TicklishLurker
4th Level Red Feather
- Joined
- Jan 13, 2006
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Joan's Trip M/f
(Titles have never been my strong point. I'd like to thank MasterTank for editing this one for me. I really owe him one! And now that I've said that publically I have no choice but to pay him back. LOL)
Joan sat on her bed, running a pedicure wand over her heels. "I don’t know, Stacy," she said with a sigh.
"Sometimes I wonder if this whole women’s lib thing doesn’t hurt us more then help us."
Stacy’s dark brown eyes flashed with irritation at her friend, a Lilith Fair flyer in her chocolate colored hand. "What do you mean?"
Concentrating on removing a particularly dry spot, Joan said, "Well, I like being able to work and all that, don’t get me wrong, but are all the advances really in our best interest?
Let’s take medical procedures. The C-Section to be exact. Before, when women were likely to die in childbirth, a woman like me was the ideal. But once you skinny gals were just as likely to survive, suddenly it was all about the Twiggy."
Tossing the flyer aside, Stacy leaned against Joan’s desk to ponder this. It was true that of the two, men paid way more attention to her than Joan. Joan usually got stuck with the ‘wingman.’ The fellow who got stuck with ‘the ugly friend.’
Not that Joan was ugly. She was - well, fat. Just a hair over five feet tall, she tipped the scale at 200 pounds. She had a pretty enough face, with large almond shaped grey-green eyes, and loads of blond hair in shades that varied from honey to platinum. Her curves were pronounced with huge breasts and equally big hips and bottom. Skin that was clear except for freckles and rather pale. A small nose sat above a cupid’s bow mouth.
Stacy, on the other hand, weighed just under 130 and was 5 foot 9 barefoot. Her breasts were small, her hips narrow. Her skin was a deep dark chocolate brown, but a few small freckles could be seen up close. Her nose was a bit on the large side, close to but not quite ‘Roman’ yet still feminine. Her black hair was much longer than Joan’s and braided into many tiny braids.
"Okay, I’ll give you that much at least." Stacy said, now sitting on the bed and pulling Joan’s feet into her lap. She took the wand and began to work on the spots on Joan’s feet she couldn’t see on her own. "But how does women’s lib hurt us?"
Joan giggled a bit, as Stacy had a tendency to tickle her when doing this. "Men seem more afraid to approach us, wanting us to do all the work, leaving us wondering if we’re attractive at all. They’re only confident enough to talk to us if they’re drunk or assholes.
The nice guys sit around whining how we women only like jerks. They never take a chance with us because they’re afraid of being called chauvinist pigs.
Is it so wrong that I want a guy who makes all the first moves? Who opens the door for me and - God forbid - picks up the entire check? I’m 29 years old, Stacy, I’m tired of looking for Mr. Right or even Mr. Right Now."
Putting the wand aside and taking up the lotion, Stacy began to rub it into Joan’s feet, which were, in Stacy’s mind, Joan’s best feature. Stacy’s own feet were large and narrow, like a pair of canoes. Joan’s were small, wide, and fleshy. With the sweetest stubbiest toes Stacy had ever seen. She applied soft tickles onto Joan’s feet, causing her fleshy friend to squirm and laugh.
"Maybe what you need isn’t a man...." Stacy began.
Joan flushed and yanked her feet away. Crossing her arms to hide her engorged nipples. For some reason, whenever her feet were stimulated Joan found herself aroused, no matter who was doing the stimulating.
"Stacy," she said, "I just don’t feel about you that way, I’m sorry. You’ll always be my best friend, but never more then that."
Joan had known for some time that Stacy ‘swung both ways’ and wanted to be more than friends. but, just as Stacy knew she liked both genders, Joan knew she only liked one.
Hurt and angry, Stacy cussed at Joan and slammed out of the bedroom and from there out of her apartment. Joan jumped up to follow her, but her bare, lotion covered feet slipped on the stairs.
Joan let out a scream as she tumbled into nothingness. Stacy, along with several of Joan’s neighbors, watched in shock as Joan vanished into thin air.
.................................................. ..................................
With a moan, Joan sat up. Stone and dirt shifted beneath her hands. Someone was saying something to her but she couldn’t understand.
