laughter_n_love
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Ophelia's Laughter
The turning of the wheels and the slow progression of the team's hooves on the cobblestone streets made for a monotonous journey home. The chill in the night air was worse than usual, and with it came a dark sense of dread; a nagging feeling at the edge's of one's heart that one's best days are in the past, and hope is a waste of one's precious life force. The old man pulled his cloak tighter about himself and fought off the urge to weep.
The joyous days of youth were long behind him, and the past few years had done
their best to all but wipe away all memories of happiness. First there had been the passing of his beloved wife Ophelia, an event which had devastated him emotionally and socially. There had been a time, in the prime of their lives, when Sigmund and Ophelia had been the gayest of couples. Not a month went by when they were not holding some ball or banquet of sorts. Those who visited their manor were welcomed like family, and the walls of the place echoed with the folly and laughter of good times. All who came across them in the streets and shops were greeted with smiles and playful banter, and their good cheer was contagious. They were friends to all, loved by all, and as happy as any couple could possibly be.
But when the Angel of Death came and took Ophelia without warning just weeks before her 30th birthday, everything changed for Sigmund. He became withdrawn and morose. Not a day passed where he did not mourn the loss of his beautiful wife. The manor in which he lived became dark and gray, as did each dreary day of his life. Once his name had been spoken of fondly and with pleasant thoughts. How quickly that had changed to whispers and stories of his fall from grace. He became more legend than man; a figure to be avoided, lest his dark cloud of sorrow and pain infect those he came in contact with. Children were taught to avoid his manor, for it was rumored to be haunted. Adults who were unfortunate enough to cross his path during one of his rare excursions into the city did their best to act polite to his face and conclude their business with him as quickly as possible, and then carved him up unmercifully when they thought he was out of earshot. But Sigmund heard more than he missed, and this only added to his depression and sense of loneliness. He became the epitome of a recluse.
Many years went by in this manner. Day after day, month after month, with the only change in pattern being the frequency of his appearances growing more and more infrequent. It was during this black time in his life that another tragedy victimized him. Sigmund woke up one morning and found that the darkness refused to be blinked away from his eyes. He wept and cursed and stumbled about in such a frightful way that his servants were afraid to come to his aid for a time, fearing for their own safety. No longer was he able to retire to his library and while away the hours of each day staring at the portrait his departed wife's likeness. No longer was he able to shuffle from room to room and see where they had once danced and laughed and made love. Life became a banal routine of eating and sleeping and bathing and sitting by a fire. All he had left that was good in his life to cling to was his memories, and old age was slowly robbing him of those as well.
Tonight had been one of those ultra-rare occasions when he'd bothered to venture back out into the city. He was well aware of his reputation among the people of the city, so had planned accordingly. He'd sent word that he wished to take a late supper at one of the few inns that still remained from his younger days, but had requested a private table and a late seating. His coach had traveled under the cover of darkness, and only a few citizens had seen it pass or bothered to wonder who rode inside. Now, as he returned home, the streets were all but empty, and there were none to injure his precious hearing with sharp words of ridicule or unwarranted fear.
As the coach wound it's way through the streets, Sigmund mentally pictured the ride home as he remembered it from his youth. The Happy Swallow, where Ophelia and he, surrounded by dozens of friends, had raised many a pint in their day. He couldn't remember the last time he'd set foot inside the place. The Paradise Theater House, where Ophelia and he had made a point to attend the premiere of each show as it arrived. The theater had been torn down and rebuilt, but Sigmund had never seen the inside of the new building. And on the edge of the city, on the road leading up to his manor that they would now be approaching, the fabled London House, home of the finest ladies of the evening in the city. He'd never indulged himself in any of the women who worked there. He had all the woman he'd ever needed at home. Once.
A sigh of longing escaped from his chest, and he made no attempt to stop it. The days of hiding his pain were over. Now, the melancholy that was his life was his only true companion, and he was not about to deny it's voice.
A musical giggle wafted through the air and reached Sigmund's ears, piercing through his cloud of depression. The sound gripped his heart and squeezed it like a hand from the grave. His breath caught in his throat, and instantly he was on high alert. He listened desperately to hear if it would be repeated, for he was certain he had imagined it. It had been the laughter of his beloved, Ophelia. He was sure of it.
