The Prince and the Pamperers (F/M, FF/M, FFFF/M)

[Sherbet Riley]

THE PRINCE AND THE PAMPERERS



The final banners had fallen, the last arrow loosed. The capital city had been sacked and the king’s guard had surrendered unconditionally. And so it came to pass that the Kingdom of Jovoria was claimed by the Majina Empire.

It had been the 2nd largest war ever fought on Jovorian soil, second only to the Clash of Rams over two hundred years ago. That war had been fought for love. How many men had died so two spoiled sods could have a romp on the rug? But it is for such love that poems are written, epics are told, and kingdom are forged.

It had been the Clash of Rams that led to the ascent of King Harold the Pale. He’d proven himself a leader on the battlefield and few could rival his knowledge of military strategy. When the previous king had died from a gangrenous tooth infection, Harold had been the one to step up and turn the tide of battle. Though he’d been only a common soldier when the Clash of Rams kicked off years prior, by the time victory had been achieved there were few willing to contest his claim to the throne. The prince, the one whose libido had started this whole war, was banished soon after.

And so the Kingdom of Jovoria enjoyed a period of prosperity, decades of bountiful harvests and the building of libraries, great works. King Harold the Pale went on to marry a commoner, Madra, who he first glimpsed from the window of his carriage during one of the many victory precessions held in his honor across the kingdom. Madra had large, hazel eyes and salmon colored lips that defaulted into a pout when her face was at rest. Her hair was the color of straw and her breasts the size of ripe peaches. The king liked peaches.

It didn’t take long before Harold and Madra got around to starting a family. Madra’s stomach had begun to swell even before the Festival of Winds, giving birth to a baby girl — Genevieve — during the year’s last full moon. Next came a son, Wallace, the heir to the throne, and later a younger sister, Rumi. Week long feasts were held to celebrate the births of each of the king’s children, though it was no secret that the most boisterous of them all was the feast that followed Wallace’s arrival.

When the royal family welcomed Princess Genevieve, there had been whispers at court about what would become of the kingdom should the queen be unable to produce a suitable heir. Yes, Genevieve would make a suitable diplomatic pawn down the road, a token to be married off to ensure alliances and trade with other countries. She was plain and tall, slender like a beanpole, but had inherited her mother’s mesmerizing eyes and sharp tongue.

The reaction to Wallace’s arrival was akin to a sigh of relief. A male heir ensured that the line of succession remained unbroken. There would be continuity. It was assumed at the time that this was the best case scenario. After all, didn’t strong men raise stronger sons? King Harold was a wise man, sensible. Any son of his was bound to be as good, if not a better leader. Or so the thinking went.

Less was made about the birth of Princess Rumi. Feasts were thrown, tournaments were won, but she was more or less an afterthought when it came to matters of state. She was the one who had inherited her father’s mind, his appetites. Rumi was a reader, a scholar, who chafed against the expected duties of a princess, especially when it came time to wear a corset.

As the prince, Wallace never lacked for an education or exposure to matters of state. He sat beside his father at court, attended every meeting and strategy council. He learned how to fence, if not exactly “fight,” and was subjected to years of vigorous study under the tutelage of academics and sages alike.

So passed nearly three decades of peace. If there is little history written about this time, it is due not to spotty record-keeping or lost manuscripts, but simply a deficit of events worthy of recording. Battles were fought and won, but very far away, and mostly over grain. Spared any true national conflict, Jovorians became accustomed to plenty, even began to expect it. Soon it came to pass that the few remaining soldiers that had fought in the Clash of Rams retired to the countryside. Few remained who knew the weight of a sword in their hand or the distance an arrow could fly.

By the time conflict did eventually arise, few were prepared to deal with, much less overcome, it.

This is how the Rebellion of the Bed unfolded.

There is some dispute as to how exactly the uprising began but certain details, repeated over time, have come to be accepted as truth.

It had brewed along the coast.

At an unknown time, a woman from far away sailed into an unknown harbor. There she quickly secured work in a pleasure house, one that catered primarily to fisherman and merchants. Within a few months she becomes so popular that customers begin fighting over her, at times with violent results. Word of this gets out and soon the humble little sex shack on the coast becomes a something of a destination for those traveling in and out of the port. There has been tell of shipping routes being changed to accommodate a stop there to boost the morale of weary crews.

At some point, a traveling diplomat makes a stop there upon arriving in the kingdom. He requests the company of the famous “siren” — for that’s how she was known then — paying handsomely for the privilege. To this day there is near breathless speculation about what went on behind those closed doors, but what is known for certain is that they did not emerge for over two days. Rumors of wild laughter and submissive moans heard within have yet to be substantiated.

Whatever went on inside, the diplomat emerged a changed man. A usually dour man, he set off for the capital with a smile on his face and the woman by his side. He’d paid handsomely for her to accompany him, had in fact offered more gold than the cathouse proprietor would have asked for. He should have known then that she would never return. Once she made it to the capital city, that’s when the rebellion began in earnest.

She’d settled into a pleasure house in the western district, one frequented by palace guards and other rank and file members of the court. It was here that the rebellion truly started. The siren — for she was at this point far too humble to suggest anyone refer to her as “queen” just yet — proved that the rumors of her bedroom prowess had not been exaggerated. Before long, soldiers and wine envoys were taking numbers, patiently waiting for their (usually) brief time with the exotic siren from across the sea.

But of course, such demand was not sustainable for just one woman. Other concubines were getting jealous, making less. And so she taught them her ways, secrets they were to guard with their lives. She trained them in the “Delicate Arts” for that’s how she described them. These techniques were applicable no matter the woman’s background or body type. All they had to do was watch, and listen. The siren taught the women how to read a man’s body like a map, where to touch them and how, for the best results.

She described, in detail, an incident from when she was young. A man had purchased her body for a time, a man with a predilection for bondage. Upon being bound to the bed, the man began shouting directions at her, as though he were still somehow the one in charge. The siren had no desire to touch the man at all, and certainly not where he was directing her. She realized very quickly that the point of such an exercise, the fantasy, really, was to deny this man and do as she wished.

Later, she’d acknowledge in private that what happened next had not been planned. Mostly, it had occurred out of a combination of curiosity and boredom. Unsure of what else to do, what was permitted, the young woman scooped up some spiders from the windowsill into her palm, and placed them on the man’s stomach, covering them with an empty cup.

With nowhere to go, the spiders skittered and danced along the man’s naked and sensitive belly, causing him to struggle against his binds. The woman was young, but she knew how to tie a knot. The man howled with laughter. He’d been tied up less than two minutes and already he was begging her to let him go.

It tickled, he told her.

The siren had never known such a gentle touch. Her life had not been one of ease or adventure. Her upbringing had been lacking in play, in sensitivity, in laughter. She’d never known the sensation of a crooked finger under her arm, a soft feather across her skin.

She didn’t let the man go, despite his shrill and giggling pleas. Instead she spent what time they had together learning of the sensitivities of men’s flesh. These imposing brutes that had subjugated her, had conquered her lands, her people. Yet the whole time they were nothing more than giggling little boys, just waiting to be coaxed from beneath their emotional and physical armor. This revelation would color the next five decades of the siren’s life.

And so she taught the other concubines how to tickle, and how to tickle men especially. She told them of the little tricks that could make a man quake with desperation and desire, how to employ the pads of one’s fingertips or the soft soles of their feet for maximum effectiveness.

In practice her techniques worked almost too well. The men would come to the house for pleasure, but find only play instead. Well, not play exclusively, the women who worked there were savvy enough to know that the men would ask for their money back should they leave without achieving release. Ironically, the tickle torture they were subjected to acted as foreplay to them, serving to arouse them even further before climax. They got what they paid for, and the women acquired new skills, ones that would certainly serve them well under a new regime.

And so this technique spread across the land, from the brothels to the bedrooms of the kingdom’s most powerful advisors and diplomats. Slowly, over months and years, secrets began to make their way back to the siren. Her “daughters” as she called them, had since become experts in extracting ticklish secrets from men without them realizing what they were giving up. Steadily she began collection secrets and blackmail from all over the kingdom, storing them for later like a squirrel in winter.

Finally, after patiently gathering secrets and a loyal following of experienced concubines, she struck.

It started with words before it escalated to warfare. Possessing the secrets and shames of more than half of the court, it wasn’t hard to put her thumb on the scales of power for her own benefit. She knew the fragile branches from which generals hung their self-esteem, the weak points in the palace walls and the schedule for watch duty. The hope had been for a bloodless coup, but the siren had not accounted for one of her little spies falling in love with her target. The secret was out and the siren had to flee the capital to regroup when her plans came to light.

The betrayal had been unexpected and the siren resolved to never be caught off guard like that again. She retreated once again to the coast and started from scratch with a handful of faithful advisors. Over time, she rallied a collection of sell swords and mercenaries, all of whom fell under the spells of her and her girls’ soft touch. They fought not for banners or countrymen, but for love, one that had bewitched their bodies and minds.

They fought for their queen, for that is what they’d started called her. She was their queen, their goddess, their mistress, and their mommy.

For all their esteem in the eyes of the city’s elite, many were unhappy with the royal family’s stewardship of the kingdom. For all the talk of continuity in leadership, this only meant that those who had felt ignored by the previous regime remained so. The sycophants and bowers and scrapers in the palace couldn’t see what was brewing right under their noses until it was too late. The people had had enough and now they had a queen to fight for.

