Marts
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Oct 16, 2004
- Messages
- 185
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- 43
Previous Chapter || First Chapter
Welcome to Wyckham Hall. The Dutchess of Wyckham is an icy presence in the light, but behind closed doors, with her most trusted servant, she is a kinky little minx.
Annabelle has summoned Jane for another session in her chambers, however when she starts tickling the maid, memories of the previous time they were in the room come back and Annabelle wants another taste of submission
All characters are 18 or older
Word Count: 6,629
F/F | Armpit Tickling | Tickle Torture
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed the quarter hour—a deep, resonant bronze sound that vibrated through the floorboards—just as Jane raised her hand to knock. The heavy mahogany door of the East Wing suite was cold under her knuckles, a silent guardian of the secrets kept within.
"Enter."
The voice was low, languid, expecting her.
Jane pushed the door open and slipped inside, closing it softly enough that the latch barely clicked. The room was a sanctuary of shadows and warmth. The fire in the oversized hearth had burned down to a bed of pulsing orange embers, casting a fluctuating, breathing light across the velvet drapes and the high, molded ceiling. The air was thick, perfumed with the heavy, oceanic scent of ambergris and the sharper, resinous tang of the pinewood logs.
Duchess Annabelle sat at her vanity, her back to the door, her silhouette framed by the silver-backed mirror. She wore a dressing gown of obsidian silk that spilled around her stool like a pool of ink, the fabric shimmering where the firelight caught the folds. Her dark hair was already unpinned, cascading down her back in a heavy, glossy curtain.
Jane didn't speak. She didn't need to. The weeks of apprenticeship under Alice, the nights of terror and ecstasy, and the recent, quiet shift in power had evolved her. She was no longer the trembling scullery maid who dropped trays. She moved across the Persian rug with a silent, confident grace, her breathing steady, her eyes fixed on the nape of the Duchess’s neck.
She approached the vanity and sank to her knees. It was a fluid motion, a genuflection not of fear, but of function.
Annabelle turned her head slightly, her profile sharp and aristocratic in the dim light. She didn't smile, but her eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, tracked Jane’s movements with a hunger that belied her stillness. Without a word, Annabelle lifted her right hand from the velvet armrest and extended it into the pool of light cast by the single oil lamp.
It was an offering. And a challenge.
Jane took the hand. Her touch was firm, professional. She felt the warmth of Annabelle’s skin, the delicate pulse threading through the wrist. She reached for the silver file on the tray, her movements practiced and economical.
There was no shaking tonight.
Rasp… rasp… rasp.
The sound was rhythmic, almost hypnotic—steel kissing keratin. Jane worked with the focus of a diamond cutter. She isolated the index finger, supporting it gently with her own thumb, and began to shape the nail. She didn't file back and forth in a saw-like motion that would fray the edge; she used long, sweeping unidirectional strokes that tapered the nail into a lethal, elegant almond point.
"You are steady tonight, little rabbit," Annabelle murmured, her voice a vibration that Jane felt through their connected hands.
"A dull blade makes for a messy cut, Your Grace," Jane replied softly, not looking up from her work. "And a rough nail makes for a distraction."
"True," Annabelle purred. She watched Jane work for a moment, the silence stretching between them. Then, her tone shifted, becoming casual, conversational, and infinitely more dangerous. "Speaking of messy cuts... I have been thinking about the Blue Drawing Room."
Jane’s hand didn't falter, but her stomach gave a small, cold twitch. "The spider, Your Grace?"
"The spider," Annabelle agreed. "And Margaret. She was... utterly catastrophic, wasn't she? The screaming. The dropped tray. She looked less like a servant and more like a headless chicken."
Annabelle sighed, tilting her head. "I suppose it is to be expected. She has always been rather... pedestrian. Useless, really."
Jane felt the hook dangled in front of her. It was an invitation to join in, to cement her position by stepping on the neck of her rival. She couldn't resist it.
"She is clumsy, Your Grace," Jane said, adding a slightly harder pressure to the file. "She lacks the temperament for the Front of House. She panics too easily. She isn't fit to serve tea, let alone you."
"Mmm," Annabelle hummed in agreement. "Quite right. She stomps around like a rhinoceros in a porcelain shop."
Annabelle paused. The silence grew heavy. Then, she dropped the trap.
"However," Annabelle murmured, her voice dropping an octave. "Margaret is usually... thorough. Fear makes her meticulous. She checks the linen twice. She shakes out the napkins. For a spider of that size—a hairy, brown monster—to find its way into the precise center of a folded napkin under a cloche... that is a very specific kind of negligence."
Jane’s filing slowed by a fraction of a second. "Accidents happen, Your Grace."
"Do they?" Annabelle asked. She leaned forward slightly, her shadow falling over Jane’s hands. "I was replaying the scene in my mind. And I remembered you."
Jane froze. She stopped filing, though she kept her grip on Annabelle’s finger.
"You were watching the door," Annabelle whispered. "You were watching the cloche. Most maids look at the floor, Jane. You were staring at that silver lid as if it were a stage curtain waiting to rise."
"I was simply... anxious for the service to go well," Jane said, her voice tight.
"And when she dropped it," Annabelle continued, ignoring the excuse, "you didn't flinch. Alice flinched. I screamed. But you? You were a coiled spring. You launched yourself across that room before the teapot even hit the rug. It was almost as if... you knew exactly what was coming."
Annabelle pulled her hand back slightly, forcing Jane to look up. The Duchess’s eyes were sharp, glittering with a dark intelligence.
"Did you plant it, Jane?"
The question hung in the air. Jane’s mind raced. To lie now would be an insult to the Duchess’s intelligence. Annabelle hated liars. But to confess...
Jane took a steadying breath. She met Annabelle’s gaze.
"The pantry window was open," Jane admitted quietly. "Margaret was shouting at the scullery girl. She left the tray unguarded. I simply... ensured the opportunity wasn't wasted."
Jane braced herself. She waited for the anger, for the dismissal, for the threat of the cross.
Instead, a low, rich laugh bubbled up from Annabelle’s throat.
"You wicked little thing," Annabelle delighted, her eyes crinkling. "You sabotaged the service. You ruined the carpet. You terrified me half to death."
She reached out and tapped Jane’s nose with the tip of her unfinished nail.
"I have been looking for a reason to banish Margaret back to the kitchens for a while. Her stomping was giving me a migraine. You just... accelerated the process." Annabelle grinned, a conspirator’s smile. "Remind me never to leave my tea tray unguarded around you."
"I would never, Your Grace," Jane murmured, a flush of relief and pride warming her chest.
"I know," Annabelle said, settling back. "Now, finish the nail. We cannot have distractions. Tonight requires... clarity."
Jane picked up the chamois buffer. She applied a tiny dab of pink polishing paste and began to buff the surface of the nail. The friction generated a gentle heat. She worked until the nail plate gleamed like wet glass, reflecting the flame of the oil lamp. Then, she turned her attention to the tip. She ran the buffer over the edge, microscopic strokes designed to remove any burrs, leaving the nail sharp enough to wake the nerves but smooth enough to glide over the most delicate skin without tearing.
It took twenty minutes of utter silence to finish both hands. When Jane finally set the tools down, ten perfect, glassy weapons lay resting on the velvet cushion.
Annabelle lifted her hands. She turned them in the light, admiring the lethal curvature. She brought her right hand to her face, inhaling the faint scent of the polishing paste, before extending her index finger.
"Test it," Annabelle commanded.
Jane didn't hesitate. She lifted her chin, exposing the soft, pale stretch of her throat.
Annabelle leaned forward. She placed the tip of her nail against the pulse point of Jane’s jugular. She pressed in—just enough to dimple the skin—and then dragged it slowly, agonizingly, up to the jawline.
It was a line of ice. It didn't scratch. It didn't catch. It was a smooth, unified sensation of sharp pressure that made the fine hairs on the back of Jane’s neck stand up.
"Perfect," Jane whispered, her breath hitching slightly.
"Yes," Annabelle agreed, withdrawing her hand and standing up, the black silk flowing around her like water. "They are ready. And so, I suspect, are you."
Annabelle gestured to the center of the room. The St. Andrew’s Cross stood waiting, its dark oak limbs drinking the firelight.
"The shift," Annabelle ordered.
Jane stood and unbuttoned her nightgown. It fell to the floor in a whisper of cotton. She stepped out of it, naked save for the flush of anticipation rising on her skin. She walked to the cross and stepped onto the platform. She knew the routine now. She placed her wrists in the upper cuffs, allowing Annabelle to buckle them tight. She spread her legs wide, placing her ankles in the lower restraints.
As the leather cinched tight, pulling her body into a taut X, Jane felt the familiar, terrifying thrill. She was open to the room. Her chest was thrust forward, her ribs expanded. Her armpits, stretched wide by the elevation of her arms, formed deep, shadowed hollows that felt dangerously exposed to the cool air.
Annabelle circled her. The Duchess didn't rush. She walked with the slow, predatory gait of a tiger inspecting a trapped gazelle. She stopped behind Jane, her breath hot on Jane’s shoulder, her fingernails trailing lightly down the curve of Jane’s spine.
"You are vibrating already," Annabelle whispered near Jane’s ear. "The instrument is humming before the bow even touches the strings."
"I am waiting for the music, Mistress," Jane gasped, her head falling forward.
"Then let us begin with the overture."
Annabelle moved to Jane’s front. She reached out with both hands, splaying her fingers. The newly sharpened nails hovered inches from Jane’s ribcage.