The coach rumbled on, and Sigmund leaned his ear to the window, hoping to catch more of the sweet laughter, but all the greeted him was the hooves of the horses and the grinding of the wheels. He cursed himself and muttered under his breath. He should know better than to hope.
The feminine giggle reached him again, and this time it was louder.
Sigmund leapt from his seat and barked an order for his driver to find the source of the laughter. The whip cracked and the horses increased their pace. Adrenaline like he hadn't experienced in years coursed through his veins. His brain screamed at him to think rationally about what he hoped to find, but his heart had suffered far too long to listen to reason. Ophelia was out there, laughing in the night in the way that she did, waiting for him, and he was nothing was going to keep him from being with her again. He felt ten years younger.
The coach halted without a word. Sigmund heard the driver speaking quietly, and the sound of a woman's voice responding. He held his breath, and his heart thudded madly in his chest. Ophelia was just outside the door of his coach.
He heard his driver descend, and felt the night air rush in as the door was opened. Sigmund steeled his courage, and peered his blind eyes outside the door.
"Ophelia?"
"No, my Lord. My name is Gwendaline." The voice of the woman did not match that of his departed wife, so he had no cause to doubt her words. He felt all of the air rush out of his lungs, and his heart threatened to burst in his chest. The rush of the anticipation that had energized him just moments before was replaced with a despair the likes of which even a tortured soul like he had never known.
The woman named Gwendaline must have seen the look of sorrow pass over his face, for she instantly became alarmed. "My Lord! Are you all right?"
She had no way of knowing that which she asked, so there was no point in answering her. He simply lowered his face to the street as the tears flowed freely from his sightless eyes.
"Oh heavens!" she cried. "What have I done!" He felt her soft hand touching his face, and a lace kerchief dabbing at the tears streaming down his cheeks. It was the first sign of tenderness shown in his direction in years, and he was so touched by it that he felt moved to explain himself to this girl.
"I thought...your laughter...I thought...you...were someone else." He managed a weak smile in Gwendaline's direction.
"Ah, I see! That would explain things. I'm so sorry that I am not she, my Lord."
"As am I," he said whole-heartedly.
"Well, if you like, my Lord, I could keep you company for a time, and you could call me Ophelia if you wish."
He took but a moment to understand her words and her meaning. "You mean...you are..."
"Yes, my Lord. I am one of the London House ladies. At your service." He did not see her curtsey.
Sigmund hesitated to respond, but only because he deeply wished that this girl's voice more closely resembled Ophelia's. Did she look like Ophelia, he wondered?
"Tell me, child, are your eyes of pale blue?"
"No, my Lord. They are quite dark actually."
"And your hair? Is it like spun gold?"
"I'm afraid not, my Lord. My hair is black like the night."
Sigmund's fleeting hopes of fooling himself for a short time with this Ophelia impostor were weakening. It seemed she was nothing like his departed beloved.
"Are you at least comely? And shapely?"
"I don't think you'll be disappointed, my Lord," she said, giggling.
Ahhhh, there it was again. That most perfect sound. The heavenly sound of her laughter; Ophelia's laughter. He soaked it all in, treasuring every musical note. This girl might resemble his dearly departed no more than he did, but her laughter was a dead on match.
Sigmund spoke with intensity. "Quickly child, come with me! I desire your services for the remainder of the evening." He jingled his coin purse to let her know that she too, would not be disappointed.
Gwendaline stepped lightly into the coach, and soon they were rushing off to Sigmund's manor. The coachman urged the horses on at full speed, as there was no time to be wasted. The noise from the onrushing coach made conversation impossible, so Sigmund and the girl rode in silence. Soon they were arrived, and the servants escorted the master of the house and his guest to the parlor. Sigmund spoke to his servants briefly in hushed tones before dismissing them.
When he was seated comfortably in his favorite chair by the fire, he spoke, "My child, I'm afraid I have deceived you a bit. I have not brought you here for the purposes that you think."
"No, my Lord? For what have you brought me here then?"
"Your laughter...is music to these old ears. It...it brings me back to a better time. Please, I wish for you to laugh for me."
