INTRODUCTION: A few people have recently encouraged me to write some tickling fiction, and someone had posted the following prompt on the r/Tickleprompts subreddit:
"Sadistic villainess defeats and captures the hero, and tickle tortures him for her amusement and sadistic sexual pleasure."
Sounded like a stimulating fire starter so I gave it a go!
This is technically my first time writing tickling fiction, so please be kind.
NOTE: This story contains non-consensual tickling, and if F/M. It also contains aspects of femdom as well a explicit descriptions of sex. If any of these things are not up to your tastes, feel free to exit without offense given or taken. Without further ado, here is the story.
Sir Fenton plunged through a small tangle of afternoon shoppers in the market, sending one woman flying with her bags and goods levitating in slow motion along with her, her face a pantomime of shock. The knight had no time for the townswoman or her plight. His eyes were narrowed straight ahead on a lithe figure clad in black leather making a precise left turn into an alleyway.
Although part of him felt bad for knocking the wind out of the pedestrian, Fenton knew that there were far bigger stakes in this game of tag, and doggedly pushed on at a breakneck pace to the end of the alley. Peering down to the end of it, giving his eyes little time to grow accustomed to the waning illumination, he thought he saw the same figure spring atop a crate, and leap nimbly up to grip the lower sill of a window.
"If you stop running it'll go better for you in court!" He shouted halfheartedly, already knowing he was wasting his breath but compelled to try anyway. The human shape even now leveraging itself up and into the open window was none other than the notorious art and jewel thief labeled the Wraith by the local populace of Blumberg.
A considerable bounty had been laid upon the thief's head, but Sir Fenton was far less concerned with the bounty than he was the relationships he had been honing with the nobility. He had a reputation for taking on problems of all shapes and sizes, so long as they would inflate his already sizeable public image.
This particular thief, however, was far from the common fare, being so bold as to invade the local baroness's mansion the evening prior and taking only the most valuable of art pieces and jewelry. The baroness herself had been bound hand and foot to the four corners of her own bed with a bit of cloth wadded up and stuffed into her mouth to prevent her signaling the guards.
The Wraith had proven himself formidable; intelligent and intuitive right from the start. Now at the end of a reign of terror close to three years long, he was about to be caught! Breathing ragged with the furious chase, Fenton raced to the end of the alley and duplicated his prey's movements by leaping atop the crate and jumping up to catch the lip of the window.
This kind of thing would have been impossible in clunky armor, but given his far more modest padded vest and fustian, his range of motion was far greater. He was very strong. The training regimen he kept up every day was not for show, and his body responded like a well oiled machine, pulling his weight up and forward over the edge of the sill and into an even darker antechamber.
This appeared upon a quick glance to be a powder room or something of the sort, but Fenton knew he had no time to spare. A muffled clatter from somewhere deeper within the residence spurred him forward.
As he ran through the open entryway into the next room, a brief flicker of instinct pulled him up short, but it was already too late. A pair of hands grabbed him firmly on each side by the arm and shoulder. Something warm, tingling and relaxing began in the back of his head and he heard murmured syllables from behind. Shit! A paralysis spell!
The warm comforting tingle turned into numbness spreading upwards and across the crown of his brow and further down his body. All strength seemed to depart him as the murmuring syllables grew fainter. He was in a dark turning tunnel teetering; falling. The darkness claimed him.
Fenton slowly came to out of a dreamless and timeless place. The first thing he could feel was an odd pulsing in his head; not quite at the threshold of headache but not comfortable either. He moaned as his eyelids fluttered and then slowly cracked open. Licking his lips, he groggily squinted around.
He was laying on his back, fully clothed in the middle of a massive and luxurious bed. The subtle brush of the sheets against his hands informed him that they was silk. His next unpleasant discovery came when Fenton tried to move his extremities. Something was binding his wrists and his ankles, giving him almost no slack at all with which to move. After a long few moments of pointless struggle, he lay back and stilled his breathing.
The room in which he was being held captive was quite large, and the perimeter of it was not immediately discernible. No light filtered in from any windows or doors, and there was absolutely no sound from the streets. In spite of the lack of apparent light source, a number of objects could be perceived as vague shapes in the stygian gloom.
Enough light played across the floor for him to see luxurious carpeting with an elaborate Persian pattern in emerald green and gold brocade. Something about the pattern of the carpet was mesmerizing, and his eyes traveled along the incline of the floor until his visual exploration was suddenly terminated by a woman's foot, naked and fetching in the ambient glow of the diffuse lighting.
Something about the foot and the way the rest of its owner was cloaked in darkness caused Fenton's heart to skip a beat and his blood to run cold. It spoke of deliberation, of theatrical effect.
The owner of the foot shifted slightly forward with a soft rustle of fabric, and he could now make out that the outline around the figure was a sizeable armchair. A silken and feminine voice purred from the shadows. "Ah. And so, at last the renowned hero Sir Fenton Blackwood graces us with his presence."
Fenton finally managed to swallow and regain his composure. "Who are you!" The volume of his voice after he had not heard himself speak for so long surprised him momentarily. When there was no immediate response he hastened to add, "Kidnapping of any person, never mind a member of the knighthood and of the noble court is a crime punishable by death!"
Now the figure in the armchair stirred again. "Yes, it most certainly is Sir Fenton. And yet you find yourself in my clutches nonetheless." She chuckled. It was a mirthless chuckle that sounded something like the sound a predatory bird might make before making a meal of its prey.
A note of pleading entered Fenton's voice much to his own frustration. "N-now please listen miss. Whatever you have in mind isn't necessary. If you stop this nonsense now and release me, things will..."
"Go better for me in court...?" A husky whisper intoned. Again Fenton's blood froze in his veins. This could not possibly be. This woman was the Wraith?
A movement sharpened his attention in time to see a second equally sexy foot descend to join the first on the floor. The woman rose from her seat and began to pad her way to the bed, one deliberate step at a time. The first of her to be revealed to the light was a stunning dark blue flare-sleeved court dress wrapping around long and graceful legs. A milk white hand also came into view, delicate fingers reaching out to trail across the silk of the bed sheets. Finally, her ample cleavage and face were illuminated.
Hers was an piercing beauty so perfect it would cause anyone to fall in love at first sight. Full and pouting lips beneath a button nose and a pair of eyes the most striking shade of violet they almost appeared to be dusted plum in the lambent glow.
Sir Fenton gasped. He knew this woman! His eyes bulged in shock. He worked his tongue but words failed him. Finally he managed to squeak "C-countess Von Lunark?!"
The countesses eyes bored holes in him, and one corner of those seductive lips curled upwards in a sardonic expression as she let the full implications of his predicament sink in.
Countess Karla Von Lunark was not only one of the most well known and powerful of the nobility of Blumberg, but notoriously a damsel, in open defiance of her family's wishes.
A constellation of rumors regarding her secret trysts and more ominous speculation about enemies of the Von Lunark family disappearing mysteriously to the vicinity of her rural mansion never to be seen from again were sources of frequent gossip.
Sir Fenton had fallen for her at first sight, just like so many others before him, but was certain that she hadn't even known he existed.
But to think that the countess herself was also the legendary Wraith was beyond absurd. And to realize he had been so hungry for the glory of capturing her that he had impulsively given chase alone was just as embarrassing.
He was becoming keenly aware at this moment of the fact that absolutely no one knew where he was or where he had gone.
Even if he could manage to escape whatever this situation was rapidly becoming, nobody would believe his word over hers. As if reading his mind and accentuating the point, the countess smiled an angelic little smile and pouted.
"What a shame that this meager knight, thinking he could have his way with a countess, dared to intrude upon me in my own mansion to press his affections upon me." She drew a weary hand, trembling for effect over her brow.