Then, she struck.
"Hhh-KHH!"
Annabelle didn't tease. She dove straight in, her fingers latching onto Jane’s lower ribs. She executed the "Piano Play"—a rapid, drumming motion of her fingertips that sent shockwaves through Jane’s intercostal muscles.
"Ghhh-! Ah! Ch-Christ! Hhh-ha-ha-huaa!"
Jane threw her head back, her body jerking against the wood. The sensation was galvanic, overwhelming. Annabelle’s nails were everywhere at once, dancing up the cage of her ribs, finding the sensitive gaps and digging in with a playful, merciless precision.
"Sing for me, Jane," Annabelle laughed, her eyes bright with a dark joy. "Let it out. Don't hold a single note back."
Annabelle moved lower. She crouched slightly, her hands finding the soft, unprotected skin of Jane’s waist. She dug her thumbs into the hip bones while her fingers fluttered frantically over the sides.
"NO! NO! NOT THE SI-HIII-HIDES! GKK-HA! ST-STOP!"
Jane writhed, her hips bucking uselessly against the cross. The laughter tore from her throat, raw and jagged. It was the sound Annabelle loved most—the sound of total, involuntary surrender.
"You are so loud tonight," Annabelle teased, watching the way Jane’s stomach muscles danced. "But we haven't even found the true rhythm yet, have we?"
Annabelle stood up. She let her gaze travel up the center of Jane’s heaving chest to the main prize: the armpits. Stretched wide by the overhead cuffs, they were deep, pale hollows of vulnerability, glistening with a fine sheen of nervous sweat.
Annabelle remembered the feeling—god, did she remember it—of Jane’s tongue right there. The phantom sensation made her own knees weak. She stepped closer, sliding her hands up Jane’s ribcage until she reached the precipice.
"The pits," Annabelle whispered, her voice husky.
She slid her hands in. The damp heat enveloped her fingers instantly. She didn't scratch violently this time. She sought to replicate the magic. She curled her fingers, using the flats of her nails to trace slow, deliberate circles around the deepest part of the vault.
"Hhh-uh! Nnn-gh!" Jane’s head snapped back, her eyes rolling up.
"That's it," Annabelle murmured, watching closely. "Feel it?"
She wiggled her fingers, picking up speed, creating a fluttering vibration against the sensitive skin. Jane squealed, a high-pitched "Eee-eep!" that turned into a giggle.
"AHAHA-HA-HA! MISTRESS! IT T-TICKLES!"
Annabelle frowned slightly. Too sharp. Too frantic. It wasn't the melting groan she wanted to hear. She adjusted her angle. She pressed the pads of her fingers into the very center of the lymph nodes and vibrated her hand—a rapid, shivering motion she had felt Jane use on her breast.
Jane’s reaction changed. The frantic thrashing slowed. Her body went rigid, vibrating against the wood. Her laughter deepened, becoming a throaty, rhythmic sob.
"Oh... oh god... hnnn-hhh-ha-ha... mmm-hmmm..."
Jane’s head lolled to the side, her eyes fluttering shut. Her hips began to grind against the cross in an unconscious, desperate rhythm. She was slipping into the grey veil—that delicious area where the tickle became so intense it ignited the sexual nerves.
Annabelle watched the transformation, mesmerized. She saw the blush spreading across Jane’s chest. She saw the way Jane’s inner thighs quivered.
And then, looking at the sheer, overwhelming bliss-agony on the girl’s face, the memory hit Annabelle like a physical blow.
She was suddenly back in her own bed. She felt the wet heat of Jane’s tongue lashing her own armpit. She felt the lightning strike shooting straight down to her clitoris. She felt the devastating, humiliating, glorious need to be ruined.
Her own body betrayed her instantly. A flush of heat exploded in her groin, shocking in its intensity. Her nipples hardened against the silk of her robe. She was wet—soaking wet—just from the memory of it.
The vicarious pleasure of torturing Jane curdled instantly into a sharp, hollow ache of jealousy. Watching wasn't enough. It was like watching someone eat a feast while staring through a window, starving.
Annabelle’s hands stilled in Jane’s pits.
Jane hung there, panting, her face still slack with the afterglow of the sensation. "Mistress...?" she mumbled, dazed. "Why did you... stop?"
Annabelle pulled her hands away abruptly. She looked at her own trembling fingers, then back at Jane’s confused, flushed face.
"It’s not enough," Annabelle whispered, her voice rough.
She stepped back from the cross, her expression darkening with a complex mix of frustration and hunger. She paced the rug, the silk swishing angrily around her legs. She didn't want to be the conductor tonight. She wanted to be the music.
She spun around.
"I am bored of the cross, Jane," Annabelle snapped, though her eyes burned with something far hotter than boredom. "It lacks... intimacy."
Annabelle marched back to the restraints. With quick, decisive movements—her hands shaking slightly with her own suppressed need—she unbuckled Jane’s ankles. The leather straps fell away. She reached up and released the wrists.
Jane slumped forward, catching herself on Annabelle’s shoulder before sliding to the floor. She rubbed her wrists, looking up warily, sensing the shift in the air. "Your Grace?"
"Get up," Annabelle commanded, her voice dropping to a low, hungry growl that sent a shiver down Jane’s spine. She pointed to the massive four-poster bed that dominated the room.
"Get on the bed," Annabelle ordered, her breath coming short and fast. "I want... I want you to finish what we started."
Jane moved to the four-poster bed. The mattress was a vast island of comfort after the rigidity of the cross, the crimson silk spread cool against her heated skin as she knelt in the center.
Annabelle prowled around the edge of the bed. She untied the sash of her silk robe. The black fabric parted, sliding off her shoulders with a soft, expensive whisper. Beneath, she wore a chemise of sheer, ivory lace that did nothing to hide the flushed peaks of her breasts or the dark shadow between her thighs. She climbed onto the mattress, her movements sharp with impatience.
She lay back against the pillows, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
"The armpit, Jane," Annabelle commanded, lifting her right arm and turning her face away slightly, trying to maintain her imperious facade even as her body trembled. "Your tongue. Just like before. And use your hand. Down there."
Jane shifted closer. She could smell the Duchess—that intoxicating mix of expensive ambergris perfume and the raw, copper-tang musk of a woman who is already soaking wet.
She leaned over, taking Annabelle’s offered arm by the wrist. She looked down at the smooth, pale curve of the underarm. It was perfect. Vulnerable.
But as Jane leaned in, she hesitated.
She could feel the tension radiating off Annabelle. The Duchess wasn't relaxed; she was wired tight, her muscles coiled like springs. She was anticipating the touch. Her arm was stiff, holding itself up rather than surrendering to Jane’s grip. The element of surprise—the shock that had shattered her control the other night—was gone.
Jane paused, hovering inches from the skin.
"What are you waiting for?" Annabelle snapped, her eyes cracking open. "I gave you an order."
"It won't work," Jane said softly.
Annabelle’s eyes narrowed dangerously. "Excuse me?"
"You're bracing for it, Your Grace," Jane said, her voice steady despite the hammer of her heart. She was the disciplined instrument now, the expert. "You know it’s coming. You’re already fighting the sensation before I’ve even touched you. If I do it now... it will just be ticklish. It won't be... devastating."
Jane let go of Annabelle’s wrist. The arm remained suspended in the air for a moment, proving Jane’s point, before Annabelle let it drop with a huff of frustration.
"Then fix it," Annabelle hissed, clutching the sheets. "Make it devastating."
Jane sat back on her heels. She looked around the room, her gaze landing on the discarded pile of Annabelle’s day clothes on the chaise longue. A sash of heavy black silk lay draped over the armrest.
An idea, bold and dangerous, bloomed in Jane’s mind.
"Sight is the enemy of sensation, Your Grace," Jane murmured. She crawled off the bed, retrieved the sash, and returned, holding the black silk between her hands. "If you can see me coming, your brain prepares the nerves. It builds a wall."
She held the blindfold up. "Let me take your eyes. Let me make you wonder where the touch will land. Let the darkness amplify it."
Annabelle stared at the blindfold. A flicker of genuine unease crossed her face. To be blind was to be helpless. To be helpless in front of a servant... even this servant... was a violation of every instinct she possessed.
"I... I do not like the dark," Annabelle said stiffly. "Just do your job, Jane. Use your tongue."
"I can't serve you properly if you are fighting me," Jane countered, her voice dropping to a persuasive, almost maternal purr. She leaned closer, the silk brushing against Annabelle’s cheek. "Remember the orange oil, Mistress? How it confused the nerves? Darkness is just another kind of oil. It makes everything... slippery."
Jane let the silk slide over Annabelle’s eyes for a brief second, plunging her into momentary darkness before pulling it away.
"Imagine not knowing if it’s my tongue or my fingers," Jane whispered. "Imagine not knowing which pit I’ll choose. Imagine feeling my breath and not knowing if I’m going to kiss you... or ruin you."
Annabelle swallowed hard. Her nipples were hard points against the lace. The description alone made her thighs clench. The craving was a physical ache now, overriding her pride.
"If you make fun of me," Annabelle warned, her voice trembling, "if you laugh at my clumsiness in the dark..."
"I would never," Jane promised solemnly.
Annabelle let out a shuddering breath. She closed her eyes and tilted her head up.
"Do it."
Jane moved behind her. She placed the silk over Annabelle’s eyes, the fabric cool and heavy. She tied it firmly at the back of the Duchess’s head, ensuring no light could leak in.