"Laugh for you?"
"Indeed."
Gwendaline tried to laugh, but it came out tight and forced, and had none of the magical qualities from before.
"No no no!" Sigmund bellowed. "Make it sound like before, when I heard you on the streets!"
Gwendaline laughed again, but as before, it was lacking in charm. She knew it too. "I'm sorry, my Lord. I cannot seem to make myself laugh as you would like."
Sigmund growled in frustration. Fortunately, he had prepared for this, so it was time to put his plan into action.
"Come here, my child. Come and sit with me."
Gwendaline did as she was told. She placed herself lightly across his frail lap, worried that she might hurt him, and thankful that she was so small and petite. His arms found their way around her midsection. She smiled and nestled into him a bit.
"Like this, my Lord?"
"No, like this!" Sigmund dug his bony old fingers into her waist.
Gwendaline shrieked in surprise. As Sigmund continued to kneed her tiny midsection, the initial shock turned to mirth, and a flood of musical giggles poured from her throat. She was highly ticklish, and what the old man was doing was equal to torture in her eyes. She pulled and fought at the hands at her sides, struggling to be free of them and escape the tickling. Sigmund was deceptively strong, but finally Gwendaline managed to wrest herself from his wicked grasp and leap to her feet.
"My Lord! You must not do such things!" Gwendaline stopped giggling and composed herself, and she was none too pleased with her host.
Sigmund had a far off look of pleasure on his face. He'd heard his darling Ophelia's laughter through this young girl, and his thoughts had traveled back to the day he had asked her to marry him. A smile cracked his elderly face, looking out of place on his normally sad and morose countenance. As Gwendaline's laughter faded, so did his mental imagery. A cloud passed over his features.
He reached out in the darkness that was his world for her. "Come back to me, my child. Come back." He must hear that melodic laughter again.
"I'm afraid I cannot, my Lord. You take liberties with me that are not to my liking."
His hands groped fruitlessly for her, but she had backed away out of his reach. He looked quite mad, groping in the air for her, a look of frustrated intensity on his face, and she became frightened at what he might do if he actually caught her.
She began to slowly back towards the door. "My Lord. I must ask that you allow me to leave. The events of this evening have been...most uncomfortable for me."
Sigmund heard her voice growing further from his grasping fingers, and a sneer rose to his lips. He groped along the table beside his chair until he found his servant bell, which he rang with a vigor.
Two burly servants burst through the double doors of the parlor and each grabbed Gwendaline by an arm. She shrieked again and fought to free herself, but their grip on her was tight.
"As you requested, my Lord?" one of the servants asked.
"Yes! Yes!" Sigmund cackled with glee.
The two servants dragged Gwendaline over to the long couch to Sigmund's right. With very little grace, they began tearing and pulling at her dress until it fell from her in pieces. Gwendaline screamed like a madwoman during all this, but she was far too weak and small to deter them. When they had stripped her to just her undergarments and hose, they forced her to the couch, where they began binding her wrists and ankles. Gwendaline fought against her captors, but it was of no use. Soon her slender frame was stretched taut between the two ends of the couch, and no amount of struggling could lower her arms or pull up her legs.
"My Lord! I beg of you! Please! Release me at once, and I shall not report this to the authorities!"
Sigmund ignored the pleas of the girl and motioned with his hand for his servants to begin. Instantly they fell upon her, one at her torso and one at her feet. Twenty fingers dug and clawed at her exposed flesh.
Gwendaline arched and squealed at the initial touch, and then as before when she was on Sigmund's lap, her surprise melted into ticklish delirium. The two servants were not the best of ticklers, but she was so sensitive to any sorts of tickling that it mattered not. The one at her midsection was having a fine time kneading her protruding ribs, and the one at her feet was dancing his fingertips up and down the lengths of her small, hose-covered soles. Peals of girlish laughter sprang forth, unabated and unbroken.
Sigmund sat back in his chair by the fire and smiled. He heard his beloved Ophelia laughing, as she did when they danced, or when they swam naked in the river together. He remembered chasing her up and down the halls of the manor, she fresh from the shower and clutching only a towel, and he with every intention of snatching it from her.
"Ophelia, Ophelia! My pretty little wife! How I love your laughter!"
