while the supersensitive feet flexed frantically in a vain effort to elude the skilled fingertips.
Edward moved in for the kill, having long ago acquired a sense for recognizing exquisitely ticklish women. He stood alongside the rack and grasped the victim’s unprotected ribcage, wriggling his fingers insistently in the soft flesh while she shrieked in utter abandon. His hands moved steadily up and down her torso, kneading all the while, as her stomach muscles twitched helplessly under the creamy white skin of her abdomen. The laughter was so intense that Francis lost his wad, but he steadfastly maintained his expert tickling of the young woman’s feet.
The scenario was completed by Roger, who, recognizing the drama that was unfolding here on this rack, abandoned his feeding of the hungry cats and came over to turn his attentions to the woman’s flawless armpits. His experienced fingers swirled wickedly in the delicate flesh, further reducing the poor woman to a blubbering mass on shrieking insanity. Her laughter filled every nook and cranny of the torch-lit room. In all his born days, never had he encountered anyone as ticklish as this comely wench, and he found himself powerless to cope with the urgency of his discovery. As much as he loved tickling, he’d always made it a point to cease hostilities before things got out of hand. Now, he found he was unable to do so. He tickled and tickled; losing all sense of time, exulting in the cackling hysterics that continually assaulted his ears.
Bullard looked on for a long while; himself caught up in the chillingly effective torture of his victim. By and by, he advanced upon the young beauty, who continued to writhe and laugh uncontrollably on the rack. While the other three maintained their steady tickling, he placed his fingers between her legs and groped for the exposed button of her clitoris. Her rattling shriek soon told him he’d found it.
He insistently drew a myriad of patterns in varying speeds and intensities in that area, drawing his fingertips in circles around the lips of her moist labia and clitoris.
It wasn’t long before her body was wracked with an intense orgasm, fueled by the methodical tickling which assailed every part of her sensitive anatomy. With the last shrieking orgasm, she mercifully fainted dead away.
Francis didn’t want to stop. He kept right on tickling the woman’s feet, and was genuinely disappointed when his victim no longer responded to his tireless efforts. Puzzled, he continued for a few moments longer, then looked up at Bullard with a helpless expression on his face.
The muscular master of the chamber jerked him to his feet and happily pounded him on the back. “I think you’ll do nicely,” he said approvingly. “His Majesty has chosen well, I do believe. As for the woman here,” Bullard continued, “don’t worry, she’ll be around for many days to come.”
Francis rapidly lost his tan in the pleasant weeks that followed. That didn’t seem to bother him a bit. And, you know, he never DID go back to that apprenticeship with the village cobbler!
**************************
A loud pounding sounded again outside the front door. Francis shook himself awake and propped up on one elbow, peering groggy-eyed into the darkness. The pounding resumed once more, and this time the door threatened to part with the rusted hinges.
“All right, all right, I’m coming,” he yelled, struggling with his pants.
A sharp voice edged with authority came from behind the door. “Open up in the name of the King!”
The King? Oh, Jehoshaphat, what’d he done now? His sleepiness suddenly replaced with alarm; he hastily made for the door and flung it open.
It was scarcely lighter outside that in his modest cottage, so Francis wasn’t sure if he imagined the grim expressions on the three men standing before him. They were guardsmen in King John’s retinue, armed and in full battle dress. The feeble light from the moon glinted softly from their chain mail armor and the pearly handles of their sheathed swords. Whatever their mission, it was apparent they weren’t on a social call.
“Do you wish something of me, my lords?” Francis knew a number of the King’s regulars, having lived in the neighboring village all his life, but he didn’t recognize this particular trio.
The tallest of the three spoke. “Come along, Francis Boyar. His Highness would have you in his service.” His words were crisp but not unkind. Francis decided to risk a question or two.
“Now? In the middle of the night? I would be honored indeed to be called by my King, but I fear that my apprenticeship might be forfeit if I should fail to report to the cobbler on the morrow.”
One of the guardsmen grasped his sword handle in a threatening gesture, but the one seemingly in charge held up a hand and waved him off. “Methinks more would be forfeit than your apprenticeship,” he said “if you disobey the King’s wishes.”
He stepped aside and swept his arm toward the street. “Come now. You need bring nothing; a guard will be posted by your home, and word will be sent to the cobbler ere you are missed.”
Francis didn’t really have any choice. He was relieved that a watch would be placed on his humble belongings, for that meant that his servitude would likely not mean an extended absence. He stopped just long enough to grab a cloak to wrap around his shoulders, then shut the door behind him and strode off toward the palace with his royal escort.