Unrest spread through the populace, rumors caught fire, guards were swayed to look the other way. It didn’t take long for this to spill over into violence. Riots swept through the capital and many infantrymen and guards were slow to respond. After all, they’d had their hearts stolen by their queen and her coterie of sensual ticklers.

The conflict stretched on for some time. The royal family remained locked in the palace while it all unfolded, only getting occasional updates from their most trusted advisors. How were they to know that even those in their inner sanctum had been corrupted by the soft touches of the queen’s women?

After all the conflict and strife, the villages burned and the streams dammed with corpses, the kingdoms had fought themselves to a stalemate. Yes, the queen had her forces, the love of the people, but the royal family had deep pockets and a lot of allies at home and abroad. In the end it was all quite anticlimactic — the royal family sued for peace. All a continued conflict would do is lead to more orphans and bloodshed, the reasoning went. The queen was invited to the palace and a grand banquet was to be held in honor of their compromise.

Prince Wallace readied himself for bed. He was not looking forward to sitting beside his father at the head of the table, being seated across from the very woman who had wanted to take everything from his family. Who was this interloper, this woman from across the sea, who thought she could rule the kingdom better than his father? What did she know of his land, his people? She did not grow up in the orange groves of Saint Mirinta, had not spent her summers skipping stones in the Wivo or listening to the songs of sparrows.

The last thought that flitted behind his restless eyelids before sleep finally overtook him was an image of the queen. She was sitting across from him at the banquet table, smiling sweetly at him. Her her arm was outstretched, reaching toward him across the table. There was nothing in her hand, which was stained with pomegranate juice. She held her hand up, letting it float before his eyes, and gave her fingers a little wiggle.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Prince Wallace was awoken in the night when a black burlap sack was thrown over his head. His startled cries fro help were immediately silenced by a rough hand being forcefully placed over his mouth. The prince’s hands were forced roughly behind his back, causing him to gasp out in pain behind the muffling palm pressed across his lips. He could not see his assailants but he could smell whiskey and honey on their breath.

The prince stumbled down the hall, pushed forward by his hulking escorts. Wallace had some idea of where they were headed when he nearly fell down the umpteenth flight of stone steps. He was being taken to the dungeon.

Young Wallace had only been there a few times before, to speak with political prisoners and idealistic captives to better understand them. After all, Wallace, for all that he’d been given, had always been a lonely child.

By the time he’d been tied down to the table — his arms stretched above his head and his feet locked in a pair of stocks at the end — his resolve had only hardened further. Whatever it was the queen or whoever wanted with him he wouldn’t give an inch. He would never break, never give them the satisfaction of seeing him sweat or beg or plead. Wallace’s resolve had never been tested in any meaningful way. He’d not so much as scraped his knee as a child, had never broken a bone, had never had his heart broken. The prince was a nice boy, thoughtful and studious, but he was soft. His was a softness nurtured by his mother, by nursemaids and teachers. They knew what could become of men deprived of care, of love or attention. They became men like their husbands and brothers, men who turned their hearts to stone and their minds to mush with ale.

Wallace was scared. This he could concede privately. His imagination was racing, picturing all sorts of unpleasantness: rats feasting on his eyes, hot pokers in his side, stones placed on his chest, thousands and thousands of cuts.

The sound of approaching footsteps disrupted his morbid reverie. He could see torchlight through the small opening in his cell door. The wood groaned as it was pushed inward, the bottom of the door scraping against the stone floor, displacing dust and cobwebs.

There she was, The Queen. Who else could it be? Her beauty was the stuff of legend, a prayer one whispered into their pillow. She was tall, with cheekbones so sharp you could cut fruit with them. Her hair was dark, near black, yet had a puce colored hue when it caught the light. She was beautiful. More than beautiful, striking. She wore a black velvet dress, one that hugged her shapely body, accentuating her curves, her chest. There was a mole, so faint it could be mistaken for a crumb, on her chin below her full lips. Her pale skin stood in sharp contrast to her black dress, together in the dark almost creating the illusion of a floating head and chest.

Her appearance was enough to drive whole libraries of vocabulary from prince Wallace’s head. Despite knowing that this was the very woman whose charisma and beauty had driven men against their king, he’d been wholly unprepared for the reality of her face, her chest, her lips.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long,” the queen said slowly, almost apologetically. Her years of waiting on others and anticipating their needs had led to her perfecting a certain submissive tone.

For a brief instant, Prince Wallace almost felt bad. He felt compelled to assure her, that he hadn’t been waiting long, that it was perfectly alright. His lips were already moving when he recognized this reflex and clamped his mouth shut defiantly.

The Queen smiled. He would be a fun one, she thought.

This was the first time the Queen had laid eyes on the prince as well. He bore a passing resemblance to his father but really favored his mother, especially in his temperament. His father’s face was the one on their money, his severe gaze asserting authority over any who dated to look him in the eye. While Wallace had been molded in the image of his father in nearly every sense, not just in his politics but in his sartorial choices and grooming habits, he had never been able to match his father’s “look.”

Wallace’s face was soft, round but not bloated. Though he had been a “man” for quite some time now, he had never tasted command. He’d never broken a bone, lost a tooth, chipped a nail. His experience of the world and the people that lived in it was as narrow as the window he saw them through.

He was slender but not skinny with a little bit of a tummy from his nights drinking ale with the kings guard. His hair had darkened with age. When Wallace was younger he sported blond curls, a look his mother adored and his father despised. On more than one occasion he’d been mistaken for a girl.

But as Wallace aged his hair straightened, shading from bouncy blonde to chestnut brown. He’d never chafed against his position, his destiny. If anything it had helped him. There was no agonizing over what he could or should be, he simply was. To have it all laid out before him, all progress measurable, was a load off his mind. Without having to worry about much else other than how to rule, the prince could learn about matters of state unencumbered. The prince had been a diligent student, watchful, curious.

Despite his best efforts, however, he couldn’t help but note a tone of condescension on the tongues of his tutors and advisors. His father the king would be a tough act to follow, Wallace knew that. His father had been a warrior, a hero, beloved by the serfs and the soldiers. And who was Wallace, the boy who would be king? A sheltered prince who knew much about trade and strategy but knew precious little of the world.

Wallace had spoken to his father about this on many occasions. The prince was nothing if not self-aware. His father had dragged his feet in giving his son more responsibility. Perhaps he was afraid that doing so would speed up the process of his eventual replacement. But the king knew he wasn’t getting any younger. If his son was old enough to marry, old enough to weigh in on council meetings, then surely he was old enough to be the face of the occasional military operation or diplomatic summit.

It was just the prince’s luck that it was at that very moment that the Rebellion of the Bed began brewing along the coast. The stakes were suddenly so high that the king didn’t want this to be Wallace’s first exposure to command. The next one, he assured his son. The next one…

The Queen chuckled at the Prince’s attempt to approximate his father’s stern expression. It only served to make the young man look confused.

“You’re nothing at all what I imagined,” the Queen said, her eyes roaming up and down the prince’s taut, exposed body. “I imagined someone younger. Fatter.”

The Prince said nothing. They would sing songs of his resistance, he thought. Wallace imagined guards barreling against locked doors, fighting on the parapets of the palace. If he could just hold out long enough, maybe…maybe…

“Am I?” The Queen asked.

“Are you what?” The Prince spat, trying to mask his fear with anger.

“As you imagined?” The Queen did a coquettish little twirl, her white teeth emerging from behind her dark red lips.

In truth she was nothing like what Wallace had imagined. She was more. The Prince would never admit it — at least not yet — but he’d spent quite of time imagining the queen since word of her rebellion first reached the palace. There had been no etchings, no eye witness reports about what she looked like. Thus the prince’s imagination had run wild, often whilst laying alone in the dark with his hand pumping feverishly beneath his satin sheets. What kind of beauty could turn a man against his country, his king?

Over the years that the rebellion had spanned, images of the Queen had come to him at night. At times she was a squat blonde with heaving breasts and vase-like waist. At others she was an amazon, with fire red hair and arms like tree trunks. Sometimes she looked refined and educated like his tutors, or a plain barefoot peasant girl with kind eyes. But none of his fantasies compared to the real thing. Suddenly all those nights pawing at himself in the dark felt insufficient. Suddenly, he got it.

The Prince dared not utter a word, worried that he’d somehow give himself away. His voice might quiver, or god forbid…

“Silent treatment. That’s fine. We should enjoy this quiet time together while we can.”

The queen didn’t step toward the table so much as she glided toward it. She gently sat her round bottom on the end of the table, causing it to groan under her added weight. The queen was close enough to him now that the prince could smell her — lavender, lilac and a whiff of rosemary. Her eyes were dark, shimmering in the dank light of the dungeon, almost hypnotic.

“I don’t have to tell you that things in the capitol are…fragile, at the moment.”

“Whose fault is that?” Wallace replied.

The Queen smiled, amused.

“I acknowledge the role I’ve played in all this. What I’m here to find out, however…” The Queen leaned in closer now and Wallace, young man that he was, couldn’t help but glance at her chest. “…is if you can play yours.”

Wallace didn’t speak, just glared at his captor with what he hoped read as defiance. He really hadn’t accounted for her beauty, which was even more evident close up. This, coupled with his exposed body and tight restraints, made him feel less than equipped.


