Who says people don't come back to finish long-abandoned serials? I encourage you to take a gander at the first two parts--this one will make more sense that way.
As usual, I love feedback, so please reply after you read! Thank you!
KI
Machiavelli Part 1
Machiavelli Part 2
Discourses on Tickling 3: Emergence
by
Kid Indy
"Hannibal's victory hinged on the training of his soldiers and the singlemindedness of his tactics."
"And?"
"Is there a third?" There always seemed to be a third. One more type of prince. One more means to maintain a kingdom. But Antonia knew that such expansion, such education, would serve her well if some day she were in a position to influence a realm.
For now, she and her infamous teacher rode horses on their way across Northern Italy.
"Of course, Antonia. Knowledge of the terrain. Hannibal defeated every Roman general until Scipio because he had a stronger grasp of the battlefield's contours. To know one's setting is to win one's battle." And to know one's enemy, Antonia knew, was to prevail in talk and in arms. And her teacher knew her all too well. He knew that, even though as his student she commanded languages, history, and classical philosophy as well as an Oxford professor, she was still a young woman who trusted her instincts over her intellect. He knew that, even these two years later, she still harbored passion for a Gypsy girl named Samantha, the one whose love made her unfit to live in her home city and dropped her in the hands of her wise, cruel master. And he knew every inch of her skin, the most ticklish spots the most intimately.
Antonia's eyes only desired women, and her mouth spoke only the love of one woman, but a tickler's fingers, not to say feathers and ribbons, are no respecters of love or desire: just as a city can be ruled by love or by fear, a woman's body can be ruled by her heart or by her skin, and one man knew how rule was best to be established and kept. One man had already become notorious for writing what really happens in the realms of politics and revered by a select few, the secret torturers, for his writings on women's ticklish flesh.
When one's master is Machiavelli, love only comes after fear from kingdoms and after tickling for women. Antonia revered her teacher, but she knew that at his mercy, her desires were irrelevant. He could get laughter with a few mere touches, through clothing or not. And when he tied her down, he could work sorcery that frightened her to consider. From under her arms he could summon great screaming laughs, making her beg for mercy no matter how recently she had felt them or how she had set her mind not to beg. Every day that soft skin was just as tender as the one before; she never became numb or insensitive. Her hips were as rudders on a ship; his merciless pinches and pokes and rubbing would make her slender but ever-curvier body (she had become quite a woman between the ages of 18 and 20) writhe and twist, emptying her will and her lungs as she squealed and giggled. Her feet were something else entirely; with feathers or ribbons between the toes, or with scratching fingers on the soles, Machiavelli could extract from her whatever promise or confession or anything, really, that he should desire.
But most disturbing was that, as Antonia laughed, Machiavelli could touch her most delicate parts, the ones that only Samantha touched before, and make her a slave to lust even without a shred of desire for any man, much less Machiavelli, a scholar much her senior. He would push her body to places that Antonia never had, and then, after she had experienced the love-death, he would come back to her feet, those already-delicate little feet, and paint his will on them as Raphael would paint on a Vatican arch his vision of a Saint. Machiavelli would never hold her to the things she promised, but he always pointed out to her afterwards that she had promised them.
Of course, Antonia was no mere passive victim. As they traveled, and as Machiavelli taught and tickled his beautiful young student, they would stop in towns, and Antonia would practice the ticklish arts on whomever they could. If a town had a brothel, Machiavelli would pay for evenings in which Antonia exhibited tremendous natural aptitude and honed her digits' skill in extracting laughter, squeals, moans, and screams from the women of the night. If a young woman were in the stocks, Antonia could return her to the true faith and proper behavior faster than any Inquisitor. And on the occasions that a wealthy father had trouble convincing his daughter to marry into a politically advantageous family, Antonia could convince any young woman that her body could be satisfied even as her heart broke for forbidden love; as Machiavelli had done to her so many times, Antonia would take captive the young women's lusts and turn them completely away from the young poets and philosophers that they only thought they needed. When she was done, they would do whatever Antonia, and thus their fathers, wanted done. Antonia knew that her fingers, just as versed as Machiavelli's and enlivened with young passions long since departed from the scholar, were weapons that no woman could resist. And she kept dreaming of using them to secure a life for herself and Samantha.
As they rode south and talked, Antonia pulled her cloak around her shoulders a bit more tightly: a storm was gathering, and the wind was picking up. The clouds above were beginning to take on a green cast, and Antonia remembered Aristotle's observation that green skies often meant hail. Her master pointed silently ahead to the walls of a fortified abbey, and Antonia knew that her night would be spent alone; although their rule would compel them to give her shelter, monks rarely allowed women to stay within the monastery proper.