For the moment she saw nothing but flashing lights. Then she blinked a few times and rubbed her eyes. When she could see again she looked up...right at someone wearing - a toga.
For a moment she thought it was the annoying college students who lived next door. Then as she looked around she realized that this was not her apartment building. It wasn’t even California.
"Hey, boys," she said, though she knew they wouldn’t understand her. "Sorry for dropping in without calling first."
One of the men now yanked her up and she took a moment to look around. If not for the pain in her feet from the sharp stones stabbing her tender soles or the tight grip on her wrist, she’d think she was dreaming.
These tactile sensations proved she wasn’t dreaming. Drunk, maybe, like that time she could’ve sworn aliens were experimenting on her after one too many beers, but not dreaming.
Yep, she was in ancient Italy alright. Probably not Rome itself, it didn’t look big enough, but maybe one of the nearby towns.
The men were jabbering at her again, tugging on her blue jeans and t-shirt, no doubt shocked by the strange clothing. One had lifted up her shirt enough to discover the zipper and figured out how it worked.
He kept pulling it down and up until Joan slapped his hand away. "Not on a first date!" She said, waggling her finger in his face.
The other lifted up the back of her shirt and was fiddling with her bra. She yanked herself away from them both and pulled her shirt down. "Now stop that!" She yelled. "I don’t even know your names!"
As she yelled at them she felt her arms grabbed from behind. She could hear the clanking of armor. She muttered a curse as a Roman general now stood in front of her.
He would’ve been handsome if not for a long, gruesome scar that crossed most of his face. Then there was the missing eye, whose empty, grown over socket ‘gazed’ at her.
The toga-men were babbling something now. Joan only caught one word, that she was pretty sure meant witch.
She tried to protest this but then gave up, remembering that these guys didn’t speak English. Soon, she felt herself dragged along.
Joan cried out in pain as her bare foot hit a stone. The general stopped them and looked down at her now dirty feet.
He grabbed her legs, and she now found herself carried between three men. A solider on either arm, and her legs firmly tucked under the arm of the general.
They stood Joan in front of a bored looking Roman noble. He perked up at the sight of this curiosity. The noble took time to walk around Joan, staring at her strange clothing.
Joan stared back too. The nobleman and the general shared some features, like brothers would.
The nobleman looked a few years older, with some grey in his brown hair. His light brown eyes were both present and there was no scar marring his features.
Joan could now see what the general might’ve looked like. The large nose, a chin that was firm with a shallow cleft, high and broad cheekbones. Round light brown eyes.
The general was more heavily muscled. He also sent a steady glare of intense hatred at his older, unmarred brother.
Like the two men before, the nobleman was fascinated by Joan’s clothing. He too lifted up her shirt to look at her bra. She would’ve smacked his hands away except for the fact that the soldiers held them tightly behind her.
His hands grazed over the lace and she giggled, squirming away. He dropped her shirt and looked at her, his eyes dancing. Reaching up he traced the line of her throat and she laughed a little more, trying to escape his finger.
An order was shouted out and Joan was dragged away. As she looked back she saw a knife appear in the hand of the general and raise up. She shouted out a warning.
Although the nobleman couldn’t understand the words, he understood the intent. Spinning away from his brother, he was barely missed by the blade that would’ve been buried in his back.
The soldiers let Joan go and rushed to the defense of the nobleman, knowing which side their bread was buttered on. A three-way fight began, two against one, but the general was better trained than the soldiers.
Joan could’ve run away, but where would she go in a time and place where she didn’t understand anything? So instead she chose to run around to behind the general.
Joan grabbed a heavy metal urn and rolled it towards him. It worked; as he moved backwards, he tripped.
As the two swords came down she found herself hiding her face in the chest of the nobleman. Then suddenly she was being dragged away yet again. This time by the nobleman’s slave girls.
"You’d think," Joan said to herself, "that having saved a man’s life, I’d be treated better then this!"
After being led away, Joan had at the very least been treated to a bath. The slave girls had an easier time figuring out her bra then the men had.
They had scrubbed her - not without more then a few tickles. Especially when they found her armpits quite hairless.
Joan had gone through a number of expensive laser and electrolysis treatments in order to never have to shave, wax, or pluck her armpits, legs, eyebrows, or bikini zone again. She had squirmed and laughed, much to the delight of the slave girls.