"Can you see?" Jane asked.
"Nothing," Annabelle whispered. "It is... absolute."
"Good."
Jane moved back to the front. She watched Annabelle lying there—blind, beautiful, and waiting. The power dynamic in the room had shifted tectonically. The Duchess was no longer the viewer; she was the subject.
Jane felt a surge of adrenaline. It wasn't arrogance this time; it was potential.
"Raise your arms, Your Grace," Jane commanded softly.
Annabelle obeyed, lifting both arms above her head, exposing the twin hollows of her armpits to the room. She lay there, waiting for the tongue, waiting for the singular assault she had requested.
But Jane didn't lean in.
Instead, she moved her body. Jane straddled Annabelle’s sternum, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of the Duchess’s ribs. She shifted her weight forward, dropping her hips so her center of gravity was low and heavy. She slid her knees upward and drove her shins down hard across Annabelle’s biceps.
It was a brutal, effective fulcrum. By pinning the upper arms to the mattress with her own body weight, she forced Annabelle’s elbows to splay wide, locking the shoulder joints open and leaving the armpits exposed and helpless.
"Jane!" Annabelle gasped, her triceps firing violently as she tried to jerk her arms down. But the angle was impossible. Jane was leaning into the leverage, using the dead weight of her torso to smother the movement. Every time Annabelle bucked, Jane just sank deeper, her shins feeling like iron bars welding the Duchess’s limbs to the silk. "What are you doing? I didn't say you could restrain me! Get off!"
"Shhh," Jane soothed, leaning down until her lips brushed the shell of Annabelle’s ear. "You asked for devastating, remember?"
Annabelle bucked her hips, a flush of panic rising on her chest. "I command you to release me! This is insolence! I wanted the tongue, not—"
"You don't know what you want," Jane interrupted, her voice a low, vibrating purr that cut through Annabelle’s panic.
Jane shifted her weight, settling more firmly. She extended her hands. She didn't use her tongue. She didn't use her palms. She extended her hands, but didn't use her nails; she couldn't. Unlike the Duchess’s polished talons, Jane’s nails were kept short and blunt, worn down by scouring pans and scrubbing floors. The edges were uneven, threatening to scratch rather than glide.
"My nails are too rough, Your Grace," Jane whispered, hovering her fingers over the crook of Annabelle’s pinned elbows. "I cannot use the edge without hurting you."
She rotated her hands, exposing the pads of her fingertips. The skin there was hardened, textured by a thousand hours of labor.
"But perhaps…" Jane murmured, "the calluses will drag even better."
"And I think..." Jane whispered, placing her calloused fingers on the pale skin of the inner arm and slowly started to drag them. "I think someone needs to lose control completely."
Annabelle froze. The sensation of the rough fingers dragging up her triceps was excruciatingly distinct in the darkness. She couldn't see them. She could only feel the slow, inevitable approach toward the heat of her pits.
"Jane... don't..." Annabelle whimpered, her head thrashing blindly against the pillow. "Stop. Please."
"Oh?" Jane teased, her fingers reaching the halfway point, causing the muscles in Annabelle’s arms to flutter wildly beneath them. "I think someone wants this."
Jane’s fingers crested the curve of Annabelle’s shoulders and slipped, with a terrifying grace, into the deep, defenseless vaults of her armpits.
"Here we are," Jane purred.
She didn't start with violence. She started with the "Spider Walk." She arched her fingers, using the roughened pads of her fingertips to patter lightly, erratically, across the damp, silken skin of the hollows. The sensation was maddening—the friction of her worker’s hands catching slightly against the Duchess’s sweat-slicked skin, dragging rather than sliding.
"Nnn-! Hhh-t! Ah-hah! D-don't!"
Annabelle’s head whipped from side to side on the pillow, her neck straining. The blindfold rendered the attack omnipresent; she couldn't see which finger would strike next, couldn't anticipate the rhythm. Every light tap-tap-tap of a calloused pad sent a jolt of galvanic confusion straight to her core.
"You’re so sensitive in the dark," Jane whispered, leaning closer so her breath ghosted over Annabelle’s heated face.
Jane shifted her attack. She planted the heel of her hand against the upper ribs and used her calloused thumb to trace agonizingly slow, spiraling circles in the very center of the pits. The rough skin of her thumb acted like fine-grit sandpaper, stimulating every nerve ending with a raw, abrasive heat that felt miles away from the cool glide of a manicured nail.
"AHA-HA-HA! JANE! JANE! IT’S TOO SH-HAAA-RP!"
The laughter bubbled up, cracked and desperate. Annabelle bucked her hips, her legs thrashing on the mattress. Jane rode the thrashing, adjusting her pressure with a fluid, cruel competence. The duality was maddening for Annabelle: the crushing, bruising weight of Jane’s shins anchoring her elbows to the bed, contrasted against the feather-light, lightning-fast madness of the fingers dancing in her pits. She was being crushed and fluttered at the same time, splayed open for the torment.
"Is it awful?" Jane teased, wiggling her fingers deeper into the hair-dusted hollows. "Or is it sweet? Your body seems confused, Mistress. You’re trying to pull away, but your hips are grinding into the mattress."
"I HATE YOU! I HA-HA-HATE YOU! STO-HO-HOP!"
Jane continued for another minute, driving the Duchess to the edge of hysterical tears, until Annabelle was gasping, her chest heaving violently beneath the sheer ivory lace of her chemise.
Then, abruptly, Jane stopped. She lifted her hands.
The silence that fell over the room was heavy, filled only by Annabelle’s ragged, wet breathing.
"Breathe, Your Grace," Jane commanded softly. "consider this... a brief respite."
Annabelle lay paralyzed, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The sudden absence of the tickle was almost worse than the sensation itself. In the darkness, the anticipation began to build—a cold, tightening coil in her belly. She could feel Jane shifting above her, the rustle of fabric, the heat of the girl’s body.
"What..." Annabelle gasped, licking her dry lips. "What are you doing?"
"This lace," Jane murmured, her fingers brushing lightly against the fabric covering Annabelle’s stomach. "It’s in the way. I want to see the flush."
Jane didn't rip it. She hooked her fingers under the hem of the chemise at Annabelle’s thighs. Slowly, with agonizing deliberation, she began to ruck the fabric up.
Annabelle felt the cool air hit her stomach as the silk slid upward. Inch by inch. Over the navel. Over the solar plexus. The friction of the lace against her sensitized skin was a tease in itself.
"Jane..." Annabelle warned, her voice trembling.
"Hush."
Jane pulled the fabric higher, bunching it up until it pooled above Annabelle’s breasts, leaving her torso completely bare to the firelight.
The sight was arresting. Annabelle’s breasts were heaving, pale and perfect, the nipples hardened into tight, dark crimson points of arousal that begged for attention. Her skin was flushed with a majestic, blotchy red map of her earlier laughter.
Jane looked down at her work. "Beautiful," she whispered.
She leaned in.
Jane returned her left hand to Annabelle’s left armpit. She sank her fingers in deep this time, finding the nerve cluster instantly and vibrating her fingers with a cruel, practiced intensity.
"EEEE-YIII! NOT AGAIN! NOOO!"
Annabelle shrieked, her body jerking. But this time, Jane didn't use both hands for the tickle.
Her right hand descended. She extended her index finger, using the blunt, chipped edge of her nail to trace the very outer perimeter of Annabelle's left areola. She had to be careful—so careful—not to snag the tender skin. The danger of the rough edge added a layer of terrifying precision to the touch.
She didn't touch the nipple. She circled it.
"Ah... ah..." Annabelle’s breath hitched, her head tossing on the pillow.
The contrast was maddening. In her armpit, a storm of sharp, frantic sensation was raging. On her breast, a ghost was haunting her. Jane’s finger spiraled inward, getting closer and closer to the hardened peak but never making contact. It was a torture of proximity. The nipple throbbed, aching for the touch that was being denied.
"Touch it!" Annabelle gasped, arching her back. "Jane, touch it!"
"Not yet," Jane purred.
She continued the dual assault for another agonizing thirty seconds—the violet scratching in the pit, the feather-light teasing on the breast—until Annabelle was whimpering, her hips grinding into the mattress in frustration.
Then, Jane stopped the circling.
She extended her thumb and forefinger, pincer-like. She captured the nipple. She squeezed it—firm, hard, and possessive.
"OH GOD! OH! AHHH!"
The duality of the sensation shattered Annabelle. Her left side was screaming with the sharp, frenetic panic of the tickle, while her breast was being anchored by a heavy, erotic throb of pain-pleasure. The wires crossed. The scream turned into a moan, then back into a laugh, then into a sob.
"Does that feel good?" Jane purred, twisting the nipple slightly while she scratched frantically at the pit. "Does the tickle make the pinch sweeter?"
"YES! I CAN'T—I DON'T KNO-HO-HOW! PLEASE! JANE! OH GOD—NNNGH!"
Annabelle’s legs kicked out, her heels drumming a frantic rhythm on the mattress. She was drowning. The darkness of the blindfold forced her to feel every micro-movement: the sharp edge of the finger in her armpit, the rough pad of the thumb on her nipple. It was sensory overload, a white-hot blinding light in her mind.
Then Jane released Annabelle's throbbing nipple and lowered her head. She opened her mouth and descended over the aching breast.
She took the entire nipple into her mouth, sealing her warm, wet lips around the areola.
"OH GOD! OH! AHHH!"