As they approached the gate and watchtower, Machiavelli ordered their two guards to stand down, hailed the doorman, and announced himself and Antonia as agents of the Inquisition (for all the times he had made this bluff, they had never come across anyone who knew enough about the secretive arm of the Vatican's power to call it into question). A stout man greeted them at the gate and kissed Machiavelli's hand vigorously.
"Signiore, you have been sent by God!"
"Thank you, my dear brother, but to what do I owe this enthusiasm?" The hail began to strike the heavy wood door moments after the doorman closed it behind Machiavelli and Antonia.
The monk, whom Machiavelli took to be the Abbot, leaned in and whispered, "We have a devil woman among us, a sorceress who has seduced one of the bretheren!"
Machiavelli cast a brief glance back at Antonia, who smiled evilly underneath her cloak. "And dear brother, where is this devil woman?"
"We have tied her in the stables. You must discern her devil, Signiore, lest our convent be devoured by the devil!"
"What is her crime, brother Abbot?"
"Seducing our young men! Practicing the dark arts!"
"Ah, I see. Fortunately for your Abbey, I am traveling with an inquisitor perfectly suited for the situation." He stepped aside and gestured to Antonia, whose eyes were concealed underneath her hood but whose lips formed a cool, competent smile.
"Signiore, a woman? In the Inquisition? This cannot be!"
"Ah, but brother Abbot, does not Aristotle teach us that like species know better their own secrets than unlike species? The Inquisition has elected this young woman precisely to gain the confessions of young women!"
The abbot, at a loss for words, nodded slowly. Catching himself in reverie gazing at the young woman's face, he quickly summoned more words: "Can the delicacy that is woman wield the tools of holy pain?"
"You'll soon see precisely what tools Sister Beatrice wields." Antonia smiled even wider; now she was not only an Inquisitor but a nun. And Dante's mystical lover.
The abbot, as convinced as one can be by the utterly strange, led the two into an empty horse's stall where, tied to a chair, was a young woman whose head drooped in sleep but whose face still left Antonia breathless. Sidestepping so as to interpose himself between the abbot and his apprentice, Machiavelli renewed conversation. "Yes, brother Abbot, Sister Beatrice will have little problem with this one. Have her washed and let her rest overnight. We shall begin taking her confession on the morning." With that he led Antonia away from the stable and towards the visitors' quarters. Once the monks had departed from them, Machiavelli whispered, "You'll have your own apartment since naturally we can't dwell together in a monastery."
"It's her, master."
"I know."
"Why were you so eager to put me in a room with her, then?"
"Because you have to know the extent of your powers. I know that down deep you still want to know the truth."
"You mean..."
"Yes, what Samantha's been doing these years. You can make her tell, and you must know. I've read my romances; I know how young ladies think about these things."
Antonia smiled in spite of herself. "But what if she recognizes me..."
Machiavelli held up his hand. "Tomorrow you will tie a black silk scarf around your face and wear a hooded cloak so that only your eyes show. If she recognizes the inner light known only through the eyes, then she is your love, and we shall rescue her. If you were but another body to her, she'll never recognize your form." Antonia's lip began to quiver, and Machiavelli put a hand on her shoulder. "Spend all your tears tonight, Antonia. Tomorrow you're the fingers of the Devil herself." With that he left Antonia to her apartment.
The next morning two of the monastery's hired guards stood outside the same stable while Samantha washed herself. Gypsy songs were floating through the morning air as Antonia, masked and hooded, approached the common lawn between the chapel and the library. Machiavelli had ordered a strong table, some rope and some bedclothes to secure Samantha, and a monastic scribe to record the confessions, and all these elements were present as they waited for their prisoner.
As Samantha was led around the corner into the common yard, Antonia held her breath and steeled her will. Samantha, who now would be 23 years old, was still the long, slender temptress that she had been two years ago. Even facing the tortures of the Inquisition (what she'd actually face would be much worse, and much better) her sandaled feet bounced as she was led along, hands bound. She wore a loose-fitting, brightly colored Gypsy skirt and a vest that came down to her navel, and each step she took gave anyone who would look a glimpse of the smooth skin of her hips. Monks retreated into their cowls as she distributed her easy smile to any eyes who would meet hers.