Gwendaline was in hysterics. Her two ticklers were rapidly gaining knowledge of her ticklish body, and with every passing moment, their technique became more effective. The one at her side had discovered how unbearably ticklish her underarms were, and the one at her feet had stumbled across ten excruciatingly ticklish toes. She was desperate to cry out, to scream that they were driving her mad, to protest that she was not Ophelia, to beg for mercy, but there was no available breath for words. Each drawn breath was dedicated entirely to the flood of sweet giggles that passed her lips, even despite her most fervent attempts to squelch them.
A quarter of an hour passed in this way, and the quarter hour became half an hour. The servants looked to their master, and neither could remember seeing him so happy. His face was the picture of tranquil serenity. The others in the room could not know what thoughts passed through his head, but he was reliving the best moments of his youth and the times spent with his beloved wife. The poor girl on the couch was a mess of sweaty, ticklish flesh. Her skin shone pink where the ticklers had attacked her, but to her credit, or theirs, there seemed to be no lessening to her ticklishness with time. The two servants were tiring, and with an exchanged look, stopped in unison.
Gwendaline's laughter subsided and decomposed into a coughing fit as she fought to fill her lungs with air. The enchantment Sigmund was under was broken at once, and he fought to hold onto the perfect mental images in his head, but they slipped away from him and disappeared. He became enraged.
"Why has that laughter ceased???"
"My Lord, we need a moment's break. How long did you wish for us to keep this up?" Gwendaline was as yet unable to talk herself, but was fiercely interested in hearing the answer to this question.
Sigmund thought for a moment. The past thirty minutes had passed so quickly for him. A moment before, he had been happily remembering the highlights of his life. Now, with the girlish laughter no longer filling his ears, he could not remember a one. Like a man dying of thirst who has been teased with a few drops of water, he knew that he needed more to quench his desire. The laughter of this girl was a narcotic to him. A drug. In a heartbeat, he made the decision that he'd suffered in melancholy solitude long enough, and that it was his right to enjoy his memories from this point on.
"Tell the others that this is what I wish. This girl is to be kept under lock and key in this house. While I am awake, she is to be tickled before me without pause or refrain. Feed her, bathe her, and let her sleep while I sleep. Rotate yourselves as often as you need to, but there must never be a break in her laughter. She is never to leave this house. Is that understood?"
The two servants spoke "aye" in unison as Gwendaline screamed, "NOOOOOOOOO!!!! This last word of protest was quickly cut off as the servants dug into her ticklish flesh once again. The laughter that she would be forced to endure bubbled up once again, as Sigmund's smile returned to his face, and visions of Ophelia re-formed in his mind.
******
In the days that followed, the local authorities had come looking for the missing girl. Sigmund had instructed his staff to bribe them to look elsewhere, and he had even compensated the London House for their loss. No one was too concerned about one disappearing prostitute, so the matter was forgotten soon enough.
The people of the city never saw her nor Sigmund ever again. His visits outside his manor ceased completely, but all knew that he had not yet joined his wife on the other side. His legend among the people grew. It was said that he had converted his manor into a torture chamber, designed to drive his victims mad with laughter. Those brave souls who ventured close to his manor either out of curiosity or bravery swore they could hear tortured laughter from inside the gray walls. It was said that this laughter of his victims kept him alive, like some twisted ghoul. It was said that he had grown young again, and walked the streets at night, like Jack the Ripper, preying on the ladies of the evening as his victims. He was a fairy tale, a ghost story, a threat for children who misbehaved.
As for Sigmund, he paid no attention to the stories of the people. He did not walk the streets at night. He had not regained his youth. He had not converted his manor into a torture chamber. And there had only been one abducted lady, Gwendaline. For him, each passed each day the same way. He sat in his chair by the fire, listening, as his servants tickle tortured Gwendaline endlessly. She filled the room for hours upon hours with her musical giggling, delighting and enchanting him. He spent his days and months enjoying thoughts of Ophelia, a smile of happiness plastered on his face, while poor Gwendaline slipped unnoticed into madness. And so life went on, with one young woman suffering through a hell of ticklish agony that cannot be justly expressed in words, and one old man finding some joy after so many years of heartache.