The sensation shattered Annabelle. The sudden wet heat and the powerful suction anchored her, grounding the chaotic tremors of the tickle. Jane’s tongue came out, flicking rapidly back and forth against the hard nub of the nipple, teasing it with a relentless, rhythmic lash.
"YES! I CAN'T—I DON'T KNO-HO-HOW! PLEASE! JANE! AHAHA-HA-HAAAA!"
Jane released the nipple with a wet pop and ceased the tickling of the Duchess' armpit "You’re leaking, Mistress," Jane whispered against the wet skin of her breast, looking down at the dark triangle between Annabelle’s legs. "You’re making such a mess of the sheets."
She slid down the bed. Annabelle felt the weight leave her arms, but she was too wrecked to move them. She lay there, arms still thrown above her head in surrender, waiting. She felt Jane’s hands grip her thighs, spreading them wide.
"Jane?" Annabelle gasped.
There was no answer. Only the sensation of wet, hot heat pressing against her vulva.
Jane buried her face in the Duchess’s crotch.
"OH!"
Annabelle’s back arched violently, her fingernails digging into the pillows. Jane didn't hesitate. She spread the swollen lips with her fingers and clamped her mouth over the clitoris. She sucked—hard.
It was a vacuum seal of pleasure. Jane’s tongue was a piston, flicking rapidly against the sensitive pearl, while the suction drew the blood to the surface.
"YES! YES! GOD, JANE! OH FUCK!"
The change from the frantic, high-pitched torture of the tickling to the deep, grounding, guttural pleasure of the oral sex was devastating. Annabelle couldn't think. She could only feel the relentless tongue, the suction, the way Jane’s nose pressed firmly against her pubic bone.
Jane wasn't asking; she was taking. She hummed against the clitoris, the vibration sending shockwaves through Annabelle’s pelvis.
"I'm close! I'm close! Don't stop! DO NOT STOP!"
Annabelle’s hands, no longer pinned, flew down and tangled in Jane’s hair. She didn't push her away; she pulled her closer, grinding her crotch into Jane’s face.
"NOW! JANE! NOW!"
The climax hit her like a physical blow. Annabelle screamed into the blindfold.
"HAAAA-AH! OOO-GOD! FU-HUH-UCK!"
Her legs stiffened, her toes curling so hard they cramped. Her hips bucked wildly, slamming against Jane’s mouth as her body was racked with wave after wave of violent, purging release. She came hard, a hot, viscous flood coating Jane’s tongue, her inner walls clamping down in rhythmic spasms that went on and on.
Jane stayed right there, drinking it in, her tongue lapping up every tremor until the Duchess finally collapsed, sobbing for breath, her body limp and boneless on the crimson silk.
Jane didn't pull away immediately. She stayed anchored there, her face pressed against the damp, trembling warmth of Annabelle’s inner thigh, listening to the Duchess’s keen slowly dissolve into jagged, wet gasps.
The room fell silent, save for the crackle of the logs and the harsh sound of their breathing.
Slowly, respectfully, Jane pulled back. She wiped her chin with the back of her hand, tasting the salt and musk of her mistress, a metallic, intimate tang that made her own stomach clinch with unfinished business. She sat back on her heels at the foot of the bed, simply watching.
The Duchess was a beautiful wreckage. Her legs were splayed wide, twitching intermittently with aftershocks—little muscular flutters that rippled beneath the pale skin like dying moths. Her chest heaved, the ivory chemise clinging to her sweat-slicked ribs, rising and falling in time with her desperate attempts to reclaim her oxygen.
Jane didn't speak. She knew better than to break the spell of the "little death." She waited, her own heart hammering against her ribs, her own thighs glued together by the friction of her need.
A full minute passed.
Finally, Annabelle’s hands unclenched from the sheets. Her fingers, stiff and pale, flexed slowly. She let out a long, shuddering groan—a sound that was half whimper, half purr—and turned her head blindly on the pillow.
"Water..." Annabelle croaked, her voice wrecked, a shadow of its usual imperious polished tone.
Jane moved instantly. It was a relief to have a task. She slid off the bed, her bare feet making no sound on the rug, and poured a glass from the carafe on the nightstand. She climbed back onto the mattress, the springs creaking under her weight.
She reached behind Annabelle’s head and untied the silk knot. The blindfold slid away, pooling like liquid darkness on the pillow.
Annabelle blinked against the sudden assault of the firelight. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, the pupils blown wide. She looked at Jane—really looked at her—with a mix of dazed confusion and dawning recognition.
Jane held the glass to her lips. Annabelle drank greedily, water spilling down her chin, mixing with the sweat on her neck. She finished it and fell back against the pillows, closing her eyes again.
"You..." Annabelle whispered, breathing deeply through her nose. "You are dangerous."
"I only followed orders, Your Grace," Jane said softly, setting the glass aside.
"Don't lie to me," Annabelle murmured, a faint, tired smile ghosted at the corner of her lips. She didn't open her eyes. She reached out blindly, her hand seeking. It landed on Jane’s knee.
Jane froze.
Annabelle’s hand was heavy and hot. It didn't move initially. It just rested there, grounding them both. Then, slowly, the Duchess’s senses began to return. She felt the tension in the muscle beneath her palm. She felt the fine vibration of Jane’s leg—a constant, rhythmic tremor.
Annabelle opened her eyes. The fog of bliss was lifting, replaced by the sharp, observant gaze of the predator. She saw Jane’s flushed face. She saw the way Jane was biting her lip, her hands clenched in her lap, her posture rigid.
Annabelle pushed herself up on one elbow, the silk sheet sliding down to her waist. She looked down at the quilt where Jane was kneeling.
"Look at you," Annabelle whispered, her voice gaining strength, dropping into that familiar, husky register of command.
She traced a finger down Jane’s thigh. Jane shivered violently, a gasp escaping her throat.
"You're shaking apart," Annabelle observed, her eyes darkening. "You gave me everything... and kept nothing for yourself."
"I am fine, Mistress," Jane lied, her voice tight. "I am... satisfied to serve."
"Liar," Annabelle purred. She sat up fully now, winning the battle against gravity. She swept her hair back over her shoulder, regaining her regal silhouette even in her nakedness. She was no longer the victim of the tickle; she was the Architect of the bedroom once more.
Annabelle moved her hand inward, sliding from the knee to the sensitive skin of the inner thigh.
"You are soaking wet," Annabelle stated plainly. "I can smell it from here. The scent of a job half-done."
Jane flushed a deep scarlet, looking down. "Your Grace, I—"
"Shhh."
Annabelle smiled—a slow, sleepy, satisfied smile that promised ruin.
"An artist should never leave a work unfinished."
She found Jane’s center. Jane was already soaked, her pussy swollen and aching from the proximity of the Duchess’s pleasure. Annabelle didn't need to tease. She simply slipped two fingers inside, curling them upwards in a "come hither" motion.
"Ah!" Jane gasped, her head falling back.
"Come for me, Jane," Annabelle commanded softly, finding the rhythm instantly. "Right now. Bleed that heat out."
It didn't take long. Jane was already on the precipice. With three sharp strokes of Annabelle’s fingers, Jane shattered, crying out as she collapsed forward, burying her face in the curve of Annabelle’s neck, shivering as her own release washed through her.
They lay there for a long time in the aftermath, the fire popping softly in the grate, the smell of sex heavy in the air. It wasn't the silence of the void; it was the comfortable, heavy silence of two instruments that had been played to perfection.
Annabelle idly stroked Jane’s hair. "You are getting better, little rabbit," she murmured. "But don't think this means you escape the silver polishing tomorrow."
Jane laughed, a soft, tired sound against the Duchess’s skin. "I wouldn't dream of it."
"Good," Annabelle whispered, kissing the top of her head. "Now go. Before I decide I need a foot warmer for the night. You’ve earned your rest."
Jane pulled back, but she didn't immediately reach for her nightgown. Her gaze drifted down to the foot of the bed, where Annabelle’s feet were peeking out from beneath the tangled crimson sheets—pale, high-arched, and perfectly manicured.
A bold, mischievous smile touched Jane’s lips—the smile of a weed that had learned to bloom. She looked back up at her mistress, her eyes shining in the dying firelight.
"You need only ask, Your Grace," Jane murmured, shifting her weight as if preparing to move down the bed rather than off it. She held up her hands, flexing her fingers. "My hands are already warm. I could knead the tension out of them before I go. Help you sleep."
Annabelle laughed, a genuine, throaty sound of amusement. She reached out and lightly slapped Jane’s thigh—a playful dismissal.
"Don't tempt me, you insatiable little creature," Annabelle scolded, though her eyes were warm. "We both know you wouldn't stop at kneading. You'd find a sensitive spot, and then you’d find a rhythm, and neither of us would sleep before dawn. I refuse to have a spectre pouring my coffee tomorrow."
She pointed imperiously toward the door. "Out. Go dream of linen counts and beeswax."
Jane’s smile widened. She finally relented, sliding off the mattress and gathering her discarded nightgown from the floor. She pulled it over her head, the cotton settling over her flushed skin.
She paused at the heavy oak door, looking back. Annabelle had already settled deep into the pillows, a vision of dark hair and crimson silk, drifting into the sleep of the thoroughly satisfied.
"Goodnight, Your Grace," Jane whispered.
"Goodnight, Jane," came the sleepy murmur from the bed.
Jane closed the door, walking back into the cold corridor. Her feet still ached, and her body was exhausted, but as she walked toward the servants' quarters, she didn't limp. She floated.