Antonia's turned away as her blood boiled. Her fingertips began to flex as she anticipated drawing the truth out of that composed facade. She leered at the large armholes of the vest, the exposed skin between her belt (worn at her hips so as to expose her waist) and the bottom of that vest. As she approached the table, Machiavelli's two guards unbound her hands and lowered her onto her belly on the table, where they extended her hands above her head and retied them to the legs of the table with ropes and bed sheets. Samantha's face looked sideways, away from Antonia, and her extended hands left gaping holes under her arms. The guards secured her ankles to the other two table legs. One of them reached for a shoe, but Antonia signalled him to hold.
Machiavelli began to speak to the crowd gathering: "For a she-devil, the most holy Inquisition brings a she-angel of judgment." He leaned down so as to be seen by Samantha. "Do you confess your sins and repent for the good of your soul?"
"Would I be burned for it?"
"Your punishment would fit the crime."
"Then I didn't do anything."
"We shall see whether we can spur your memory."
"I'd rather hurt than die, you pig."
"We'll see." He turned to the crowd again. "Very well. Though the devil may laugh to see a sinner caught in evil's snare, yet confession still might bring joy to us all. Proceed, Sister Beatrice."
Antonia brought both hands up so that they were poised to enter Samantha's exposed underarms. Samantha still glared at Machiavelli, preparing herself for something completely other than what was coming. Antonia chose to tickle hard first, digging her fingers in and wiggling them for a number of seconds. Antonia's mind was ready for pain; when ten fingers suddenly dug for laughter under her arms, her back arched, kicking her feet as far as the ropes would allow and bringing her head up off the table. A scream came out of the Gypsy that already had Antonia (and no small number of the monks) excited. As fast as her lips could form the word "No" she shouted it, over and over, in a scream that betrayed her utter surprise. After eight or nine "No" shouts, Antonia's fingers still digging, Samantha settled into a sustained squeal, still unable to catch her breath. Antonia only dug deeper, sustaining the hard tickling several seconds past Samantha's breath and reducing her to a silent quasi-laugh. When Antonia finally stopped, Samantha's head dropped to the table with a soft thud, and the heavy-breathing Gypsy turned to face her tormentor.
The time for surprise was over; now Antonia began to stir anticipation. The initial struggle had pulled Samantha's skirt down even a bit further, and the lines where her hips met her sides stood as boundaries on a map. Leaning over once more, Antonia began to trace those lines lightly and slowly with her fingernails, making Samantha strain against her binding and arch forwards. She began to plead with her captor.
"What are you doing? Stop that!"
Antonia was silent. She took the same fingernails and moved up Samantha's sides, using one finger to draw a line from the top of the hip to the bottom of the ribs, then four fingers to draw waves from ribs to hips. Samantha squirmed with each change of direction, and though she closed her lips forcefully, a faint giggle was welling up behind her teeth. Some of the monks had utterly forgotten themselves and were staring with mouths wide open.
Antonia's fingers began to stroke the sides of Samantha's belly as a harpist might pluck strings, her wrists sliding up and down that smooth, slender body as the fingers rubbed the gypsy skin. One glissando after another chased up and down her soft sides until, at some point, her mouth opened, and a genuine laugh came out.
Antonia pounced. The first laugh had scarcely raised the robes of the gathered monks when Antonia dug in with all eight fingers, pushing deep into Samantha's quivering sides and forcing the breath out of her in a ticklish, exhilarated scream. Antonia continued to dig, moving her shoulders slightly from side to side and pushing her fingers in at slightly different angles, each tiny change thrilling and tormenting the bound gypsy. She dug and rubbed, stroked and fluttered. One hand drifted away from Samantha's midsection to find its way back under her arm, pressing the soft skin and drawing forth another scream. Samantha's vocabulary was reduced to one word: "Stop! Stop!"
Antonia could not hear that word. Samantha now thrashing violently, Machiavelli's apprentice kneaded ribs and fluttered over the sides of belly and poked armpits. Minutes passed, and Samantha fought for the breaths she could take. Antonia's hands moved and worked with astounding speed, and not a few monks had covered the fronts of their robes with folded hands.
Machiavelli's hand raised to signal stop, and Antonia, the angel of judgment, returned her hands to her sides. He leaned in, brushed Samantha's tossed hair from her eyes, and asked again, "Do you have anything to confess?"
"Please... no..."
"Have you sinned with Brother Diego?"
"I... I..."
"Does the angel of judgment need to find this out?"
Samantha needed to hear no more. "NO! I made love to the little monk, and he LOVED IT!" A gasp went through the crowd of monks. Machiavelli smiled a thin smile.