It would not be a long walk; the lofty tower of the castle loomed before them through the star-studded darkness o night. Two of the guardsmen fell in step behind Francis while the leader wordlessly set the pace ahead of him. They walked on for several minutes, ant it soon became obvious that the King’s men were not disposed toward conversation.
Francis’ anxiety grew with every step, until he thought he would explode with repressed fear and curiosity.
“Look, my lords. I have no clue as to my worthiness for His Highness. Have I done something wrong, for which I must be punished? If so, pray tell me.”
The one in front said nothing for a few moments, then his face softened a bit as he fell back to walk alongside his charge. He’d been given no orders not to converse with young Boyar, and he could well imagine how he’d feel if he were in the other’s place. But even he didn’t really know what the king wanted with him, although he had a pretty good idea.
“I was on patrol in the village early this morning,” he explained, “when my attention was caught by an outpouring of laughter coming from the direction of your cottage. I rode thither to investigate and saw you tickling a fair lass out in the courtyard. She was evidently on the way to churn butter, for she had two brimming buckets in her hands. It must have been a might struggle for her not to spill a drop, as you were playing a merry tune on her ribcage. Your reputation as a rogue is far from undeserved.”
Francis colored slightly. He hadn’t realized he’d been observed during his early-morning flirtations with Rowena. But then again, he’d been pretty much occupied at the time. She was usually up at the crack of dawn, as were most conscientious milkmaids, and he delighted in teasing her before the rest of the town was awake. Her tinkling laughter was music to his ears, and he really thought she enjoyed his regular rib tickling despite the fuss she’d invariably raise. Surely she hadn’t complained!
“I meant no harm, my lord. Has some charge been lodged against me for such child’s play?” He tugged imperiously at the guardsman’s armored sleeve.
“No, no, not that,” came the impatient reply. “No one witnessed it save I, and the lass would never say an unkind word against you. But the King has instructed us all to report directly any displays of such behavior. This I did.”
Francis was bewildered. “What say you? What behavior do you mean?”
The guardsman ignored him. “That isolated event would have meant nothing to His Highness,” he continued. “But similar such stories have been told of you in the past. The clincher methinks came yesterday afternoon, when you were observed brushing the dust from a young wench’s soles as she lay sleeping under a tree. Word has it that the lass was halfway up the bole ere she realized what was happening.” He barely stifled a grin upon recalling a comrade’s account of the incident.
“But of what possible interest could this be to the King? Forsooth, I find myself smitten by ticklish damsels, but such sport is surely not worthy of royal attention.” Francis was now more apprehensive than before. He had absolutely no idea what was in store for him.
They were at the edge of the moat, which ringed the king’s palace. The head guardsman shouted a password and waited as the drawbridge began to descend noisily. As they crossed over into the open maw of the portal, he looked over at Francis with a strangely warm look and said: “I dare say you’ll find out soon enough what this is all about. And I don’t think you’ll be at all disappointed.”
The three guardsmen turned him over to a couple of robed gentlemen just inside the fortress then strode off to report to the office of the watch. Francis watched their receding backs for a moment before facing his new custodians.
“I’m at your service, my lords. What is it you would have me do?” He was not at all as confident as he tried to make himself sound.
If anything, these two were even more reticent than their predecessors had been. Neither said a word. One looked stonily at Francis while the other beckoned in the direction of the stairwell.
Francis thought he’d be taken to the King’s chambers up in the turret, but he was mistaken. The silent figures, their flowing robes trailing behind them on the stairs, led him downward into the depths of the castle. He decided against trying to make idle conversation and concentrated on keeping his footing on the slippery steps.
The stairs continued to wind down relentlessly, and Francis shivered in the dank air. The torches spaced along the walls grew fewer and fewer until he could barely see the dim shape of the fellow ahead of him. He heard dripping noises as if far off in the darkness, and more than once he thought he caught a glimpse of something small scurrying just beyond the range of the feeble light.
On and on they walked. Francis began to get the impression that their passage was beginning to level off, but it was so dark that he couldn’t tell for sure.
Off to his left, he thought he could hear some sounds that were as yet unidentifiable. He strained his ears and concentrated. There! Wasn’t that a scream? They walked some more, and the sounds grew disconcertingly more distinct until their origin became horrifyingly obvious. Even as another disembodied shriek pierced the inky blackness, Francis realized with a sinking feeling that he was listening to the lost souls of the damned. This must be the King’s torture chamber, a repository of utter despair to those poor wretches unlucky enough to be held within its bloodstained walls.
He was nearly overcome with a sudden urge to scramble back up the way he’d come, but he knew that his chances of escape were virtually nonexistent. No one ever left the nether reaches of the King’s domain unbidden. Those who tried were made to live to regret their foolhardiness. Petrified, he clenched his chattering teeth and groped along the stairwell.
