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The Seat of the Penitent

The castle was quiet on a Tuesday morning, except for the faint peals of laughter that echoed off the stone walls. Those in the lower rooms lifted their eyes toward the ceiling, shook their heads, and carried on with their work, for they knew what the sound of that laughter meant. The princess had acted up again.

But it was not the princess who was laughing.

High in the castle walls, in a circular tower flanked by parapets, two girls sat facing each other in opposite chairs. On one throne-like seat, dressed in a gown of lavender silk, a tiny golden crown nestled atop her high, bundled hair, sat Princess Helen. Her tutor, a mustached man of a hefty build and solemn expression, stood behind her, his hands resting firmly on the chair’s back.

Six feet away, seated in a wicker chair, arms bound behind her, was a slight, mousy-haired girl, squealing and squirming — Anna, the royal Penitent of Laughter. Behind Anna, a tall, willowy man with dark hair - the Mirthkeeper, his delicate, fluttering ministrations the source of her laughter. He worked methodically, his fingers skittering along her sides — up and down, up and down — tracing lap after lap along her wriggling torso.

Helen sat frozen, just a chassé away, her heart pounding so loudly she thought surely Sir Merrick, her tutor, must hear it. Her wide eyes remained fixed on Anna, unable to look away from the trembling, giggling girl who suffered on her behalf.

"Have you learned your lesson, Highness?" her tutor murmured, dipping low to whisper into Helen's ear.

"Yes," Helen croaked, her throat tight and her voice so quiet that she wondered if he'd heard it.

But Merrick heard. He gave a single nod, and at the signal, the Mirthkeeper ceased his torment. Anna sagged in her chair, her chest heaving with exhaustion. The Mirthkeeper bent and began untying her wrists with deft, practiced movements.

"The sentence has been served," Merrick announced, his tone as flat and grave. "Anna, you are dismissed."

Helen watched silently as Anna rubbed her raw wrists, then rose unsteadily to her feet. She cast no glance toward Helen — only shuffled wearily toward the door, her head bowed, her steps heavy.

The Mirthkeeper stooped to gather his implements: the worn ropes, the fine-feathered quills. He coiled the rope neatly around his hand and carefully fluffed each quill with a strange, reverent tenderness. Then he turned, pausing just long enough to give Helen a stiff bow and a fleeting half-smile — a smile that made her heart jitter.

Helen rose slowly from her chair. Her legs trembled as Sir Merrick motioned silently toward the door. Wordlessly, she obeyed, and together they slipped out into the corridor and descended the steps leading from the Room of Discipline.

"Why tickling?" Helen had asked her tutor when she was a small girl.

Sir Merrick looked at her through his round spectacles. "A punishment befitting royalty," he had explained. "Watching someone endure a good tickling instills empathy and stirs up contrition. Did you know, in more boorish countries, they used whipping as a means of discipline? Oh yes, it's true. But buck up, this is the sixteenth century. Aren't you glad you live in times such as these?"

Helen wasn't sure. What she was sure of, however, was that the mere notion of being tickled so set her on edge. She had been tickled before in insignificant contexts, of course - by members of her own family, fleetingly, but the sparkling sensation always stayed on her skin far longer than she thought reasonable, and the images of Anna's playful torments embossed themselves on her mind.

She supposed there was truth in Sir Merrick's words. Watching Anna struggle with laughter in front of her was its own form of torture - not least of all because of the shame of the suffering she caused her friend on her behalf. But if Helen were honest with herself, the sessions were also effectual for a different reason - one that whispered its truth subtly upon her rosy cheeks, and that nestled under the covers with her at night.

Years passed, and despite the gap in their social standing—and the perceived oddity of their relationship—Helen and Anna became fast friends. As the Penitent of Laughter, Anna was educated alongside Helen, shared her breakfasts in the morning, and attended her lessons. As they grew in friendship, Helen was always careful never to send her friend to the chair.

But one day, as she and Anna walked through the palace gardens, Helen's curiosity got the best of her.

"What does it feel like to you?" Helen asked feigning nonchalance as she plucked at the hem of her sleeve. She nodded to the gardener as he rolled a wheelbarrow past.

Anna paused, rubbing a soft-petaled flower between her fingertips. "It's... intense," she said, her voice thoughtful. "It feels like the world shrinks down to the size of a pea, and I'm dancing on it. Every little touch feels enormous. And when he does certain things—like squeezing my thighs—" she gave a short laugh, half-embarrassed, "—it’s like my whole head shoots up into the stars."

Helen swallowed, keeping her voice as casual as she could. "Do you... like it?" she pressed.

Anna glanced at her sidelong, a thoughtful expression in her eye. "It's torture, Your Highness," she said. "But somehow, Sir Philip administers it very well."

"He seems quite good at what he does."

"The best," Anna said, gritting her teeth slightly. "I am only glad that my visits to him are as infrequent as they are. I have you to thank for that."

Helen gave her a wan smile and said nothing more, not trusting herself to hide the burgeoning interest sparking in her chest. She tucked her hands into her sleeves and let Anna change the subject.

Later that night, as she lay awake staring up at the canopy of her bed, her thoughts drifted to the Mirthkeeper, that dastardly confident man whose mischievous smile could make her shiver from across the room. It had been months since she'd done anything to warrant any sort of ticklish discipline. She often wondered how he spent his time when not attending to punishments, given that she was a generally well-behaved princess and Anna’s trips to the chair had become more infrequent as they'd both matured. She also wondered if he enjoyed his role. Judging by the skill with which he could summon helpless laughter from Anna, it seemed he must.

Sometimes, Helen would lounge lazily in the sitting room, pretending to read or embroider, just to catch a glimpse of Sir Phillip the Mirthkeeper as he made his way through the halls. His movements were smooth, his deft fingers ever occupied with bundles of quills and neat sheaves of parchment. He would always smirk at her as he passed, an expression that seemed to wordlessly tease, "Go on, be a bit naughty, princess. I know you want to. It's more fun for both of us."

One afternoon, Helen leaned back on the chaise, letting her book slip from her fingers as she drifted into a daydream. She imagined being whisked away by a stranger on a silver horse to a new, freer world—a modern time, where princesses could take punishments for themselves.

The first thing she would do in that world would be to commit a dreadful felony without hesitation: perhaps walk barefoot across the royal lawns, or pluck the forbidden flowers from the Queen’s prized bushes. She imagined the gardener running after her, waving his arms in outrage.

But Helen would not flee. Instead, she would seek out the Mirthkeeper herself. She would find Sir Phillip, and stand before him, the single stolen rose in her hand.

"I walked on the grass today," she would confess, holding out the flower like an offering. "And I plucked a rose from the Queen's bush. I'm very sorry..."

She imagined him looking down at her with narrowed eyes. He would grasp her delicate wrist, firm but not unkind, and lead her up the winding stairway into the secret room of discipline. He would sit her down, binding her with the same careful ceremony she had so often watched him perform on Anna. He'd tie her wrists together behind the chair; she'd still be holding the rose...

She would feel his hands upon her shoulders first, rubbing soothing circles, his touch lightening by slow degrees until his fingertips merely brushed along the nape of her neck.

Then Helen would giggle and squirm, her cheeks flushing, as he chastised her in a low, steady voice for being such a naughty princess. His fingers would gain speed, descending over her upper arms and ribs. She would nod frantically through her laughter, vowing to be good, just to hear him lean down and murmur into her ear, in that deep, deliberate voice:

"That’s my ticklish princess."