However, after her bath she found herself in what she guessed was a dungeon. No one else was there. There were no cells.
There were a straw covered floor and many different types of restraints. There was hardly any light except from nearby torches, whose oily black smoke traveled up via small openings to the sky.
Joan was sitting completely nude on the floor, her back to a wall. Her arms had been chained above her with very little slack. Another chain went across her plump middle, keeping her from moving forward too much.
Finally, each ankle was locked in a cuff. The cuffs were attached to very short chains. The chains were far enough apart to spread her legs, so that all of her womanhood was displayed.
The wall behind her head was padded thickly with a leather pillow. She would soon learn the reason for this.
Now the nobleman entered alone. He was carrying several large peacock feathers, and smiling wickedly. Unconcerned with the straw, he sat himself down on the floor in front of Joan’s feet and placed all but the longest of the feathers beside him.
Pleading would do no good, Joan knew this, yet her mind was dead set against what this man seemed poised to do. She was no one’s slave and she would not be treated as such!
Joan began to say as much when he reached out with the feather and began to lightly tease her face with it. It irritated as well as tickled and she longed to sneeze.
Just when she thought she might, he moved the feather so it now teased her left ear. Then her right. He kept switching between ears as she giggled softly and tried to escape it.
After a few minutes he moved the feather down to Joan’s throat and started tickling her neck. The feather’s soft fronds didn’t tickle as much as fingers would, but still tickled quite a bit. Joan thought for sure that much more of this would drive her mad.
She now understood the reason for the padding. Joan was pounding her head against the wall. She was trying to escape the relentless tickling, or at least distract herself from it. She surely would’ve injured herself if not for the pillow.
Now he put the longer feather down and took up two that while long, were not as long. Still, they were long enough to begin teasing her heavy breasts with their ticklish touch.
Joan laughed a lot louder with this tickling. She wanted to fight against the cruel sensations, but her nipples responded happily to the stimulation.
Everything Joan had been brought up to believe, everything that she had admitted, only a few hours ago - or centuries in the future - that she was having doubts about - was being challenged. She sat here, laughing helplessly as a man dominated and tickled her.
Worse, her body was responding positively, betraying her. She was not being treated like an equal but like a toy. A Roman nobleman’s very own ‘Tickle-Me-Joan’.
The soft breast tickling stopped and her tormenter began to tickle her armpits with the feathers. Joan’s eyes flew open wide and she began to laugh much, much harder. Her soft belly was bouncing against the chain that confined it.
Now she couldn’t even think of protests against how she was being treated. She could only think of the tickling! Tickling, taking over her mind and body. The laughter poured helplessly out of her.
He amused himself tickling her armpits, then later her ribs and tummy. He used the feathers for what was probably only fifteen minutes, but felt like hours. Then he abandoned the feathers and started the process all over again with his fingers.
It was maddening! This horrid tickling! Bad enough that it made her laugh endlessly, but worst of all, it was filling her with all sorts of lustful thoughts!
For the first time that Joan could remember, she felt the desire to completely submit to a man. Her will was breaking already and he hadn’t even gotten lower then her hips!
Just when she thought her voice would give out, he stopped and brought her wine. It went straight to her head, leaving her dizzy and feeling warm.
Taking up the feathers again, he began to tickle Joan’s lower body. The ridge where her belly protruded was tormented first. Then he moved the feathers down along her legs.
This drove her mad with both tickling sensations and lust. Especially when he tickled her plump inner thighs. He kept getting close to what she thought of as her ‘goal zone’, but never did much more then create a soft breeze near it with the movement of the feathers.
After feather tickling her knees and calves, he stopped and began with his fingers again. His face was close to hers, grinning a devilish grin as she laughed uncontrollably. His lips began stroking her throat, as if seeking to drink in the vibrations of her laughter.
Another break and a gulp more of Bacchus’ brew. Joan thought no more of women’s lib or of resisting the urge to submit.
When this noble Roman began to tickle her feet, Joan just gave in. He played with her toes, and she let the delicious, wicked sensations make her laugh and squirm.