Next Chapter
Welcome to Wyckham Hall. The Dutchess of Wyckham is an icy presence in the light, but behind closed doors, with her most trusted servant, she is a kinky little minx.
Annabelle has summoned Jane for another session in her chambers, however when she starts tickling the maid, memories of the previous time they were in the room come back and Annabelle wants another taste of submission
All characters are 18 or older
Word Count: 6,629
F/F | Armpit Tickling | Tickle Torture
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed the quarter hour—a deep, resonant bronze sound that vibrated through the floorboards—just as Jane raised her hand to knock. The heavy mahogany door of the East Wing suite was cold under her knuckles, a silent guardian of the secrets kept within.
"Enter."
The voice was low, languid, expecting her.
Jane pushed the door open and slipped inside, closing it softly enough that the latch barely clicked. The room was a sanctuary of shadows and warmth. The fire in the oversized hearth had burned down to a bed of pulsing orange embers, casting a fluctuating, breathing light across the velvet drapes and the high, molded ceiling. The air was thick, perfumed with the heavy, oceanic scent of ambergris and the sharper, resinous tang of the pinewood logs.
Duchess Annabelle sat at her vanity, her back to the door, her silhouette framed by the silver-backed mirror. She wore a dressing gown of obsidian silk that spilled around her stool like a pool of ink, the fabric shimmering where the firelight caught the folds. Her dark hair was already unpinned, cascading down her back in a heavy, glossy curtain.
Jane didn't speak. She didn't need to. The weeks of apprenticeship under Alice, the nights of terror and ecstasy, and the recent, quiet shift in power had evolved her. She was no longer the trembling scullery maid who dropped trays. She moved across the Persian rug with a silent, confident grace, her breathing steady, her eyes fixed on the nape of the Duchess’s neck.
She approached the vanity and sank to her knees. It was a fluid motion, a genuflection not of fear, but of function.
Annabelle turned her head slightly, her profile sharp and aristocratic in the dim light. She didn't smile, but her eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, tracked Jane’s movements with a hunger that belied her stillness. Without a word, Annabelle lifted her right hand from the velvet armrest and extended it into the pool of light cast by the single oil lamp.
It was an offering. And a challenge.
Jane took the hand. Her touch was firm, professional. She felt the warmth of Annabelle’s skin, the delicate pulse threading through the wrist. She reached for the silver file on the tray, her movements practiced and economical.
There was no shaking tonight.
Rasp… rasp… rasp.
The sound was rhythmic, almost hypnotic—steel kissing keratin. Jane worked with the focus of a diamond cutter. She isolated the index finger, supporting it gently with her own thumb, and began to shape the nail. She didn't file back and forth in a saw-like motion that would fray the edge; she used long, sweeping unidirectional strokes that tapered the nail into a lethal, elegant almond point.
"You are steady tonight, little rabbit," Annabelle murmured, her voice a vibration that Jane felt through their connected hands.
"A dull blade makes for a messy cut, Your Grace," Jane replied softly, not looking up from her work. "And a rough nail makes for a distraction."
"True," Annabelle purred. She watched Jane work for a moment, the silence stretching between them. Then, her tone shifted, becoming casual, conversational, and infinitely more dangerous. "Speaking of messy cuts... I have been thinking about the Blue Drawing Room."
Jane’s hand didn't falter, but her stomach gave a small, cold twitch. "The spider, Your Grace?"
"The spider," Annabelle agreed. "And Margaret. She was... utterly catastrophic, wasn't she? The screaming. The dropped tray. She looked less like a servant and more like a headless chicken."
Annabelle sighed, tilting her head. "I suppose it is to be expected. She has always been rather... pedestrian. Useless, really."
Jane felt the hook dangled in front of her. It was an invitation to join in, to cement her position by stepping on the neck of her rival. She couldn't resist it.
"She is clumsy, Your Grace," Jane said, adding a slightly harder pressure to the file. "She lacks the temperament for the Front of House. She panics too easily. She isn't fit to serve tea, let alone you."
"Mmm," Annabelle hummed in agreement. "Quite right. She stomps around like a rhinoceros in a porcelain shop."
Annabelle paused. The silence grew heavy. Then, she dropped the trap.
"However," Annabelle murmured, her voice dropping an octave. "Margaret is usually... thorough. Fear makes her meticulous. She checks the linen twice. She shakes out the napkins. For a spider of that size—a hairy, brown monster—to find its way into the precise center of a folded napkin under a cloche... that is a very specific kind of negligence."
Jane’s filing slowed by a fraction of a second. "Accidents happen, Your Grace."
"Do they?" Annabelle asked. She leaned forward slightly, her shadow falling over Jane’s hands. "I was replaying the scene in my mind. And I remembered you."
Jane froze. She stopped filing, though she kept her grip on Annabelle’s finger.
"You were watching the door," Annabelle whispered. "You were watching the cloche. Most maids look at the floor, Jane. You were staring at that silver lid as if it were a stage curtain waiting to rise."
"I was simply... anxious for the service to go well," Jane said, her voice tight.
"And when she dropped it," Annabelle continued, ignoring the excuse, "you didn't flinch. Alice flinched. I screamed. But you? You were a coiled spring. You launched yourself across that room before the teapot even hit the rug. It was almost as if... you knew exactly what was coming."
Annabelle pulled her hand back slightly, forcing Jane to look up. The Duchess’s eyes were sharp, glittering with a dark intelligence.
"Did you plant it, Jane?"
The question hung in the air. Jane’s mind raced. To lie now would be an insult to the Duchess’s intelligence. Annabelle hated liars. But to confess...
Jane took a steadying breath. She met Annabelle’s gaze.
"The pantry window was open," Jane admitted quietly. "Margaret was shouting at the scullery girl. She left the tray unguarded. I simply... ensured the opportunity wasn't wasted."
Jane braced herself. She waited for the anger, for the dismissal, for the threat of the cross.
Instead, a low, rich laugh bubbled up from Annabelle’s throat.
"You wicked little thing," Annabelle delighted, her eyes crinkling. "You sabotaged the service. You ruined the carpet. You terrified me half to death."
She reached out and tapped Jane’s nose with the tip of her unfinished nail.
"I have been looking for a reason to banish Margaret back to the kitchens for a while. Her stomping was giving me a migraine. You just... accelerated the process." Annabelle grinned, a conspirator’s smile. "Remind me never to leave my tea tray unguarded around you."
"I would never, Your Grace," Jane murmured, a flush of relief and pride warming her chest.
"I know," Annabelle said, settling back. "Now, finish the nail. We cannot have distractions. Tonight requires... clarity."
Jane picked up the chamois buffer. She applied a tiny dab of pink polishing paste and began to buff the surface of the nail. The friction generated a gentle heat. She worked until the nail plate gleamed like wet glass, reflecting the flame of the oil lamp. Then, she turned her attention to the tip. She ran the buffer over the edge, microscopic strokes designed to remove any burrs, leaving the nail sharp enough to wake the nerves but smooth enough to glide over the most delicate skin without tearing.
It took twenty minutes of utter silence to finish both hands. When Jane finally set the tools down, ten perfect, glassy weapons lay resting on the velvet cushion.
Annabelle lifted her hands. She turned them in the light, admiring the lethal curvature. She brought her right hand to her face, inhaling the faint scent of the polishing paste, before extending her index finger.
"Test it," Annabelle commanded.
Jane didn't hesitate. She lifted her chin, exposing the soft, pale stretch of her throat.
Annabelle leaned forward. She placed the tip of her nail against the pulse point of Jane’s jugular. She pressed in—just enough to dimple the skin—and then dragged it slowly, agonizingly, up to the jawline.
It was a line of ice. It didn't scratch. It didn't catch. It was a smooth, unified sensation of sharp pressure that made the fine hairs on the back of Jane’s neck stand up.
"Perfect," Jane whispered, her breath hitching slightly.
"Yes," Annabelle agreed, withdrawing her hand and standing up, the black silk flowing around her like water. "They are ready. And so, I suspect, are you."
Annabelle gestured to the center of the room. The St. Andrew’s Cross stood waiting, its dark oak limbs drinking the firelight.
"The shift," Annabelle ordered.
Jane stood and unbuttoned her nightgown. It fell to the floor in a whisper of cotton. She stepped out of it, naked save for the flush of anticipation rising on her skin. She walked to the cross and stepped onto the platform. She knew the routine now. She placed her wrists in the upper cuffs, allowing Annabelle to buckle them tight. She spread her legs wide, placing her ankles in the lower restraints.
As the leather cinched tight, pulling her body into a taut X, Jane felt the familiar, terrifying thrill. She was open to the room. Her chest was thrust forward, her ribs expanded. Her armpits, stretched wide by the elevation of her arms, formed deep, shadowed hollows that felt dangerously exposed to the cool air.
Annabelle circled her. The Duchess didn't rush. She walked with the slow, predatory gait of a tiger inspecting a trapped gazelle. She stopped behind Jane, her breath hot on Jane’s shoulder, her fingernails trailing lightly down the curve of Jane’s spine.
"You are vibrating already," Annabelle whispered near Jane’s ear. "The instrument is humming before the bow even touches the strings."
"I am waiting for the music, Mistress," Jane gasped, her head falling forward.
"Then let us begin with the overture."
Annabelle moved to Jane’s front. She reached out with both hands, splaying her fingers. The newly sharpened nails hovered inches from Jane’s ribcage.