“Your father shall play his part, locked in irons in the Red West Keep. No harm shall come to him, on that you have my word. He will simply be out of sight, out of mind. His face shall no longer adorn our coins, our banners and stamps…”

“Though I may have won the hearts of the common folk…” The Queen continued, now walking two fingers down the prince’s chest. She noticed a slight curl in his lip as her fingertips made contact, and smiled. “I must admit that my cohort are…lacking in the educational background of your most trusted advisors.”

“If you harm one hair on my father’s head…” Wallace spat.

“What hair?” The Queen asked, humorously.

Despite himself, the prince chuckled. His father had been bald since he was Wallace’s age. Upon realizing his mistake, the prince clamped his jaw shut.

“It seems the two of us are in a bind. Well, maybe you more so than me.” The Queen added, nodding to the prince’s binds. “But perhaps we can come to some kind of…agreement.”

“Where you let me go and I have your head divorced from your neck?” The Prince was proud of that one. He might even write it down later.

The Queen chuckled. She was in a good mood. The Prince had expected black-hooded torturers, pliers and branding irons. He had no idea what the Queen had in mind. Whatever it was, she intended to enjoy herself. This, more than anything, is what really made the prince’s stomach churn.

“I was thinking something perhaps more mutually…beneficial…” She began touching his chest again, letting her hand wander over his collarbone, his nipples, his stomach. His puffy little nipples puckered as his belly tensed at her touch and his ass shifted a little beneath him. Her fingers were ice cold but her palm was warm.

“Despite the end to our little conflict, I’m afraid another is already on the horizon. I know this might come as a shock to you, but not everyone is quite so happy about the regime change. Not just the countryfolk, but certain members of court.”

“Y-you d-don’t say…” The Prince was doing his best to keep his voice even. He was distracted by the Queen’s wandering hand. It didn’t follow any discernible pattern or rhythm. Her fingers dragged lazily across his skin, wandering dangerously close to his armpit.

“I don’t mean to tip my hand but I don’t exactly have the means to defend myself from an uprising, no matter if they’re a minority among the common folk. It’s not exactly a good look, mounting your subjects’ heads on pikes. And despite my army’s superior might, there aren’t many among us with a suitable education for diplomacy and economic management.”

“S-sound like a-ha you pr-problem…” The Queen’s soft, warm palm was gently rubbing his stomach now, moving around and around methodically. The Prince was having a difficult time keeping his voice steady in an attempt to appear strong. To not appear quite so…

Ticklish…

“No, it’s yours, sweet one,” the Queen said softly, as though she were attempting to soothe him. “With your father off the throne, it’s important that we keep some continuity of rule, wouldn’t you agree?”

Wallace said nothing. Not out of any real kind of resilience but due to the Queen’s distracting, ticklish touch. Her fingers had begun to wiggle, ever so slightly, applying just a little pressure here and there. There was no hiding his reaction now, the prince’s body was beginning to tremble and jerk away from her fingers. Even worse, the prince was having difficulty hiding his burgeoning smile.

“Yes, so do I. I’m so glad we’re on the same page.” she continued. “Therefore you’d agree that it only makes sense that the two of us should marry in order to preserve the peace.”

“Wh-ahat!” The Prince exclaimed, unable to let her suggestion go unchallenged or stop the giggles from burbling forth.

“Yes, dear. I for one thing we would make quite the fetching couple!” Her fingers were moving faster now, poking and wiggling along Wallace’s sides, worming their way between his ribs and along his love handles. “And it seems you think so too! Look at how happy the idea makes you!”

“Ihihihihihihihihi’m nahahahahahahat hahahahahappyyyyyy! Stahahahahp thihihihihis ahahahahahahat ohohohohohonce! Heheheheheheheheheheheheeeeee!”

There was no denying it now, Prince Wallace was deathly ticklish. Always had been. This was hardly a secret at court, at least in the maid’s quarters. The fact that the Queen had learned of his sensitivity meant that someone close to him had talked. But who? He had to wonder, had the Queen tickled them too?

“Really? Are you suuuuure? Because you sure look happy! Just wook at dat happy widdle faaaaaace!” The Queen trilled, leaning in close so that her face was just inches from his own, as if she were teasing a baby in its bassinet.

“Ihihihihihihihi’m nahahahahahat hahahahahahahahahapppy!” The prince squealed, doing his best to control his face in addition to his laughter.

The tragedy was that someone had talked. Wallace had feared the hot poker and broken bones, but this was far worse. It wasn’t just that he was ticklish, that would be bad enough. Worse was that he liked it. He’d always enjoyed tickling, which really was the word for it: “enjoy.” Even now he was doing his best to keep his mind clear, his body still, and his cock…

“C’mon happy boy, many men are willing to kill for a chance to marry meeeeeeeee. And they have. You’re the luckiest little boy in the land! Can you say ‘happy boy?’ Huh? Can you?” The Queen was gently tapping her fingertips against his armpits now, not even applying very much pressure, simply making contact with the wispy hair and pale skin of his underarms. Even this was enough to make the young prince shake on the table.

“Nohohohohohohohohohohohohooooo! Yohohohohohohohohohou’ll nehehehehehever breheheheheheheheheak meheheheheeeeeee!” The prince giggled, not entirely convinced himself that he had the ability to hold out. What matted was buying time. He imagined a legion of loyal guards fighting their way to him at that very moment, battalions crossing battlefields and slamming against the sturdy doors of the tower. He just needed to resist as long as he could before…

“Happy happy happy boyyyyy! Happy boys get tickled by their nannies, don’t they? They get tickled by their mommies and their sissies and just giggle and laugh and…buck. Don’t they sweet boy?”

Wallace was doing his best to block out the beautiful woman’s words, which dripped like poison into his ear to corrode his admittedly fragile resistance. This, almost more so than the tickling, made him worry.

“Nohohohohohohohohoho thehehehehehehehehehehey dohohohohohohohon’t! Ahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! Ihihihihiihihihihi’ll nehehehehehehehehehever mahahahahahaharry yohohohohohoho-“

“PBRRRRRRRRRT!” The queen had unexpectedly placed her lips against the prince’s belly and blew a prolonged raspberry. She smiled as she felt the prince’s butt lift a few inches off the table and his laughter rose in pitch. “Wasberries! Baby loves his wazberries doesn’t he? Huh? Doesn’t he? PBBBBBBBBRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTT!”

The queens lips were soft and warm, the tip of her nose cold. This, coupled with the ticklish ripples of air across his exposed stomach forced the young prince’s mouth open, allowing his laughter to escape unimpeded.

“Ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaaaaaa! Nahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaa! Nohohohooooo! No no no no no - !”

“PBBBBBBBBRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTT!”

“AH! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA! STOP! STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!”

“Who’s my happy little boy? PBBBBBBBBRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTT!”

“Bwahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaaaa!”

“Just admit you’re my happy little boy and we can leave the wazberry patch!” The queen trilled, bringing her face closer to his stomach once more in a teasing manner, playfully exaggerating the excitement on her face. “Uhhh…uhhhh…”

The prince was giggling in anticipation, his smile genuine. As the queen brought her lips to his stomach once more and took a deep breath, something bent inside the prince.

“Okay! Okay!”

The Queen looked at him expectantly, raising her eyebrows.

“I’m a -“

“PBBBBBBBBRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTT!”

“Ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaaaaaa! Stahahahahahahahap! Ihihihihihihihihi wahahahahahahahahahahasssss abohohohohohohohohohout tooohohohohohohoooooo - !”

“PBBBBBBBBRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTT!”

“Stahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahhpppppihihihihihihihiiiiiiit!”

“C’mon, all that education and you can’t use any of those biiiiiig fancy words? Tsk tsk tsk, no wonder you need a grown up like me to tell you what to do! You’re just a hapless widdle princeling!”

The prince’s face was turning red, as much from embarrassment as the tickling. Nobody spoke to nobility this way. After years of hearing deferential tones from everyone he came across, Wallace was unaccustomed to being condescended to in such an infantile manner. In fact, the only people he’d ever known to speak to him in this way were his mother, sisters, and long-serving nannies. And — Wallace realized with a cold terror in his stomach — the queen knew it. She was using it against him, hoping to make him feel like a helpless little boy again, someone who would say or do anything that was asked of him to make the tickling stop.

He couldn’t give in. He wouldn’t. The kings of old had suffered for their country. They’d lost limbs in battle and sold off their daughters to secure alliances. These kings knew of hardship, real struggle. If Wallace couldn’t handle a little tickling, well then he didn’t deserve the throne. Every ruler had their test. If tickle torture was to be his, then so be it.

The prince could endure.

“Ihihihihihihihihihihihihihihihi’m nahahahahahahahahaat! Ihihihihihihihi’m nahahahahahahahahahahahat! Ihihihihihihihihihihihihihihi’m thehehehehehehehehe heheheheheheir tohohohohohohohohoho thehehehehehe throhohohohohohohohone!” The Prince blushed even harder upon hearing just how small and childish his protests sounded.

“Uh oh!” The Queen exclaimed as she drew her hands back for a moment, bringing them to her face in an expression of false surprise.

“What?” The Prince found himself trying to get a look at his torso, momentarily caught up in his torturer’s theatrics.

“Spiders!”

“What? Where?” The prince asked, slightly panicked. He never liked spiders.