She would ball her hands into fists, crushing the petals of that forbidden flower, while elsewhere, down below, her own petals grew damp and swollen -

"My lady?"

Anna's soft voice interrupted her. Helen awoke with a start.

"Sorry to wake you, but we are being summoned for dinner."

"Oh, thank you. Yes, let's go."

Helen found herself seated beside Sir Merrick and across from the ever-charming Mirthkeeper. She wished she had Anna at her side, but Anna had been relegated to the servant's quarters for the formality of dinner, as was proper. Her father and mother felt a league away at the head of the table. She wondered why a princess wasn't allowed to have more friends.

"I trust your studies are going well, Your Highness?" Sir Philip’s voice, smooth and casual, cut through her thoughts as easily as his glinting knife cut through the pat of butter between them.

"I suppose that's for Sir Merrick to say," she replied, careful to keep her tone level and diplomatic.

"She's being modest," Sir Merrick chimed in, a proud gleam in his eye as he helped himself to a piece of chicken. "She’s sharp. Makes my life a lot easier. And well-behaved too, which I’m sure is appreciated by all."

Sir Philip leaned back slightly in his chair, his lips curling into a playful grin. "Easier, that's for sure. I'll say though, her behavior doesn't leave much for a Mirthkeeper like me to play with. Well, better keep it up, Your Highness," he said, his tone teasing. "You know slacking has... rather ticklish consequences."

Helen froze for just a moment, her heart skipping a beat. The casual nature of his words sent a shiver down her spine, bringing a flood of memories to the surface—his hands, his skill. She shifted in her seat, a soft heat rising in her chest, but she forced herself to maintain her composure. It seemed unfair that the man who had never touched her could hold this much power over her.

Her thoughts wandered. She imagined standing, crawling across the table with a boldness she had never summoned before, climbing into his lap with no hesitation. She imagined how his arms might lock around her, how his fingers might begin their teasing, sliding beneath her tunic to the shocked gaps and murmurs of the dinner guests...

"Your Highness, watch out!"

The sudden exclamation jolted her from her fantasy. Startled, she glanced down to see her elbow knocking over a nearly empty wine vessel. It tipped and spilled across the table with an audible clunk.

Sir Philip reacted instantly, grabbing a napkin from the side of his plate and dabbing at the mess with surprising focus. "Careful, Your Highness," he remarked, his voice low but carrying a touch of amusement.

Beside her, Sir Merrick frowned. "Do watch your poise, Highness," he said with disapproval. "It’s unbecoming of someone of your rank to be so distracted. I shall call for Anna if it happens again."

Helen lowered her gaze in a gesture of humility, trying to quell the rising tide of emotions. Stay composed, she reminded herself. But despite the reprimand - or perhaps because of it - her heart pounded harder.

The next day, Helen paced in her chamber, skirts whispering around her ankles, the polished wood floor creaking beneath her restless steps. In front of her tall, wood-framed mirror, she muttered to herself, rehearsing the same lines for what must have been the fiftieth time.

"Good afternoon, Sir Philip. It's Princess Helen. I just came to tell you—well, I know it's silly—but I took a scone from the kitchen when no one was looking. And before you fetch Sir Merrick and Anna, I was wondering if—maybe—I could have a small piece of my punishment first? I know it’s not convention, but I was hoping..."

She stopped, staring at her reflection critically. No, no—it was all wrong. She sounded like a frightened little mouse. She was a princess, for heaven's sake! Shouldn't she be able to request a tickling if she wanted one?

"It's just not how things are done," Sir Merrick had said once, long ago, when she'd timidly asked what would happen if she volunteered to take her own punishments. "Now, finish your sums."

Helen scowled at the memory and tried again, striking a more daring pose in the mirror. "Good afternoon, Sir Philip. I've had an insatiable craving for a good, long tickling, and I know you're the only one who can properly deliver it. How about we—"

A knock at her door interrupted her flow. "C-come in," she called, straightening her crown in front of the mirror.

Anna popped her head through the door. "Hello, your Highness. I've just come to tell you I'm going out to the market square and won't be back for a few hours. Please don't start your homework without me - I had a question on one of the riddles..."

"All right, Anna, I'll wait for you," Helen said, throwing her a smile through the mirror. "Have fun."

The door clicked shut, leaving Helen alone once more with her swirling, tickle-tinged thoughts. She turned back to the mirror, studying her reflection. Tall and graceful, she looked every inch the princess she was meant to be. The golden crown atop her head caught the sunlight and sent a shimmer across the floor, filling her with a boldness she rarely felt.

"All right, Sir Philip," she whispered to herself, steeling her nerves. "Here I come."

Heart hammering, she slipped out of her chambers and crept up the winding staircase to the Room of Discipline—a place that felt both familiar and forbidden. Every step echoed in the stillness. When she reached the top, she found the heavy wooden door slightly ajar.

Helen hesitated, then gave a soft knock. No answer. She pushed the door open a little farther.

The room looked just as it always did. The two chairs sat in the center like silent sentinels, empty but somehow still exuding a quiet threat. Desks lined the walls, cluttered with parchment, quills, and small tools. Trying to appear casual, Helen wandered over to one of the desks, her curiosity gnawing at her resolve.

She opened one of the drawers. Feathers of many lengths, patterns, and widths lined the space inside. Inside were also coils of rope, leather cuffs, thin strings, and a small wooden fork with blunt teeth that Helen had seen Sir Philip use on Anna's feet one time.

She shut the drawer. Her heart skipped a beat when her eyes caught sight of a parchment partly buried under others, with the name Anna peeking out over the top. She pulled it free, her fingers trembling slightly.

Anna. Most ticklish spots—waist, ribs, thighs. Responds best to lighter pressure. Must try the hard end of the goose-quill under her toes.

Helen shivered, her cheeks flushing hot. She quickly turned the parchment over, hoping to find more titillating notes...

Another document caught her eye, this one bearing the royal seal of Chessburg, the neighboring kingdom. She tilted her head and leaned closer, reading a few lines. Her brow furrowed. But before she could make sense of it—

The door burst open with a bang, slamming hard against the stone wall.

Helen yelped, jerking upright, and instinctively stuffed her hands behind her back. She whirled around to see Sir Philip standing in the doorway, framed by the light behind him, his expression unreadable from where she stood.

"What did you see?" he asked, his voice low and edgy. He moved into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. His face was stern.

"Nothing-"

He strode over to her, with such force that she thought he would strike her; she turned her head and braced for the impact of his hand. But he stopped just shy of her, gripping her shoulders and shaking her with a force that rattled the breath out of her body. "God damn it, your Highness, what did you see?"

Her confession tumbled out of her lips before she could stop it. "I - just the papers, sir. Something about Chessburg, the army we're sending over the border, and... and...a coup..."

He released her shoulders and paced to the opposite side of the room. He swiped his hand across his brow, letting out a sigh. He seemed to be considering how to deal with her. She had never seen him lose his composure this way - hair ruffled, cheeks flushed, tunic wrinkled at the shoulders.

All was quiet for a moment. Finally, he turned to her, the anger seemingly drained from his face. He straightened himself up and cleared his throat, regarding her askance.