He stroked the edges of her feet as if tracing them, over and over and over again, and each time he did so she squealed. Fingers and feathers alike tormented the tops of her tootsies and her body longed for more. The balls and heels of her feet, softened from many self-pedicures, were tickled beyond her endurance.
Then, when he started to stroke her soft arches, Joan felt herself going over the edge. As though from long practice, his fingertips seemed to find every nerve ending on the tender skin of Joan’s arches.
First he would poise the five fingers of one hand at the top of each arch, then they would glide slowly down to the lowest reach of that arch. He would remove the finger pads from her skin, and poise them again at the top.
Each time those fingertips moved on her flesh, Joan exploded with laughter. She couldn’t contain it. She really didn’t want to. It felt so damn good to surrender and let him control her!
Then came the breaking point! Rather than break contact and return his fingers to the tops of Joan’s arches, he started to simply glide them back up the arches to the top again. The brief breaks that Joan had grown accustomed to left her unprepared when the sweet torture of fingertips teasing her arches became continuous!
Joan’s hips were helplessly thrusting. Even though the nobleman couldn’t understand the words that emerged from Joan’s lovely mouth in between her incoherent, wordless cries of desperate, tickled lust, her body movements spoke to him in a universal language older than time.
He released her from the chains and pulled his toga up. Joan thought for a moment of all the things she and Stacy had talked about. The books they had read.
Yet, all that went out of her head as he pulled her on top of and onto him and began to tickle her ribs and armpits. Squirming wildly on top of him. Letting him control her even though she was on top.
There was straw in their hair when they were done, and Joan’s skin glowed pink from tickling. The nobleman lay with an arm possessively thrown over Joan’s body. If Stacy saw her now, Joan’s friend would probably give her hell for submitting like that.
Oh well, at least she didn’t have to worry about her credit card bills any more.
But, whatever did those slave girls do with her clothing?
.................................................. .....................................
The hardest part was figuring out how to make the hooks and eyes. Still, with a bit of experimentation it was finally done. The slave girls rather enjoyed the new thing the strange woman had worn. It made life a lot easier to deal with.
The zipper they never were able to recreate.
.................................................. .....................................
"You know," Stacy said, "I hate these bra burnings. The batteries in these anti-gravity things always have a tendency to explode....."
(Titles have never been my strong point. I'd like to thank MasterTank for editing this one for me. I really owe him one! And now that I've said that publically I have no choice but to pay him back. LOL)
Joan sat on her bed, running a pedicure wand over her heels. "I don’t know, Stacy," she said with a sigh.
"Sometimes I wonder if this whole women’s lib thing doesn’t hurt us more then help us."
Stacy’s dark brown eyes flashed with irritation at her friend, a Lilith Fair flyer in her chocolate colored hand. "What do you mean?"
Concentrating on removing a particularly dry spot, Joan said, "Well, I like being able to work and all that, don’t get me wrong, but are all the advances really in our best interest?
Let’s take medical procedures. The C-Section to be exact. Before, when women were likely to die in childbirth, a woman like me was the ideal. But once you skinny gals were just as likely to survive, suddenly it was all about the Twiggy."
Tossing the flyer aside, Stacy leaned against Joan’s desk to ponder this. It was true that of the two, men paid way more attention to her than Joan. Joan usually got stuck with the ‘wingman.’ The fellow who got stuck with ‘the ugly friend.’
Not that Joan was ugly. She was - well, fat. Just a hair over five feet tall, she tipped the scale at 200 pounds. She had a pretty enough face, with large almond shaped grey-green eyes, and loads of blond hair in shades that varied from honey to platinum. Her curves were pronounced with huge breasts and equally big hips and bottom. Skin that was clear except for freckles and rather pale. A small nose sat above a cupid’s bow mouth.
Stacy, on the other hand, weighed just under 130 and was 5 foot 9 barefoot. Her breasts were small, her hips narrow. Her skin was a deep dark chocolate brown, but a few small freckles could be seen up close. Her nose was a bit on the large side, close to but not quite ‘Roman’ yet still feminine. Her black hair was much longer than Joan’s and braided into many tiny braids.
"Okay, I’ll give you that much at least." Stacy said, now sitting on the bed and pulling Joan’s feet into her lap. She took the wand and began to work on the spots on Joan’s feet she couldn’t see on her own. "But how does women’s lib hurt us?"