“Right…” The Queen’s hands turned into claws, her smile growing wider as she slowly brought them down toward her captive’s trembling chest. “…here!”

Upon touching his ribs, the queen’s fingers began wiggling between his ribs, spidering and scraping all the sensitive spots that one usually protected with armor.

“A tickle tickle tickle! A goochie goochie goo! The tickle spiders are in the silly boy’s bed! Look out! They’re gonna get ya! They’re gonna get ya! Do you know what tickle spiders do? They find ticklish little boys, and they just tickle and tickle and tickle allllllllll their silly spots until they wet the bed! And something tells me you remember the tickle spiders, don’t you? Because they sure remember yooooooou!” The queen singsonged, her tone growing more playful and childish as she felt the young prince crumbling beneath her skillful fingers.

“Nohohohohohohohohohohohooooooo! Tihihihihihihihihihihihickle spihihihihihihihihihihiders ahahahahahahahahaha ahahahahahahahaharen’t reheheheheheheheheheheheheal! Gahahahahahahahahahahahahaaaaaa!”

It was true, the prince did remember the tickle spiders. It was a game his sisters had played with him before he’d really developed muscles. How awful it had been, being trapped between them on a couch or in a bed. Genevieve as the eldest and Rumi as the youngest could always be relied to find a common enemy in their brother. Even though they were his siblings, any physical harm that should befall him was punishable by many unpleasant methods — a weekend in the tower, say, or an evening of kneeling on rice — so they often disguised their playful tormenting of their middle brother as play.

After all, what kind of sister doesn’t relish in the humiliation of their brother?

Did that mean that his sisters had talked? They were just as ticklish as he was. It wasn’t unreasonable to think that perhaps the Queen’s light touch had made Rumi and Genevieve crack. Not that Wallace could blame them, necessarily. They hadn’t been quite so lucky as to have been born with his iron will.

“Gehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehet ahahahahahahahahawahahahay! Gehehehehehehehehehehet ahahahahahahawaaaaaaayyyyyyhahahahahahahahahha!”

“And the tickle spiders will be hiding in our bed on our wedding night! Oh yes they will,” The Queen cooed as her spider-like fingers circled his bellybutton, the tips of her fingernails teasing the perimeter of the sensitive little hole. “You’ll need someone to keep you safe from the tickle tickle tickle monsters! I can protect you, I’m the only one who can. I know how to keep my husband’s ticklish widdle secret. All you have to do is ask me to marry you, and I’ll make sure your tickly little body is protected from the mean ol’ tickle spiders!”

“Ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaaaaa! Ihihihihihihihihi’ll nehehehehehehehehehever mahahahahahahaharry yohohohohohohohohohohouuuuu! Nohohohohohohohohohohoho mahahahahahahahahahatter whahahahahahahahahahat yohohohohohohohohohou dooooohohohohohohooooo! Ahahahahahahahahahahahaha! Bwahahahahahahahahaha — ungh…”

The Queen’s warm palm was now cupping his tumescent manhood, pressing it pleasurably against his stomach. She could feel it throb under her hand and gave it a little pet. Even this slight contact made the prince’s body grow as rigid as his member.

“I wonder, my prince…” she purred, “…if you even know of the true benefits of a marital bed.” The Queen bent down and blew gently on the prince’s exposed torso, causing goosebumps to ripple along his skin.

The prince’s face reddened as he felt the queen’s nimble fingers untying the drawstrings of his trousers. His mind was racing now with curiosity, lust and fear. This was, after all, what the queen was famous for — satisfying men. Wars had been fought on her behalf based on her skillful manipulation of mens’ privates.

Part of Wallace’s mind was more than intrigued by the idea of putting himself in the hands of such a skilled practitioner of pleasure. But another, louder voice within him knew that if he were to succumb to her sensual charms, there would be no resisting her advances further. If she were to coax him to completion, there was a good chance he’d become just another one of her blissfully aroused thralls.

Wallace couldn’t allow that to happen. No matter what she threw at him, he needed to resist his beautiful captor.

Of course, his body did not obey his mind any more than a river did a boulder. His cock sprung free from his loosened trousers, bobbing invitingly in the cold air. Truthfully the prince had never known if he’d been “gifted” in this arena. The queen gave no indication one way or another, she simply stood back and reached for a nearby shelf.

“Oooooh, such a shy, pretty thing you are. Poor baby…first time?” The Queen said it in a tone bordering on concern, not judgement. “Don’t be scared…just close your eyes…”

The prince could hear the pop of a jar being opened, the soft squelch of an ointment being rubbed between her palms. He refused to obey her by closing his eyes but dared not give her the satisfaction of his curiosity. Wallace fixed his eyes onto the ceiling, taking this short break from her ticklish onslaught to steady his breathing and regain his composure.

The breath caught in his throat when he felt her warm, slick hands set upon his now semi-erect member. Her soft palms were coated in an ointment that smelled faintly of peppermint and sage. Perhaps it was his imagination, or perhaps it was the ointment’s intended effect, but his penis suddenly felt quite warm.

Wallace’s eyes almost shut reflexively as he suddenly found himself awash in a pleasure unlike any he’d ever known. The queens hands moved leisurely up and down as she hummed a slow little melody. The more her hands worked him over, the more thoroughly they coated his cock in that minty ointment, the more pleasure they seemed to coax out of it. Wallace was fighting back little grunts and moans of pleasure, his butt shifting beneath him as he tried to turn this way and that.

“That’s right little one,” the Queen whispered, “struggle…” She grasped his cock firmly now with her left hand, giving it an affectionate little squeeze, as she brought her right palm to the head of his penis. Gently, she pressed her palm against his ruddy head and began to rub.

“Mmmmph…” Wallace’s eyes rolled back as his back arched ever so slightly.

“Good boy…” the queen smiled. Her voice remained maternal, patient. “Doesn’t that feel gooooooood?”

“Unh…uh…” Wallace wanted to deny it, but any attempt to form the words resulted in another escaped murmur of pleasure.

“Sometimes boys aren’t ticklish. Or think they aren’t, anyway. Every boy is ticklish. That’s their secret, one only their mommies and sisters know. But I’ve always been good with secrets. You’d be amazed at the things some naughty boys have told me. But even the most hardened…”

She gave his cock a quick squeeze and Wallace’s head fell back.

“…find all kinds of new sensitivities when I use my special lotion. Anything it touches gets all tiiiiiinnnnnngly and sennnnnnnnsitive. Just like I’m doing to your happy little willy right nowwwww…”

The Queen’s palm began making slower and slower circles now. She almost laughed when she felt how greedily the young prince was bucking into her hand. This might not take as long as she'd feared.

“And you’re already such a sensitive boy, aren’t you Wally? I don’t know how you can stand it! Poor baby…”

Wallace chuckled breathlessly, his head lolling back and forth as he felt his hips involuntarily buck once more. The soft tone of words were arousing him just as much as her ceaseless hands. But it wasn’t her slow palm that had him chuckle and somehow the Queen could sense this.

“What’s so funny, baby?” The Queen cooed.

“So this…th-his is h-how - shit! - you di-hi-d it…”

The prince chuckled again, seemingly making no effort to control his bucking now.

“T-this is how you con-convinced di-hi-plomats and gehenerals t-to go along with the rebellion. You jacked them all off! Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!”

The Queen frowned and pulled her hands back from his cock. The prince was laughing heartily now. It was just so hysterical to him. His pink cock bounced in the air as he nearly choked on his own laughter.

“Hohohohohohohow mahahahahahany? How many dicks did you have to…ahahahahahahahahaha! You’re no queen at all. You’re a *****! Ahahahahahahahaha. God…to think I’d marry you after one pleasurable massage…ehehehehehehehe…”

The Queen’s face flashed with anger for but a brief moment. This was not fresh invective to her, but it did sting for the prince to still not take her seriously while knowing she held all the cards. Perhaps she’d been naive to expect differently but considering how the prince had been raised, she’d assumed that he’d be more enlightened and respect a woman’s authority.

After a moment, she regained her composure and regarded the giggling prince on the table before her. He’d come to regret this. She did, after all, hold all the cards.

The Queen bent at the waist and brought her mouth close to the prince’s now semi-erect member.

“Oh, what’s next, you gonna blo-oh fuck!”

Indeed the queen had blown a little puff of air from between her pursed lips onto his cock. But due to the ointment that the queen had now thoroughly worked into his already sensitive penis, this little gust of air rolling over his skin felt more like the soft lick of a cat’s tongue. The prince’s body jolted at the sensation and he was briefly stunned into silence.

“What was that? I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear you.”

“I said, do you really think I’ll marry you just from a — s-shit!”

The Queen blew again and the sensation against his cock jolted him back into submission. The prince’s cock felt cool, tingly — the same way his foot felt whenever it fell asleep. But instead of being numb, the prince’s cock could feel everything. It may have been his imagination, but Wallace could swear that he could feel the little specks of dust in the air settling on his trembling member.

“I do, think so, yes.” The Queen said, confidently. “I was worried I might not get to enjoy this, that you’d break quickly. Unlike you, I give respect when it’s due. I must say, most people have broken by now. But it’s all the same in the end. You will marry me. You may even come to love me. The only thing that you have control of right now, is how much you suffer between now and then.”