Then, she struck.
"Hhh-KHH!"
Annabelle didn't tease. She dove straight in, her fingers latching onto Jane’s lower ribs. She executed the "Piano Play"—a rapid, drumming motion of her fingertips that sent shockwaves through Jane’s intercostal muscles.
"Ghhh-! Ah! Ch-Christ! Hhh-ha-ha-huaa!"
Jane threw her head back, her body jerking against the wood. The sensation was galvanic, overwhelming. Annabelle’s nails were everywhere at once, dancing up the cage of her ribs, finding the sensitive gaps and digging in with a playful, merciless precision.
"Sing for me, Jane," Annabelle laughed, her eyes bright with a dark joy. "Let it out. Don't hold a single note back."
Annabelle moved lower. She crouched slightly, her hands finding the soft, unprotected skin of Jane’s waist. She dug her thumbs into the hip bones while her fingers fluttered frantically over the sides.
"NO! NO! NOT THE SI-HIII-HIDES! GKK-HA! ST-STOP!"
Jane writhed, her hips bucking uselessly against the cross. The laughter tore from her throat, raw and jagged. It was the sound Annabelle loved most—the sound of total, involuntary surrender.
"You are so loud tonight," Annabelle teased, watching the way Jane’s stomach muscles danced. "But we haven't even found the true rhythm yet, have we?"
Annabelle stood up. She let her gaze travel up the center of Jane’s heaving chest to the main prize: the armpits. Stretched wide by the overhead cuffs, they were deep, pale hollows of vulnerability, glistening with a fine sheen of nervous sweat.
Annabelle remembered the feeling—god, did she remember it—of Jane’s tongue right there. The phantom sensation made her own knees weak. She stepped closer, sliding her hands up Jane’s ribcage until she reached the precipice.
"The pits," Annabelle whispered, her voice husky.
She slid her hands in. The damp heat enveloped her fingers instantly. She didn't scratch violently this time. She sought to replicate the magic. She curled her fingers, using the flats of her nails to trace slow, deliberate circles around the deepest part of the vault.
"Hhh-uh! Nnn-gh!" Jane’s head snapped back, her eyes rolling up.
"That's it," Annabelle murmured, watching closely. "Feel it?"
She wiggled her fingers, picking up speed, creating a fluttering vibration against the sensitive skin. Jane squealed, a high-pitched "Eee-eep!" that turned into a giggle.
"AHAHA-HA-HA! MISTRESS! IT T-TICKLES!"
Annabelle frowned slightly. Too sharp. Too frantic. It wasn't the melting groan she wanted to hear. She adjusted her angle. She pressed the pads of her fingers into the very center of the lymph nodes and vibrated her hand—a rapid, shivering motion she had felt Jane use on her breast.
Jane’s reaction changed. The frantic thrashing slowed. Her body went rigid, vibrating against the wood. Her laughter deepened, becoming a throaty, rhythmic sob.
"Oh... oh god... hnnn-hhh-ha-ha... mmm-hmmm..."
Jane’s head lolled to the side, her eyes fluttering shut. Her hips began to grind against the cross in an unconscious, desperate rhythm. She was slipping into the grey veil—that delicious area where the tickle became so intense it ignited the sexual nerves.
Annabelle watched the transformation, mesmerized. She saw the blush spreading across Jane’s chest. She saw the way Jane’s inner thighs quivered.
And then, looking at the sheer, overwhelming bliss-agony on the girl’s face, the memory hit Annabelle like a physical blow.
She was suddenly back in her own bed. She felt the wet heat of Jane’s tongue lashing her own armpit. She felt the lightning strike shooting straight down to her clitoris. She felt the devastating, humiliating, glorious need to be ruined.
Her own body betrayed her instantly. A flush of heat exploded in her groin, shocking in its intensity. Her nipples hardened against the silk of her robe. She was wet—soaking wet—just from the memory of it.
The vicarious pleasure of torturing Jane curdled instantly into a sharp, hollow ache of jealousy. Watching wasn't enough. It was like watching someone eat a feast while staring through a window, starving.
Annabelle’s hands stilled in Jane’s pits.
Jane hung there, panting, her face still slack with the afterglow of the sensation. "Mistress...?" she mumbled, dazed. "Why did you... stop?"
Annabelle pulled her hands away abruptly. She looked at her own trembling fingers, then back at Jane’s confused, flushed face.
"It’s not enough," Annabelle whispered, her voice rough.
She stepped back from the cross, her expression darkening with a complex mix of frustration and hunger. She paced the rug, the silk swishing angrily around her legs. She didn't want to be the conductor tonight. She wanted to be the music.
She spun around.
"I am bored of the cross, Jane," Annabelle snapped, though her eyes burned with something far hotter than boredom. "It lacks... intimacy."
Annabelle marched back to the restraints. With quick, decisive movements—her hands shaking slightly with her own suppressed need—she unbuckled Jane’s ankles. The leather straps fell away. She reached up and released the wrists.
Jane slumped forward, catching herself on Annabelle’s shoulder before sliding to the floor. She rubbed her wrists, looking up warily, sensing the shift in the air. "Your Grace?"
"Get up," Annabelle commanded, her voice dropping to a low, hungry growl that sent a shiver down Jane’s spine. She pointed to the massive four-poster bed that dominated the room.
"Get on the bed," Annabelle ordered, her breath coming short and fast. "I want... I want you to finish what we started."
Jane moved to the four-poster bed. The mattress was a vast island of comfort after the rigidity of the cross, the crimson silk spread cool against her heated skin as she knelt in the center.
Annabelle prowled around the edge of the bed. She untied the sash of her silk robe. The black fabric parted, sliding off her shoulders with a soft, expensive whisper. Beneath, she wore a chemise of sheer, ivory lace that did nothing to hide the flushed peaks of her breasts or the dark shadow between her thighs. She climbed onto the mattress, her movements sharp with impatience.
She lay back against the pillows, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
"The armpit, Jane," Annabelle commanded, lifting her right arm and turning her face away slightly, trying to maintain her imperious facade even as her body trembled. "Your tongue. Just like before. And use your hand. Down there."
Jane shifted closer. She could smell the Duchess—that intoxicating mix of expensive ambergris perfume and the raw, copper-tang musk of a woman who is already soaking wet.
She leaned over, taking Annabelle’s offered arm by the wrist. She looked down at the smooth, pale curve of the underarm. It was perfect. Vulnerable.
But as Jane leaned in, she hesitated.
She could feel the tension radiating off Annabelle. The Duchess wasn't relaxed; she was wired tight, her muscles coiled like springs. She was anticipating the touch. Her arm was stiff, holding itself up rather than surrendering to Jane’s grip. The element of surprise—the shock that had shattered her control the other night—was gone.
Jane paused, hovering inches from the skin.
"What are you waiting for?" Annabelle snapped, her eyes cracking open. "I gave you an order."
"It won't work," Jane said softly.
Annabelle’s eyes narrowed dangerously. "Excuse me?"
"You're bracing for it, Your Grace," Jane said, her voice steady despite the hammer of her heart. She was the disciplined instrument now, the expert. "You know it’s coming. You’re already fighting the sensation before I’ve even touched you. If I do it now... it will just be ticklish. It won't be... devastating."
Jane let go of Annabelle’s wrist. The arm remained suspended in the air for a moment, proving Jane’s point, before Annabelle let it drop with a huff of frustration.
"Then fix it," Annabelle hissed, clutching the sheets. "Make it devastating."
Jane sat back on her heels. She looked around the room, her gaze landing on the discarded pile of Annabelle’s day clothes on the chaise longue. A sash of heavy black silk lay draped over the armrest.
An idea, bold and dangerous, bloomed in Jane’s mind.
"Sight is the enemy of sensation, Your Grace," Jane murmured. She crawled off the bed, retrieved the sash, and returned, holding the black silk between her hands. "If you can see me coming, your brain prepares the nerves. It builds a wall."
She held the blindfold up. "Let me take your eyes. Let me make you wonder where the touch will land. Let the darkness amplify it."
Annabelle stared at the blindfold. A flicker of genuine unease crossed her face. To be blind was to be helpless. To be helpless in front of a servant... even this servant... was a violation of every instinct she possessed.
"I... I do not like the dark," Annabelle said stiffly. "Just do your job, Jane. Use your tongue."
"I can't serve you properly if you are fighting me," Jane countered, her voice dropping to a persuasive, almost maternal purr. She leaned closer, the silk brushing against Annabelle’s cheek. "Remember the orange oil, Mistress? How it confused the nerves? Darkness is just another kind of oil. It makes everything... slippery."
Jane let the silk slide over Annabelle’s eyes for a brief second, plunging her into momentary darkness before pulling it away.
"Imagine not knowing if it’s my tongue or my fingers," Jane whispered. "Imagine not knowing which pit I’ll choose. Imagine feeling my breath and not knowing if I’m going to kiss you... or ruin you."
Annabelle swallowed hard. Her nipples were hard points against the lace. The description alone made her thighs clench. The craving was a physical ache now, overriding her pride.
"If you make fun of me," Annabelle warned, her voice trembling, "if you laugh at my clumsiness in the dark..."
"I would never," Jane promised solemnly.
Annabelle let out a shuddering breath. She closed her eyes and tilted her head up.
"Do it."
Jane moved behind her. She placed the silk over Annabelle’s eyes, the fabric cool and heavy. She tied it firmly at the back of the Duchess’s head, ensuring no light could leak in.