If his escorts noticed his discomfiture, they didn’t let on. They continued walking in silence, and they stoically ignored the now-constant groans and shrieks. Francis wanted to clamp his hands over his ears to shut out the awful sounds, but he didn’t dare.
They kept on moving until the stairs gradually thinned out to a level path, and Francis sensed that the robed figure ahead of him had made a turn away from the bedlam of torture they’d just approached. After a few minutes more he was sure of it. The sounds were slowly but surely receding in the distance and he almost fainted with relief when he realized that at least this was not to be his fate.
His legs were beginning to cramp from dampness and fatigue. Where were they going? He couldn’t imagine that there could be any pleasant destination this far in the bowels of the castle, but he doggedly refrained from questioning his escort.
What was that just ahead? Francis could have sworn he’d heard the sound of high-pitched feminine laughter out of the gloom in front of him, although it had stopped before he could tell for sure. He listened intently. There it was again, a little louder this time.
It continued for over a minute, and he knew that there could be no doubt about what it was. He’d heard that sound too many times to be mistaken about its origin, having thrived on it time and again since his early youth.
The laughter was joined by other intermittent shrieks which continued to grow in loudness until Francis became absolutely convinced that the destination, if not the purpose, of his summons was a mystery no longer.
The came to a halt before a huge wooden door set in the stone wall, and the lead figure knocked heavily on it in a curious rhythm. All sound momentarily ceased from within as Francis waited to see what would happen next. Then he heard a bolt slide free from the other side, and the mammoth door began creaking on its hinges as it was slowly opened. A shaft of light shot out into the nearly absolute darkness of the corridor, blinding him for an instant. He felt himself being led inside and decided not to offer any resistance.
When his eyes became adjusted to the light, he found himself in a large chamber that was brilliantly lit with scores of torches ringing the walls. He looked around, curious, and was nearly jolted by the sight that met his eyes. The image had hardly registered in his brain before he was spun around roughly and brought face to face with a much more unpleasant sight.
He was a muscular brute of a fellow, but with ruggedly handsome features partially covered by a black hood and a compelling grin that smirked in mocking appraisal. He placed his hands on his hips and looked Francis up and down.
“So this is my new assistant, no?” he said, his steely eyes leering from behind the coal-black hood. “Many thanks, gents. You can leave him to me.”
The two hooded figures bowed silently and went back the way they’d come, and the big fellow closed and locked the door behind them. Francis kept his gaze fixed on his sweaty back, afraid that if he looked around again his eyes would fail to confirm the lovely vision he’d experienced scant seconds before.
The brute faced him once more. “Well,” he said, “I can’t say as I’m sorry to have your with us. It always seems as if there’re fewer and fewer of us, and more and more of them.” He brought a thick arm expansively across the room, but Francis was still afraid to test the evidence of his own eyes. Looking straight ahead, he stammered weakly:
“I am Francis Boyar. I’m pleased to be of service, sir, but I must confess my ignorance of your wishes.”
The big one roared with laughter and clapped a meaty hand against the other’s back. “I see. So they didn’t tell you. Well, young Francis, turn around and become acquainted with your new calling.” He took the younger man firmly by the shoulders and spun him around while the latter held his breath.
Everything was as he’d first seen it.
And what a sight it was! A long row of strange devices arranged head to toe lined one wall. Beautiful young women, all of whom were quite naked, occupied several of them. What’s more, they were fettered in a unique way that allowed virtually no freedom of movement. Their arms were encased in wooden caskets that fit tightly around their torsos to prevent any movement of the upper body. Their bare feet were set in individual stocks. A leather thong had been laced around each toe then attached to metal hooks fixed to the stocks. The toes had been pulled back by tightening the thongs, bringing the soles taut and rendering both feet absolutely immobile.
Francis’ knees almost buckled at the sight. Such bondage could be for one purpose and one purpose only! He let his eyes wander about the well-lit room, comfortably warm with the heat of the blazing torches—and perhaps a modest measure of body heat as well!
A disturbance near the opposite wall of the chamber drew Francis’s attention. There reposed a sturdy wooden rack of a different design from the others. Two other fellows wearing black hoods similar to that of the big one were busily affixing a stunningly beautiful blond to the device. She was struggling furiously, but she was no match for her captors. She had been stripped naked except for a pair of sandals. She cursed, then pleaded, as the two men forced her onto the device, pulled her arms up and locked them securely in wooden fetters attached to the top of the rack. Her shapely legs kicked out at her tormentors, but she was quickly subdued when the big fellow rushed over. He pinned her ankles and held them in the lower semi-circles of wooden stocks attached to the end of the rack while one of the others deftly lowered the upper plank, trapping her ankles in the padded, leather-lined openings.