"Angel, let's see if she has more crimes to confess."
Antonia began to advance. Samantha's face twisted with her sense of betrayal and a realization that more was coming. "You said she'd stop if I confessed!"
"When did I say that? Now you've lied to an inquisitor. That's quite bad. Angel, search her inmost parts for more secret sins." Neither the abbot nor any other monk could tear his eyes from this scene.
Antonia knew what that meant. She stood back as Machiavelli ordered the guards to turn the exhausted Samantha over to lie on her back. They refastened her legs so that they were spread out and stretched her hands above her head. Antonia stepped forwards and began to scratch lightly along Samantha's inner thigh. She was glad that her "inquisitor" cloak was thick; Antonia herself was quite excited by this point, and she was afraid that someone might be able to see that. The once-proud Samantha began to beg almost as soon as the tickling started, and the begging soon mingled with giggling and squealing when Antonia scratched and skittered along the insides of her thighs, starting from her knee but not venturing too far up. Samantha's hips turned one direction, then the other, and Antonia's fingers followed, never leaving the thighs, always stroking, always tickling, always pulling from the beautiful gypsy girlish titters. Antonia knew exactly where she was pushing her former lover; Machiavelli had taken her there many times. As Samantha began to stagger her laughter with ecstatic gasps, Antonia stopped.
Machiavelli turned in surprise, a rare event for the scholar. Antonia stepped up and leaned down, looking Samantha in the eye for the first time. She began to whisper so low that even in the quiet room only Samantha could hear. "Do you have any other sins to confess?"
Samantha looked up, confused and surprised, glad for a break but wanting more than anything to be touched more. Her vision swam as she tried to see under the hood. "What?"
"Long ago you were in the town of Bari."
"What?"
"You seduced a young woman there."
"Bari..."
"You left her there to the mercy of the town."
"Bari?"
"You don't even remember me, do you, Samantha?"
Samantha's voice raised. "You know my name?"
Machiavelli jumped in to distract the brothers, taking on a loud enough voice to draw their attention for a moment.. "Our angel of judgment can feel a sinner's name."
Antonia hissed into Samantha's ear, "I'm sure you've had a hundred boys and a hundred girls, but this one you'll regret forever." She stepped backwards and began again to tickle the insides of Samantha's thighs, this time going all the way up to her womanhood. The gypsy began to buck wildly, thrashing her hair and screaming for mercy. Antonia pushed and pushed, finally driving her over the edge. Antonia, herself in the throes of power and lust, screamed, "Confess your seduction of women, you witch!"
Samantha in her euphoria called out with abandon, "I've had a hundred, and I've had you!"
The monks did now know what to do. Machiavelli once more intervened. "She speaks heresy again! Angel, find out her most secret sins! Go where she fears most!" Antonia licked her lips under her hood as she started to pull off one of Samantha's shoes, then the other.
Samantha's calm exploded into screams as Antonia's fingernails began to tear up and down her delicate, orgasm-sensitized soles. Every muscle in her body fought to break free, but she would not have had the strength even to break weaker bonds; all she could do was scream and laugh and thrash. Machiavelli began to demand one confession after another as Antonia tickled furiously at her soles, heels arches, toes. By the time Antonia was done, the gypsy had confessed to sorcery and bestiality and murder, and nobody present cared whether she had committed any of them. The screams and laughs and confessions drove many of the monks there into abstraction, and many had to change their robes not long after the inquisition.
As Machiavelli had monks pack their animals and talked witht the Abbot, Antonia walked over to Samantha's holding cell.
"Well, your days of seducing mayor's daughters are over, aren't they, Samantha?"
"Antonia?"
"Now you remember. Too bad you didn't for these two years."
Samantha took on a defiant look. "So now the inquisition is going to kill me?"
"We're not inquisition, Samantha."
"What?"
"My master is telling the Abbott that the inquisition will be coming to take you back to Rome, but they're never coming. You're not going to be executed."
"Antonia? Thank you!"
"Don't be so hasty, Samantha. He's also telling the Abbott that until the inquisition arrives, the brothers should take turns trying to coax more secret sins out of you... my way." The confident young woman turned on her heel and left the gypsy to contemplate the real hell that was coming.
EPILOGUE
Samantha and Machiavelli set out the next morning for Florence, and Antonia knew what she was in for. Machiavelli had told her about the intrigues that characterized that most sophisticated of cities. The corruption. The power to be grabbed. The ticklish women. They set out for power, for the good of Florence, for the love of tickling.