Joan giggled a bit, as Stacy had a tendency to tickle her when doing this. "Men seem more afraid to approach us, wanting us to do all the work, leaving us wondering if we’re attractive at all. They’re only confident enough to talk to us if they’re drunk or assholes.
The nice guys sit around whining how we women only like jerks. They never take a chance with us because they’re afraid of being called chauvinist pigs.
Is it so wrong that I want a guy who makes all the first moves? Who opens the door for me and - God forbid - picks up the entire check? I’m 29 years old, Stacy, I’m tired of looking for Mr. Right or even Mr. Right Now."
Putting the wand aside and taking up the lotion, Stacy began to rub it into Joan’s feet, which were, in Stacy’s mind, Joan’s best feature. Stacy’s own feet were large and narrow, like a pair of canoes. Joan’s were small, wide, and fleshy. With the sweetest stubbiest toes Stacy had ever seen. She applied soft tickles onto Joan’s feet, causing her fleshy friend to squirm and laugh.
"Maybe what you need isn’t a man...." Stacy began.
Joan flushed and yanked her feet away. Crossing her arms to hide her engorged nipples. For some reason, whenever her feet were stimulated Joan found herself aroused, no matter who was doing the stimulating.
"Stacy," she said, "I just don’t feel about you that way, I’m sorry. You’ll always be my best friend, but never more then that."
Joan had known for some time that Stacy ‘swung both ways’ and wanted to be more than friends. but, just as Stacy knew she liked both genders, Joan knew she only liked one.
Hurt and angry, Stacy cussed at Joan and slammed out of the bedroom and from there out of her apartment. Joan jumped up to follow her, but her bare, lotion covered feet slipped on the stairs.
Joan let out a scream as she tumbled into nothingness. Stacy, along with several of Joan’s neighbors, watched in shock as Joan vanished into thin air.
.................................................. ..................................
With a moan, Joan sat up. Stone and dirt shifted beneath her hands. Someone was saying something to her but she couldn’t understand.
For the moment she saw nothing but flashing lights. Then she blinked a few times and rubbed her eyes. When she could see again she looked up...right at someone wearing - a toga.
For a moment she thought it was the annoying college students who lived next door. Then as she looked around she realized that this was not her apartment building. It wasn’t even California.
"Hey, boys," she said, though she knew they wouldn’t understand her. "Sorry for dropping in without calling first."
One of the men now yanked her up and she took a moment to look around. If not for the pain in her feet from the sharp stones stabbing her tender soles or the tight grip on her wrist, she’d think she was dreaming.
These tactile sensations proved she wasn’t dreaming. Drunk, maybe, like that time she could’ve sworn aliens were experimenting on her after one too many beers, but not dreaming.
Yep, she was in ancient Italy alright. Probably not Rome itself, it didn’t look big enough, but maybe one of the nearby towns.
The men were jabbering at her again, tugging on her blue jeans and t-shirt, no doubt shocked by the strange clothing. One had lifted up her shirt enough to discover the zipper and figured out how it worked.
He kept pulling it down and up until Joan slapped his hand away. "Not on a first date!" She said, waggling her finger in his face.
The other lifted up the back of her shirt and was fiddling with her bra. She yanked herself away from them both and pulled her shirt down. "Now stop that!" She yelled. "I don’t even know your names!"
As she yelled at them she felt her arms grabbed from behind. She could hear the clanking of armor. She muttered a curse as a Roman general now stood in front of her.
He would’ve been handsome if not for a long, gruesome scar that crossed most of his face. Then there was the missing eye, whose empty, grown over socket ‘gazed’ at her.
The toga-men were babbling something now. Joan only caught one word, that she was pretty sure meant witch.
She tried to protest this but then gave up, remembering that these guys didn’t speak English. Soon, she felt herself dragged along.
Joan cried out in pain as her bare foot hit a stone. The general stopped them and looked down at her now dirty feet.
He grabbed her legs, and she now found herself carried between three men. A solider on either arm, and her legs firmly tucked under the arm of the general.
They stood Joan in front of a bored looking Roman noble. He perked up at the sight of this curiosity. The noble took time to walk around Joan, staring at her strange clothing.