"I'd like to strike a deal, your Highness. Just between you and I."

"A deal, sir?"

"Yes. The deal is this: You will mention nothing of what you just saw on my desk. Not to anyone. Not to your father, not to your tutor, nor Anna, nor your ladies in waiting, nor the peasants you encounter on your visits to the village. No one must know."

Helen tilted her head, trying to comprehend. She did not comprehend the depth of what she'd read, yet such a request smelled of betrayal, and it tugged at every moral fibre of her princessly being. She raised her chin, hoping the movement would steady her, but it was no use. Her voice still wavered. "You ask me to betray my kingdom..."

"Not betray, your Highness, never betray," he said, his voice slowly regaining its characteristic smoothness. Slowly he moved toward her with the grace and elegance of a twelve-tined stag. "The inner workings of such diplomatic matters are... complex," he continued. They require the highest care. The future of our kingdom, the stability of the region—it all depends on such secrecy."

"And in return?"

"And in return, at your discretion... the most merciless ticklings you can imagine."

She froze. Her voice came out a whisper. "The m-most merciless, sir?"

He stopped in front of her and leaned in, so close she could feel his breath upon her cheek. "The most merciless, wicked, toe-curling ticklings a princess can imagine. And I know you have imagined quite a few." His bent even lower, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder, his words rasping delicately at her ear lobe. "Every time I've run my fingers over poor Anna, I could see the faint fire smoldering in your eyes. With every squeeze, you wished it was you in her place. Every one of her giggles that fountained from her lips, you imagined bubbling out of your own. Don't think you are so clever, masking your desire behind those wide, innocent eyes, wet and shimmering with faux pity. For I am a tickler, dear Highness. And ticklers...we always know when we get under one's skin."

Princess Helen swallowed. The weight of his words pressed in from all sides, and for a moment, she couldn’t speak, her thoughts clouded by the picture he had just painted—Anna, struggling in the chair, paying with laughter for her own misdemeanors��some of which, if Helen were completely honest with herself, had even been committed on purpose when she was younger. There was no hiding anymore. The man knew her secret, and from the sound of it, he had known for quite some time.

Her thoughts wandered back to his proposition. “You... you can’t be serious," she breathed.

He withdrew so he was face to face with her, and she saw his smile grow, slow and deliberate, his eyes glinting. “I’m always serious, your highness. You have my word. So, what will it be? Silence, and... the most exquisite torment at my fingers and feathers. Or secret-spilling, and the destruction of all you hold dear?"

Her gaze flickered to the door. She could run for the door, burst out into the hall, call for the guards, expose these secrets to the light. But what would that truly accomplish? What if her father, the king, was in on it, too? He most likely was. She would be silenced somehow, probably - perhaps never let out of the castle walls again.

She lifted her chin, her voice a quiet defiance. “I’ll take the deal.”

His smile widened, a dangerous satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.

“Excellent, your Highness,” he murmured, his fingers brushing against her wrist in a fleeting touch that sent a shiver through her. “I knew you’d see things my way.”

He gathered his things from his desk with deliberate movements, shuffling papers and quills. "Though, there is still the matter of your snooping to address," he said over his shoulder, his tone casual, as though nothing had just transpired. "I shall notify your tutor and send for Anna at once." He strode toward the door.

Her thoughts flew to her friend—poor Anna—who would be seized the moment she returned to the castle, her basket brimming with bread and cheese tumbling to the floor. Wide-eyed with confusion, she would be led unceremoniously up to the Room of Discipline, the long-abandoned chamber now stirring back to life, wondering all the while what mischief the princess had gotten into this time.

"No, please!" Helen exclaimed.

"Isn't it funny, Highness?" he interrupted, laying a hand on her shoulder once more as he paused in his exit. "You came to see me to bargain for a tickling of your own, didn't you, and you were successful. No, don't protest. I know why you sought me. But don't be so dour; you'll be getting your own very soon, I expect. Adjust your crown. I'll see you back here in ten minutes."

The door closed behind him with a soft click, and the room felt emptier, leaving Helen alone with her thoughts. The weight of the bargain she'd struck slowly settled deep into her bones.

With shaking limbs, Helen took her place on her blue velvet cushion, fingers fiddling in her lap, the wicker chair still empty in front of her.

The heavy footsteps of her tutor, unmistakable on the wooden floorboards, brought Helen to attention. She felt him take his usual place behind her chair, a quiet, looming presence.

"Snooping," Sir Merrick said, wagging his heavy head with a disappointed sigh. "Most un-princessly behavior. You should know better, Highness, at your age."

Before she could form a reply, Sir Philip entered the room with a flourish. He crossed immediately to the large center desk beneath the room’s sole narrow window. With practiced hands, he rummaged through its drawers, pulling out silken handkerchiefs, goose-feather quills, and several short lengths of rope. He laid them out neatly on the surface, his movements brisk, efficient.

A soft knock sounded at the door. Anna's voice, timid but clear, drifted into the room. "Good afternoon, Sir Philip, Sir Merrick..." She hesitated just a beat, her voice faltering. "...and Your Highness. I am here."

Helen shrank at the sound of her friend's voice, shame crawling up her spine. She did not turn to look, but stared stiffly ahead as Anna approached and took her seat in the opposite chair. Their eyes met briefly—Anna’s wide and searching, not angry, but filled with confusion and a quiet concern. What did you do, her eyes asked wordlessly.

I'm sorry, Helen's downcast gaze responded.

Philip set about his work without delay, gently but firmly securing Anna’s wrists behind the chair and binding her ankles to each leg. His manner was almost casual, like a craftsman preparing his tools.

"It’s nice to see you again, my dear," he said, giving the restraints a final testing tug to remove any lingering slack. He stepped back and smiled. "How I’ve missed our little sessions. Considerate it was indeed for Her Highness to give me something to do after such a long sabbatical. I had begun to think I was no longer needed."

Anna swallowed hard, her hands flexing uselessly against the bindings. Helen bowed her head, heart pounding, wishing she could disappear into the stone floor.

Sir Philip knelt in front of Anna, resting his palms lightly on her knees. His broad shoulders partially obscured her from Helen’s view, but Helen watched like a falcon nonetheless — every giggle and twitch revealing more than her eyes could see.

He began with the patch of skin just above Anna’s knees, squeezing the delicate muscles rapidly between his thumb and third finger through the soft fabric of her dress. Instantly, ripples of giggles burst from Anna’s lips, light and airy at first. He kept at it, varying the speed and pressure of his movements, keeping his touch maddeningly unpredictable.

Gradually, his fingers began crawling upward — inching along the tops of her thighs, until they came to rest just below where her bodice ended, where two small knobs of bone jutted out — her hips. He fluttered his fingers there mercilessly, eliciting a sharp squeal from Anna as she twisted and strained against her restraints, her laughter growing higher and more desperate.

"There we are," Sir Philip crooned, his voice low and coaxing. "There’s a good spot. Let’s give Her Highness something to really feel sorry about, shall we?"

In front of them, Helen’s heart thundered in her chest. A flush crept up her neck, and that special, secret place between her thighs throbbed with a familiar yearning that she only appeased in the quiet hours of the night.

Philip picked up one of the tools that lay on the floor - a long thin feather, brown and black-striped with a white tip. He moved round the chair behind Anna and knelt by her feet, and began to draw the feather through each one of the spaces between Anna's wriggling toes. Eight long, teasing pulls.