Now her delectable body was bound, with her arms pinioned above her head while the stocks held her ankles. Both her arms and legs were held apart slightly wider than her body’s width. Each of the two men then operated cranks located at each end of the rack. As the cranks were turned, the restraints holding the woman’s wrists and ankles moved in opposite directions. When the hooded figures finally stopped, she was stretched to a point of near immobility, with every part of her naked anatomy exposed to the beck and call of her custodians.
The rugged brute turned to Francis and gave him a lopsided grin that was meant to be more reassuring than it appeared.
“This one’s Roger, and this one’s Edward,” he said, indicating his two assistants. “You can call me Bullard. As far as this place goes, you might call it a highly specialized torture chamber. I call the shots, at least whenever His Highness doesn’t take charge himself.”
He waved a beefy hand at the struggling women bound here and there in the chamber. “These wenches have all displeased the King in some fashion. The must be punished. Now, the King is quite fond of tickling, and he has decreed that all females of a certain age and breeding be punished in this manner. In fact, he oftentimes comes down himself and exacts his tribute in person.”
Bullard walked over to the row of caskets and foot stocks, Francis following. Three women were in residence there, all of who glowered at their captor in unvoiced hatred. Bullard didn’t seem to mind.
“Now these here,” he continued, “are charged with relatively minor offenses that merit less harsh treatment.” He paused to kick viciously at a cat that had suddenly gotten underfoot, sending it cowering toward the far corner of the chamber. Francis looked around in surprise. There were a LOT of cats in here. Probably necessary to keep down the rat population, he thought.
“As I was saying,” said Bullard, “the King has told us that a mere tickling of the feet is ample punishment for these miscreants, at least for first offenders.” He nodded to one of his assistants, who eagerly took a pitcher of cream and poured a healthy dollop over the delicate bare soles of each woman so bound. The sudden appearance of the thick white fluid drew a horde of cats like a magnet.
They seemed starved. Fighting with one another for a perch in front of the cream-drenched feet, the frenzied felines greedily ran their tongues over the slippery surfaces while Bullard chuckled in glee.
The cozy chamber was immediately filled with hysterical laughter in three-part harmony. Each of the young beauties had feet that were excruciatingly ticklish, and Francis wondered idly if these victims had been chosen precisely because of this quality. His spirits lifted tremendously as he watched the three slowly dissolve in a cacophony of hysterical laughter. He had his doubts that these were first offenders!
Bullard guffawed at Francis’ child-like fascination with the torture unfolding before his eyes.
“Go on,” he roared, “Don’t be timid, my boy. Take a closer look if you wish.”
Francis obliged. Roger was pouring a second helping of cream over each tender little foot, and the cats kept licking away with unparalleled gusto while the shrieking hysteria continued unabated. Francis ambled over to what he considered to be the comeliest victim and kneeled down before her feet. Upon such close examination he could see that the immobilization was absolute. Her ankles were thrust into stocks and her toes were pulled upright by the leather thong and restraining rings. She was absolutely powerless either to rotate her feet or flex them away from the marauding tongues that were wreaking such havoc on her soles. Her toes were only able to twitch feebly. Her laughter seemed to Francis like a palpable thing, much more intense than he had ever experienced back in the village when playfully kneading a young maiden’s ribs. He found that he rather preferred it this way as he felt his erection straining at his trousers.
He must have knelt there for long minutes, drinking in the breathtaking sight of the cream-soaked soles being licked to a dry softness and basking in the sweet sounds of hysteria, oblivious to all other stimuli of time and space. The intensity of his concentration grew to such proportions that he felt his heart would burst from beating so fast just as the most ticklish of the three women passed out from her ordeal.
Panting from sheer lust, he collapsed on the floor of the chamber while Bullard looked on with approval and chuckled knowingly.
“I know just how you feel, my boy,” he said. “I reacted much the same way during my first weeks as apprentice here. The thrill has never escaped me, but it was so much more enjoyable those first few times.”
After a minute or so, he pulled Francis to his feet. “Snap out of it now,” he said gruffly. “After all, you’re supposed to be helping out here, not just observing. We’ve got work to do.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the handsome lass stretched out on the rack, who’d been left unattended while the attention of her custodians had been focused on causing the incessant laughter of the three women in the foot stocks.