The End
The turning of the wheels and the slow progression of the team's hooves on the cobblestone streets made for a monotonous journey home. The chill in the night air was worse than usual, and with it came a dark sense of dread; a nagging feeling at the edge's of one's heart that one's best days are in the past, and hope is a waste of one's precious life force. The old man pulled his cloak tighter about himself and fought off the urge to weep.
The joyous days of youth were long behind him, and the past few years had done
their best to all but wipe away all memories of happiness. First there had been the passing of his beloved wife Ophelia, an event which had devastated him emotionally and socially. There had been a time, in the prime of their lives, when Sigmund and Ophelia had been the gayest of couples. Not a month went by when they were not holding some ball or banquet of sorts. Those who visited their manor were welcomed like family, and the walls of the place echoed with the folly and laughter of good times. All who came across them in the streets and shops were greeted with smiles and playful banter, and their good cheer was contagious. They were friends to all, loved by all, and as happy as any couple could possibly be.
But when the Angel of Death came and took Ophelia without warning just weeks before her 30th birthday, everything changed for Sigmund. He became withdrawn and morose. Not a day passed where he did not mourn the loss of his beautiful wife. The manor in which he lived became dark and gray, as did each dreary day of his life. Once his name had been spoken of fondly and with pleasant thoughts. How quickly that had changed to whispers and stories of his fall from grace. He became more legend than man; a figure to be avoided, lest his dark cloud of sorrow and pain infect those he came in contact with. Children were taught to avoid his manor, for it was rumored to be haunted. Adults who were unfortunate enough to cross his path during one of his rare excursions into the city did their best to act polite to his face and conclude their business with him as quickly as possible, and then carved him up unmercifully when they thought he was out of earshot. But Sigmund heard more than he missed, and this only added to his depression and sense of loneliness. He became the epitome of a recluse.
Many years went by in this manner. Day after day, month after month, with the only change in pattern being the frequency of his appearances growing more and more infrequent. It was during this black time in his life that another tragedy victimized him. Sigmund woke up one morning and found that the darkness refused to be blinked away from his eyes. He wept and cursed and stumbled about in such a frightful way that his servants were afraid to come to his aid for a time, fearing for their own safety. No longer was he able to retire to his library and while away the hours of each day staring at the portrait his departed wife's likeness. No longer was he able to shuffle from room to room and see where they had once danced and laughed and made love. Life became a banal routine of eating and sleeping and bathing and sitting by a fire. All he had left that was good in his life to cling to was his memories, and old age was slowly robbing him of those as well.
Tonight had been one of those ultra-rare occasions when he'd bothered to venture back out into the city. He was well aware of his reputation among the people of the city, so had planned accordingly. He'd sent word that he wished to take a late supper at one of the few inns that still remained from his younger days, but had requested a private table and a late seating. His coach had traveled under the cover of darkness, and only a few citizens had seen it pass or bothered to wonder who rode inside. Now, as he returned home, the streets were all but empty, and there were none to injure his precious hearing with sharp words of ridicule or unwarranted fear.
As the coach wound it's way through the streets, Sigmund mentally pictured the ride home as he remembered it from his youth. The Happy Swallow, where Ophelia and he, surrounded by dozens of friends, had raised many a pint in their day. He couldn't remember the last time he'd set foot inside the place. The Paradise Theater House, where Ophelia and he had made a point to attend the premiere of each show as it arrived. The theater had been torn down and rebuilt, but Sigmund had never seen the inside of the new building. And on the edge of the city, on the road leading up to his manor that they would now be approaching, the fabled London House, home of the finest ladies of the evening in the city. He'd never indulged himself in any of the women who worked there. He had all the woman he'd ever needed at home. Once.
A sigh of longing escaped from his chest, and he made no attempt to stop it. The days of hiding his pain were over. Now, the melancholy that was his life was his only true companion, and he was not about to deny it's voice.
A musical giggle wafted through the air and reached Sigmund's ears, piercing through his cloud of depression. The sound gripped his heart and squeezed it like a hand from the grave. His breath caught in his throat, and instantly he was on high alert. He listened desperately to hear if it would be repeated, for he was certain he had imagined it. It had been the laughter of his beloved, Ophelia. He was sure of it.