As usual, I love feedback, so please reply after you read! Thank you!
KI
Machiavelli Part 1
Machiavelli Part 2
Discourses on Tickling 3: Emergence
by
Kid Indy
"Hannibal's victory hinged on the training of his soldiers and the singlemindedness of his tactics."
"And?"
"Is there a third?" There always seemed to be a third. One more type of prince. One more means to maintain a kingdom. But Antonia knew that such expansion, such education, would serve her well if some day she were in a position to influence a realm.
For now, she and her infamous teacher rode horses on their way across Northern Italy.
"Of course, Antonia. Knowledge of the terrain. Hannibal defeated every Roman general until Scipio because he had a stronger grasp of the battlefield's contours. To know one's setting is to win one's battle." And to know one's enemy, Antonia knew, was to prevail in talk and in arms. And her teacher knew her all too well. He knew that, even though as his student she commanded languages, history, and classical philosophy as well as an Oxford professor, she was still a young woman who trusted her instincts over her intellect. He knew that, even these two years later, she still harbored passion for a Gypsy girl named Samantha, the one whose love made her unfit to live in her home city and dropped her in the hands of her wise, cruel master. And he knew every inch of her skin, the most ticklish spots the most intimately.
Antonia's eyes only desired women, and her mouth spoke only the love of one woman, but a tickler's fingers, not to say feathers and ribbons, are no respecters of love or desire: just as a city can be ruled by love or by fear, a woman's body can be ruled by her heart or by her skin, and one man knew how rule was best to be established and kept. One man had already become notorious for writing what really happens in the realms of politics and revered by a select few, the secret torturers, for his writings on women's ticklish flesh.
When one's master is Machiavelli, love only comes after fear from kingdoms and after tickling for women. Antonia revered her teacher, but she knew that at his mercy, her desires were irrelevant. He could get laughter with a few mere touches, through clothing or not. And when he tied her down, he could work sorcery that frightened her to consider. From under her arms he could summon great screaming laughs, making her beg for mercy no matter how recently she had felt them or how she had set her mind not to beg. Every day that soft skin was just as tender as the one before; she never became numb or insensitive. Her hips were as rudders on a ship; his merciless pinches and pokes and rubbing would make her slender but ever-curvier body (she had become quite a woman between the ages of 18 and 20) writhe and twist, emptying her will and her lungs as she squealed and giggled. Her feet were something else entirely; with feathers or ribbons between the toes, or with scratching fingers on the soles, Machiavelli could extract from her whatever promise or confession or anything, really, that he should desire.
But most disturbing was that, as Antonia laughed, Machiavelli could touch her most delicate parts, the ones that only Samantha touched before, and make her a slave to lust even without a shred of desire for any man, much less Machiavelli, a scholar much her senior. He would push her body to places that Antonia never had, and then, after she had experienced the love-death, he would come back to her feet, those already-delicate little feet, and paint his will on them as Raphael would paint on a Vatican arch his vision of a Saint. Machiavelli would never hold her to the things she promised, but he always pointed out to her afterwards that she had promised them.
Of course, Antonia was no mere passive victim. As they traveled, and as Machiavelli taught and tickled his beautiful young student, they would stop in towns, and Antonia would practice the ticklish arts on whomever they could. If a town had a brothel, Machiavelli would pay for evenings in which Antonia exhibited tremendous natural aptitude and honed her digits' skill in extracting laughter, squeals, moans, and screams from the women of the night. If a young woman were in the stocks, Antonia could return her to the true faith and proper behavior faster than any Inquisitor. And on the occasions that a wealthy father had trouble convincing his daughter to marry into a politically advantageous family, Antonia could convince any young woman that her body could be satisfied even as her heart broke for forbidden love; as Machiavelli had done to her so many times, Antonia would take captive the young women's lusts and turn them completely away from the young poets and philosophers that they only thought they needed. When she was done, they would do whatever Antonia, and thus their fathers, wanted done. Antonia knew that her fingers, just as versed as Machiavelli's and enlivened with young passions long since departed from the scholar, were weapons that no woman could resist. And she kept dreaming of using them to secure a life for herself and Samantha.
As they rode south and talked, Antonia pulled her cloak around her shoulders a bit more tightly: a storm was gathering, and the wind was picking up. The clouds above were beginning to take on a green cast, and Antonia remembered Aristotle's observation that green skies often meant hail. Her master pointed silently ahead to the walls of a fortified abbey, and Antonia knew that her night would be spent alone; although their rule would compel them to give her shelter, monks rarely allowed women to stay within the monastery proper.