Francis gulped as he walked toward the helpless woman. She certainly was beautiful. Her golden hair fell back in cascades about her neck and shoulders, and her lips were curled in hatred as she screamed foul epithets at her captors. Francis cringed at some of the language that met his ears, but he marveled at the breasts that rose and fell with her quickening breaths. He lustily counted each rib that poked through an absolutely flawless midriff. She raised her head and watched Francis move down the length of the rack. Her legs were long and sleek and she saw them disappear into the stocks at the end of the device to which she was bound.
Francis frowned as he moved around to the end of the rack when his gaze rested on the sandals still shielding her well-formed feet. Emboldened, he strode over to the struggling woman’s feet and unfastened the straps. Then, against her protests and futile attempts to prevent it, he slipped off the sandals and dropped them to the floor.
Bullard noticed Francis’s erection straining at his trousers and clapped happily. “I see you approve, my lad. This one’s a serious case, but seeing as how this is your first day on the job I believe I’ll give you the honors”.
Francis wasn’t about to refuse, but he was suddenly curious. “But what was her crime?” he asked.
Bullard shrugged. “I think she’s crazy. She had the audacity to stand up in the square this evening and proclaim the King was a cowardly tyrant who stole from the villagers in the form of high taxes and didn’t deserve to rule. She was arrested by the King’s guardsmen and brought here. I think she’ll be here at least a week for that.” He glared at Francis and tossed him a spare hood to put on. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
Francis needed no further urging. He threw off his cloak, donned the hood, and turned to the woman’s wriggling feet. They weren’t as totally immobilized as those in the other racks, but they were nonetheless quite satisfactorily restrained. Knowing the what was about to happen, she pleaded for Francis not to touch her feet. Ignoring her, he eagerly ran his fingertips over the heels and soles of the tender surfaces. She immediately exploded into a kaleidoscope of rippling hysteria and shook her head from side to side as her feet jerked spasmodically in response to the suddenly intolerable stimulus.
She was so ticklish that now she could not even frame a coherent plea to beg her torturer to stop. He had no inclination of doing so in any event, and he maintained the steady prancing of flesh and fingernails against flesh while the supersensitive feet flexed frantically in a vain effort to elude the skilled fingertips.
Edward moved in for the kill, having long ago acquired a sense for recognizing exquisitely ticklish women. He stood alongside the rack and grasped the victim’s unprotected ribcage, wriggling his fingers insistently in the soft flesh while she shrieked in utter abandon. His hands moved steadily up and down her torso, kneading all the while, as her stomach muscles twitched helplessly under the creamy white skin of her abdomen. The laughter was so intense that Francis lost his wad, but he steadfastly maintained his expert tickling of the young woman’s feet.
The scenario was completed by Roger, who, recognizing the drama that was unfolding here on this rack, abandoned his feeding of the hungry cats and came over to turn his attentions to the woman’s flawless armpits. His experienced fingers swirled wickedly in the delicate flesh, further reducing the poor woman to a blubbering mass on shrieking insanity. Her laughter filled every nook and cranny of the torch-lit room. In all his born days, never had he encountered anyone as ticklish as this comely wench, and he found himself powerless to cope with the urgency of his discovery. As much as he loved tickling, he’d always made it a point to cease hostilities before things got out of hand. Now, he found he was unable to do so. He tickled and tickled; losing all sense of time, exulting in the cackling hysterics that continually assaulted his ears.
Bullard looked on for a long while; himself caught up in the chillingly effective torture of his victim. By and by, he advanced upon the young beauty, who continued to writhe and laugh uncontrollably on the rack. While the other three maintained their steady tickling, he placed his fingers between her legs and groped for the exposed button of her clitoris. Her rattling shriek soon told him he’d found it.
He insistently drew a myriad of patterns in varying speeds and intensities in that area, drawing his fingertips in circles around the lips of her moist labia and clitoris.
It wasn’t long before her body was wracked with an intense orgasm, fueled by the methodical tickling which assailed every part of her sensitive anatomy. With the last shrieking orgasm, she mercifully fainted dead away.
Francis didn’t want to stop. He kept right on tickling the woman’s feet, and was genuinely disappointed when his victim no longer responded to his tireless efforts. Puzzled, he continued for a few moments longer, then looked up at Bullard with a helpless expression on his face.
The muscular master of the chamber jerked him to his feet and happily pounded him on the back. “I think you’ll do nicely,” he said approvingly. “His Majesty has chosen well, I do believe. As for the woman here,” Bullard continued, “don’t worry, she’ll be around for many days to come.”
Francis rapidly lost his tan in the pleasant weeks that followed. That didn’t seem to bother him a bit. And, you know, he never DID go back to that apprenticeship with the village cobbler!
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Nice find Tiberius! Never tire of tales of young maidens being tickle tortured on the Rack!!