Joan stared back too. The nobleman and the general shared some features, like brothers would.
The nobleman looked a few years older, with some grey in his brown hair. His light brown eyes were both present and there was no scar marring his features.
Joan could now see what the general might’ve looked like. The large nose, a chin that was firm with a shallow cleft, high and broad cheekbones. Round light brown eyes.
The general was more heavily muscled. He also sent a steady glare of intense hatred at his older, unmarred brother.
Like the two men before, the nobleman was fascinated by Joan’s clothing. He too lifted up her shirt to look at her bra. She would’ve smacked his hands away except for the fact that the soldiers held them tightly behind her.
His hands grazed over the lace and she giggled, squirming away. He dropped her shirt and looked at her, his eyes dancing. Reaching up he traced the line of her throat and she laughed a little more, trying to escape his finger.
An order was shouted out and Joan was dragged away. As she looked back she saw a knife appear in the hand of the general and raise up. She shouted out a warning.
Although the nobleman couldn’t understand the words, he understood the intent. Spinning away from his brother, he was barely missed by the blade that would’ve been buried in his back.
The soldiers let Joan go and rushed to the defense of the nobleman, knowing which side their bread was buttered on. A three-way fight began, two against one, but the general was better trained than the soldiers.
Joan could’ve run away, but where would she go in a time and place where she didn’t understand anything? So instead she chose to run around to behind the general.
Joan grabbed a heavy metal urn and rolled it towards him. It worked; as he moved backwards, he tripped.
As the two swords came down she found herself hiding her face in the chest of the nobleman. Then suddenly she was being dragged away yet again. This time by the nobleman’s slave girls.
"You’d think," Joan said to herself, "that having saved a man’s life, I’d be treated better then this!"
After being led away, Joan had at the very least been treated to a bath. The slave girls had an easier time figuring out her bra then the men had.
They had scrubbed her - not without more then a few tickles. Especially when they found her armpits quite hairless.
Joan had gone through a number of expensive laser and electrolysis treatments in order to never have to shave, wax, or pluck her armpits, legs, eyebrows, or bikini zone again. She had squirmed and laughed, much to the delight of the slave girls.
However, after her bath she found herself in what she guessed was a dungeon. No one else was there. There were no cells.
There were a straw covered floor and many different types of restraints. There was hardly any light except from nearby torches, whose oily black smoke traveled up via small openings to the sky.
Joan was sitting completely nude on the floor, her back to a wall. Her arms had been chained above her with very little slack. Another chain went across her plump middle, keeping her from moving forward too much.
Finally, each ankle was locked in a cuff. The cuffs were attached to very short chains. The chains were far enough apart to spread her legs, so that all of her womanhood was displayed.
The wall behind her head was padded thickly with a leather pillow. She would soon learn the reason for this.
Now the nobleman entered alone. He was carrying several large peacock feathers, and smiling wickedly. Unconcerned with the straw, he sat himself down on the floor in front of Joan’s feet and placed all but the longest of the feathers beside him.
Pleading would do no good, Joan knew this, yet her mind was dead set against what this man seemed poised to do. She was no one’s slave and she would not be treated as such!
Joan began to say as much when he reached out with the feather and began to lightly tease her face with it. It irritated as well as tickled and she longed to sneeze.
Just when she thought she might, he moved the feather so it now teased her left ear. Then her right. He kept switching between ears as she giggled softly and tried to escape it.
After a few minutes he moved the feather down to Joan’s throat and started tickling her neck. The feather’s soft fronds didn’t tickle as much as fingers would, but still tickled quite a bit. Joan thought for sure that much more of this would drive her mad.
She now understood the reason for the padding. Joan was pounding her head against the wall. She was trying to escape the relentless tickling, or at least distract herself from it. She surely would’ve injured herself if not for the pillow.
Now he put the longer feather down and took up two that while long, were not as long. Still, they were long enough to begin teasing her heavy breasts with their ticklish touch.
Joan laughed a lot louder with this tickling. She wanted to fight against the cruel sensations, but her nipples responded happily to the stimulation.
Everything Joan had been brought up to believe, everything that she had admitted, only a few hours ago - or centuries in the future - that she was having doubts about - was being challenged. She sat here, laughing helplessly as a man dominated and tickled her.