"Can you see?" Jane asked.
"Nothing," Annabelle whispered. "It is... absolute."
"Good."
Jane moved back to the front. She watched Annabelle lying there—blind, beautiful, and waiting. The power dynamic in the room had shifted tectonically. The Duchess was no longer the viewer; she was the subject.
Jane felt a surge of adrenaline. It wasn't arrogance this time; it was potential.
"Raise your arms, Your Grace," Jane commanded softly.
Annabelle obeyed, lifting both arms above her head, exposing the twin hollows of her armpits to the room. She lay there, waiting for the tongue, waiting for the singular assault she had requested.
But Jane didn't lean in.
Instead, she moved her body. Jane straddled Annabelle’s sternum, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of the Duchess’s ribs. She shifted her weight forward, dropping her hips so her center of gravity was low and heavy. She slid her knees upward and drove her shins down hard across Annabelle’s biceps.
It was a brutal, effective fulcrum. By pinning the upper arms to the mattress with her own body weight, she forced Annabelle’s elbows to splay wide, locking the shoulder joints open and leaving the armpits exposed and helpless.
"Jane!" Annabelle gasped, her triceps firing violently as she tried to jerk her arms down. But the angle was impossible. Jane was leaning into the leverage, using the dead weight of her torso to smother the movement. Every time Annabelle bucked, Jane just sank deeper, her shins feeling like iron bars welding the Duchess’s limbs to the silk. "What are you doing? I didn't say you could restrain me! Get off!"
"Shhh," Jane soothed, leaning down until her lips brushed the shell of Annabelle’s ear. "You asked for devastating, remember?"
Annabelle bucked her hips, a flush of panic rising on her chest. "I command you to release me! This is insolence! I wanted the tongue, not—"
"You don't know what you want," Jane interrupted, her voice a low, vibrating purr that cut through Annabelle’s panic.
Jane shifted her weight, settling more firmly. She extended her hands. She didn't use her tongue. She didn't use her palms. She extended her hands, but didn't use her nails; she couldn't. Unlike the Duchess’s polished talons, Jane’s nails were kept short and blunt, worn down by scouring pans and scrubbing floors. The edges were uneven, threatening to scratch rather than glide.
"My nails are too rough, Your Grace," Jane whispered, hovering her fingers over the crook of Annabelle’s pinned elbows. "I cannot use the edge without hurting you."
She rotated her hands, exposing the pads of her fingertips. The skin there was hardened, textured by a thousand hours of labor.
"But perhaps…" Jane murmured, "the calluses will drag even better."
"And I think..." Jane whispered, placing her calloused fingers on the pale skin of the inner arm and slowly started to drag them. "I think someone needs to lose control completely."
Annabelle froze. The sensation of the rough fingers dragging up her triceps was excruciatingly distinct in the darkness. She couldn't see them. She could only feel the slow, inevitable approach toward the heat of her pits.
"Jane... don't..." Annabelle whimpered, her head thrashing blindly against the pillow. "Stop. Please."
"Oh?" Jane teased, her fingers reaching the halfway point, causing the muscles in Annabelle’s arms to flutter wildly beneath them. "I think someone wants this."
Jane’s fingers crested the curve of Annabelle’s shoulders and slipped, with a terrifying grace, into the deep, defenseless vaults of her armpits.
"Here we are," Jane purred.
She didn't start with violence. She started with the "Spider Walk." She arched her fingers, using the roughened pads of her fingertips to patter lightly, erratically, across the damp, silken skin of the hollows. The sensation was maddening—the friction of her worker’s hands catching slightly against the Duchess’s sweat-slicked skin, dragging rather than sliding.
"Nnn-! Hhh-t! Ah-hah! D-don't!"
Annabelle’s head whipped from side to side on the pillow, her neck straining. The blindfold rendered the attack omnipresent; she couldn't see which finger would strike next, couldn't anticipate the rhythm. Every light tap-tap-tap of a calloused pad sent a jolt of galvanic confusion straight to her core.
"You’re so sensitive in the dark," Jane whispered, leaning closer so her breath ghosted over Annabelle’s heated face.
Jane shifted her attack. She planted the heel of her hand against the upper ribs and used her calloused thumb to trace agonizingly slow, spiraling circles in the very center of the pits. The rough skin of her thumb acted like fine-grit sandpaper, stimulating every nerve ending with a raw, abrasive heat that felt miles away from the cool glide of a manicured nail.
"AHA-HA-HA! JANE! JANE! IT’S TOO SH-HAAA-RP!"
The laughter bubbled up, cracked and desperate. Annabelle bucked her hips, her legs thrashing on the mattress. Jane rode the thrashing, adjusting her pressure with a fluid, cruel competence. The duality was maddening for Annabelle: the crushing, bruising weight of Jane’s shins anchoring her elbows to the bed, contrasted against the feather-light, lightning-fast madness of the fingers dancing in her pits. She was being crushed and fluttered at the same time, splayed open for the torment.
"Is it awful?" Jane teased, wiggling her fingers deeper into the hair-dusted hollows. "Or is it sweet? Your body seems confused, Mistress. You’re trying to pull away, but your hips are grinding into the mattress."
"I HATE YOU! I HA-HA-HATE YOU! STO-HO-HOP!"
Jane continued for another minute, driving the Duchess to the edge of hysterical tears, until Annabelle was gasping, her chest heaving violently beneath the sheer ivory lace of her chemise.
Then, abruptly, Jane stopped. She lifted her hands.
The silence that fell over the room was heavy, filled only by Annabelle’s ragged, wet breathing.
"Breathe, Your Grace," Jane commanded softly. "consider this... a brief respite."
Annabelle lay paralyzed, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The sudden absence of the tickle was almost worse than the sensation itself. In the darkness, the anticipation began to build—a cold, tightening coil in her belly. She could feel Jane shifting above her, the rustle of fabric, the heat of the girl’s body.
"What..." Annabelle gasped, licking her dry lips. "What are you doing?"
"This lace," Jane murmured, her fingers brushing lightly against the fabric covering Annabelle’s stomach. "It’s in the way. I want to see the flush."
Jane didn't rip it. She hooked her fingers under the hem of the chemise at Annabelle’s thighs. Slowly, with agonizing deliberation, she began to ruck the fabric up.
Annabelle felt the cool air hit her stomach as the silk slid upward. Inch by inch. Over the navel. Over the solar plexus. The friction of the lace against her sensitized skin was a tease in itself.
"Jane..." Annabelle warned, her voice trembling.
"Hush."
Jane pulled the fabric higher, bunching it up until it pooled above Annabelle’s breasts, leaving her torso completely bare to the firelight.
The sight was arresting. Annabelle’s breasts were heaving, pale and perfect, the nipples hardened into tight, dark crimson points of arousal that begged for attention. Her skin was flushed with a majestic, blotchy red map of her earlier laughter.
Jane looked down at her work. "Beautiful," she whispered.
She leaned in.
Jane returned her left hand to Annabelle’s left armpit. She sank her fingers in deep this time, finding the nerve cluster instantly and vibrating her fingers with a cruel, practiced intensity.
"EEEE-YIII! NOT AGAIN! NOOO!"
Annabelle shrieked, her body jerking. But this time, Jane didn't use both hands for the tickle.
Her right hand descended. She extended her index finger, using the blunt, chipped edge of her nail to trace the very outer perimeter of Annabelle's left areola. She had to be careful—so careful—not to snag the tender skin. The danger of the rough edge added a layer of terrifying precision to the touch.
She didn't touch the nipple. She circled it.
"Ah... ah..." Annabelle’s breath hitched, her head tossing on the pillow.
The contrast was maddening. In her armpit, a storm of sharp, frantic sensation was raging. On her breast, a ghost was haunting her. Jane’s finger spiraled inward, getting closer and closer to the hardened peak but never making contact. It was a torture of proximity. The nipple throbbed, aching for the touch that was being denied.
"Touch it!" Annabelle gasped, arching her back. "Jane, touch it!"
"Not yet," Jane purred.
She continued the dual assault for another agonizing thirty seconds—the violet scratching in the pit, the feather-light teasing on the breast—until Annabelle was whimpering, her hips grinding into the mattress in frustration.
Then, Jane stopped the circling.
She extended her thumb and forefinger, pincer-like. She captured the nipple. She squeezed it—firm, hard, and possessive.
"OH GOD! OH! AHHH!"
The duality of the sensation shattered Annabelle. Her left side was screaming with the sharp, frenetic panic of the tickle, while her breast was being anchored by a heavy, erotic throb of pain-pleasure. The wires crossed. The scream turned into a moan, then back into a laugh, then into a sob.
"Does that feel good?" Jane purred, twisting the nipple slightly while she scratched frantically at the pit. "Does the tickle make the pinch sweeter?"
"YES! I CAN'T—I DON'T KNO-HO-HOW! PLEASE! JANE! OH GOD—NNNGH!"
Annabelle’s legs kicked out, her heels drumming a frantic rhythm on the mattress. She was drowning. The darkness of the blindfold forced her to feel every micro-movement: the sharp edge of the finger in her armpit, the rough pad of the thumb on her nipple. It was sensory overload, a white-hot blinding light in her mind.
Then Jane released Annabelle's throbbing nipple and lowered her head. She opened her mouth and descended over the aching breast.
She took the entire nipple into her mouth, sealing her warm, wet lips around the areola.
"OH GOD! OH! AHHH!"