"And then to make matters worse he began accusing me of a litany of pretty crimes--"
"We both know that isn't the case!" Sir Fenton interrupted indignantly. "The baroness will report you and verify my account! Surely she must have seen you!" The angelic pout on the countesses face morphed into a wicked leering grin. "Oh would she? Surely you must have noticed how she stayed as quiet as a
mouse when questioned by the constabulary yesterday..."
Oh shit. She was right. The baronesses reticence coupled with the compromising position in which she had been found after the robbery indicated that her silence had somehow been coerced.
"You evil..." Sir Fenton fumed. "What did you do to her?"
The countess retrieved a small padded stool which she placed at the foot of the bed. She then gracefully sidled to the side of the bed and with slow deliberate movements began undoing Sir Fenton's vest and removing his garments.
"What are you... What are you doing?" He gasped as her fingertips grazed a couple of sensitive places. She seemed to take note of this, looking him in the eyes as she finished with his upper body garments.
"What does it look like? I'm removing your clothes. You won't soon be needing them. And as for the baroness... Well you're out about my methods firsthand."
The countess returned to the foot of the bed and sat on the stool.
He felt her nimble fingers begin methodically undoing the buckles on his boots. She began tugging them off of his feet one at a time.
He squirmed uncomfortably and panic began to set in at just how powerless he was to stop her from doing anything.
"You know I think a naughty little knight without any respect for his betters deserves to be punished." She continued, her voice low and ominous.
Sir Fenton fidgeted even more as he felt his feet suddenly exposed to the cool air of the room. He opened his mouth to implore her not to hurt him in any way, but she chose that exact moment to crawl up the bed, moving up his legs to his waist and undoing his pants.
"Please milady, this is indecent in the extreme." He protested, but without much conviction this time.
"Mmmhmm. Soooo indecent, much like the audacity of a little knight forcing his way into my chambers in the dead of night. Don't think I haven't noticed the way you have ravished me with your eyes at court Sir Fenton."
As if to prove her point, she tugged down his pants liberating his cock from his undergarments only for it to spring immediately to attention, betraying his dignity and revealing all secrets.
"I've heard a curious rumor, little knight," the countess said in a teasing drawl as she stood from the bed and began to undo her own dress. "I heard a lovely little tale that, in lieu of your squire, a couple of rather
eager young ladies were seen 'helping' you out of your armor. So the rumor goes, you happen to be quite ticklish..."
Everything in Fenton's body froze in apprehension. He was even inadvertently holding his breath. She absolutely could not tickle him.
She couldn't. He was already in such a compromising situation, and his feelings for her had been exposed, among other things. He couldn't bear it if she...
The dress suddenly fell to the floor revealing the most stunning feminine form Fenton had ever seen. He simply couldn't tear his eyes away no matter what, so utterly entranced was he by her full and generous bosom and the way her shapely curves seemed to swirl and blend in the ambient light.
And that hair! That raven black hair that spilled almost to her waist.
He was almost too enchanted to catch what the countess said next.
"Tell me sweet Sir Fenton, most stoic of all the knights stationed here in the city. Are you... Ticklish?" Fenton's eyes widened. There was no way. She simply wouldn't. There was no way the countess would ever actually...
And yet there she was, sitting again at the foot of the bed, every action excruciatingly deliberate, raising both of her hands above Fenton's oh-so-vulnerable feet. She wiggled her fingertips and grinned devilishly.
"My, my! How well you take care of these little feet. Anyone who pampers their feet like this definitely wants someone like me to come along and play with them!"
"No! No please! Please! Countess I beg of you to let me go I swear on my mother's soul I will never tell a word--"
His monologue was cut short by some of the most intense sensations he had ever felt in his life. The unbearably ticklish feeling of two tapered fingertips exploring every inch of his soles. Sharp little fingernails being used to softly trace patterns and outlines.
A stream of giggles and guffaws came pouring unbidden from his mouth which had become a strained grin. On and on she went. Her fingers endlessly inquisitive, their technique ceaselessly inventive. They made tiny little concentric circles, widening slowly to encompass his whole foot, they moved up and
down sliding across tender arches, they unerringly homed in on exquisite little spots that elicited the most powerful reactions and lingered there for what felt like hours but were probably mere moments.
Wuah-ha-ha-hahahaha! Why arhahahahah! Pleheheheeheese!
For the first time in his life Fenton was experiencing real tickle torture. His initial giggles quickly became waterfalls of guttural laughter, which terrified him as he realized the complete lack of control over his own
body and his utter inability to stop laughing.
At last she stopped and he lay gasping, a thin veil of sweat already broken out across his body. He was in trouble.
He could never have anticipated how dreadfully intense that first touchdown of just two fingertips would have felt, or how intuitively the countess could read every sensitive place on his flesh as if he were an open book.
"Aren't you just adorable my ticklish little boy." The countess sounded slightly out of breath herself, and Fenton thought he could make out a blush of pleasure creeping onto her features.
"But dearest Fenton I'm afraid I have a confession to make. If you are the 'heroic knight', then I am the villainess of this story, and what you have experienced up until now has only been the warmup!
Scream as loud or as much as you desire my toy. These walls have muted tormented cries that would put your mewling to shame.
Starting from this moment, I'm going to break you body, mind and soul. When I am done you will beg me to give you release. You will beg me for the privilege to live as my tickle slave!"
And so saying, the countess dug into Fenton's feet with all ten scampering digits. Existence exploded into ticklish hell. Never in his life had Fenton known he could laugh so hard. Never in his life had he imagined anything could tickle SO FUCKING BAD.
Hahahahahahaha! Ahhahahaaahaaagaaahd!HAAHAAHAAHAHAGHAAA
HAHAHAHAAHAAHAA!
No matter how his laughter pleaded for him with it's fluctuating crescendos and long breathless staccatos it could never begin to express just how ticklish he really was, or what this insidious woman was doing to him.
Her fingers were fucking everywhere, and they tickled so... damn... bad!
Every time Fenton began to endure the tiniest bit of the torture the countess would instantly read him and change her technique or angle of approach, making him swoon against the bed in helpless paroxysms of ticklish agony.
Her acrobatic fingers found their ways between his toes where they sawed back and forth. He would desperately try to conceal one foot with the other only to have her capture the newly exposed limb and peel the toes way back for more furious work on his exposed and helpless soles.
She scratched his heels. Her fingertips found the tops of his feet and scrabbled there for what felt like forever. Each time he tried to focus all his remaining concentration to beg, she would sense him trying to
speak, and her fingers would become blurs of frenzied tickling that would cause his eyes to swim, and wrench gale after gale of brutal laughter from his lungs.
Again, and again his head slammed against the mattress, again and again her fingers would attack in wave after wave of maddening coordination.
It felt as if his whole world had contracted to a vanishing point of awareness that began and ended in his helpless feet. Just when he thought she could do no more a new agonizing ticklish sensation blasted its way into his
brain as the countess began nibbling his arches and toes.
Fenton went absolutely ballistic.
There was no room for thought any more. His world consisted of nothing but these terribly gentle teeth torturing his poor defenseless feet and his insane endless laughter... When she finally stopped, he lay there insensate, as one of the dead for nearly ten minutes, not even realizing that she had given him a break.
As awareness returned, he took his bearings only to find his wicked captor at the foot of the bed again, chin resting in her left palm, studying him with a curious mixture of excitement and... Could that be affection? She smiled at him and got to her feet, bringing him a glass of cool water from somewhere nearby. She loosened his bonds enough to help him into a semi-sitting position where he could drink.
"Who could have known that such a big strong knight is such a ticklish little boy," the countess cooed softly. Fenton blushed beet red in humiliation. She giggled. "You actually love being my prisoner don't you?" Fenton said nothing, but he did not protest.
Why? Why didn't he protest? Was she right? She took the water when he was finished and lowered him back to the mattress, snugly securing him again. She circled around to the foot of the bed and got on it, scooting her knees up just inside Fenton's shins. "Ready for round two?" She inquired with a raised eyebrow.