Worse, her body was responding positively, betraying her. She was not being treated like an equal but like a toy. A Roman nobleman’s very own ‘Tickle-Me-Joan’.
The soft breast tickling stopped and her tormenter began to tickle her armpits with the feathers. Joan’s eyes flew open wide and she began to laugh much, much harder. Her soft belly was bouncing against the chain that confined it.
Now she couldn’t even think of protests against how she was being treated. She could only think of the tickling! Tickling, taking over her mind and body. The laughter poured helplessly out of her.
He amused himself tickling her armpits, then later her ribs and tummy. He used the feathers for what was probably only fifteen minutes, but felt like hours. Then he abandoned the feathers and started the process all over again with his fingers.
It was maddening! This horrid tickling! Bad enough that it made her laugh endlessly, but worst of all, it was filling her with all sorts of lustful thoughts!
For the first time that Joan could remember, she felt the desire to completely submit to a man. Her will was breaking already and he hadn’t even gotten lower then her hips!
Just when she thought her voice would give out, he stopped and brought her wine. It went straight to her head, leaving her dizzy and feeling warm.
Taking up the feathers again, he began to tickle Joan’s lower body. The ridge where her belly protruded was tormented first. Then he moved the feathers down along her legs.
This drove her mad with both tickling sensations and lust. Especially when he tickled her plump inner thighs. He kept getting close to what she thought of as her ‘goal zone’, but never did much more then create a soft breeze near it with the movement of the feathers.
After feather tickling her knees and calves, he stopped and began with his fingers again. His face was close to hers, grinning a devilish grin as she laughed uncontrollably. His lips began stroking her throat, as if seeking to drink in the vibrations of her laughter.
Another break and a gulp more of Bacchus’ brew. Joan thought no more of women’s lib or of resisting the urge to submit.
When this noble Roman began to tickle her feet, Joan just gave in. He played with her toes, and she let the delicious, wicked sensations make her laugh and squirm.
He stroked the edges of her feet as if tracing them, over and over and over again, and each time he did so she squealed. Fingers and feathers alike tormented the tops of her tootsies and her body longed for more. The balls and heels of her feet, softened from many self-pedicures, were tickled beyond her endurance.
Then, when he started to stroke her soft arches, Joan felt herself going over the edge. As though from long practice, his fingertips seemed to find every nerve ending on the tender skin of Joan’s arches.
First he would poise the five fingers of one hand at the top of each arch, then they would glide slowly down to the lowest reach of that arch. He would remove the finger pads from her skin, and poise them again at the top.
Each time those fingertips moved on her flesh, Joan exploded with laughter. She couldn’t contain it. She really didn’t want to. It felt so damn good to surrender and let him control her!
Then came the breaking point! Rather than break contact and return his fingers to the tops of Joan’s arches, he started to simply glide them back up the arches to the top again. The brief breaks that Joan had grown accustomed to left her unprepared when the sweet torture of fingertips teasing her arches became continuous!
Joan’s hips were helplessly thrusting. Even though the nobleman couldn’t understand the words that emerged from Joan’s lovely mouth in between her incoherent, wordless cries of desperate, tickled lust, her body movements spoke to him in a universal language older than time.
He released her from the chains and pulled his toga up. Joan thought for a moment of all the things she and Stacy had talked about. The books they had read.
Yet, all that went out of her head as he pulled her on top of and onto him and began to tickle her ribs and armpits. Squirming wildly on top of him. Letting him control her even though she was on top.
There was straw in their hair when they were done, and Joan’s skin glowed pink from tickling. The nobleman lay with an arm possessively thrown over Joan’s body. If Stacy saw her now, Joan’s friend would probably give her hell for submitting like that.
Oh well, at least she didn’t have to worry about her credit card bills any more.
But, whatever did those slave girls do with her clothing?
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The hardest part was figuring out how to make the hooks and eyes. Still, with a bit of experimentation it was finally done. The slave girls rather enjoyed the new thing the strange woman had worn. It made life a lot easier to deal with.
The zipper they never were able to recreate.
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"You know," Stacy said, "I hate these bra burnings. The batteries in these anti-gravity things always have a tendency to explode....."
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Look forward to more of your work, keep writing 
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