The coach rumbled on, and Sigmund leaned his ear to the window, hoping to catch more of the sweet laughter, but all the greeted him was the hooves of the horses and the grinding of the wheels. He cursed himself and muttered under his breath. He should know better than to hope.
The feminine giggle reached him again, and this time it was louder.
Sigmund leapt from his seat and barked an order for his driver to find the source of the laughter. The whip cracked and the horses increased their pace. Adrenaline like he hadn't experienced in years coursed through his veins. His brain screamed at him to think rationally about what he hoped to find, but his heart had suffered far too long to listen to reason. Ophelia was out there, laughing in the night in the way that she did, waiting for him, and he was nothing was going to keep him from being with her again. He felt ten years younger.
The coach halted without a word. Sigmund heard the driver speaking quietly, and the sound of a woman's voice responding. He held his breath, and his heart thudded madly in his chest. Ophelia was just outside the door of his coach.
He heard his driver descend, and felt the night air rush in as the door was opened. Sigmund steeled his courage, and peered his blind eyes outside the door.
"Ophelia?"
"No, my Lord. My name is Gwendaline." The voice of the woman did not match that of his departed wife, so he had no cause to doubt her words. He felt all of the air rush out of his lungs, and his heart threatened to burst in his chest. The rush of the anticipation that had energized him just moments before was replaced with a despair the likes of which even a tortured soul like he had never known.
The woman named Gwendaline must have seen the look of sorrow pass over his face, for she instantly became alarmed. "My Lord! Are you all right?"
She had no way of knowing that which she asked, so there was no point in answering her. He simply lowered his face to the street as the tears flowed freely from his sightless eyes.
"Oh heavens!" she cried. "What have I done!" He felt her soft hand touching his face, and a lace kerchief dabbing at the tears streaming down his cheeks. It was the first sign of tenderness shown in his direction in years, and he was so touched by it that he felt moved to explain himself to this girl.
"I thought...your laughter...I thought...you...were someone else." He managed a weak smile in Gwendaline's direction.
"Ah, I see! That would explain things. I'm so sorry that I am not she, my Lord."
"As am I," he said whole-heartedly.
"Well, if you like, my Lord, I could keep you company for a time, and you could call me Ophelia if you wish."
He took but a moment to understand her words and her meaning. "You mean...you are..."
"Yes, my Lord. I am one of the London House ladies. At your service." He did not see her curtsey.
Sigmund hesitated to respond, but only because he deeply wished that this girl's voice more closely resembled Ophelia's. Did she look like Ophelia, he wondered?
"Tell me, child, are your eyes of pale blue?"
"No, my Lord. They are quite dark actually."
"And your hair? Is it like spun gold?"
"I'm afraid not, my Lord. My hair is black like the night."
Sigmund's fleeting hopes of fooling himself for a short time with this Ophelia impostor were weakening. It seemed she was nothing like his departed beloved.
"Are you at least comely? And shapely?"
"I don't think you'll be disappointed, my Lord," she said, giggling.
Ahhhh, there it was again. That most perfect sound. The heavenly sound of her laughter; Ophelia's laughter. He soaked it all in, treasuring every musical note. This girl might resemble his dearly departed no more than he did, but her laughter was a dead on match.
Sigmund spoke with intensity. "Quickly child, come with me! I desire your services for the remainder of the evening." He jingled his coin purse to let her know that she too, would not be disappointed.
Gwendaline stepped lightly into the coach, and soon they were rushing off to Sigmund's manor. The coachman urged the horses on at full speed, as there was no time to be wasted. The noise from the onrushing coach made conversation impossible, so Sigmund and the girl rode in silence. Soon they were arrived, and the servants escorted the master of the house and his guest to the parlor. Sigmund spoke to his servants briefly in hushed tones before dismissing them.
When he was seated comfortably in his favorite chair by the fire, he spoke, "My child, I'm afraid I have deceived you a bit. I have not brought you here for the purposes that you think."
"No, my Lord? For what have you brought me here then?"
"Your laughter...is music to these old ears. It...it brings me back to a better time. Please, I wish for you to laugh for me."
"Laugh for you?"