At this he could no longer maintain his earlier stoicism. "Lady Karla I beg you please, please have mercy!" Fenton began to plead. "I'm too ticklish I won't survive any more... Agghhhhahahahahahaaahaaaa!" The countess had been looking directly at him, nodding sympathetically as if his words were having an impact, and then struck without warning, her wicked nails dancing all over his upper legs.
Up they went to dance playfully over his belly, and down they went into the ultra sensitive areas of his inner thighs. Again he was sent into endless streams of involuntary mirth as torrents of laughter erupted from his body. This time the countess was not content to silently torture him, instead spicing up the ordeal with a series of humiliating taunts and teasing.
"Tickle, tickle, tickle little knight!" she intoned while wearing a malevolent grin and spider walking her fingers from his hips down his legs to find a horribly ticklish spot in the hollows underneath his knees. "Tickle, tickle, tickle! Cootchie, cootchie, coo!"
Within minutes Fenton could feel his face burning bright from a combination of humiliation and lack of oxygen. For the briefest of moments he thought she might have mercy and give him a break to catch his breath, but instead the tickling got even worse. She began kneading his legs and making concentric rings with her fingertips and then suddenly collapsing them to tickle his kneecaps.
"Aaaahaahaahaaaahaaaahaa! Waahaarrhaaaheehuhuhou dooheeheeheeheeing! AGHahaahaahaahaaa!" In response to his barely intelligible query, she only amped up the speed and intensity of the torture, making it literally impossible for him to form words.
"What am I doing?" She smiled as she continued her diabolical work. "Can't you feel that I'm tickling you? Whose a tickewish widdle boy? Aww, I think it's you Fenton! You're my tickewish widdle boy aren't you?" Something about the way the countess was teasing him verbally, calling attention to just how desperately ticklish he was and exactly what she was doing to him made the tickling itself much worse and brought him to new heights (or depths) of howling hysterics.
Additionally, Fenton began to realize through a deep mental fog of torment that at some point he had grown so aroused it was almost painful. His member was throbbing and throbbing along with his steady laughter. After a few more minutes, the countess took notice too. She finally stopped the tickling of his legs and knees and wrapped a warm hand tenderly around his shaft.
"Oh my little Fenton. Your lips keep begging me to stop but another part of you puts the lie to your words, isn't that so?" Mortified by the betrayal of his own body, Fenton could only lay still and moan, marveling at how such a light touch of her hand could feel so insanely gratifying. Slowly and steadily, she pulled on his shaft until her hand reached the top and she added a twisting flourish that made him gasp. The friction. The glorious friction.
He moaned more loudly in ecstasy and delight, and to his surprise, she kept going, running her skilled fingers along his cock, teasing and teasing, but nonetheless bringing him closer and closer to orgasm with each touch. At last, she began increasing the friction degree by degree, pumping up and down the length of him with her hands. Fenton was writhing, incapable of remaining still. Every single fiber of his nerves was on fire. All he could think about was how amazing her touch felt and how close he was to orgasm.
Of course poor ticklish Fenton could never have noticed, lost as he was in a world of pleasure that one of her hands had left his cock until she began furiously tickling his balls. He issued a shrill little cry of betrayal followed by a helpless barrage of laughter. "Argheheeheahaahaahaahahaha!"
Fenton was besides himself. He simply could not help the shrieking notes that were coming out of his lungs. Those nails, so potent and accurate kept swirling around and around his balls, somehow finding ways to reduce him to nothing but a whimpering ticklish mess.
The countess was transfixed, watching his eyes and the pleading micro expressions crossing his face with rapt attention, a wide smile on her face. To keep the things fresh, she kept up the most torturous mixture of pleasure and tickling. Again, and again her hands would coax and tease him right to the brink of orgasm, only to cheat him and resume tickling.
Lost somewhere in a dizzying world of arousal and ticklish torment, Fenton's sanity was unraveling. With each one of thousands of touches, some strange delusion was beginning to take hold of his mind. Instead of torture, he thought, the countess was administering the most unendurable pleasure through her tickling. Surely she meant him no harm. Surely this must simply be the expression of her love.
Did he really want to escape any longer? If she released him would he truly run from this place and never return? Flown away were the recollections of her crimes. All Fenton could focus on was her. The warmth of her body against his. The weight of her as she held him down. The endlessly ticklish touches she kept showering upon his body, and the inexplicable arousal they induced in him. All of these began to blur together, as he continued to thrash and cackle his appreciation of her continued ministrations.
As the borders of his vision turned fuzzy, Fenton heard a weak voice call out, "mistress please..."
When he came to, the countess was next to him gently sweeping his hair back from a sweat-slicked forehead. Fenton determined that, unable to maintain consciousness this time, he really had fainted. However it could only have been for a few moments, as his angry erection had yet to subside. He mumbled incoherently and the countess shushed him softly.
"Shhhh. You've done so well thus far my ticklish little knight. Just breathe." She left his side and returned with water once more, easing him into a sitting position. She fixed him with an oddly intense expression. "Did you mean what you said just now?"
Fenton's face registered confusion which slowly began to change with the dawn of realization. The voice crying out had been his own. His delirium had been so strong that in the moment he had not even recognized his own voice. He dropped his gaze to the bed and felt his cheeks burning. He nodded. He felt her lean forward. Felt her finger lift his chin up again.
Now that he had the presence of mind to notice, the countess herself appeared out of breath. Her cheeks were flushed deeply, and a trickle of sweat descended her brow. Seemingly motivated by his response, a genuine smile parted her lips. It was as if the heavens had split asunder and the radiance of the noonday sun had burst into the room. In spite of all he had been through at the hands of this evil woman, he could do nothing to prevent his heart from melting.
"Only once more my ticklish boy, and I promise you if you surrender to me this time, I'll make it worth your while." At first Fenton shrank back involuntarily, but then he paused. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on had changed within. There was certainly a part of him that wanted to cry at the threat of more tickling, but the other part had begun to crave her every touch; even the torturous caresses he had been enduring for what must have been hours now.
She was watching him intently. Curiously. When he straightened up and faced her with another nod, she whispered "I knew you were special somehow." Fenton cleared his throat and asked, "so how long did the baroness last?"
Taken completely aback by the unexpected question, the countess tilted her head back and laughed loud and long. It was a beautiful lilting sound, and he felt disproportionately pleased for being the cause of it. She ceased laughing and gazed at him. Suddenly she leaned forward, pressing her lips against his. It was brief, but heavenly. "Oh sweetie, she couldn't even last thirty minutes." She said after pulling away.
The countess reached out her hands and touched the leather cuffs clasping his wrists together, tracing some sort of pattern along the outside with her fingers. "Be a good boy and hold still," she said to him.
Then her voice dropped to a dulcet murmur as she began to intone strange syllables, her eyes closing as she focused. It was not a language he could comprehend, and yet he knew it at once.
It was the mysterious vernacular of sorcerers and witches, used to cast various glamers and magics from the old ways. It was the same language he had heard before when he was paralyzed and rendered unconscious during his capture.
He felt a firm pressure from the cuffs that bound his wrists together, as the cuffs themselves moved of their own accord, rising into the air and suspending his arms above his head. Mouth agape, he stared at them as they remain suspended in midair; transfixed by an unseen force.
He now found himself sitting upright with a slight amount of play left for him to flex his arms and move his torso. The countess circled behind him and, turning his head as much as he could, he saw that she had propped several fluffy looking pillows against the headboard of the bed.
She climbed into the bed right behind him, supported by the pillows at her back, just as he was now supported by her soft, warm body.
Gently, she pulled him back, adjusting the amount of tension on the cuffs independently until he was leaning back at an incline against her form, while his arms were still raised directly overhead. He tested the cuffs, but they didn't budge in the slightest.