“Suffer?” The prince scoffed, summoning courage from the deepest wells of his spirit. “What, from tickling and handjobs? Please…”

“Okay, struggle. This way I can take a break.”

“Tired already?” Wallace smirked.

The Queen returned his taunt with a condescending smile.

“Not exactly.”

With that, the queen turned her head toward the door and let out a shrill little whistle. Moments later Wallace could hear footsteps approaching, soft and tentative. Conflicted. When the door finally swung open Wallace recognized their silhouettes immediately and his heart sank.

It was Gwendolyn and Bree, his childhood nannies. Gwendolyn was a tall, plain girl, so plain in fact that around the castle it wasn’t uncommon to joke that her favorite snack was flour. Her hair was the color of sun bleached straw, strands of which often hung in front of her face despite the bandana she often favored while working. Bree was stout and jolly, her cheeks round and perpetually pink. Her hands were plump, her fingers stubby, but Wallace remembered well how easily they had made him squeal as a child.

His sisters had learned from watching Gwendolyn and Bree work him over when the prince had been uncharacteristically obstinate or rowdy. They’d pin him down and tickle him until he acquiesced to taking his bath or cleaning his room or finishing his supper. Gwendolyn and Bree were not permitted to harm their young master, but they knew exactly where to poke and what to whisper in order to turn him to jelly in their hands.

They hadn’t forgotten either.

“Young master!” Bree exclaimed, her eyes wide as they beheld the vulnerable young prince. “What’s happened to you?”

The Prince’s heart leapt in his chest. For an instant Wallace felt relief — the way one does when they first awake in the morning, the seconds before the previous night comes into focus. It was an almost pavlovian response, seeing his nannies in the doorway and thinking himself saved. When his sisters became overzealous in their ticklish ministrations, it would be Gwendolyn and Bree who would rescue him. Time had been kind to them but they were unmistakably older around their eyes, their mouths, their hands…

“Go ahead…” The Queen whispered, “Call out to your mommies for help.”

Wallace was embarrassed to realize that indeed a plea for help had been forming in his throat at the sight of his old nannies. But the Queen’s infantilizing tone brought him crashing back to reality. Wallace felt his stomach coil and the sweat on his brow cool. He clenched his teeth, but he could not hide the tremors in his thighs and neck.

The Prince was frightened.

“Oh, dear…” Gwendolyn sighed, averting her gaze from the trussed up young lord as her cheeks burned in second hand embarrassment.

“It seems they remember you,” The Queen said. “I couldn’t ask for better babysitters.”

Wallace fixed his gaze on the Queen, his eyes burning with hatred and fear. The Queen knew exactly what he was communicating but refused to say.

Please don’t leave me alone with them.

“What, you didn’t think I’d be able to spend the whole day working this out, did you?” The Queen pouted, answering his unspoken plea. "I have a country to run, appointments to make! Your happy nannies are here to keep my baby company while momma’s away on business. Don’t worry! I’ll be back in two shakes…”

The Queen gave the prince a little poke in the ribs to punctuate her remarks and smiled when she saw Bree perk up at his familiar little yelp.

“I’ll leave you to catch up then…” The Queen said, nodding to the awaiting caregivers. They parted to let her pass as she stepped out, daring not to so much as breathe until her footsteps hit the stairs.

“Bree…Gwen…” The Prince whispered, doing his best to look especially pitiable. The minute he saw them it was clear that his childhood minders had been the ones to tell of the Prince’s ticklish weakness.

It all made sense to him now. Surely they’d been offered land, titles, and other riches in exchange for exercising their dreadful talents upon his vulnerable body. But Wallace hoped that perhaps fond memories from when he was a boy would be enough to dissuade them from following through on what ever dreadful plans they’d been asked to carry out.

“Oh, you poor thing…” Gwendolyn tutted as she swept into the room. Her slender frame cast a long shadow along the dungeon wall and Wallace was suddenly reminded how just how much bigger his nannies had seemed. They certainly loomed large in his imagination, their smiling faces beaming down at him, glimpsed through the teary haze of his childhood hysteria.

“Young master…how ever did you get into such a pickle! Oh, sweetness…” Bree said it so casually, as if she’d come upon him tangled in a curtain drawstring or half-fallen out of bed. She giggled when she saw his cock bounce in response to her babying tone.

“Oh, he, um…” Gwendolyn hushed, suddenly bashful at the sight of the prince’s still stirring cock. The ointment was still working its magic. The vibrations of their voices on the air was enough to give him a little tingle.

“Awww, somebody’s excited to see us…” Bree trilled, not being at all taken aback by the prince’s tumescence. “Aww, still such a shy widdle man…”

“Maybe I should…cover him up…” Gwendolyn muttered. She was rubbing the tips of her fingers together, something she always used to do when she was nervous.

“Yes, that sounds like a great idea.” Wallace said, doing his best to keep his voice even. He hoped to spark up that old camaraderie they used to share. After all, for a time during the prince’s early adolescence, Gwendolyn and Bree were his only friends.

“Are you sure sweetness?” Bree cooed. “I don’t know if that’s best…”

“Of course it’s best…” Wallace said firmly, though not without charm. “Just look at poor Gwendolyn, she’s embarrassed.”

“Are you sure youuuuuu’re not the one who’s embarrassed?” Bree asked skeptically, her hands resting on her hips. “Not even a teeny, weeny, itty bitty bit?” Her voice rose into a childish squeak, as though she were putting on one of her “famous” finger puppet shows.

“Gwendolyn, would you please…” Wallace urged her politely, turning away from Bree so as to better hide the reddening of his ears. Her condescending tone had always cut through him like butter. Nothing put him in his place quicker as a child than to be made to feel so foolish — so silly — as to think he’d be allowed, much less able, to do anything at all.

“You heard the widdle prince.” Bree chirped, turning her back to him. “Whatever baby wants…”

“Stop that…” Wallace grunted through gritted teeth.

“So you don’t want a towel?”

“No, I…don’t call me that. I’m not a baby anym-oh fuuuuck…”

Wallace had been too distracted by Bree’s playful teasing to notice Gwendolyn fetching a hot towel from a small pot left near the door, the steam twisting in the air like ribbons against the torchlight. This gossamer thin slip of cloth, soaked in warm water, felt especially intense against his hyper-sensitive cock. Even this light application of warmth and swaddled pressure was enough to make his member stand on end.

“Ungh…shhhhhhh…” Wallace’s body rattled with pleasure as he found himself humping the air for more of that good feeling. But there was no push back, no pleasurable hand or soft mattress to grind into. In fact, the more the prince thrust his cock into the air searching for more pleasurable warmth the cooler the towel grew. The water was dribbling down the length of his shaft and now trickled over his balls, tickling the poor boy anew.

“G-gwehendolyn…please…” Wallace giggled, his cock twitching beneath the warm cloth. “I…I dohohon’t know what she promis-ed you but…if you lehehet me ohohout of here…I swear I-EEE!”

Despite all that he’d already been through that day, Wallace was completely unprepared for the wet, sticky sensation that was currently being spread over his bare and untouched soles. Bree had found the queen’s jar of sweet smelling ointment and had begun applying it to the bottoms of his already quite ticklish feet.

Bree could feel the Prince’s body tremble beneath her gentle application. She knew exactly how sensitive the prince’s feet were, what games would set him off, what pet names would make him blush and giggle in embarrassment. But what Bree hadn’t counted on was the Queen’s special ointment. Seeing the effect that the soft touch of a wet towel had on him…well, suffice it to say she was very curious to see what this special mixture might to to his feet.

“Hehehehehehehehehehehehe…hehehehehehehehehey wahahahahahahahahahait! Breheheheheheheheheheheheeeeeee dohohohohohohohohohohohon’t…”

“Giggle giggle, wiggle wiggle…” Bree singsonged. She wasn’t even tickling him yet, at least not intentionally. She was simply running the heels of her palms along the bottoms of his feet, massaging in the sweet smelling ointment. “Oh my widdle wuler is so happy ‘appy to see his favorite playtime friends Giggle and Wiggle, isn’t he?”

“N-nuh-no…nohohohohohohohohooooo…” Wallace whined, twisting his body this way and that, as if he might be able to shake off the sensations that were overriding his dignity.

Gwendolyn meanwhile had positioned herself by the prince’s head. She dipped a single finger into the ointment and used it to coat her lips. Being as sensitive as they were, Gwendolyn let out a little titter as her lips buzzed from the ointment. Bending at the waist, she leaned down and held the giggling prince’s head still as she gave his ears little kisses, being sure to blow a little hot air inside to raise the goose pimples around his nipples.

“Ohohohohohohohohhohohohohooooo gohohohohohohohohohodddddd nooooohohohohohohoooooooo!”

“Uh ohhhhh…the tickle tickle spiders have found a happy little boyyyyyy….” Bree trilled, slowly raking her fingertips down the soles of the prince’s feet.

Wallace’s eyes bugged out of his head. It felt as though he were being electrocuted by the talons of some strange bird, ticklish electricity shooting through his body from toe to tip and back again.

“Gahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Nohohohohohohohohohohoooooo! Dohohohohohohohohohoho - OH!”

In one violent motion, Wallace yanked against his restraints to no avail. Upon feeling the restraints bite into his sensitive skin, allowing him the inability to so much as wriggle, a spike of panic lodged itself in his chest. Weighing against this panic was a building erotic charge, as this violent jolt had caused the warm, damp towel to pleasurably slide against his now fully erect member.