"No, please," Anna breathed out through her laughter, straining forward, flexing her toes.

Begging wasn’t against the rules for the Penitent of Laughter — in fact, it was encouraged, designed to tug at the heartstrings, to instill deep compassion and a poignant sense of guilt in the one responsible. Each breathless plea from Anna felt like a tiny blade of stiff grass pricking ticklishly at Helen’s conscience.

Sir Philip began tracing the hard stem of the quill just under Anna's toes - light little scribbles, like he was etching his signature fifty times over onto that little patch of skin. Anna tossed her head back in helpless laughter.

Helen's fists clenched tightly in her lap. It was all too much — Sir Philip’s masterful teasing, Anna’s breathy laughter, her helpless, beautiful struggles. Please, enough already! Helen wanted to shout. Tickle me instead! I deserve it!

She could imagine the room freezing in stunned silence, all eyes turning to her in shock. Everyone except Sir Philip.

At last, Philip removed his feather. Anna slumped forward as far as her restraints would allow, breathing heavily, cheeks flushed and hair tendrils dripping from her bun. Sir Philip gave her shoulders a perfunctory pat and began untying her wrists and ankles.

"Sentence served," said Sir Merrick from behind her. "Your Highness, I hope you've-"

Helen sprang up from her chair and burst out of the room.

Merrick and Philip exchanged glances. "Well, that seems to have gone over well," Merrick said, not a tinge of irony in his voice. He bowed to Philip and took his leave. Anna stood, smoothed out her skirt, adjusted her bun, and followed.

Sir Philip smiled.

Alone in her chamber, flustered and red-faced, Helen gathered parchment and quill and began to pen a letter to her friend. "I'm so sorry," she wrote, the quill trembling slightly in her fingers. "It was completely my fault... Please forgive me."

She folded the note carefully and handed it to an attendant to be delivered to Anna's quarters. Her face burned with shame. She wished she had the courage to face Anna in person — but after that helpless, writhing display, she couldn't trust herself to meet Anna’s eyes.

Hours passed. Twilight crept through her windows. Then — a soft scrape at the door.

Helen glanced up to see a note slid discreetly under the threshold. Heart hammering, she hurried to snatch it up. She recognized Anna’s neat, familiar handwriting at once.

Just two words, written plainly:

"It's okay."

Months passed without another incident, and Helen did not forget about her encounter with the Mirthkeeper. The truth of what she'd read on his secret parchments hung over her head like a cloud, but she kept quiet about it. Through all those days, she had still not yet mustered the courage to seek him out to feel the fulfillment of his end of the bargain on her skin.

Would he even stick to his end of the deal? What if it was all a ruse to secure her silence? What if she climbed the staircase to the Room of Discipline and knocked, and he refused her? He would have been well within his rights. The punishment for laying so much as a finger of discipline on any member of the royal family was severe - if it came to light, that is. And he did seem like a stickler for rules... a tickler for rules. But...what about rules that she suspected he got enjoyment out of breaking?

Even if he did refuse her, Helen thought, she still wouldn't spill a word of what she'd read to anyone. It wasn't worth it. If she did spill it, and he found out, the punishment would probably be unbearable - perhaps daily ticklings for Anna - ticklings that should have fallen on Helen's own skin, that she'd dreamed about for so long...

One evening, after a full glass of wine and a self-pep-talk in the mirror, she found herself at the door of the Room of Discipline. She leaned in, pressing an ear to the wood. Inside, she could hear the faint clink of a quill tapping against an inkpot, and the soft, steady scratch of parchment being filled.

Steeling herself with a deep breath, she knocked.

The scribbling stopped.

Footsteps approached — light and measured. The door creaked open, revealing Sir Philip’s gloating face, framed in the lamplight.

"Well, Your Highness," he drawled, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "What a pleasant surprise. What can this humble Mirthkeeper do for you?"

"I've come to ask for a ... " the last word refused to leave her lips. She felt it dancing on the tip of her tongue, its tingling driving her mad. She pushed it out with a sigh and a breath. "Tickling. As per our...agreement."

Philip’s brow arched, his smile deepening ever so slightly. "A tickling, you say. And what kind of tickling would that be?" he pressed, voice low and coaxing.

Ooh, that man. Helen clenched her fists at her sides, struggling to keep her composure. "A... m-merciless tickling," she sputtered, the heat rising in her cheeks.

"A merciless tickling?" he said, feigning shock. "You mean the kind that melts you into a helpless puddle, the kind you've dreamt about at night when you're tangled up in your sheets with a blanket between your legs, the kind that leaves you gasping and breathless and begging for more?"

She nodded.

"Fortunately for you," he said, "merciless ticklings are somewhat of a speciality of mine. But I'm afraid the rules clearly state that Mirthkeepers must not lay disciplinary hands on princesses under any circumstances."

Helen hung her head. She knew it. He had never intended to honor his end of the deal, and had made her look like a fool, climbing all of these steps to beg for his touch. She bit her lip, and turned to go.

"So," he said casually, "I must take your crown."

Her heart leapt, and she looked up at him, hope flaring in her chest. Was he - serious?

He outstretched his hand, his fingers curling in a slow, deliberate beckon.

With trembling fingers, she reached up and removed the small tiara from her head. The delicate golden circlet felt far heavier now than it ever had. She placed it carefully into his outstretched hand. Philip turned it over, inspecting it. His thumb idly smoothed over the sapphires set into the band, a curious softness in his touch.

"Do come in, Helen. And have a seat." He opened the door a bit wider. She brushed past his chest as she entered the room, her heart thumping. It was strange to hear her name from his lips, bare and stripped of all dignity.

Her eyes flickered to the two empty chairs — one, back facing the door, was the chair she usually sat in: blue velvet with a cushioned seat, the seat of Honor. In front of it, facing the door, stood the plain white wicker chair — Anna’s throne, the seat of the Penitent.

She hesitated, pulse pounding, before deliberately walking past the blue velvet and lowering herself into the wicker chair. Its hard surface was unforgiving against her skirts, its symbolism even harsher. Out of the corner of her eye, she felt Philip smile over his shoulder.

He was rummaging through the drawers, humming softly to himself, pulling out lengths of silken rope, the familiar cluster of feathers — and broad-bristled paintbrushes. He turned to her, arms laden with supplies, his smile faintly wolfish.

"I should warn you, Helen. This first session will be somewhat exploratory," he said, sauntering toward her. He set the tools down at the hem of her dress, next to her feet. "I usually reserve my services for the Royal Penitent of Laughter — Anna — you know her, don't you? I've become quite intimately acquainted with her body over the years. I know exactly which spots make her squeal and squirm... and which ones make her beg and plead.

"But you, Helen," he said, reaching for her wrists with decisive hands, "you are a blank scroll."

He guided her wrists behind the chair. She felt the silk ropes brush her skin as he wound them around her wrists, looping and knotting with a deftness that spoke of long practice. She tugged gently — they held fast, but not painfully so.

Philip circled in front of her, crouched to the floor, and lifted her ankles one at a time, securing them to each leg of the chair with the same patient, methodical care. His fingertips brushed her stockings — lightly, almost inadvertently — and each accidental touch sent little electric shivers sparking up her legs.

