You drain your cup and close your eyes as you feel the soft, expert caress of hands all over your body. When you reach out to do a little caressing of your own you notice your hand feels strangely heavy!
You open your eyes and note that your vision has begun to blur. Soon the room begins to sway nauseatingly.
"Is it working?" asks one of the harem women, her voice strange and echoing in your ears.
Another of the women stares into your eyes and you attempt to ask what is going on, but you are unable to make a sound. "Oh yes, she says. It's working very well."
The room begins to go dark and the voices of the women start to trail off.
"This one must be extremely ticklish if they're to be part of His Majesty's amusements." Says one of the women, sounding distant.
"Undoubtedly, the poor creature. I wonder if they'll survive." Answers another.
"Might it not be more merciful if they didn't?" Says the third woman, eliciting a chorus of sharp laughter as you black out.
You come to in a large, garishly appointed room. Bright decorations in the colors of the kingdom hang from every rafter and wall. With creeping terror you realize you are exotically bound and gagged: the centerpiece of a heavy wooden table, strewn about with feathers of every variety!
The room is filled with other such tables and similar centerpieces, other young women and men, some seemingly shaking off a drug-induced torpor, others, already awakened and aware of their plight, struggling desperately in their bondage.
You, and every other "centerpiece" is laying on your back, against a heavy, leather-padded wooden device. Unyielding, golden metallic chains circle your chest and abdomen, holding you tight against the device. Your wrists are manacled behind your neck, and your elbows are bound to a cold metal crossbar running behind your head. Your ankles are bound to your thighs, and intricate manacles above and below your knees, are chained to the same crossbar that holds your elbows. You are essentially spread eagle, but bent at the elbows and knees. You are able to wiggle your fingers and feet, but very little else.
You surmise from the other centerpieces, that you are fitted with a delicate metal collar and a hoop of metal around your head, ending in a large, leather ball gag. Both the men and women wear the same leather and cloth loin covering and nothing else.
You hear a familiar voice from behind you and your blood runs cold.
"Ah! You're awake."
The beautiful but scarred interrogator steps into view and leans menacingly toward you.
"Good! I don't know who you are, or what your actual intentions were coming to this kingdom, but I don't really care, "she explains, running her finger over the sole of your left foot, eliciting a frightened squeal from behind your gag. "You'll be far better employed as royal entertainment than ever you could have been as a mercenary, of that much I'm certain. I don't think I've ever met someone so ticklish."
She takes up a stiff, iridescent feather from the table and begins tracing it slowly from your waist toward your chest.
"Look how you shudder and pant at the slightest touch of the feather!" She says, delighted. "And your reaction when I do something actually ticklish ..."
She begins flicking the feather back and forth, several inches away from your armpit, moving it slowly closer.
You plead unintelligibly, and shift helplessly in your restraints, trying desperately to shield yourself from the impending torture. But she stops short and sighs.
"But you must be kept fresh for the nobles, sadly." And at that, a pair of huge, wooden doors swing open on the far side of the chamber and a crowd of baroque looking nobles and courtesans pours in; laughing and chatting and hoisting great, bejeweled goblets of wine.
With varying degrees of interest, the king's guests arrange themselves around the tables; some absentmindedly tickling the foot of a helpless young blonde woman, others smiling lasciviously as they concertedly attack with feather and fingers, the shuddering body of a desperately laughing young man.
Quickly the room fills with uncontrollable laughter and unintelligible cursing and begging. The heavily made-up and portly pair of noble ladies that have made their way to your table, lick their lips giddily, as they take an agonizingly long time deciding where to tickle you and with what. As the older of the two flips your loin cloth out of the way, leaving you wholly exposed and humiliated, the other slowly brings a large, ebon feather down between your legs.
You close your eyes tightly and prepare for an agonizing, and hopefully short, life as a Rylestian tickle slave.
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