As they approached the gate and watchtower, Machiavelli ordered their two guards to stand down, hailed the doorman, and announced himself and Antonia as agents of the Inquisition (for all the times he had made this bluff, they had never come across anyone who knew enough about the secretive arm of the Vatican's power to call it into question). A stout man greeted them at the gate and kissed Machiavelli's hand vigorously.
"Signiore, you have been sent by God!"
"Thank you, my dear brother, but to what do I owe this enthusiasm?" The hail began to strike the heavy wood door moments after the doorman closed it behind Machiavelli and Antonia.
The monk, whom Machiavelli took to be the Abbot, leaned in and whispered, "We have a devil woman among us, a sorceress who has seduced one of the bretheren!"
Machiavelli cast a brief glance back at Antonia, who smiled evilly underneath her cloak. "And dear brother, where is this devil woman?"
"We have tied her in the stables. You must discern her devil, Signiore, lest our convent be devoured by the devil!"
"What is her crime, brother Abbot?"
"Seducing our young men! Practicing the dark arts!"
"Ah, I see. Fortunately for your Abbey, I am traveling with an inquisitor perfectly suited for the situation." He stepped aside and gestured to Antonia, whose eyes were concealed underneath her hood but whose lips formed a cool, competent smile.
"Signiore, a woman? In the Inquisition? This cannot be!"
"Ah, but brother Abbot, does not Aristotle teach us that like species know better their own secrets than unlike species? The Inquisition has elected this young woman precisely to gain the confessions of young women!"
The abbot, at a loss for words, nodded slowly. Catching himself in reverie gazing at the young woman's face, he quickly summoned more words: "Can the delicacy that is woman wield the tools of holy pain?"
"You'll soon see precisely what tools Sister Beatrice wields." Antonia smiled even wider; now she was not only an Inquisitor but a nun. And Dante's mystical lover.
The abbot, as convinced as one can be by the utterly strange, led the two into an empty horse's stall where, tied to a chair, was a young woman whose head drooped in sleep but whose face still left Antonia breathless. Sidestepping so as to interpose himself between the abbot and his apprentice, Machiavelli renewed conversation. "Yes, brother Abbot, Sister Beatrice will have little problem with this one. Have her washed and let her rest overnight. We shall begin taking her confession on the morning." With that he led Antonia away from the stable and towards the visitors' quarters. Once the monks had departed from them, Machiavelli whispered, "You'll have your own apartment since naturally we can't dwell together in a monastery."
"It's her, master."
"I know."
"Why were you so eager to put me in a room with her, then?"
"Because you have to know the extent of your powers. I know that down deep you still want to know the truth."
"You mean..."
"Yes, what Samantha's been doing these years. You can make her tell, and you must know. I've read my romances; I know how young ladies think about these things."
Antonia smiled in spite of herself. "But what if she recognizes me..."
Machiavelli held up his hand. "Tomorrow you will tie a black silk scarf around your face and wear a hooded cloak so that only your eyes show. If she recognizes the inner light known only through the eyes, then she is your love, and we shall rescue her. If you were but another body to her, she'll never recognize your form." Antonia's lip began to quiver, and Machiavelli put a hand on her shoulder. "Spend all your tears tonight, Antonia. Tomorrow you're the fingers of the Devil herself." With that he left Antonia to her apartment.
The next morning two of the monastery's hired guards stood outside the same stable while Samantha washed herself. Gypsy songs were floating through the morning air as Antonia, masked and hooded, approached the common lawn between the chapel and the library. Machiavelli had ordered a strong table, some rope and some bedclothes to secure Samantha, and a monastic scribe to record the confessions, and all these elements were present as they waited for their prisoner.
As Samantha was led around the corner into the common yard, Antonia held her breath and steeled her will. Samantha, who now would be 23 years old, was still the long, slender temptress that she had been two years ago. Even facing the tortures of the Inquisition (what she'd actually face would be much worse, and much better) her sandaled feet bounced as she was led along, hands bound. She wore a loose-fitting, brightly colored Gypsy skirt and a vest that came down to her navel, and each step she took gave anyone who would look a glimpse of the smooth skin of her hips. Monks retreated into their cowls as she distributed her easy smile to any eyes who would meet hers.