Even so, it was very comfortable. His skin anticipated her touch, and she didn't make him wait. Softly, ever so lightly, her fingertips made contact with an incredibly sensitive spot just above his hips on both sides.
He flinched and squirmed, face already screwing up into a ticklish smile even though she hadn't even started moving her hands.
She stayed just like that for a moment.
"I've been watching you for these three years now my ticklish little
knight." She said huskily. "While you were so eagerly rushing to catch me and earn your public acclaim, you lacked the privilege of knowing who I was.
I, on the other hand, have so enjoyed playing cat and mouse with you, both at court and afield."
Her fingers began to move, ever so slowly, in the tiniest almost imperceptible little circles in that one spot that tickled so much.
She hadn't even begun, but already Fenton was producing a steady stream of musical little giggles; tiny little notes of helplessness that spoke so much more than words ever could.
"My intuition kept drawing me to you. I saw longing in your eyes in our encounters, and behind that longing, a deeper passion. And I kept wondering over and over, how ticklish you might be. And now that we both know just how ticklish you really are, there's only one thing I need to hear from you my sweet knight."
Her fingers abruptly ceased all motion and withdrew.
Fenton was startled by the sudden absence of her touch. By the withdrawal of those warm and teasing digits. It seemed... cruel somehow.
And suddenly he knew exactly what she needed him to say. It was something he would never have had the audacity to utter even a few hours prior. And yet it was something he now had begun to realize he had wanted all along without ever knowing his own depths. It was something every cautionary voice in
his brain screamed warnings for him not to utter. Fenton didn't listen.
He now had something now he hadn't had before. Perspective.
Fenton knew what was important in his life. And he could see clearly just how much he loved this woman who had broken him so easily.
His heart still beating so quickly from her confession, he inhaled as deeply as he could even as his body trembled in fear and excitement.
"Please mistress. Please tickle me!"
Before a even moment had passed, those blessed teasing hands answered his prayer, but without caution this time, caressing, stroking, and skittering up and down the playground of his sides.
Once again the world slowed to a crawl and he became lost in an ocean of sensation and arousal and roaring laughter that shook him to his core. The tears that came unbidden to his eyes.
Were they tears of ticklish agony? Yes.
Were they tears of gratitude? Absolutely.
So many raging emotions churned within. And yet even while his body bucked, and every ticklish place was exploited again and again; even as he was consumed by passion he felt a still, small quiet place deep within at the core of his being that told him that he was finally home.
He started from his reverie, realizing that Lady Karla was murmuring again, in that sweet voice, so close behind that her warm breath titillated his ear.
She held both hands up in front of them so Fenton could see the eerie bluish glow captured there; enveloping her fingers.
Almost as if in a trance, he watched as the bluish glow, still retaining the shapes of her fingers departed from their hostess and levitated their way slowly to the foot of the bed. His eyes widened as he saw where they were going. "Oh no... Oh no, oh no oh no!" He said more to himself than anyone else. Lady Karla whispered in his ear again, "Oh yessss."
Fenton scrunched up his eyes in horrid anticipation. The feeling as those magical digits made first contact with his re-sensitized feet was worse than anything his imagination could have prepared him for.
"OH NOAGHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAAHAAHAAHAA!"
If he had forgotten the insanity produced by the tickling of his feet earlier, he was getting the perfect refresher course. And then, impossibly, Lady Karla's actual fingers rejoined the fun by attacking the hollows of his armpits.
Lights danced in front of his vision as Fenton cried out in the most desperate laughter of his life. The endless waves of overwhelming tickling were hitting his nervous system and blasting their way into his brain like lightning bolts. His body tried to levitate itself off the bed to no avail. He wasn't going anywhere.
There was no rhyme or rhythm; no routine or pattern. And the magical tickling felt uniquely different than the delicious sensation of her real fingertips as they capered idly in his armpits. He tried with all of his weakened strength to pull his arms down to stop the wicked torture of his ticklish underarms, but the merciless grip of his bonds gave up no ground whatsoever.
In the midst of it all, his wildly straining erection flapped about like a captive animal trying to break free of its captivity. Every inch of his exposed shaft felt engorged to its limit, throbbing with the intensity of his
arousal as it mingled with the torture.
The ruthless tickling went on and on and on. Just when he felt he was losing consciousness yet again, the countess arrested the motion of the magical digits at his feet, and slowed her assault on his ribs, sides and pits to gentle caresses. He panted, covered in sweat, hair disheveled, and still giggling nonstop even as he tried to catch what little breath he had left. Every touch felt like tickling to him at this point, even the calming attentions of her hands.
Lady Karla stopped her touches altogether and instead wrapped her arms around him from behind. He could feel her trembling as well, as if she were in as much a state of heightened arousal as he was.
When she spoke, her voice was ragged and trembled with passion.
"I made you a promise, didn't I?" She released him from her embrace and her hands began moving south. He dared not even hope or dream that she was
about to do what her endless teasing had promised so long. "I promised that I would make it worth your while my ticklish little knight. And I always keep my promises."
So saying, her hands took hold of the length of his throbbing erection and began slowly pumping up and down. Unable to control the pleasure, all the more poignant from being denied him for so long, Fenton let out a growl of frustration and lust.
"Close your eyes," she whispered. He did as he was commanded without question, and found that the sensations coming from his cock were even more intense when he stopped seeing what she was doing to him. Her fingers, so lithe and masterful in their administration of tickle torture, were equally talented as
they teased little patterns and swirls into his shaft and head and as they moved methodically from base to tip over and over again.
Without warning, the magic at the foot of the bed activated again, only on a much milder setting than before. But the sudden tickling still brought fresh tears of helpless giggling to his face, even as he squinted his eyes to keep them shut.
Fenton had long since gone over the edge into reckless self-abandonment. He knew in his soul of souls that he belonged to the villainess in every way. Everything she had threatened in the beginning had turned out to be true. She had broken him: mind, body and soul. She had sensed a desire in him that even he did not know was there and teased it out to its full fruition.
As the tickling continued on his feet, soft and mild but deliberate, her hands continued to work on his body, playing him like an instrument. His laughter began mixing with little cries of absolute pleasure and joy as her efforts brought him closer and closer to inevitability.
At first, the tickling distracted him from appreciating the stimulation to his genitals, but as the two seemingly contradictory sensations continued to coexist, he realized that he had crossed a Rubicon; a point of no return where the tickling had fused itself with the arousal that was being enflamed by the
countess.
And as each deft and sure stroke, twist, pump, and trace of the nails on his shaft brought him closer and closer to climax, Fenton felt the last vestiges of control ebb away only to be replaced by a growing ecstasy.
He felt his entire body completely relax into her fiery warmth behind him, and realized that she was groaning aloud, grinding her hips against his own; their soft cries of heightened arousal blending together.
As her attentions to him grew more and more insistent, the friction of her touches gathered and increased in intensity, and Fenton's moaning gave way to small screams, as the rumblings prior to orgasm began to unfurl from deep within. And then suddenly he was screaming at the top of his lungs,
holding nothing back; taken by the unearthly and mind-shattering intensity of orgasm, as it slammed into him, ravishing his soul in wave after wave of bliss. Lady Karla's own cries mingled with his as they trembled together like two leaves in a tempest; riding the storm together to its end.
Seconds or hours later, when the raging pleasure had subsided enough for them to grow dimly aware of their surroundings again, they simply lay together. The magic vanished, and the cuffs around his hands and ankles opened of their own accord, dropping his hands unceremoniously into his lap. The countess snuggled into his back; her arms wrapped around his waist.
He felt so loved in that moment. So warm, and so very content.
"Lady Karla..." he began in a broken and hoarse voice.
"Mmmm?" She said, not possessing the energy required to give a more animated reply.
"I've been considering a life of crime as of late," he said enjoying the intoxication of her nearness. "Might you know anyone who could help me with a career change?"