“Stahahahahahahahahahahahahahap ihihihihihihihihit! PLEHEHEHEHEHEHEEASE! PLEASE! Breeeeehehehehehehehehehehe…Gwehehehehehehehennnnnn…whahahahahahahatehehehehever shehehehehehehehe’s ohohohohoffffering yohohohohohohohohou…Ihihihihihi’llllll - NO! NO! Nohohohohohohohohohohhhhhhhh gohohohohohohohohohooooood!”

Gwendolyn’s dexterous fingers were skittering around the prince’s ears and neck, secretly one of his most ticklish spots. Her fingers traced the shell of his ear, stroked his collarbone, and swiped at the sides of his neck. Her fingers were so long and slender, that they did in fact feel like leggy spiders crawling around his head.

“Get out get out get out g-het gehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehet ohohohohohohout! Gehehehehehehehehehet ohohohohohohohohohohout ohohohohohof thehehehehehehehehere! Eeeeeeeeeheheheheheheheheheheheheheheeeeeeee nooooooo!”

“The itsy bitsy spider…” Gwendolyn sung under her breath, her teeth appearing from under the hood of her upper lip as she played along with her restrained toy. She’d always enjoyed her happy time with the young prince.

“Offer? Offer? I hardly know her!” Bree chuckled, her fingers now poking between the stubborn prince’s toes.

“Cuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhut ihihihihihihihihihihihit ohohohohohohohohohohohohohout! Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha-eeeeeeehehehehehehehehehehehehehehe….”

“…went up the water spout…”

“The nice lady didn’t offer us anything, sweetheart. She didn’t haff tooooooo. We just missed our happy little boy sooooooo muuuuuuch!”

“Gahahahahahahahahahahahahahaddddahahahahahammmmeeehehehehehehettttt…”

“…down came the rain…” Gwendolyn’s fingernail teased the back of William’s earlobe, causing him to kick a little.

“Ah! Sheheheheheheheheeeeeeeee!”

“After all, whenever you had a naughty widdle tantwum, you’d be so well behaved after your silly session with your baaaaaabysitters…because we know better. Yes we dooooo…”

“And washed the spider out…”

“You’re not a big stwong man wike daddy, nuh uh. You’re our gentle little boy! You said so yourself you didn’t know if you could handle being da king…”

“…out came the sun and dried up all the rain…”

Holding the prince’s feet steady with her deceptively strong hands, Bree positioned her thumbs right where the prince’s arches met the ball of his foot. Then, slowly, deliberately, she began to itch her thumbs up and down, up and down…

“FFFFFFFFFF-FUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUCK! STOP! STOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOP! PLEHEHEHEHEHEHEASE!”

“And the itsy bitsy spider climbed up the spout again…”

Gwendolyn momentarily stepped away from Wallace to fetch another hot towel. Not that the young prince noticed. He was howling now, shaking from ticklish terror as Bree itched her thumbs up and down the young prince’s most sensitive spot on his feet.

“Such sensitive widdle feetsies you have my prince…”

“STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAPPPPPPIHIHIHIHIITT!”

“Even your widdle laff is da same as I remember it. So happy and silly. Such a silly boy for misbehaving. Silly silly silly…”

“BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAA!”

“And what happens to naughty little boys who don’t do as they’re told…? Hm? Can you tell me, sweetie?”

“THEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEY GEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHETTTT AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA TIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHICKLED! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

“That’s right! Such a smart little boy…and do you know how to make the tickles stop?”

“BYHYHYHYHYHYHYHY BEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEING GOOOOOHOHOHOHOHOOD!”

Gwendolyn removed the now room temperature towel from the prince’s privates. The cool air of the room hit Wallace’s manhood, causing him to shudder as his shaft stiffened once more at the new stimuli.

“Uhhhhhhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuh fuuuuuhhhhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhck….”

The prince was bucking again, the throbbing head of his cock flexing against the soft, damp fabric. What he would give to have some pushback, a soft mattress or cold wall to press against. But alas, he could only tease himself, each thrust of his hips bringing him closer and closer to nowhere.

“Puh-puh-puhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhleeeehehehehehehehehehehease! Ihihihihihihihi cahahahahahahahahahahahahan’t stahahahahahahahahahahahahand ihihihihihihihihihit! Plehehehehehehehehehease stahahahahahahahahahahahahahahap! Bwahahahahahahaha!”

Bree was on her knees now, eye-level with his pale and slick soles. She was spidering her fingers against his heels now, intermittently blowing air on his toes to make them curl and tingle.

“Stawp? Stawp? But you always loved your tickle time with your nannies and your mommy. Remember? Oh you’d laff and laff and we’d tickle the naughtiness right out of you. But there’s still some naughty left in you, we can tell. And you can’t lie to us. Nuh uh uh! We know you soooo well. We know you’re a tough widdle guy, right? You wouldn’t want us to stop because dat would mean dat you’d agreed to marry da pretty queen.”

“So pretty…” Gwendolyn muttered as she once again took her place at the head of the table by Wallace’s head. “We won’t stop until you agree to marry the nice lady…please my little lord…”

“Nehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehehevvvvvveeeeeerrrrr! Gahahahahahahahahahahaaaaaa! Dohohohohohohohohohoho yohohohohohohohohohour wohohohohohohohohohohohorst! Ihihihihihihihihihihi’ll nehehehehehehehehehehehever breheheheheheheheheheheheak! Nehehehehehehehehehev-AHHH! NO! NO NO NOHHHHHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOOOOOOOO!”

Genevieve was now applying that dastardly ointment to Wallace’s armpits. She’d coated her palms slick with it and was now rubbing them up and down the prince’s exposed underarms.

“NO! NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOOOOOO! GWEHEHEHEHEHENDOLYN PLEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEASE! DOHOHOHOHOHOHON’T DOHOHOHOHOHOHOOOO THIHIHIHIIIIIISSSS! BWAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

“Do…do you remember…” Gwendolyn mumbled. It was hard to hear her over the sound of his own laughter, but the important parts made their way to his ear regardless.

“…when you were nine…the portrait of Edgar the 4th was knocked off the wall…and you told the palace guard that it was…that it was my fault…”

Wallace couldn’t believe it. He’d forgotten all about that incident until just that moment. Clearly it had loomed quite large in Gwendolyn’s life. How many other instances had he forgotten? What had happened to Gwendolyn as punishment? It had never occurred to Wallace to ask. He knew now that there would be no sweet-talking his way out of this, no emotional appeal, no pang of nostalgia that would compel them to stop and let him go.

However many grievances, petty or otherwise, the prince’s nannies held against him, they intended to work them out together in this little room with their “little man.”

“NAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA! IHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHI’M SHOHOHOHOHOHORRREEEEEEE! IHIHIHIHIHI’M SOHOHOHORRRYYYYY! AAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!”

Gwendolyn’s fingers raked themselves over his taut and vulnerable underarms as Bree started nibbling on the sides of Wallace’s flailing feet. In concert, the prince had become a live wire, bucking into a warm towel with nowhere else to direct the palpable, ticklish energy that coursed through his body like fire.

“Awww, you’re sowwy? Poor baby…we’ll see how sowwy you are once the tickle spiders make you wet…”

“NOOHOHOHOHOOOOO! HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHELP! HEHEHEHELP! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEEEELPPPP MEEEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEEHEEEEEE! MOHOHOHOHOHOMMMYYYYY! AAAAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAA!”


————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Days passed. The Prince was uncertain of just how many, his mind unable to comprehend much more than pressure and pleasure. He tried to time how long it took for the warm towels to cool, measure the hours by the number of damp cloths draped over his manhood. But the incessant teasing of his former nursemaids and their excruciating knowledge of his body and psyche had rendered him unable to keep a thought in his head any longer that it took to suck fresh air into his lungs.

But he had not broken. He’d begged, and pleaded, bargained and screamed, but he had not given in. No matter how many inches of skin his nannies exploited, how many days they spent cooing and edging at his engorged member, Wallace would not cave.

Regardless, he was quite the sight when the Queen finally made her return to the prince’s torture chamber however many days later.

The Queen almost felt sorry for her engorged captive when she laid eyes on him again. Wallace didn’t even register her arrival, so fried was he by the incessant touching and laughter that had become his entire world.

The prince’s eyes were wide and frenzied, darting this way and that, unable to focus on anything for too long before his eyes squeezed shut in forced mirth or searching for the next incoming hand or probing finger.

The ointment jar was empty. Smears were visible around the interior of the container, the nannies refusing to waste even a drop of that valuable mixture. The prince’s body was covered in it, as though he’d just emerged from a pool filled with the stuff. Shiny handprints covered his body, nearly comprising a full coat. There were smears of it along his ribs, hips, knees, feet, and neck. His armpits shone in the dim light, themselves coated in the sensitivity ointment.

Wallace’s cock had not found any relief either. His cock was positively glazed with the ointment and sticky rivets of precum that made his six inch scepter shine even in the low light. His balls were swollen, heaving, the size of ripe tangerines.

“Awww, baby boy, look who’s here! It’s your lucky bride to beeeeee!” Bree chimed. Though she looked tired, no doubt from her round the clock “care” for the young prince, her voice had lost none of its playful verve or enthusiasm. Presently she was squeezing his knees, shaking her head back and forth as she spoke to the broken man on the table in front of her.