Antonia's turned away as her blood boiled. Her fingertips began to flex as she anticipated drawing the truth out of that composed facade. She leered at the large armholes of the vest, the exposed skin between her belt (worn at her hips so as to expose her waist) and the bottom of that vest. As she approached the table, Machiavelli's two guards unbound her hands and lowered her onto her belly on the table, where they extended her hands above her head and retied them to the legs of the table with ropes and bed sheets. Samantha's face looked sideways, away from Antonia, and her extended hands left gaping holes under her arms. The guards secured her ankles to the other two table legs. One of them reached for a shoe, but Antonia signalled him to hold.
Machiavelli began to speak to the crowd gathering: "For a she-devil, the most holy Inquisition brings a she-angel of judgment." He leaned down so as to be seen by Samantha. "Do you confess your sins and repent for the good of your soul?"
"Would I be burned for it?"
"Your punishment would fit the crime."
"Then I didn't do anything."
"We shall see whether we can spur your memory."
"I'd rather hurt than die, you pig."
"We'll see." He turned to the crowd again. "Very well. Though the devil may laugh to see a sinner caught in evil's snare, yet confession still might bring joy to us all. Proceed, Sister Beatrice."
Antonia brought both hands up so that they were poised to enter Samantha's exposed underarms. Samantha still glared at Machiavelli, preparing herself for something completely other than what was coming. Antonia chose to tickle hard first, digging her fingers in and wiggling them for a number of seconds. Antonia's mind was ready for pain; when ten fingers suddenly dug for laughter under her arms, her back arched, kicking her feet as far as the ropes would allow and bringing her head up off the table. A scream came out of the Gypsy that already had Antonia (and no small number of the monks) excited. As fast as her lips could form the word "No" she shouted it, over and over, in a scream that betrayed her utter surprise. After eight or nine "No" shouts, Antonia's fingers still digging, Samantha settled into a sustained squeal, still unable to catch her breath. Antonia only dug deeper, sustaining the hard tickling several seconds past Samantha's breath and reducing her to a silent quasi-laugh. When Antonia finally stopped, Samantha's head dropped to the table with a soft thud, and the heavy-breathing Gypsy turned to face her tormentor.
The time for surprise was over; now Antonia began to stir anticipation. The initial struggle had pulled Samantha's skirt down even a bit further, and the lines where her hips met her sides stood as boundaries on a map. Leaning over once more, Antonia began to trace those lines lightly and slowly with her fingernails, making Samantha strain against her binding and arch forwards. She began to plead with her captor.
"What are you doing? Stop that!"
Antonia was silent. She took the same fingernails and moved up Samantha's sides, using one finger to draw a line from the top of the hip to the bottom of the ribs, then four fingers to draw waves from ribs to hips. Samantha squirmed with each change of direction, and though she closed her lips forcefully, a faint giggle was welling up behind her teeth. Some of the monks had utterly forgotten themselves and were staring with mouths wide open.
Antonia's fingers began to stroke the sides of Samantha's belly as a harpist might pluck strings, her wrists sliding up and down that smooth, slender body as the fingers rubbed the gypsy skin. One glissando after another chased up and down her soft sides until, at some point, her mouth opened, and a genuine laugh came out.
Antonia pounced. The first laugh had scarcely raised the robes of the gathered monks when Antonia dug in with all eight fingers, pushing deep into Samantha's quivering sides and forcing the breath out of her in a ticklish, exhilarated scream. Antonia continued to dig, moving her shoulders slightly from side to side and pushing her fingers in at slightly different angles, each tiny change thrilling and tormenting the bound gypsy. She dug and rubbed, stroked and fluttered. One hand drifted away from Samantha's midsection to find its way back under her arm, pressing the soft skin and drawing forth another scream. Samantha's vocabulary was reduced to one word: "Stop! Stop!"
Antonia could not hear that word. Samantha now thrashing violently, Machiavelli's apprentice kneaded ribs and fluttered over the sides of belly and poked armpits. Minutes passed, and Samantha fought for the breaths she could take. Antonia's hands moved and worked with astounding speed, and not a few monks had covered the fronts of their robes with folded hands.
Machiavelli's hand raised to signal stop, and Antonia, the angel of judgment, returned her hands to her sides. He leaned in, brushed Samantha's tossed hair from her eyes, and asked again, "Do you have anything to confess?"
"Please... no..."
"Have you sinned with Brother Diego?"
"I... I..."
"Does the angel of judgment need to find this out?"
Samantha needed to hear no more. "NO! I made love to the little monk, and he LOVED IT!" A gasp went through the crowd of monks. Machiavelli smiled a thin smile.