For the second time that evening, Lady Karla laughed.
"Sadistic villainess defeats and captures the hero, and tickle tortures him for her amusement and sadistic sexual pleasure."
Sounded like a stimulating fire starter so I gave it a go!
This is technically my first time writing tickling fiction, so please be kind.
NOTE: This story contains non-consensual tickling, and if F/M. It also contains aspects of femdom as well a explicit descriptions of sex. If any of these things are not up to your tastes, feel free to exit without offense given or taken. Without further ado, here is the story.
Sir Fenton plunged through a small tangle of afternoon shoppers in the market, sending one woman flying with her bags and goods levitating in slow motion along with her, her face a pantomime of shock. The knight had no time for the townswoman or her plight. His eyes were narrowed straight ahead on a lithe figure clad in black leather making a precise left turn into an alleyway.
Although part of him felt bad for knocking the wind out of the pedestrian, Fenton knew that there were far bigger stakes in this game of tag, and doggedly pushed on at a breakneck pace to the end of the alley. Peering down to the end of it, giving his eyes little time to grow accustomed to the waning illumination, he thought he saw the same figure spring atop a crate, and leap nimbly up to grip the lower sill of a window.
"If you stop running it'll go better for you in court!" He shouted halfheartedly, already knowing he was wasting his breath but compelled to try anyway. The human shape even now leveraging itself up and into the open window was none other than the notorious art and jewel thief labeled the Wraith by the local populace of Blumberg.
A considerable bounty had been laid upon the thief's head, but Sir Fenton was far less concerned with the bounty than he was the relationships he had been honing with the nobility. He had a reputation for taking on problems of all shapes and sizes, so long as they would inflate his already sizeable public image.
This particular thief, however, was far from the common fare, being so bold as to invade the local baroness's mansion the evening prior and taking only the most valuable of art pieces and jewelry. The baroness herself had been bound hand and foot to the four corners of her own bed with a bit of cloth wadded up and stuffed into her mouth to prevent her signaling the guards.
The Wraith had proven himself formidable; intelligent and intuitive right from the start. Now at the end of a reign of terror close to three years long, he was about to be caught! Breathing ragged with the furious chase, Fenton raced to the end of the alley and duplicated his prey's movements by leaping atop the crate and jumping up to catch the lip of the window.
This kind of thing would have been impossible in clunky armor, but given his far more modest padded vest and fustian, his range of motion was far greater. He was very strong. The training regimen he kept up every day was not for show, and his body responded like a well oiled machine, pulling his weight up and forward over the edge of the sill and into an even darker antechamber.
This appeared upon a quick glance to be a powder room or something of the sort, but Fenton knew he had no time to spare. A muffled clatter from somewhere deeper within the residence spurred him forward.
As he ran through the open entryway into the next room, a brief flicker of instinct pulled him up short, but it was already too late. A pair of hands grabbed him firmly on each side by the arm and shoulder. Something warm, tingling and relaxing began in the back of his head and he heard murmured syllables from behind. Shit! A paralysis spell!
The warm comforting tingle turned into numbness spreading upwards and across the crown of his brow and further down his body. All strength seemed to depart him as the murmuring syllables grew fainter. He was in a dark turning tunnel teetering; falling. The darkness claimed him.
Fenton slowly came to out of a dreamless and timeless place. The first thing he could feel was an odd pulsing in his head; not quite at the threshold of headache but not comfortable either. He moaned as his eyelids fluttered and then slowly cracked open. Licking his lips, he groggily squinted around.
He was laying on his back, fully clothed in the middle of a massive and luxurious bed. The subtle brush of the sheets against his hands informed him that they was silk. His next unpleasant discovery came when Fenton tried to move his extremities. Something was binding his wrists and his ankles, giving him almost no slack at all with which to move. After a long few moments of pointless struggle, he lay back and stilled his breathing.
The room in which he was being held captive was quite large, and the perimeter of it was not immediately discernible. No light filtered in from any windows or doors, and there was absolutely no sound from the streets. In spite of the lack of apparent light source, a number of objects could be perceived as vague shapes in the stygian gloom.
Enough light played across the floor for him to see luxurious carpeting with an elaborate Persian pattern in emerald green and gold brocade. Something about the pattern of the carpet was mesmerizing, and his eyes traveled along the incline of the floor until his visual exploration was suddenly terminated by a woman's foot, naked and fetching in the ambient glow of the diffuse lighting.
Something about the foot and the way the rest of its owner was cloaked in darkness caused Fenton's heart to skip a beat and his blood to run cold. It spoke of deliberation, of theatrical effect.
The owner of the foot shifted slightly forward with a soft rustle of fabric, and he could now make out that the outline around the figure was a sizeable armchair. A silken and feminine voice purred from the shadows. "Ah. And so, at last the renowned hero Sir Fenton Blackwood graces us with his presence."
Fenton finally managed to swallow and regain his composure. "Who are you!" The volume of his voice after he had not heard himself speak for so long surprised him momentarily. When there was no immediate response he hastened to add, "Kidnapping of any person, never mind a member of the knighthood and of the noble court is a crime punishable by death!"
Now the figure in the armchair stirred again. "Yes, it most certainly is Sir Fenton. And yet you find yourself in my clutches nonetheless." She chuckled. It was a mirthless chuckle that sounded something like the sound a predatory bird might make before making a meal of its prey.
A note of pleading entered Fenton's voice much to his own frustration. "N-now please listen miss. Whatever you have in mind isn't necessary. If you stop this nonsense now and release me, things will..."
"Go better for me in court...?" A husky whisper intoned. Again Fenton's blood froze in his veins. This could not possibly be. This woman was the Wraith?
A movement sharpened his attention in time to see a second equally sexy foot descend to join the first on the floor. The woman rose from her seat and began to pad her way to the bed, one deliberate step at a time. The first of her to be revealed to the light was a stunning dark blue flare-sleeved court dress wrapping around long and graceful legs. A milk white hand also came into view, delicate fingers reaching out to trail across the silk of the bed sheets. Finally, her ample cleavage and face were illuminated.
Hers was an piercing beauty so perfect it would cause anyone to fall in love at first sight. Full and pouting lips beneath a button nose and a pair of eyes the most striking shade of violet they almost appeared to be dusted plum in the lambent glow.
Sir Fenton gasped. He knew this woman! His eyes bulged in shock. He worked his tongue but words failed him. Finally he managed to squeak "C-countess Von Lunark?!"
The countesses eyes bored holes in him, and one corner of those seductive lips curled upwards in a sardonic expression as she let the full implications of his predicament sink in.
Countess Karla Von Lunark was not only one of the most well known and powerful of the nobility of Blumberg, but notoriously a damsel, in open defiance of her family's wishes.
A constellation of rumors regarding her secret trysts and more ominous speculation about enemies of the Von Lunark family disappearing mysteriously to the vicinity of her rural mansion never to be seen from again were sources of frequent gossip.
Sir Fenton had fallen for her at first sight, just like so many others before him, but was certain that she hadn't even known he existed.
But to think that the countess herself was also the legendary Wraith was beyond absurd. And to realize he had been so hungry for the glory of capturing her that he had impulsively given chase alone was just as embarrassing.
He was becoming keenly aware at this moment of the fact that absolutely no one knew where he was or where he had gone.
Even if he could manage to escape whatever this situation was rapidly becoming, nobody would believe his word over hers. As if reading his mind and accentuating the point, the countess smiled an angelic little smile and pouted.
"What a shame that this meager knight, thinking he could have his way with a countess, dared to intrude upon me in my own mansion to press his affections upon me." She drew a weary hand, trembling for effect over her brow.