The sensation shattered Annabelle. The sudden wet heat and the powerful suction anchored her, grounding the chaotic tremors of the tickle. Jane’s tongue came out, flicking rapidly back and forth against the hard nub of the nipple, teasing it with a relentless, rhythmic lash.
"YES! I CAN'T—I DON'T KNO-HO-HOW! PLEASE! JANE! AHAHA-HA-HAAAA!"
Jane released the nipple with a wet pop and ceased the tickling of the Duchess' armpit "You’re leaking, Mistress," Jane whispered against the wet skin of her breast, looking down at the dark triangle between Annabelle’s legs. "You’re making such a mess of the sheets."
She slid down the bed. Annabelle felt the weight leave her arms, but she was too wrecked to move them. She lay there, arms still thrown above her head in surrender, waiting. She felt Jane’s hands grip her thighs, spreading them wide.
"Jane?" Annabelle gasped.
There was no answer. Only the sensation of wet, hot heat pressing against her vulva.
Jane buried her face in the Duchess’s crotch.
"OH!"
Annabelle’s back arched violently, her fingernails digging into the pillows. Jane didn't hesitate. She spread the swollen lips with her fingers and clamped her mouth over the clitoris. She sucked—hard.
It was a vacuum seal of pleasure. Jane’s tongue was a piston, flicking rapidly against the sensitive pearl, while the suction drew the blood to the surface.
"YES! YES! GOD, JANE! OH FUCK!"
The change from the frantic, high-pitched torture of the tickling to the deep, grounding, guttural pleasure of the oral sex was devastating. Annabelle couldn't think. She could only feel the relentless tongue, the suction, the way Jane’s nose pressed firmly against her pubic bone.
Jane wasn't asking; she was taking. She hummed against the clitoris, the vibration sending shockwaves through Annabelle’s pelvis.
"I'm close! I'm close! Don't stop! DO NOT STOP!"
Annabelle’s hands, no longer pinned, flew down and tangled in Jane’s hair. She didn't push her away; she pulled her closer, grinding her crotch into Jane’s face.
"NOW! JANE! NOW!"
The climax hit her like a physical blow. Annabelle screamed into the blindfold.
"HAAAA-AH! OOO-GOD! FU-HUH-UCK!"
Her legs stiffened, her toes curling so hard they cramped. Her hips bucked wildly, slamming against Jane’s mouth as her body was racked with wave after wave of violent, purging release. She came hard, a hot, viscous flood coating Jane’s tongue, her inner walls clamping down in rhythmic spasms that went on and on.
Jane stayed right there, drinking it in, her tongue lapping up every tremor until the Duchess finally collapsed, sobbing for breath, her body limp and boneless on the crimson silk.
Jane didn't pull away immediately. She stayed anchored there, her face pressed against the damp, trembling warmth of Annabelle’s inner thigh, listening to the Duchess’s keen slowly dissolve into jagged, wet gasps.
The room fell silent, save for the crackle of the logs and the harsh sound of their breathing.
Slowly, respectfully, Jane pulled back. She wiped her chin with the back of her hand, tasting the salt and musk of her mistress, a metallic, intimate tang that made her own stomach clinch with unfinished business. She sat back on her heels at the foot of the bed, simply watching.
The Duchess was a beautiful wreckage. Her legs were splayed wide, twitching intermittently with aftershocks—little muscular flutters that rippled beneath the pale skin like dying moths. Her chest heaved, the ivory chemise clinging to her sweat-slicked ribs, rising and falling in time with her desperate attempts to reclaim her oxygen.
Jane didn't speak. She knew better than to break the spell of the "little death." She waited, her own heart hammering against her ribs, her own thighs glued together by the friction of her need.
A full minute passed.
Finally, Annabelle’s hands unclenched from the sheets. Her fingers, stiff and pale, flexed slowly. She let out a long, shuddering groan—a sound that was half whimper, half purr—and turned her head blindly on the pillow.
"Water..." Annabelle croaked, her voice wrecked, a shadow of its usual imperious polished tone.
Jane moved instantly. It was a relief to have a task. She slid off the bed, her bare feet making no sound on the rug, and poured a glass from the carafe on the nightstand. She climbed back onto the mattress, the springs creaking under her weight.
She reached behind Annabelle’s head and untied the silk knot. The blindfold slid away, pooling like liquid darkness on the pillow.
Annabelle blinked against the sudden assault of the firelight. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, the pupils blown wide. She looked at Jane—really looked at her—with a mix of dazed confusion and dawning recognition.
Jane held the glass to her lips. Annabelle drank greedily, water spilling down her chin, mixing with the sweat on her neck. She finished it and fell back against the pillows, closing her eyes again.
"You..." Annabelle whispered, breathing deeply through her nose. "You are dangerous."
"I only followed orders, Your Grace," Jane said softly, setting the glass aside.
"Don't lie to me," Annabelle murmured, a faint, tired smile ghosted at the corner of her lips. She didn't open her eyes. She reached out blindly, her hand seeking. It landed on Jane’s knee.
Jane froze.
Annabelle’s hand was heavy and hot. It didn't move initially. It just rested there, grounding them both. Then, slowly, the Duchess’s senses began to return. She felt the tension in the muscle beneath her palm. She felt the fine vibration of Jane’s leg—a constant, rhythmic tremor.
Annabelle opened her eyes. The fog of bliss was lifting, replaced by the sharp, observant gaze of the predator. She saw Jane’s flushed face. She saw the way Jane was biting her lip, her hands clenched in her lap, her posture rigid.
Annabelle pushed herself up on one elbow, the silk sheet sliding down to her waist. She looked down at the quilt where Jane was kneeling.
"Look at you," Annabelle whispered, her voice gaining strength, dropping into that familiar, husky register of command.
She traced a finger down Jane’s thigh. Jane shivered violently, a gasp escaping her throat.
"You're shaking apart," Annabelle observed, her eyes darkening. "You gave me everything... and kept nothing for yourself."
"I am fine, Mistress," Jane lied, her voice tight. "I am... satisfied to serve."
"Liar," Annabelle purred. She sat up fully now, winning the battle against gravity. She swept her hair back over her shoulder, regaining her regal silhouette even in her nakedness. She was no longer the victim of the tickle; she was the Architect of the bedroom once more.
Annabelle moved her hand inward, sliding from the knee to the sensitive skin of the inner thigh.
"You are soaking wet," Annabelle stated plainly. "I can smell it from here. The scent of a job half-done."
Jane flushed a deep scarlet, looking down. "Your Grace, I—"
"Shhh."
Annabelle smiled—a slow, sleepy, satisfied smile that promised ruin.
"An artist should never leave a work unfinished."
She found Jane’s center. Jane was already soaked, her pussy swollen and aching from the proximity of the Duchess’s pleasure. Annabelle didn't need to tease. She simply slipped two fingers inside, curling them upwards in a "come hither" motion.
"Ah!" Jane gasped, her head falling back.
"Come for me, Jane," Annabelle commanded softly, finding the rhythm instantly. "Right now. Bleed that heat out."
It didn't take long. Jane was already on the precipice. With three sharp strokes of Annabelle’s fingers, Jane shattered, crying out as she collapsed forward, burying her face in the curve of Annabelle’s neck, shivering as her own release washed through her.
They lay there for a long time in the aftermath, the fire popping softly in the grate, the smell of sex heavy in the air. It wasn't the silence of the void; it was the comfortable, heavy silence of two instruments that had been played to perfection.
Annabelle idly stroked Jane’s hair. "You are getting better, little rabbit," she murmured. "But don't think this means you escape the silver polishing tomorrow."
Jane laughed, a soft, tired sound against the Duchess’s skin. "I wouldn't dream of it."
"Good," Annabelle whispered, kissing the top of her head. "Now go. Before I decide I need a foot warmer for the night. You’ve earned your rest."
Jane pulled back, but she didn't immediately reach for her nightgown. Her gaze drifted down to the foot of the bed, where Annabelle’s feet were peeking out from beneath the tangled crimson sheets—pale, high-arched, and perfectly manicured.
A bold, mischievous smile touched Jane’s lips—the smile of a weed that had learned to bloom. She looked back up at her mistress, her eyes shining in the dying firelight.
"You need only ask, Your Grace," Jane murmured, shifting her weight as if preparing to move down the bed rather than off it. She held up her hands, flexing her fingers. "My hands are already warm. I could knead the tension out of them before I go. Help you sleep."
Annabelle laughed, a genuine, throaty sound of amusement. She reached out and lightly slapped Jane’s thigh—a playful dismissal.
"Don't tempt me, you insatiable little creature," Annabelle scolded, though her eyes were warm. "We both know you wouldn't stop at kneading. You'd find a sensitive spot, and then you’d find a rhythm, and neither of us would sleep before dawn. I refuse to have a spectre pouring my coffee tomorrow."
She pointed imperiously toward the door. "Out. Go dream of linen counts and beeswax."
Jane’s smile widened. She finally relented, sliding off the mattress and gathering her discarded nightgown from the floor. She pulled it over her head, the cotton settling over her flushed skin.
She paused at the heavy oak door, looking back. Annabelle had already settled deep into the pillows, a vision of dark hair and crimson silk, drifting into the sleep of the thoroughly satisfied.
"Goodnight, Your Grace," Jane whispered.
"Goodnight, Jane," came the sleepy murmur from the bed.
Jane closed the door, walking back into the cold corridor. Her feet still ached, and her body was exhausted, but as she walked toward the servants' quarters, she didn't limp. She floated.
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