"Indeed."
Gwendaline tried to laugh, but it came out tight and forced, and had none of the magical qualities from before.
"No no no!" Sigmund bellowed. "Make it sound like before, when I heard you on the streets!"
Gwendaline laughed again, but as before, it was lacking in charm. She knew it too. "I'm sorry, my Lord. I cannot seem to make myself laugh as you would like."
Sigmund growled in frustration. Fortunately, he had prepared for this, so it was time to put his plan into action.
"Come here, my child. Come and sit with me."
Gwendaline did as she was told. She placed herself lightly across his frail lap, worried that she might hurt him, and thankful that she was so small and petite. His arms found their way around her midsection. She smiled and nestled into him a bit.
"Like this, my Lord?"
"No, like this!" Sigmund dug his bony old fingers into her waist.
Gwendaline shrieked in surprise. As Sigmund continued to kneed her tiny midsection, the initial shock turned to mirth, and a flood of musical giggles poured from her throat. She was highly ticklish, and what the old man was doing was equal to torture in her eyes. She pulled and fought at the hands at her sides, struggling to be free of them and escape the tickling. Sigmund was deceptively strong, but finally Gwendaline managed to wrest herself from his wicked grasp and leap to her feet.
"My Lord! You must not do such things!" Gwendaline stopped giggling and composed herself, and she was none too pleased with her host.
Sigmund had a far off look of pleasure on his face. He'd heard his darling Ophelia's laughter through this young girl, and his thoughts had traveled back to the day he had asked her to marry him. A smile cracked his elderly face, looking out of place on his normally sad and morose countenance. As Gwendaline's laughter faded, so did his mental imagery. A cloud passed over his features.
He reached out in the darkness that was his world for her. "Come back to me, my child. Come back." He must hear that melodic laughter again.
"I'm afraid I cannot, my Lord. You take liberties with me that are not to my liking."
His hands groped fruitlessly for her, but she had backed away out of his reach. He looked quite mad, groping in the air for her, a look of frustrated intensity on his face, and she became frightened at what he might do if he actually caught her.
She began to slowly back towards the door. "My Lord. I must ask that you allow me to leave. The events of this evening have been...most uncomfortable for me."
Sigmund heard her voice growing further from his grasping fingers, and a sneer rose to his lips. He groped along the table beside his chair until he found his servant bell, which he rang with a vigor.
Two burly servants burst through the double doors of the parlor and each grabbed Gwendaline by an arm. She shrieked again and fought to free herself, but their grip on her was tight.
"As you requested, my Lord?" one of the servants asked.
"Yes! Yes!" Sigmund cackled with glee.
The two servants dragged Gwendaline over to the long couch to Sigmund's right. With very little grace, they began tearing and pulling at her dress until it fell from her in pieces. Gwendaline screamed like a madwoman during all this, but she was far too weak and small to deter them. When they had stripped her to just her undergarments and hose, they forced her to the couch, where they began binding her wrists and ankles. Gwendaline fought against her captors, but it was of no use. Soon her slender frame was stretched taut between the two ends of the couch, and no amount of struggling could lower her arms or pull up her legs.
"My Lord! I beg of you! Please! Release me at once, and I shall not report this to the authorities!"
Sigmund ignored the pleas of the girl and motioned with his hand for his servants to begin. Instantly they fell upon her, one at her torso and one at her feet. Twenty fingers dug and clawed at her exposed flesh.
Gwendaline arched and squealed at the initial touch, and then as before when she was on Sigmund's lap, her surprise melted into ticklish delirium. The two servants were not the best of ticklers, but she was so sensitive to any sorts of tickling that it mattered not. The one at her midsection was having a fine time kneading her protruding ribs, and the one at her feet was dancing his fingertips up and down the lengths of her small, hose-covered soles. Peals of girlish laughter sprang forth, unabated and unbroken.
Sigmund sat back in his chair by the fire and smiled. He heard his beloved Ophelia laughing, as she did when they danced, or when they swam naked in the river together. He remembered chasing her up and down the halls of the manor, she fresh from the shower and clutching only a towel, and he with every intention of snatching it from her.
"Ophelia, Ophelia! My pretty little wife! How I love your laughter!"