"And then to make matters worse he began accusing me of a litany of pretty crimes--"
"We both know that isn't the case!" Sir Fenton interrupted indignantly. "The baroness will report you and verify my account! Surely she must have seen you!" The angelic pout on the countesses face morphed into a wicked leering grin. "Oh would she? Surely you must have noticed how she stayed as quiet as a
mouse when questioned by the constabulary yesterday..."
Oh shit. She was right. The baronesses reticence coupled with the compromising position in which she had been found after the robbery indicated that her silence had somehow been coerced.
"You evil..." Sir Fenton fumed. "What did you do to her?"
The countess retrieved a small padded stool which she placed at the foot of the bed. She then gracefully sidled to the side of the bed and with slow deliberate movements began undoing Sir Fenton's vest and removing his garments.
"What are you... What are you doing?" He gasped as her fingertips grazed a couple of sensitive places. She seemed to take note of this, looking him in the eyes as she finished with his upper body garments.
"What does it look like? I'm removing your clothes. You won't soon be needing them. And as for the baroness... Well you're out about my methods firsthand."
The countess returned to the foot of the bed and sat on the stool.
He felt her nimble fingers begin methodically undoing the buckles on his boots. She began tugging them off of his feet one at a time.
He squirmed uncomfortably and panic began to set in at just how powerless he was to stop her from doing anything.
"You know I think a naughty little knight without any respect for his betters deserves to be punished." She continued, her voice low and ominous.
Sir Fenton fidgeted even more as he felt his feet suddenly exposed to the cool air of the room. He opened his mouth to implore her not to hurt him in any way, but she chose that exact moment to crawl up the bed, moving up his legs to his waist and undoing his pants.
"Please milady, this is indecent in the extreme." He protested, but without much conviction this time.
"Mmmhmm. Soooo indecent, much like the audacity of a little knight forcing his way into my chambers in the dead of night. Don't think I haven't noticed the way you have ravished me with your eyes at court Sir Fenton."
As if to prove her point, she tugged down his pants liberating his cock from his undergarments only for it to spring immediately to attention, betraying his dignity and revealing all secrets.
"I've heard a curious rumor, little knight," the countess said in a teasing drawl as she stood from the bed and began to undo her own dress. "I heard a lovely little tale that, in lieu of your squire, a couple of rather
eager young ladies were seen 'helping' you out of your armor. So the rumor goes, you happen to be quite ticklish..."
Everything in Fenton's body froze in apprehension. He was even inadvertently holding his breath. She absolutely could not tickle him.
She couldn't. He was already in such a compromising situation, and his feelings for her had been exposed, among other things. He couldn't bear it if she...
The dress suddenly fell to the floor revealing the most stunning feminine form Fenton had ever seen. He simply couldn't tear his eyes away no matter what, so utterly entranced was he by her full and generous bosom and the way her shapely curves seemed to swirl and blend in the ambient light.
And that hair! That raven black hair that spilled almost to her waist.
He was almost too enchanted to catch what the countess said next.
"Tell me sweet Sir Fenton, most stoic of all the knights stationed here in the city. Are you... Ticklish?" Fenton's eyes widened. There was no way. She simply wouldn't. There was no way the countess would ever actually...
And yet there she was, sitting again at the foot of the bed, every action excruciatingly deliberate, raising both of her hands above Fenton's oh-so-vulnerable feet. She wiggled her fingertips and grinned devilishly.
"My, my! How well you take care of these little feet. Anyone who pampers their feet like this definitely wants someone like me to come along and play with them!"
"No! No please! Please! Countess I beg of you to let me go I swear on my mother's soul I will never tell a word--"
His monologue was cut short by some of the most intense sensations he had ever felt in his life. The unbearably ticklish feeling of two tapered fingertips exploring every inch of his soles. Sharp little fingernails being used to softly trace patterns and outlines.
A stream of giggles and guffaws came pouring unbidden from his mouth which had become a strained grin. On and on she went. Her fingers endlessly inquisitive, their technique ceaselessly inventive. They made tiny little concentric circles, widening slowly to encompass his whole foot, they moved up and
down sliding across tender arches, they unerringly homed in on exquisite little spots that elicited the most powerful reactions and lingered there for what felt like hours but were probably mere moments.
Wuah-ha-ha-hahahaha! Why arhahahahah! Pleheheheeheese!
For the first time in his life Fenton was experiencing real tickle torture. His initial giggles quickly became waterfalls of guttural laughter, which terrified him as he realized the complete lack of control over his own
body and his utter inability to stop laughing.
At last she stopped and he lay gasping, a thin veil of sweat already broken out across his body. He was in trouble.
He could never have anticipated how dreadfully intense that first touchdown of just two fingertips would have felt, or how intuitively the countess could read every sensitive place on his flesh as if he were an open book.
"Aren't you just adorable my ticklish little boy." The countess sounded slightly out of breath herself, and Fenton thought he could make out a blush of pleasure creeping onto her features.
"But dearest Fenton I'm afraid I have a confession to make. If you are the 'heroic knight', then I am the villainess of this story, and what you have experienced up until now has only been the warmup!
Scream as loud or as much as you desire my toy. These walls have muted tormented cries that would put your mewling to shame.
Starting from this moment, I'm going to break you body, mind and soul. When I am done you will beg me to give you release. You will beg me for the privilege to live as my tickle slave!"
And so saying, the countess dug into Fenton's feet with all ten scampering digits. Existence exploded into ticklish hell. Never in his life had Fenton known he could laugh so hard. Never in his life had he imagined anything could tickle SO FUCKING BAD.
Hahahahahahaha! Ahhahahaaahaaagaaahd!HAAHAAHAAHAHAGHAAA
HAHAHAHAAHAAHAA!
No matter how his laughter pleaded for him with it's fluctuating crescendos and long breathless staccatos it could never begin to express just how ticklish he really was, or what this insidious woman was doing to him.
Her fingers were fucking everywhere, and they tickled so... damn... bad!
Every time Fenton began to endure the tiniest bit of the torture the countess would instantly read him and change her technique or angle of approach, making him swoon against the bed in helpless paroxysms of ticklish agony.
Her acrobatic fingers found their ways between his toes where they sawed back and forth. He would desperately try to conceal one foot with the other only to have her capture the newly exposed limb and peel the toes way back for more furious work on his exposed and helpless soles.
She scratched his heels. Her fingertips found the tops of his feet and scrabbled there for what felt like forever. Each time he tried to focus all his remaining concentration to beg, she would sense him trying to
speak, and her fingers would become blurs of frenzied tickling that would cause his eyes to swim, and wrench gale after gale of brutal laughter from his lungs.
Again, and again his head slammed against the mattress, again and again her fingers would attack in wave after wave of maddening coordination.
It felt as if his whole world had contracted to a vanishing point of awareness that began and ended in his helpless feet. Just when he thought she could do no more a new agonizing ticklish sensation blasted its way into his
brain as the countess began nibbling his arches and toes.
Fenton went absolutely ballistic.
There was no room for thought any more. His world consisted of nothing but these terribly gentle teeth torturing his poor defenseless feet and his insane endless laughter... When she finally stopped, he lay there insensate, as one of the dead for nearly ten minutes, not even realizing that she had given him a break.
As awareness returned, he took his bearings only to find his wicked captor at the foot of the bed again, chin resting in her left palm, studying him with a curious mixture of excitement and... Could that be affection? She smiled at him and got to her feet, bringing him a glass of cool water from somewhere nearby. She loosened his bonds enough to help him into a semi-sitting position where he could drink.
"Who could have known that such a big strong knight is such a ticklish little boy," the countess cooed softly. Fenton blushed beet red in humiliation. She giggled. "You actually love being my prisoner don't you?" Fenton said nothing, but he did not protest.
Why? Why didn't he protest? Was she right? She took the water when he was finished and lowered him back to the mattress, snugly securing him again. She circled around to the foot of the bed and got on it, scooting her knees up just inside Fenton's shins. "Ready for round two?" She inquired with a raised eyebrow.