"Angel, let's see if she has more crimes to confess."
Antonia began to advance. Samantha's face twisted with her sense of betrayal and a realization that more was coming. "You said she'd stop if I confessed!"
"When did I say that? Now you've lied to an inquisitor. That's quite bad. Angel, search her inmost parts for more secret sins." Neither the abbot nor any other monk could tear his eyes from this scene.
Antonia knew what that meant. She stood back as Machiavelli ordered the guards to turn the exhausted Samantha over to lie on her back. They refastened her legs so that they were spread out and stretched her hands above her head. Antonia stepped forwards and began to scratch lightly along Samantha's inner thigh. She was glad that her "inquisitor" cloak was thick; Antonia herself was quite excited by this point, and she was afraid that someone might be able to see that. The once-proud Samantha began to beg almost as soon as the tickling started, and the begging soon mingled with giggling and squealing when Antonia scratched and skittered along the insides of her thighs, starting from her knee but not venturing too far up. Samantha's hips turned one direction, then the other, and Antonia's fingers followed, never leaving the thighs, always stroking, always tickling, always pulling from the beautiful gypsy girlish titters. Antonia knew exactly where she was pushing her former lover; Machiavelli had taken her there many times. As Samantha began to stagger her laughter with ecstatic gasps, Antonia stopped.
Machiavelli turned in surprise, a rare event for the scholar. Antonia stepped up and leaned down, looking Samantha in the eye for the first time. She began to whisper so low that even in the quiet room only Samantha could hear. "Do you have any other sins to confess?"
Samantha looked up, confused and surprised, glad for a break but wanting more than anything to be touched more. Her vision swam as she tried to see under the hood. "What?"
"Long ago you were in the town of Bari."
"What?"
"You seduced a young woman there."
"Bari..."
"You left her there to the mercy of the town."
"Bari?"
"You don't even remember me, do you, Samantha?"
Samantha's voice raised. "You know my name?"
Machiavelli jumped in to distract the brothers, taking on a loud enough voice to draw their attention for a moment.. "Our angel of judgment can feel a sinner's name."
Antonia hissed into Samantha's ear, "I'm sure you've had a hundred boys and a hundred girls, but this one you'll regret forever." She stepped backwards and began again to tickle the insides of Samantha's thighs, this time going all the way up to her womanhood. The gypsy began to buck wildly, thrashing her hair and screaming for mercy. Antonia pushed and pushed, finally driving her over the edge. Antonia, herself in the throes of power and lust, screamed, "Confess your seduction of women, you witch!"
Samantha in her euphoria called out with abandon, "I've had a hundred, and I've had you!"
The monks did now know what to do. Machiavelli once more intervened. "She speaks heresy again! Angel, find out her most secret sins! Go where she fears most!" Antonia licked her lips under her hood as she started to pull off one of Samantha's shoes, then the other.
Samantha's calm exploded into screams as Antonia's fingernails began to tear up and down her delicate, orgasm-sensitized soles. Every muscle in her body fought to break free, but she would not have had the strength even to break weaker bonds; all she could do was scream and laugh and thrash. Machiavelli began to demand one confession after another as Antonia tickled furiously at her soles, heels arches, toes. By the time Antonia was done, the gypsy had confessed to sorcery and bestiality and murder, and nobody present cared whether she had committed any of them. The screams and laughs and confessions drove many of the monks there into abstraction, and many had to change their robes not long after the inquisition.
As Machiavelli had monks pack their animals and talked witht the Abbot, Antonia walked over to Samantha's holding cell.
"Well, your days of seducing mayor's daughters are over, aren't they, Samantha?"
"Antonia?"
"Now you remember. Too bad you didn't for these two years."
Samantha took on a defiant look. "So now the inquisition is going to kill me?"
"We're not inquisition, Samantha."
"What?"
"My master is telling the Abbott that the inquisition will be coming to take you back to Rome, but they're never coming. You're not going to be executed."
"Antonia? Thank you!"
"Don't be so hasty, Samantha. He's also telling the Abbott that until the inquisition arrives, the brothers should take turns trying to coax more secret sins out of you... my way." The confident young woman turned on her heel and left the gypsy to contemplate the real hell that was coming.
EPILOGUE
Samantha and Machiavelli set out the next morning for Florence, and Antonia knew what she was in for. Machiavelli had told her about the intrigues that characterized that most sophisticated of cities. The corruption. The power to be grabbed. The ticklish women. They set out for power, for the good of Florence, for the love of tickling.
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