“heheheheheheheheheheheh…eheheheheheheheheheheheheheheeeee…”

Gwendolyn, meanwhile, was teasing the prince’s nipples with her index fingers, swirling them around and around his pink pepperoni buttons, ceaselessly. Around and around and around…

“Puh-puhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhleeeeeeeehehehehehehehehehease…”

The queen smiled. Despite her frustration with how long this was taking, she did respect her captive’s resilience. He wasn’t as soft as she’d expected. Beneath all his bluster and hubris, he had steel within him after all.

A shame, the queen thought. He might have made a decent king.

She held up her hand and the two nannies ceased their ticklish ministrations. They stood at attention and nodded to the queen. Their queen.

“So…? The Queen asked expectantly.

“He’s a tough little guy,” Bree said, casting her eyes to the ground in deference.

“We think he…” Gwendolyn started.

“Think what…?” The Queen questioned.

“That he…he…”

“He likes it.” Bree smiled.

The Queen glanced at the prince stretched out on the table, his eyes shut as he sucked air into his tired and grateful lungs. He shuddered, now being able to register the cold. The wood beneath his body was stained dark with sweat, his cheeks lined with tears. Yet his cock kept twitching, erect in defiance of his will.

“You mean he…?” The Queen asked, skeptical.

“Yes’m…” Gwendolyn nodded.

“Oh yes, he especially loves it when you talk to him ‘wike a widdle itty bitty baaaaaaby.”

The Queen watched curiously as Wallace’s cock twitched once more at Bree’s infantile tone. Wallace groaned and let his head fall to the side, his hips once more thrusting into nothing as a fresh pearl of precum beaded at the tip.

She smiled.

“Thank you, ladies. You may leave us now.”

Bree looked disappointed. Gwendolyn looked relieved.

“But we haven’t…” Bree began to protest.

“Thank you.” The Queen said, finally.

Bree and Gwendolyn nodded their heads and swiftly made their exit. The Queen approached the exhausted prince, who shuddered once more as he felt her shadow fall upon him.

“Shhhh, shhhh…” The Queen shushed, as though approaching a frightened animal. “I know baby…I know…”

Using her hand, the Queen wiped away the fresh tears that had sprung from the prince’s eyes. Even this gentle touch was enough to make Wallace flinch. It was the first time in days that someone had been able to touch him without compelling him to laugh. He really did look pathetic. You’d have never known that this frenzied wreck was at one time being groomed to rule the kingdom. If seen in passing, one might even be so moved as to give him their change.

But in the prince’s eyes the Queen could still see pride. Even now, after all he endured, the prince knew that he could endure it. He hadn’t bent, hadn’t caved. Yes, he was tired and cold and hungry and oh so very ticklish. But he’d outlasted even his own expectations. Certainly, those of his torturers.

“I’m so proud of you,” The Queen cooed, never once faltering in her maternal register.

Despite knowing better, Wallace found himself melting at her soft and reassuring touch. He pressed his tear stained cheek against her warm palm, his bottom lip sticking out in a childish pout.

“They tell me…that you cried out for your mommy…” The Queen said. There was no judgement in her voice.

Wallace turned away from her hand now, suddenly reminded that this woman was the enemy, his enemy, the reason he’d been forced to suffer so.

“So I thought I’d bring her to you…”

The Prince’s eyed widened. What had this sick woman done to his mother? Wallace’s mind reeled with all kinds of gruesome possibilities: his mother’s head being carried in on a platter or perhaps shackled in chains so heavy her feet dragged when she walked.

“I swear…if you…” Wallace began, his mind slowly coming back to him as he focused his anger on a worthy target. It was a shame he never got to finish his sentence.

Because nothing could have prepared Wallace for his mother’s entrance. She practically waltzed into the room. There was not a single blemish or mark upon her. Her clothes were clean, pressed. She was wearing an old maternity gown that Wallace remembered from when she was pregnant with his sister Rumi, an ugly, roomy, pink-checked thing that reminded him of long summer afternoons curled up in her lap.

His mother, looked well. In fact, she looked…happy? No that wasn’t it. When she was happy her forehead allowed a wrinkle or two. No, she was “pleased.”

It was Wallace’s sisters who looked happy. They swept into the room on the heels of their mother, positively beaming. They were dressed in their Sunday finery, as though they’d decided to stop in on their way to church. Whatever the occasion, it seemed to be a special one.

“Wha…mom…? Rumi? Genevieve? What did…what are…?”

Rumi and Genevieve took their positions at his feet, barely able to contain their excitement, while Madra — Wallace’s mother — settled in between his outstretched arms, smiling down at her son’s confused face. For a split second it provided the vulnerable prince hope. He looked up into his mother’s face, the same one that had shushed and consoled him when he was a baby.

It was no coincidence that Wallace had called out for his “mommy” at some of his most desperate lows over the course of his ticklish ordeal. Until his father deemed him fit to sit in on council sessions, it had been his mother that Wallace had clung to. They’d been close, until one day they weren’t. Once Wallace was brought into the political fold an invisible line had been drawn. One one side was Wallace and his father, on the other was Wallace’s mother and sisters.

“Mama…?”

Wallace was surprised at how thin his voice sounded, how frightened. Small.

“My poor baby,” his mother smiled, her tone soft and comforting. “What have they done to you?”

“T-they…they tickled me…” Wallace’s cheeks burned as he felt his throat tightening, threatening to contract further into sobs. The prince was suddenly on the verge of tears, the cumulative weight of his ordeal finally flooding his soul.

“And they…and they…” Wallace’s embarrassment reached new extremes when he realized that his erection hadn’t ebbed in the presence of his mother and sisters. “Mom…please help me…”

“They tickled you!” Madra exclaimed. “They tickled my little boy? My little Wally?”

The prince nodded, his cheeks burning hotter as he caught the Queen smiling down at his childlike display of vulnerability.

“Did those mean ladies tickle mommy’s little Wally?”

The prince’s heart nearly stopped when he felt his sisters’ soft, manicured fingers touching his feet. Their nails were sharp, lacquered in shades of emerald green and ruby red. Wallace might have jumped out of his skin had he not been strapped down.

“Wha-wh-wait…!”

Wallace had so completely let his guard down at the sight of his mother looming over him that he’d completely lost track of her hands. It wasn’t until he could feel the icy cold tips of her fingers settle along his ribs.

“WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAIT! NO! NO! STOHOHOP! MOM! NO PLEASE! PLEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEASE! NOHOHOHOHOOOOOOOO! NOHOHOHOHO MOOOOOORE! NOOOOOOO!”

The tears sprung from his eyes without resistance, the laughter exorcised from his body like hysterical wraiths.

“STOP! STOP! PLEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEASE DOHOHOHOHOHOHOHON’T DOOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOOOOOO THIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIS! YOHOHOHOHOOU CAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAN’T! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!”

Genevieve and Rumi, the sisters who had spent their lives being told that they were unworthy of the throne simply due to their gender, had dreamed of bringing their brother down a peg since he’d been in short pants. At least when they were little they’d been able to dispense their own kind of ticklish justice. Past a certain age their brother stopped being their brother and became “the heir.”

But the hysterical broken boy stretched out before them wasn’t the heir. He wasn’t the prince or a king or a member of the court. He was their brother again. And they wanted to play with him once more, like they used to.

“Little Wally the tickle toy…” Genevieve sang.

“…such a ticklish little boy.” Rumi replied, finishing the verse.

“RUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUMMMMMEEEEEEEEEEEHEHEHEEHEE! GEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHENNNNNEEEEEEEHEHEHEHEHEHEY! DOHOHOHOHON’T!”

“Don’t? Don’t?” Madra pouted, her chilly fingers creeping along his ribcage like spiders. “But we heard you wuv it when we talk to you wike dis. You wiiike being tickled wike a widdle baaaaaby.”

“NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOOO! MOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOM NOOO! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! IHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHI DOHOHOHOHOHON’T!

But Wallace’s body betrayed him. His cock bobbed up and down, as if it were nodding in agreement that, yes, he did like it.

“WHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

“Will he cry or will he pee…” Rumi continued singing, tickling the pale flesh between her brother’s toes with the tips of her fingernails.

“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA! NOOOOOOOO!”

“…We have to tickle him to see.” Genevieve continued, her fingers skittering around his heel, focusing on the spot where his heel smoothed into the soft base of his arch. The sisters knew his feet well. They were as familiar to them as childhood toys.

“STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAPPPPPIIIIHIHIHIHHIITTTTT! I CAN’T! I CAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAN’T!”

“Mommy remembers this chest…these soft little pitties…this tummy…” Madra’s hands were traveling down Wallace’s ribs to his fleshy sides. She grabbed at his love handles and made silly faces down at her son, the way she used to when he was still crib bound.

“MOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOMMMMMMYYYYYYYY!”

“Mommy’s here baby. It broke my heart when I found out what they’d done to you. How they…piggied you widdle toes…”

As if on cue, Rumi and Genevieve began piggying their brother’s toes.

“This widdle piggy went to market…” Genevieve began.

“MOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOMMY! PLEHEHEHEHEASE! MAHAHAHAHAHHAKE THEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEM STAHAHAHAHAHAHAP! PLEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEASE!”