At this he could no longer maintain his earlier stoicism. "Lady Karla I beg you please, please have mercy!" Fenton began to plead. "I'm too ticklish I won't survive any more... Agghhhhahahahahahaaahaaaa!" The countess had been looking directly at him, nodding sympathetically as if his words were having an impact, and then struck without warning, her wicked nails dancing all over his upper legs.
Up they went to dance playfully over his belly, and down they went into the ultra sensitive areas of his inner thighs. Again he was sent into endless streams of involuntary mirth as torrents of laughter erupted from his body. This time the countess was not content to silently torture him, instead spicing up the ordeal with a series of humiliating taunts and teasing.
"Tickle, tickle, tickle little knight!" she intoned while wearing a malevolent grin and spider walking her fingers from his hips down his legs to find a horribly ticklish spot in the hollows underneath his knees. "Tickle, tickle, tickle! Cootchie, cootchie, coo!"
Within minutes Fenton could feel his face burning bright from a combination of humiliation and lack of oxygen. For the briefest of moments he thought she might have mercy and give him a break to catch his breath, but instead the tickling got even worse. She began kneading his legs and making concentric rings with her fingertips and then suddenly collapsing them to tickle his kneecaps.
"Aaaahaahaahaaaahaaaahaa! Waahaarrhaaaheehuhuhou dooheeheeheeheeing! AGHahaahaahaahaaa!" In response to his barely intelligible query, she only amped up the speed and intensity of the torture, making it literally impossible for him to form words.
"What am I doing?" She smiled as she continued her diabolical work. "Can't you feel that I'm tickling you? Whose a tickewish widdle boy? Aww, I think it's you Fenton! You're my tickewish widdle boy aren't you?" Something about the way the countess was teasing him verbally, calling attention to just how desperately ticklish he was and exactly what she was doing to him made the tickling itself much worse and brought him to new heights (or depths) of howling hysterics.
Additionally, Fenton began to realize through a deep mental fog of torment that at some point he had grown so aroused it was almost painful. His member was throbbing and throbbing along with his steady laughter. After a few more minutes, the countess took notice too. She finally stopped the tickling of his legs and knees and wrapped a warm hand tenderly around his shaft.
"Oh my little Fenton. Your lips keep begging me to stop but another part of you puts the lie to your words, isn't that so?" Mortified by the betrayal of his own body, Fenton could only lay still and moan, marveling at how such a light touch of her hand could feel so insanely gratifying. Slowly and steadily, she pulled on his shaft until her hand reached the top and she added a twisting flourish that made him gasp. The friction. The glorious friction.
He moaned more loudly in ecstasy and delight, and to his surprise, she kept going, running her skilled fingers along his cock, teasing and teasing, but nonetheless bringing him closer and closer to orgasm with each touch. At last, she began increasing the friction degree by degree, pumping up and down the length of him with her hands. Fenton was writhing, incapable of remaining still. Every single fiber of his nerves was on fire. All he could think about was how amazing her touch felt and how close he was to orgasm.
Of course poor ticklish Fenton could never have noticed, lost as he was in a world of pleasure that one of her hands had left his cock until she began furiously tickling his balls. He issued a shrill little cry of betrayal followed by a helpless barrage of laughter. "Argheheeheahaahaahaahahaha!"
Fenton was besides himself. He simply could not help the shrieking notes that were coming out of his lungs. Those nails, so potent and accurate kept swirling around and around his balls, somehow finding ways to reduce him to nothing but a whimpering ticklish mess.
The countess was transfixed, watching his eyes and the pleading micro expressions crossing his face with rapt attention, a wide smile on her face. To keep the things fresh, she kept up the most torturous mixture of pleasure and tickling. Again, and again her hands would coax and tease him right to the brink of orgasm, only to cheat him and resume tickling.
Lost somewhere in a dizzying world of arousal and ticklish torment, Fenton's sanity was unraveling. With each one of thousands of touches, some strange delusion was beginning to take hold of his mind. Instead of torture, he thought, the countess was administering the most unendurable pleasure through her tickling. Surely she meant him no harm. Surely this must simply be the expression of her love.
Did he really want to escape any longer? If she released him would he truly run from this place and never return? Flown away were the recollections of her crimes. All Fenton could focus on was her. The warmth of her body against his. The weight of her as she held him down. The endlessly ticklish touches she kept showering upon his body, and the inexplicable arousal they induced in him. All of these began to blur together, as he continued to thrash and cackle his appreciation of her continued ministrations.
As the borders of his vision turned fuzzy, Fenton heard a weak voice call out, "mistress please..."
When he came to, the countess was next to him gently sweeping his hair back from a sweat-slicked forehead. Fenton determined that, unable to maintain consciousness this time, he really had fainted. However it could only have been for a few moments, as his angry erection had yet to subside. He mumbled incoherently and the countess shushed him softly.
"Shhhh. You've done so well thus far my ticklish little knight. Just breathe." She left his side and returned with water once more, easing him into a sitting position. She fixed him with an oddly intense expression. "Did you mean what you said just now?"
Fenton's face registered confusion which slowly began to change with the dawn of realization. The voice crying out had been his own. His delirium had been so strong that in the moment he had not even recognized his own voice. He dropped his gaze to the bed and felt his cheeks burning. He nodded. He felt her lean forward. Felt her finger lift his chin up again.
Now that he had the presence of mind to notice, the countess herself appeared out of breath. Her cheeks were flushed deeply, and a trickle of sweat descended her brow. Seemingly motivated by his response, a genuine smile parted her lips. It was as if the heavens had split asunder and the radiance of the noonday sun had burst into the room. In spite of all he had been through at the hands of this evil woman, he could do nothing to prevent his heart from melting.
"Only once more my ticklish boy, and I promise you if you surrender to me this time, I'll make it worth your while." At first Fenton shrank back involuntarily, but then he paused. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on had changed within. There was certainly a part of him that wanted to cry at the threat of more tickling, but the other part had begun to crave her every touch; even the torturous caresses he had been enduring for what must have been hours now.
She was watching him intently. Curiously. When he straightened up and faced her with another nod, she whispered "I knew you were special somehow." Fenton cleared his throat and asked, "so how long did the baroness last?"
Taken completely aback by the unexpected question, the countess tilted her head back and laughed loud and long. It was a beautiful lilting sound, and he felt disproportionately pleased for being the cause of it. She ceased laughing and gazed at him. Suddenly she leaned forward, pressing her lips against his. It was brief, but heavenly. "Oh sweetie, she couldn't even last thirty minutes." She said after pulling away.
The countess reached out her hands and touched the leather cuffs clasping his wrists together, tracing some sort of pattern along the outside with her fingers. "Be a good boy and hold still," she said to him.
Then her voice dropped to a dulcet murmur as she began to intone strange syllables, her eyes closing as she focused. It was not a language he could comprehend, and yet he knew it at once.
It was the mysterious vernacular of sorcerers and witches, used to cast various glamers and magics from the old ways. It was the same language he had heard before when he was paralyzed and rendered unconscious during his capture.
He felt a firm pressure from the cuffs that bound his wrists together, as the cuffs themselves moved of their own accord, rising into the air and suspending his arms above his head. Mouth agape, he stared at them as they remain suspended in midair; transfixed by an unseen force.
He now found himself sitting upright with a slight amount of play left for him to flex his arms and move his torso. The countess circled behind him and, turning his head as much as he could, he saw that she had propped several fluffy looking pillows against the headboard of the bed.
She climbed into the bed right behind him, supported by the pillows at her back, just as he was now supported by her soft, warm body.
Gently, she pulled him back, adjusting the amount of tension on the cuffs independently until he was leaning back at an incline against her form, while his arms were still raised directly overhead. He tested the cuffs, but they didn't budge in the slightest.