When he was satisfied, he rose and stood back to admire his work, arms folding across his chest. Helen sat bound, back straight, heart hammering against her bodice, utterly exposed. The helplessness of it made her breathing quicken. Is this what Anna felt?

Philip plucked a broad, soft paintbrush from the floor and twirled it between his fingers in front of her. His smile deepened.

"Shall we begin?"

He moved behind her chair and knelt, lifting the heavy folds of her long dress. With casual precision, he tucked the fabric neatly over the back of the chair, revealing her small, vulnerable feet. Helen shut her eyes. It was the moment before the fall — the terrifying, delicious brink.

She felt the first whisper of the paintbrush against her right foot — soft bristles sliding from heel to arch, tracing every subtle curve of her sole. The brush whisked lightly across her toes, the delicate scrubbing making her shiver.

She gasped in delighted surprise. "It tickles!"

"Doesn't it just," Philip teased.

He shifted to the other foot, working slowly, the bristles stroking and coaxing. His touch was gentle — too gentle to make her laugh, just enough to make her squirm and wiggle impatiently in her bonds. It felt nice, and it tickled - but she wanted more.

Sensing her restlessness, he set the brush aside and stood, rounding the chair. He knelt before her again — so close now that even on his knees, their foreheads were level. His gaze locked with hers, and she found herself unable to look away.

He cupped her face tenderly in his hands, thumbs brushing along the delicate shells of her ears.

Helen inhaled sharply and shut her eyes in sudden shyness. His proximity made every breath, every brush of skin, unbearably intimate — and far more ticklish. She felt his fingertips glide down her neck, feather-light, until they slipped into the hollows beneath her arms—

She jerked instinctively, trying to fold in on herself, but the ropes held her firmly in place. Unhindered, his fingers began to tease, sliding back and forth in a slow, coaxing rhythm under her arms. The giggles that had been building broke free, bubbling into soft chuckles. She twisted and thrashed, utterly at his mercy.

"Here's a spot," Philip mused, his voice low and pleased.

His fingers danced mercilessly, sometimes dipping lower, just grazing along the outer curves of her breasts. Whether the touches were deliberate or not, Helen didn’t know — and didn’t care. The sensation made her squirm harder, the laughter spilling out of her in uncontrollable bursts.

Her eyes flew open when his hands slid lower still, finding her ribs. She attempted to bargain with him with wide, pleading eyes - but he merely returned her expression with a calm smirk. Whimpering with anticipation, she felt him position his fingers perfectly — each space between her ribs cradled by a fingertip. And then he wiggled.

Helen exploded into laughter, her body shaking, the soft fabric of her bodice offering no protection against the invasive, featherlight teasing. The restraints made it tickle all the more — every wriggle, every helpless movement only seemed to offer up more of herself to his relentless hands.

Philip took his time, lingering at her ribs, vibrating and fluttering his fingertips up and down her sides. When he slid even lower, his hands found her belly, and with a series of gentle squeezes, he coaxed wild, high-pitched squeals from her throat.

She shook her head frantically. "Oh please — please —"

"Please what, Helen?" he asked, all mock-innocence.

But she didn’t even know anymore what she was pleading for — relief? Or more?

He explored thoroughly, expertly. His fingers discovered unconventional spots she hadn’t known were vulnerable — they coaxed out snorting laughter when he raked them through her scalp, scratching through her soft hair like one would the fur of a loyal dog. She chuckled helplessly as he skittered his fingertips down her shins beneath the cover of her dress. When he began a rhythmic series of squeezes right above her kneecaps, Helen’s eyes flew wide, and she dissolved into desperate, pleading laughter, tugging wildly against her bonds.

Philip only smiled, slow and knowing, and continued his merciless, measured work. He put his tools to good work. He ran a feather's edge over each of her ears. With the smallest of brushes he ticklishly circled her nipples, which had become perky and stiff through her bodice. She nearly fainted when he loomed over her to nuzzle his nose playfully in the crook of her neck as she squealed and scrunched to no avail.

After what felt like an eternity, he stepped back. Helen panted, her breath ragged. Her world had become rosy and blurry. Through heavy-lidded eyes, she felt him press a cool cloth to her forehead, and give her a chaste kiss on the top of her head. She felt him undoing the knots that held her wrists, and then her ankles. She gathered her knees to her arms and curled up in the chair, holding herself close.

He stood in front of her, coiling rope round his fingers and watching her with an amused expression.

"Was it to your liking, dear Helen?"

She blushed, looked up at him. And nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. He extended his arms to help her out of the chair.

He fetched her crown from one of the drawers, and placed it daintily atop her head. His hands slid down to cup her face once more, his touch soft and tender.

"I - I don't ever want to act up again," she confessed, turning her head to whisper into his palm. "It's agony, watching Anna squirm under your fingers and enduring all that tickling. I'd rather - be good and - experience the rewards for myself."

"I'm sure Anna would appreciate that," Sir Philip mused, his thumb caressing her cheek softly. "As would I."

He led her to the door and kissed her hand. "Your Highness," he said, and closed the door gently.

Princess Helen stood still for a moment, contemplating all that had occurred with a pink blush on her cheeks. In a daze, she floated down the staircase and into her private chambers, where she wrapped herself up in her thick blanket and let her hands roam, imagining they were Sir Philip's.

The very next day, it was reported that the Kingdom of Chessberg had staged a coup. The old, corrupt monarchy — once infamous for its brutal taxation and volatile treaties — had been overthrown in a swift and bloodless revolt. In their place, a new council of leaders had risen: merchants, scholars, and seasoned generals, all promising fairness, trade, and lasting peace.

The ramifications for Helen's own kingdom were immediate. Trade routes, once choked by tariffs and border skirmishes, would reopen. The threat of war that had loomed over her father's court for years now melted away, replaced by cautious hope. Allies once reluctant to show favor to her family were already sending envoys and gifts, eager to build new alliances in this changing landscape. In celebration, Helen's father had organized a lavish, three-day feast.

And yet, despite the general air of celebration, Helen took the news with a strangely heavy heart. On one hand, it meant prosperity for her people — stability, safety, a future. On the other, it meant the secret she had uncovered had been brought to light, and there was no longer a need for her silence. The bargain she'd struck was void. No more future ticklings. No excuse to place herself willingly into Sir Philip's merciless hands.

At least she had secured one memory to treasure.

Helen caught sight of Sir Philip standing alone in the banquet hall, looking effortlessly handsome in his black tunic, his quiet, assessing gaze tracking the whirl of nobles and courtiers around him.

She glided to his side, the long sleeves of her red gown trailing elegantly behind her. She raised her wine goblet, her voice low and laced with uncertainty. "I suppose, with the information now having come to light, the deal is off?" she murmured.

Philip didn't look directly at her, but she saw the corner of his mouth quirk ever so slightly. "Perhaps a new deal can be arranged, your Highness," he suggested.

"What did you have in mind?"

He thought for a moment. "Shall we play a game, Princess? Win, and you shall report to me by week's end... ready to laugh at my leisure. Lose, and, well..."

Helen blinked at him over the rim of her goblet. "A wager, then?"

Philip's lips curled into a slow smile. "Of sorts. One that will test your poise — and perhaps your restraint." His voice dropped low enough that only she could hear it over the clamor of the hall.

Helen tilted her head, intrigued. "I'm listening."