Gwendaline was in hysterics. Her two ticklers were rapidly gaining knowledge of her ticklish body, and with every passing moment, their technique became more effective. The one at her side had discovered how unbearably ticklish her underarms were, and the one at her feet had stumbled across ten excruciatingly ticklish toes. She was desperate to cry out, to scream that they were driving her mad, to protest that she was not Ophelia, to beg for mercy, but there was no available breath for words. Each drawn breath was dedicated entirely to the flood of sweet giggles that passed her lips, even despite her most fervent attempts to squelch them.
A quarter of an hour passed in this way, and the quarter hour became half an hour. The servants looked to their master, and neither could remember seeing him so happy. His face was the picture of tranquil serenity. The others in the room could not know what thoughts passed through his head, but he was reliving the best moments of his youth and the times spent with his beloved wife. The poor girl on the couch was a mess of sweaty, ticklish flesh. Her skin shone pink where the ticklers had attacked her, but to her credit, or theirs, there seemed to be no lessening to her ticklishness with time. The two servants were tiring, and with an exchanged look, stopped in unison.
Gwendaline's laughter subsided and decomposed into a coughing fit as she fought to fill her lungs with air. The enchantment Sigmund was under was broken at once, and he fought to hold onto the perfect mental images in his head, but they slipped away from him and disappeared. He became enraged.
"Why has that laughter ceased???"
"My Lord, we need a moment's break. How long did you wish for us to keep this up?" Gwendaline was as yet unable to talk herself, but was fiercely interested in hearing the answer to this question.
Sigmund thought for a moment. The past thirty minutes had passed so quickly for him. A moment before, he had been happily remembering the highlights of his life. Now, with the girlish laughter no longer filling his ears, he could not remember a one. Like a man dying of thirst who has been teased with a few drops of water, he knew that he needed more to quench his desire. The laughter of this girl was a narcotic to him. A drug. In a heartbeat, he made the decision that he'd suffered in melancholy solitude long enough, and that it was his right to enjoy his memories from this point on.
"Tell the others that this is what I wish. This girl is to be kept under lock and key in this house. While I am awake, she is to be tickled before me without pause or refrain. Feed her, bathe her, and let her sleep while I sleep. Rotate yourselves as often as you need to, but there must never be a break in her laughter. She is never to leave this house. Is that understood?"
The two servants spoke "aye" in unison as Gwendaline screamed, "NOOOOOOOOO!!!! This last word of protest was quickly cut off as the servants dug into her ticklish flesh once again. The laughter that she would be forced to endure bubbled up once again, as Sigmund's smile returned to his face, and visions of Ophelia re-formed in his mind.
******
In the days that followed, the local authorities had come looking for the missing girl. Sigmund had instructed his staff to bribe them to look elsewhere, and he had even compensated the London House for their loss. No one was too concerned about one disappearing prostitute, so the matter was forgotten soon enough.
The people of the city never saw her nor Sigmund ever again. His visits outside his manor ceased completely, but all knew that he had not yet joined his wife on the other side. His legend among the people grew. It was said that he had converted his manor into a torture chamber, designed to drive his victims mad with laughter. Those brave souls who ventured close to his manor either out of curiosity or bravery swore they could hear tortured laughter from inside the gray walls. It was said that this laughter of his victims kept him alive, like some twisted ghoul. It was said that he had grown young again, and walked the streets at night, like Jack the Ripper, preying on the ladies of the evening as his victims. He was a fairy tale, a ghost story, a threat for children who misbehaved.
As for Sigmund, he paid no attention to the stories of the people. He did not walk the streets at night. He had not regained his youth. He had not converted his manor into a torture chamber. And there had only been one abducted lady, Gwendaline. For him, each passed each day the same way. He sat in his chair by the fire, listening, as his servants tickle tortured Gwendaline endlessly. She filled the room for hours upon hours with her musical giggling, delighting and enchanting him. He spent his days and months enjoying thoughts of Ophelia, a smile of happiness plastered on his face, while poor Gwendaline slipped unnoticed into madness. And so life went on, with one young woman suffering through a hell of ticklish agony that cannot be justly expressed in words, and one old man finding some joy after so many years of heartache.
The End
