I wrote this earlier this evening at the request of a post by artemisivorywings. This seemed like a decent place for it to go as well.

It was mid afternoon and the regional Renaissance Festival had been a smashing success for the fifth consecutive year, drawing out more suits of armor, ridiculous dresses, and foam weaponry than you thought would be in the surrounding counties. The scents of a multitude of fried meats and pastries wafted by, as colored flags fluttered and distant horns carried on the breeze. Having no cumbersome, awkward, or historically accurate attire of your own, you resort to a blue and red skirt which stops just past your knees, a simple white tank top, and strappy Gladiator style sandals As you sat along the fountain in the square, you couldn't help but wonder what olde timey market stall your friends were perusing somewhere across old town, after all you really do need to get going home at some point.

It had been a slow day so far for me and the two gents assisting me, we had scarcely found enough volunteers to encourage, or trick, into climbing into the stocks to tickle methodically. I notice you from across the square as we were releasing some thoroughly hot and bothered girl from the stocks. She was actually one of our first volunteers from this morning and had somehow 'forgotten' where our device was and was so forward as to come by and seat herself on the edge of the large wooden apparatus, carefully dangling a lone heel from one foot.

As she wandered away I noted to my associates your position alone by the fountain in the center of the square. They quickly make their way to you and scoop you up, one lifting you under each armpit and returning with you post haste, the leather soles of your shoes grazing the ground lightly as you go. Despite your protests they assure you that you have been found guilty of a treasonous crime against the people of our fair city, and the decree I present to you upon your arrival to the stocks would indicate just that. You continue your pleas and affirmations of innocence even as my assistants and I encourage your lithe form into position with a few short rib and knee tickles. You giggle and quiver, your will fading and anticipation rising as your body finds its rest upon the hard wood surface.

The other guards make quick work of guiding your ankles to the holes of the stocks and fastening the heavy lumber section over your ankles. I walk around to the back of the large device, poking your ribs as I go, ensuring you try to keep your elbows down and in. By the time I'm right behind you you're completely distracted with rib tickles, so much so that you don't notice my assistants grab your wrists. They lead them to the leather cuffs hanging above your head, suspended from a rope lead through a ring at the top of the pillory right behind your back. I make tight a belt over your thighs as another guard draws tight and ties off the line attached to your wrist cuffs, securing your legs to the table of the stocks and also drawing tight your entire upper body. Your skirt still covers half your legs, and your white tank top is stretched tight, now hugging your sensitive ribcage, barely revealing the lowest portion of your belly. Your astonishment at your predicament is dwarfed only by your still climbing, growing, burgeoning anticipation of what you know comes next.

You give a slight yelp as one of my fellow guards begins to lightly tease each of your underarms with soft feathers, dragging each in opposite direction as you bubble forth with waves of delight and laughter, rotating and shaking your torso what little distance your bonds will allow. You shake your head back and forth, trying to stem the gurgling flow of laughter from your lips. Never had you felt so helpless, so immobile, and potentially on some level, so hopelessly aroused. Best, or worst of all, you could tell it had only begun.

I walk back around to the foot of the stocks, where your shod feet have been wiggling along in silent protest. By now my second assistant has begun to explore all the explosively ticklish crests and troughs of your ribs, and belly. You buck and squeal, laughter cascading and your loose red hair shaken about. I admire the way you thrash and reel with delight, and excitement and unease and pure ticklish jump-out-of-your-skin reaction. I carefully undo the clasps of your sandals, and slide each one up off of your feet dragging a lone finger up each sole as I go. I gently tease with my fingers the tips of all your splayed toes, which you instinctively scrunch, showing off all your nails painted black. I take the two sections of string sitting vacant on the stocks and tie one off to each of your big toes, pulling each back and looping around a bar at roughly toe height, drawing them back until your feet are still slightly arched, but still made ideally taut, and most certainly not going anywhere. My fingers spider adeptly across your soft, curving soles, gliding along the contours of your arches, and darting occasionally between your eight toes that can still barely and frantically wiggle. Your laughter turns to screams as my fingers are replaced by stiff bristle brushes, working over your now pink heels and balls. By now the fingers of my assistant digging deep into your armpits has tears welling and beginning to roll down the sides of your reddened cheeks. The other guard is now kneading your thighs and just above your knees, as you grind your hips with increasing ferocity into the flat of the stocks. I give your toes a quick extra tickle, before standing and nodding at my assistants.

Peels of laughter come forth incessantly from what has become an almost permanent grin on your face, even when your three ticklers trade places, the two assistant guards now positioned one at each of your feet, and I positioned behind you at your armpits. I lightly test every inch of bare and fabric covered skin. I tease lightly the outside of your armpits, delicately working my way farther down and in, lifting your tank top to reveal your tight and quivering belly, prime, smooth, soft and above all ticklish skin. I spider tickle all over your bare belly, teasing all about the edges of your belly button and down to your hips. Your laughter explodes even further with your belly now made bare, your hair's become a relative mess. The two now positioned at your feet give you a thorough working over, teaching you new levels of toe teasing that you had no idea existed. You beg, thrash, and scream still even as I stop and walk around to the front again, my assistants now trying their hand at the still brushes upon your toes.

I ask in my best faux Middle English accent "How does thou plea for the crime against our fair city of being.. ticklish?!"

As my assistants break, you gasp and pant heavily, still twitching from the ordeal. You had hardly noticed the sun was low in the sky, near setting.

"Guilty" you manage to giggle out despite your still bubbling laughter, not really sure what else you should say at this point, lest the three of the return to their task of retrieving this fake confession from you for a fake crime at this gathering.

"Then as such, as is the tradition of our fair city, let the punishment begin." I declare.

With that I return to your head and affix a lone black silk scarf around your eyes, fastening it with knots behind the pillory. You return to you retort of protest and exclamation, now at people and fingers unseen. The loss of sight just increases your sensitivity all the more, and you shriek as I spider tickle lightly into your armpits. I return to the front where I bid my faithful assistants goodbye. I remove my pseudo-official coat of office to reveal a plain brown long sleeve linen shirt, as simple as any festival goer. I take a seat upon the ground at your left foot and hang a sign upon the stocks bearing the message "Found Guilty, Tickle as Needed," after all, the crowd has been watching for some time, and plenty of women and men seem to be chomping at the bit to join the fun. I pry back the toes of your left foot and begin drawing a feather up and down your sole just as the crowd drew near, poking your ribs, teasing your right sole, prodding your belly, and clawing at your underarms. Some began picking up vacant tickle tools to use, finding places to put to use the various feathers and brushes. Of course, you can see none of this, and the added levels of surprise renews your anticipation, almost to a flutter, a panic, a thrilling plateau it could not have been before. Your howls of laughter echo the square as the torches are lit and the flute, string and drum band strike up a tune somewhere else. Don't fret, of course I'll let you go on your merry way eventually, but I've only now found a volunteer worth playing with; and the festival does stay open until ten after all...
SplendidFeathers SplendidFeathers
22-25, M
Aug 22, 2014