He took a leisurely sip from his own goblet, then leaned just a little closer, his breath stirring the fine hairs at her temple. "You will remain by my side for the remainder of the feast. And you will not laugh. Not giggle, not squeak, not so much as twitch. No matter what... distractions you may encounter."

Helen's heart thudded once, hard. "Distractions?"

Philip's smile deepened into something more wicked. "I'll be very creative, I assure you."

She swallowed, the wine suddenly thick on her tongue. "And if I succeed?"

"Then you will report to the Room of Discipline at feast's end for a much more thorough exploration. In the wicker chair, of course, with your crown confiscated."

"And if I fail?"

Philip finally turned his full gaze on her — sharp, teasing, commanding. "Then tomorrow in the Room of Discipline you will present yourself to me with your crown on your head and Anna at your side. And you will watch as she undergoes the tickling you long crave."

Helen hesitated a heartbeat. The thought of enduring subtle, maddening teasing under the noses of the entire court made her pulse race. And the thought of winning? Even more so. But if she lost? Watching Anna endure another tickling, when it could be her squirming under Philip's attentive fingertips...

"If I lose, what excuse am I to give for her punishment?"

"I am sure we shall think of something," Philip mused. "Tardiness to dinner, perhaps a royal library book gone missing."

She tipped her goblet toward him in salute. "Very well, Mirthkeeper. I accept."

Philip chuckled quietly. "Brave princess. Let us see if you remain so when my fingers find your weaknesses."

And then — before she could prepare herself — she felt it: a sudden, feather-light stroke against her hip, hidden by the folds of her gown.

Princess Helen's breath hitched. She pressed her lips together firmly. The game had begun.

#tickle fiction #tickling

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caleegraphy · 2 months ago

Text

The King and the Candlemaker

Once upon a time, in a distant kingdom, there lived a king of stern yet fair disposition. He governed his land with a steady hand and a compassionate heart, and his people held him in deep reverence. Under his rule, no villager knew hunger, and war had not blemished the lands in many years.

By his royal decree, the penalty for misdemeanors among his subjects was hard stings across the bottom for men, and ticklish swipes between the bum cheeks for women. At the end of each week, he would line the miscreants facing along the wide stone wall of the town hall. He would command them to lower their knickers and to bend forward with their hands on the wall, legs spread, exposing their bare bums to the tittering crowd. Then the Royal Proclaimer, dressed in green with a feather in his cap, would unfurl his long scroll and read their misdeeds before the crowd.

Once finished, the Proclaimer would step back and herald in the usher, who on a silken pillow, held up a long, graceful pheasant feather and ebony riding crop for the king. Then, with solemn regality, the king and usher would step forward together. The king would start at the beginning of the line and give each bottom a flurry of volleys and each crack a series of torturous swipes, as the victim squirmed. Then he would move onto the next one, disallowing any sort of rubbing, clenching, or fondling, as he went down the line. Only once all smacks and swipes had been imparted were the miscreants allowed to raise their knickers and resume their work.

The king alone held the authority to administer such public discipline, yet none of the villagers objected. It was a small price to pay for the privilege of not having to pay taxes. Though these royal displays of discipline were rare, life in the village otherwise flowed smoothly, like the ticking of a well-oiled clock.

In the village lived a young maiden named Esther. Her parents, when they were still alive, were skilled artisan candlemakers, renowned for crafting exquisite wax works fit for the palace. Esther, ever the tinkerer, learned to master from a young age the art of molding wax into various shapes—some slender tapers adorned with elegant swirls, others thick and cylindrical. At times, she amused herself by crafting more profane pieces, setting a flame to their tips and watching the hot wax drip and slide down in translucent beads, only to see the salacious shapes dissolve before anyone could enter the workshop.

The first public display of royal discipline she had witnessed as she reached adulthood. The town gathered in the square, their gaze fixed upon three figures standing with their faces to the wall. The Proclaimer stepped forward, unfurling a scroll, and began to read their names and misdeeds one by one.

"Miss Felicity Mason. For delivering overcooked pies to the castle kitchens. Fifteen swipes."

Esther saw Miss Mason's shoulders hunch slightly, and saw her legs tremble as the king positioned the stiff pheasant feather between her legs, all the way forward so that his fingers disappeared underneath her, and tugged the feather towards himself slowly, ever so slowly, dragging upwards as he drew it back, so that its tickly edge wedged firmly between her cheeks. Miss Mason shivered and gripped her hands tightly onto the cobblestone wall, letting out a whimper.

"One," the Proclaimer announced.

Fifteen tortuously slow, ticklish swipes. If she moved, he would start over. From her position at the front of the throng, Esther could see that the feather emerged limp and glistening.

The king withdrew his hand and placed the feather on the pillow. He and the usher stepped forward, stopping in front of the next bare bum. "Goodman Frederic Wagonmaker. Caught frolicking in the castle gardens after midnight with Lady Wagonmaker." (The lady in question, standing next to him, clenched her cheeks.) "Ten smacks."

Esther could have sworn she saw Mister Wagonmaker's ruddy behind wiggle ever so slightly.

And on it went.

As the Proclaimer continued to read the rest of the misdeeds, Esther’s mind wandered into a curious daydream. What would it feel like to stand before the crowd, her dignity laid bare? To feel the soft brush of the royal feather tracing its path, bringing a ticklish warmth to her skin? And... what would one have to do to earn such a fate?

Her thoughts began to whirl.

A week passed, and Esther received a grand order from the Castle. The King was preparing a feast for foreign diplomats and requested one hundred candles to adorn his long banquet table.

"By command of His Most Sovereign Majesty, it is herein decreed that an hundred candles, of finest beeswax and fairest make, be procured and set upon the banquet tables for the Banquet to be held upon the eve of the coming fortnight.

Let each candle be of even height and well-fitted to the silver sconces, that the hall may be arrayed in fitting splendour.

The stewardess of the household shall see to it that all preparations are duly made, and that the light of an hundred flames doth lend glory to the royal gathering.

The Stewardess shall answer for the fulfilment of this charge, and severe woe betide her who brings shame upon Our hall by negligence or delay.

So given under Our hand and seal, this twenty seventh of April."

Esther fingered the letter, her eyes lingering on the royal seal. One hundred candles. A commission so large it could afford her a new wagon, or perhaps a beautiful dress. She sprang to her feet, excitement bubbling up within her, but paused mid-step.

One hundred candles. One hundred chances at mischief. Worthy of one hundred strokes, perhaps?

Her stomach fluttered at the idea.

With a slow, deliberate motion, she opened the drawer of her workbench, retrieving a small whittling knife and a large block of wood. She began carving—working diligently as the sun slipped away, her hands growing sore and the mould taking shape under her skilled touch.

She picked up a polished brass bowl filled with molten beeswax. The wax bubbled slightly as it warmed, casting a faint amber glow. She lifted the bowl over the mould and began to pour, her steady hand guiding the flow of golden liquid. The wax filled the crevices with a gentle hiss, spreading evenly as it settled into the salacious shape. The room filled with the sweet, earthy scent of the wax, and Esther paused to let the moment linger—admiring the way the wax formed so smoothly.

She lost herself in her work, the world outside fading into a distant hum. Hours passed without her noticing, each one slipping away like the wax she so carefully molded. The rhythmic scrape of the carving knife against the wax became a kind of music to her, and the steady drip of melted wax into the molds became her heartbeat.