Even so, it was very comfortable. His skin anticipated her touch, and she didn't make him wait. Softly, ever so lightly, her fingertips made contact with an incredibly sensitive spot just above his hips on both sides.
He flinched and squirmed, face already screwing up into a ticklish smile even though she hadn't even started moving her hands.
She stayed just like that for a moment.
"I've been watching you for these three years now my ticklish little
knight." She said huskily. "While you were so eagerly rushing to catch me and earn your public acclaim, you lacked the privilege of knowing who I was.
I, on the other hand, have so enjoyed playing cat and mouse with you, both at court and afield."
Her fingers began to move, ever so slowly, in the tiniest almost imperceptible little circles in that one spot that tickled so much.
She hadn't even begun, but already Fenton was producing a steady stream of musical little giggles; tiny little notes of helplessness that spoke so much more than words ever could.
"My intuition kept drawing me to you. I saw longing in your eyes in our encounters, and behind that longing, a deeper passion. And I kept wondering over and over, how ticklish you might be. And now that we both know just how ticklish you really are, there's only one thing I need to hear from you my sweet knight."
Her fingers abruptly ceased all motion and withdrew.
Fenton was startled by the sudden absence of her touch. By the withdrawal of those warm and teasing digits. It seemed... cruel somehow.
And suddenly he knew exactly what she needed him to say. It was something he would never have had the audacity to utter even a few hours prior. And yet it was something he now had begun to realize he had wanted all along without ever knowing his own depths. It was something every cautionary voice in
his brain screamed warnings for him not to utter. Fenton didn't listen.
He now had something now he hadn't had before. Perspective.
Fenton knew what was important in his life. And he could see clearly just how much he loved this woman who had broken him so easily.
His heart still beating so quickly from her confession, he inhaled as deeply as he could even as his body trembled in fear and excitement.
"Please mistress. Please tickle me!"
Before a even moment had passed, those blessed teasing hands answered his prayer, but without caution this time, caressing, stroking, and skittering up and down the playground of his sides.
Once again the world slowed to a crawl and he became lost in an ocean of sensation and arousal and roaring laughter that shook him to his core. The tears that came unbidden to his eyes.
Were they tears of ticklish agony? Yes.
Were they tears of gratitude? Absolutely.
So many raging emotions churned within. And yet even while his body bucked, and every ticklish place was exploited again and again; even as he was consumed by passion he felt a still, small quiet place deep within at the core of his being that told him that he was finally home.
He started from his reverie, realizing that Lady Karla was murmuring again, in that sweet voice, so close behind that her warm breath titillated his ear.
She held both hands up in front of them so Fenton could see the eerie bluish glow captured there; enveloping her fingers.
Almost as if in a trance, he watched as the bluish glow, still retaining the shapes of her fingers departed from their hostess and levitated their way slowly to the foot of the bed. His eyes widened as he saw where they were going. "Oh no... Oh no, oh no oh no!" He said more to himself than anyone else. Lady Karla whispered in his ear again, "Oh yessss."
Fenton scrunched up his eyes in horrid anticipation. The feeling as those magical digits made first contact with his re-sensitized feet was worse than anything his imagination could have prepared him for.
"OH NOAGHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAAHAAHAAHAA!"
If he had forgotten the insanity produced by the tickling of his feet earlier, he was getting the perfect refresher course. And then, impossibly, Lady Karla's actual fingers rejoined the fun by attacking the hollows of his armpits.
Lights danced in front of his vision as Fenton cried out in the most desperate laughter of his life. The endless waves of overwhelming tickling were hitting his nervous system and blasting their way into his brain like lightning bolts. His body tried to levitate itself off the bed to no avail. He wasn't going anywhere.
There was no rhyme or rhythm; no routine or pattern. And the magical tickling felt uniquely different than the delicious sensation of her real fingertips as they capered idly in his armpits. He tried with all of his weakened strength to pull his arms down to stop the wicked torture of his ticklish underarms, but the merciless grip of his bonds gave up no ground whatsoever.
In the midst of it all, his wildly straining erection flapped about like a captive animal trying to break free of its captivity. Every inch of his exposed shaft felt engorged to its limit, throbbing with the intensity of his
arousal as it mingled with the torture.
The ruthless tickling went on and on and on. Just when he felt he was losing consciousness yet again, the countess arrested the motion of the magical digits at his feet, and slowed her assault on his ribs, sides and pits to gentle caresses. He panted, covered in sweat, hair disheveled, and still giggling nonstop even as he tried to catch what little breath he had left. Every touch felt like tickling to him at this point, even the calming attentions of her hands.
Lady Karla stopped her touches altogether and instead wrapped her arms around him from behind. He could feel her trembling as well, as if she were in as much a state of heightened arousal as he was.
When she spoke, her voice was ragged and trembled with passion.
"I made you a promise, didn't I?" She released him from her embrace and her hands began moving south. He dared not even hope or dream that she was
about to do what her endless teasing had promised so long. "I promised that I would make it worth your while my ticklish little knight. And I always keep my promises."
So saying, her hands took hold of the length of his throbbing erection and began slowly pumping up and down. Unable to control the pleasure, all the more poignant from being denied him for so long, Fenton let out a growl of frustration and lust.
"Close your eyes," she whispered. He did as he was commanded without question, and found that the sensations coming from his cock were even more intense when he stopped seeing what she was doing to him. Her fingers, so lithe and masterful in their administration of tickle torture, were equally talented as
they teased little patterns and swirls into his shaft and head and as they moved methodically from base to tip over and over again.
Without warning, the magic at the foot of the bed activated again, only on a much milder setting than before. But the sudden tickling still brought fresh tears of helpless giggling to his face, even as he squinted his eyes to keep them shut.
Fenton had long since gone over the edge into reckless self-abandonment. He knew in his soul of souls that he belonged to the villainess in every way. Everything she had threatened in the beginning had turned out to be true. She had broken him: mind, body and soul. She had sensed a desire in him that even he did not know was there and teased it out to its full fruition.
As the tickling continued on his feet, soft and mild but deliberate, her hands continued to work on his body, playing him like an instrument. His laughter began mixing with little cries of absolute pleasure and joy as her efforts brought him closer and closer to inevitability.
At first, the tickling distracted him from appreciating the stimulation to his genitals, but as the two seemingly contradictory sensations continued to coexist, he realized that he had crossed a Rubicon; a point of no return where the tickling had fused itself with the arousal that was being enflamed by the
countess.
And as each deft and sure stroke, twist, pump, and trace of the nails on his shaft brought him closer and closer to climax, Fenton felt the last vestiges of control ebb away only to be replaced by a growing ecstasy.
He felt his entire body completely relax into her fiery warmth behind him, and realized that she was groaning aloud, grinding her hips against his own; their soft cries of heightened arousal blending together.
As her attentions to him grew more and more insistent, the friction of her touches gathered and increased in intensity, and Fenton's moaning gave way to small screams, as the rumblings prior to orgasm began to unfurl from deep within. And then suddenly he was screaming at the top of his lungs,
holding nothing back; taken by the unearthly and mind-shattering intensity of orgasm, as it slammed into him, ravishing his soul in wave after wave of bliss. Lady Karla's own cries mingled with his as they trembled together like two leaves in a tempest; riding the storm together to its end.
Seconds or hours later, when the raging pleasure had subsided enough for them to grow dimly aware of their surroundings again, they simply lay together. The magic vanished, and the cuffs around his hands and ankles opened of their own accord, dropping his hands unceremoniously into his lap. The countess snuggled into his back; her arms wrapped around his waist.
He felt so loved in that moment. So warm, and so very content.
"Lady Karla..." he began in a broken and hoarse voice.
"Mmmm?" She said, not possessing the energy required to give a more animated reply.
"I've been considering a life of crime as of late," he said enjoying the intoxication of her nearness. "Might you know anyone who could help me with a career change?"
For the second time that evening, Lady Karla laughed.