“This little piggy stayed home with moooooommmmmmmy…”

“Because only mommy’s allowed to tickle her little baby boy…” Madra whispered.

“STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP SAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAYING THIHIHIHINGS LIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIKE THAHAHAHAHAHAT! IHIHIHIHIHIHI CAHAHAHAHAN’T STAHAHAHAND IHIHIHIHIHIHIT! GAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!

“This little piggy had roast beef…”

At the mention of roast beef, Wallace’s stomach grumbled. He hadn’t had a proper meal in days.

“Such a rumbly little tum tum…mommy thinks her baby needs some…gooseberries!” At this, Madra began goosing Wallace’s tummy. Her fingers probed and kneaded the fleshy little spot beneath his belly button, every now and then slipping inside the little hole to elicit fresh shrieks from her hysterical son.

“NO! NOHOHOHOHOHOHO GOOHOO-GOOHOO…”

“Goo Goo?” Genevieve cackled. “God, isn’t he just da cutest? A widdle coochie coo and he just becomes a widdle baby again.”

“He can’t even get through a game of piggies before falling apart. All from some widdle tickles on his feetsies!” Rumi gasped.

“IHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHI’M NAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAT AHAHAHAHAHAHA BAHAHAHAHAHAHABY! IHIHIHIHIHIHIHI’M AHAHAHAHAHAHA MAHAHAHAHAN!”

“No you’re noooooooot…” Madra cooed, wiggling her fingers before her son’s tear-streaked face. “You’re mommy’s tickle boy.”

“NAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHANAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHANAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHANAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHANAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAA!”

“Men get married…” The Queen spoke. “Boys get played with.”

Wallace had been so consumed by the ticklish sensations shredding his psyche that he’d nearly forgotten that the Queen was still there, watching it all play out.

“Uh oh! We didn’t finish playing our game!” Rumi exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear.

“That’s right! Where were we?”

“Better start over to be sure. Thiiiiiis little piggy went to market…”

“NO! NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO PIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIGGIES! PLEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEASE! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Madra’s fingers targeted her son’s nipples now, puckered little wads of gum. She barely had to touch them, just lightly moving the pad of her fingertip around the little bumps and hairs. It was as if she were burning him he screamed so loud.

“AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHA! NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO MOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHORE!”

“A coochie coochie coo! There’s my happy little boy! Dere he is! A kitchy kitchy coo!”

“Disssss widdle piggy stayed home…”

“IHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHI CAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAN’T! MAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAKE IHIHIHIHIHIHIHIT STAHAHAHAHAHAHAP! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! MAHAHAHAHAHAKE IHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIT STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!”

“Dis piggy had woast beef…”

“Round and round the garden went the teddy bear…”

“And dis widdle piggy had none…

“MOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYYY! MOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOMMMMMMMMY PLEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEASE! IHIHIHIHIHIHIHI’LL BEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE AHAHAHAHAHA GOHOHOHOOOD BOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOY! GWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!”

“And this widdle piggy went…”

“WEE WEE WEEEEEEE ALLLLLLL THE WAY HOME!” All four women chimed in unison, unleashing their hands upon what remained of the human shell that housed his fragile psyche.

“MAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA! BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHABBBB — NFFFFFFUHUHUHUHUHUHUHCK — AAAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA!”

Rumi nibbled on her brother’s heel while Genevieve raked her fingernails down his soles. Madra’s hands had flown to her son’s armpits, twirling his wispy underarm hairs around her fingers like they were noodles.

And the Queen? She’d grabbed hold of the prince's cock.

This was the first time the prince’s cock had been touched since she’d left him alone with his old nannies. After days of what had come to feel like a worryingly permanent erection, Wallace finally felt the promise of pleasure. It cut through the fog of tickles, of mommy, of the kingdom.

The prince’s eyes met the Queen’s gaze, unbidden. Her hand applied little pressure, just allowing the fingers to rest around the length of him. Skin to skin contact. Even this light tough was almost enough to bring him over the edge.

“I’m the only one who can do it.” The Queen said, calmly. “This is a wife’s duty…”

She placed the tip of her index finger on the head of his cock and pressed against it ever so lightly.

“MMMNNNAAAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAA!”

Wallace bucked into her finger, chasing that sweet promise of oblivion. He audibly whimpered when he felt her fingers withdraw from his cock and move to her mouth. He watched through bleary eyes as she inserted her fingers between her lips, circled them with her tongue. Even after she removed them from her mouth they remained linked to her lips by a thin membrane of saliva.

“PUHHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHLEEEEEEEEHEHEHEHEHEASE! IHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHI NEEEEHEHEHEHEHEEHEHEHEEHEHEEEEEEED—!”

Immediately the prince’s mind was flooded with visions of erotic possibility. Once he climaxed he could think straight. There’d have to be a wedding. They’d have to let him free of this table eventually. He couldn’t do anything until then. That’s when he’d figure all this out. But he needed to cum. For he had abandoned dignity long ago. All he had left was a hungry, needy impulse to do whatever this woman wanted, to know what it might feel like to feel those lips pressed against his.

“Mommy thinks baby should marry da pwetty lady…” Madra cooed. “Let her and mommy make all the big decisions…”

“And your sisters too,” Genevieve added.

“Yeah!” Rumi said, adding nothing as she began playing with her brother’s toes again, teasing her nails along the pale and sensitive stems of his toes.

“OHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOKAHAHAHAHAHAAHY!"

“And if you marry me…” The Queen said, bending at the waist to bring her lips close to Wallace’s ear. “I can be your new mommy. Who can tickle and tease and pamper you allllllll the time. We’ll have a special little room made for us in the palace for our little playtimes. You’ll love it. I promise. And you’ll enjoy yourself more than you ever have on any council meeting or diplomatic mission. You have my word.”

“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHALLLRIHIHIHIHIHIHGHT! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHALRIHIHIHIHIGHT! IHIHIHIHIHIHI’LL MAHAHAHARREEEEEEEYY YOHOHOHOHOHOU!”

Everything stopped in an instant and it was as if the world had been muted. He hands that had been piggying his toes and exploring his torso had pulled back. For the first time in days, the prince wasn’t being touched. It was a strange sort of relief, one that left the prince momentarily worried that he may very well drift off into space.

His throat was sore and his cock was white hot. His cheeks hurt from laughing and his lungs burned from the effort. Through his teary eyes he could make out little but the hazy outline of the Queen standing over him.

He nearly went into shock when she finally grabbed a firm hold of him. It was a steady stroke, a practiced hand. She was pacing him, yet steadily building to climax. Her palms were softer than cotton, her fingers warm to the touch. With her other hand she gently teased the skin of his testicles, delighting in the way the skin rippled at her touch.

“Cum for me. Be a good boy and cum for mommy.” The Queen intoned. “Make a mess for me. It’s okay.”

Wallace cried out as he felt her hand slide down the length of him right as he bucked his hips upward. His mind broke the surface of a large body of water, plunging him deep into erotic rhapsody. He could feel the muscles in his back go tight as fire spilled from his body. The fire spread along his stomach and chest, rapidly cooling even as it made new valleys across his chest hair.

The heat in his loins began to subside and the ringing in his ears began to fade. He was still laughing, his lung spasming with air and poor attempts at articulation.

“…as you please. Of course I’ll need him for ceremonial reasons but other than that…”

“And of course, we saw the whole proposal. I think I speak for myself and my daughters when I tell you we were quite moved.”

Slowly, though he could not yet speak, Wallace was able to make out the image of his mother and his sisters speaking with the Queen. She was standing by the door, wiping her hand with one of the prepared warm towels.

“I’ll be sure to send more ointment down. I’ll have to punish Gwendolyn and Bree for using so much of it.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.” Madra chuckled.

The Queen saw that Wallace was staring at them, his face slack with blissed out disbelief.

“Wh — Mom…wha—ha-ha…”

“I for one feel very good about this,” Genevieve said, nodding.

“That concludes our business. Enjoy your new tickle slave, ladies.”

“Oh, I assure you, we will.” Rumi grinned.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have a wedding to plan, kingdom to run. You know how it is.” The Queen sighed and took one last look at her new fiancé.

“Love you, hubby. I’ll be sure to come by and visit you soon when your mommy’s out of town. Or maybe just when I’m bored. Goodnight ladies.”

“Goodnight, your majesty.”

The women bowed as the Queen exited the room and shut the heavy door behind her. The women turned to their captive, their tickle slave, and began fighting over their position.

“Ok girls, let momma at his feet next. Oh I’ve missed his widdle toes…”

Prosperity reigned in the kingdom for many years after that. Conflict would inevitably arise but the people soon came to love their queen. King Wallace, it was said, was quite ill. He was often said to be recuperating in the tower, being waited on hand and foot by his mother and his sisters.

They say that at night you can still hear the prince’s laughter, loud and shrill. Many suggest it is merely a bird call or perhaps kids messing around in the woods. But for those that hear it, it’s an unmistakable sound. That of a boy being tickled, without hope of escape, by those who know his soft spots best.

 

[milagros317]

Wonderful story!
I truly envy the prince.

 

[Amistad]

I love the Mommy and sister dynamics in this story, hope there’s a part 2! I hope his actual Mommy gets more involved too, I wonder if she decides to tickle a little lower than the tummy 😉

 

[Monkey0604]

Yeah, great story! But your story about Sarita remains my favourite, slightly! 😊