The morning light of the second day broke through her smudged window and illuminated her creations, which sat huddled together on the table and on the floor. One hundred counterfeit cocks. Hard and shiny. Certainly fit for display at a king's table. Esther smiled.

The next morning, Esther readied her wagon, loading the crates of candles with careful hands. She gave her donkey a soft kiss on his brow, then, taking the rope halter in her grip, led him up the hill toward the castle gates.

At the delivery entrance, she was met by a man with bright yellow hair. "Hail, miss," he greeted her. "A delivery for the king?"

"Yes, sir," she replied, her heart hammering in her chest.

"This way, please," he gestured, signaling for the gate to be opened. He led her through the cobblestone courtyard. "Wait here, if you would, miss. The king would like to inspect them himself."

"Oh! Usually I leave them with the castle porter-"

"A commission of this magnitude requires a careful inspection," he said. "I shall fetch the king."

He left her in the courtyard surrounded by the high walls. Her palms started sweating. In her mind, she envisioned dropping them off and retreating to the warmth and safety of her workshop, smiling into her pillow as she imagined being summoned from the crowd after the king had realized what she'd done. She'd receive her titillating punishment, and then fade back into obscurity. This sudden reckoning was not what she had anticipated...

The guardsman soon returned, flanking the king. The king wore a maroon tunic, his golden crown tucked beneath his dark, thick hair. His hazel eyes were sharp and piercing, surveying the courtyard with the weight of authority. He walked with purpose, his heavy boots making the stone beneath him seem to vibrate as he drew nearer.

Esther quickly curtseyed, her heart hammering in her chest. “Your majesty,” she said, her voice wavering just slightly. “I bring your candles.”

“Rise, good lady,” the king commanded, his voice even and firm. “Your work has always been exemplary. I am much looking forward to setting my eyes upon them. Make haste, and open the crate.”

Esther went around to the wagon, her steps slow and deliberate. The king followed closely behind, his presence looming. With trembling fingers, she lifted the wooden lid and stepped back, bracing herself for his reaction.

The king peered into the crate. He squinted, his gaze narrowing as he studied the contents. He stared for what felt like an eternity, his lips pressed tightly together, his brow furrowing. The silence stretched on, thick and heavy, and Esther could feel her heart racing in her chest. Finally, he looked as though he might speak. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came.

“Is—Is the bounty not to your liking, my liege?” the guardsman asked, breaking the silence. His voice was tentative, and his eyes darted between the king and Esther, his gaze sharp, waiting for the king's verdict.

The king took a steadying breath, his shoulders rising and falling. He cleared his throat before beckoning the guardsman over to his side. The two leaned in together, peering into the chest. The guardsman let out a sharp gasp, his face turning crimson as he looked at Esther, his expression a mix of disbelief and discomfort.

"This is most unseemly! Explain yourself, young lady!"

The king caught the guardsman’s arm, stopping him from reacting further. “Compose yourself, Wilhelm,” he said. “She will answer for her impetuousness in due time.”

Wilhelm blinked, still flushed and flustered. “Yes, right, of course,” he stammered. “I shall give orders to draw up a crowd at once.”

“No,” the king interrupted sharply. “The royal name must not be disgraced in such a manner. Let Miss Esther join me in the banquet hall this very moment. See to it that we are not disturbed. And... have her crate brought inside.”

“It will be as you say, Your Majesty,” Wilhelm replied, his voice low, though still tinged with confusion.

The king turned his gaze back to Esther, his demeanor firm and resolute. “Come,” he said, his voice leaving no room for protest. With a flourish of his cape, he strode forward, motioning for her to follow.

Esther swallowed hard, her mind swirling, but she did as she was commanded and followed him through the large wooden door.

The banquet hall was magnificent, with a lofty ceiling and gracefully arched windows that began halfway up the walls and stretched nearly to the top. The room itself was sparsely furnished, save for the long banquet table that ran almost the entire length of the space. The fire was unlit, and the light that filtered through the windows cold and dim.

The king turned sharply to Esther, his gaze sharp and unwavering.

"I suppose you think yourself clever?" he asked, his tone icy.

Esther lowered her head, her words measured. "No, sir."

The king's expression darkened. "Then what is this disgraceful display? Did you mean to humiliate me in front of my foreign diplomats?"

Esther swallowed, her heart racing. "No, sir."

"Then speak!" he demanded.

"I— it was only a joke, sir," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"A damned expensive joke."

Esther's eyes widened slightly, and she hurried to explain. "Oh no, sir, I would never squander your gold. I— I did make the candles you requested. They’re waiting for you in my workshop."

The king’s brow furrowed as he paused, weighing her words carefully. After a long moment, he spoke, his tone laced with sarcasm. "A fine prank," he said slowly, as if savoring the irony. "And when, pray tell, were you planning to reveal this scarcely exonerating detail?"

"After... after I received..."

"After you received what?" the king interjected. "Payment?"

"No— my...punishment," she whispered, the words trembling on her lips like a fragile moth too weak to fly.

The king's eyes narrowed. "Your punishment."

"Yes, your highness," she murmured, her voice barely audible.

The king’s lips curled into a cold smile. "Well, rest assured, you will get it. Here it comes, now."

As if on cue, the wide doors to the banquet hall swung open once more. Wilhelm reentered, his steps deliberate. In his hands, he carried, like a sacred offering, the purple pillow that Esther recognized. With a slight bow, he placed it on the table before the king, his expression unreadable.

"Will that be all, your majesty?"

"No," the king said, his gaze never leaving Esther. "See to it that you remain and watch. Miss Esther is eager for a pair of curious eyes, and we must not disappoint her."

"Yes, sir," Wilhelm responded, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid.

The king turned his attention back to Esther. "Fetch me a candle."

"One of mine?" she asked hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes."

With trembling hands, Esther reached into the crate and withdrew a candle. Her palms were slick with sweat as she wrapped her fingers around the thick, waxen shaft. She placed it carefully on the table, balancing it upright, the round base resting firmly against the surface.

"Do you have means to light it?" the king asked, his tone sharp.

"Yes, sir." Esther reached into her pocket and pulled out a match, the small wooden stick almost slipping from her fingers.

"Light the flame."

She obeyed without hesitation, striking the match and bringing it to the wick protruding an inch above the candle's tip. The flame flickered to life, casting an eerie glow across the room.

The king observed the candle for a moment before speaking again. "Your candles usually last how long?"

"It's a ten-inch, sir," Esther replied, her voice steadier now but still laced with anxiety. "It will last about ten hours."

"So shall your punishment, if you do not cooperate. Lean over the table and lift your dress."

Esther trembled. She did as she was told. Slowly, she faced the table, and set her elbows onto it, dropping her head between her arms. She reached behind to tug her dress up over her back. The cool air made her shiver.

She felt the king move behind her, tugging her cotton knickers down over her bare bum without decorum. She trembled as she felt his rough fingers caress the curves of her smooth flesh.

"What say you, Wilhelm? Shall we start with the lash, or the kiss?"

Esther's heart skipped a beat. Both the crop and the feather? She hadn't expected...

"The lash, sir."

"A fine choice."

The king paced over to the pillow, picked up the black crop, and give it a flick, as if testing its resistance. He moved behind Esther, and swished it once more. It made a whistling noise as it whizzed through the air. She tensed in anticipation. And then she gasped in surprise as it came down on her left buttock.

"Count, Wilhelm."

"One, sir."

He struck again, this time on the other cheek. Esther whimpered. His tempo was steady, his aim sure. The king was not striking hard; in fact, his first strikes felt more like taps. After twenty five slaps on each cheek, however, the sting began to increase. She felt her buttocks warm under each well-placed, smarting sting. She adjusted her weight from one foot to the other, shifting her small round buttocks beneath his gaze. But no matter how she moved subtly, the crop whizzed through the air and found its mark again, and again, and again. Somewhere in the hazy distance, Wilhelm continued to count.

"Thirty. Thirty one. Thirty two."

The blows continued to rain down. Each one the same strength and speed, yet each one stoking the fire just a little bit more. She squeezed her eyes shut until she was sure she'd force tears from them.

"Fifty eight. Fifty nine. Sixty."

Esther grit her teeth, wiggling her forehead into the table. She had accepted her fate. He would surely continue until she couldn't sit down at her workbench... and it served her right for orchestrating such a prank. What had she been thinking, crafting a hundred waxy cocks, each one large enough to illuminate the homes of every family in the village...

The king lowered his arm. "Rise, Esther. Wilhelm, come here."

In a daze, Esther slowly lifted her head and peeled her arms from the table, fingertips tracing the grooves where the wood had imprinted into the backs of her forearms. From behind, she heard Wilhelm's footsteps approach her.

"Hold her dress up as she stands against the wall," the king commanded. Like a bridesmaid, Wilhelm gathered the train of Esther's dress in a bundle in his arm, and followed her to the wall. As she waddled toward the wall under the tall window, Esther felt the heat radiating off of her shining globes, as intense as if she'd warmed them in front of her wax-melting cauldron. The draft under her tented dress cooled her, and left a strange tingle between her legs.

"Hands against the wall," the king instructed. She did so. Wilhelm stood quietly to the side.

The king returned to the pillow once more, set down the crop, and picked up the stiff pheasant feather. He strode back to Esther and leaned over her shoulder from behind. "Don't move," he whispered. She gasped as she felt the edge of his feather sneak in between her sensitive crevice. He kept it there for a while, and she worried he would be able to feel the throbbing of her pearl against the feather's edge. She bit her lip with the effort it took not to move, not to grind herself against it.

The king pulled, slowly. Her throat tightened as she felt each singular frond of the feather tickle and tease her most sensitive creases, from the tip of her vulva, passing ticklishly through her puffy lips, and pulled snug up into her bum crack. The heat of her spanking had made everything more sensitive. She wiggled, and felt Wilhelm pull the folds of her dress more tightly between his knuckles. He began counting again.

"One."

At first, each pull was tortuously slow, and tickled like nothing Esther had ever felt. She gasped and whimpered. She breathed heavily through her nose. Unlike the tempo of the crop upon her bum, the king soon began toying with the length and pacing of the swipes, sometimes drawing the feather between her legs slowly, and sometimes sawing it between her bum cheeks with vigor. During one particularly brisk bout of swipes, she had to choke down her giggles. She pressed her forehead into the wall, ever aware of the king's presence behind her, and of Wilhelm standing off to the side. She remembered the king's command - don't move - and her nostrils flared with the effort. Her cheeks clenched, but this only made the feather draw up further into her crevices. She let out a squealing chuckle.

The king raised his brow in amusement. She certainly was taking it well, both halves of her punishment. She seemed to be especially enjoying the second half. "How is the candle looking, Wilhelm?" he asked, sawing absentmindedly between her cheeks as she tittered and crumbled against the wall.

"We've reached the end of the glans, sir."

The king withdrew his feather and nodded to Wilhelm. He dropped the brown cloth of her dress, which fell to the floor with a swoosh. Esther panted and gasped against the wall, too embarrassed to look at either man.

She felt the king grasp her wrist, guiding her back to the banquet table. He lifted the candle to her face, bringing it close to her lips. "Blow," he commanded. She obeyed. The smoke rose in a thin wisp, curling into the air. Her gaze fell to the beads of wax that had slipped down the hard length, collecting in pearlescent droplets round the two swollen spheres at the base.

The king slipped the warm shaft into her hand and curled his fingers over hers. "May thy future commissions be true," he said. "If not, I shall summon thee before the crowd, and we shall burn out the time remaining on this candle for all to see."

Esther's face burned. Another spanking and tickling - this time public, as was proper for the masses. She imagined herself standing alone against the wall, her obscene creation burning on the ground in between her spread legs, its smoke curling upward to tickle her dripping places. How wretched, how humiliating. How...titillating.

They escorted her back to the courtyard, where her donkey and cart stood waiting. She bowed demurely to the king and Wilhelm, her movements stiff and measured, her gaze fixed on the ground, still unwilling to meet their eyes. The weight of their scrutiny pressed on her, and she felt herself shrink beneath it. She was certain they knew her secret. How much she had enjoyed it.

Her hands trembled as she grasped the donkey’s halter. She clicked her tongue, a sound low and familiar to the old animal, urging him to move forward. The donkey shuffled his hooves, taking a step, but then she paused, sensing something odd in his gait. Old Red Rupert, despite his age, seemed to have more of a spring in his step. The familiar shuffle of his movements had taken on an unusual quickness that hadn’t been there before. She furrowed her brow in confusion. Leaning into him, she pressed her shoulder gently against his chest, slowing him to a stop.

She walked around to the back of the cart, her breath shallow in her chest. Reaching for the crate’s lid, she opened it slowly, her eyes scanning the interior in disbelief. It was empty, save for a small satchel of gold.

A fortnight later, in the grand banquet hall, Esther’s provocative candles burned brightly, their warm glow flickering softly and casting playful shadows against the ancient stone walls. The room, once cold and sterile, now felt alive with energy, as the flickering candlelight seemed to breathe life into every corner. The hall echoed with the rich sound of laughter, gasps, moans, and lighthearted conversations blending with the clink of silverware.

"You've outdone yourself, your highness," said Lady Eldenridge, gesturing around the room and fanning herself coquettishly with a delicate feather fan. Her silver mask glinted in the candlelight. "How were you able to commission such a display without scandalizing your artisan?"

The king chuckled, a playful glint in his eye. "I do seem to have the most imaginative subjects," he replied, bowing low and pressing a gentle kiss to her gloved hand. "The desire for discipline seemed to motivate this particular craftsperson."

"Well, and where is this artisan?" Lady Eldenridge exclaimed, her voice filled with intrigue. "Surely someone with such a detailed eye and a thirst for the dramatic deserves a seat at the table tonight. They sound like such a treat."

"I'll say," Wilhelm chimed in, joining the duo with a smirk, nudging the king playfully. "It's not every day we see such creativity, especially without the usual chaos that follows."

The king smiled, his gaze shifting with amusement. "Perhaps you're right," he said thoughtfully. "Wilhelm, send word for her tonight. She can explain to all of you herself the inspiration behind tonight's particularly ravishing decorations."

"Yes, your majesty," said Wilhelm, striding towards the door. His bare buns bobbed enticingly in the candlelight. Lady Eldenridge purred softly in approval.

"Oh, and Wilhelm?" the king called.

"Yes, sir?"

"Fetch the feather. Our guest of honor deserves a warm welcome."

#spanking fiction #spanking

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