Courier

As usual, Romhilde Beretsdaughter left her horse behind when she reached the border post at the edge of the centaur Land. And as usual, Timon the Younger shook his head at the strange creature. Horses weren’t forbidden, but most centaurs didn’t like them. Timon was more tolerant than most, but even he was glad to see Romhilde leave hers behind.

“Ho, Romhilde,” Timon greeted the amazon as she walked up to the gate, carrying a pair of saddlebags and the sealed pouch destined for the amazon’s embassy. “Back again, I see.”

“Ho, Timon,” Romhilde answered. “Here are my pass tokens, and yes, I know they’re expired.”

“So they are.” Timon tucked the tokens away and picked up a coil of rope from where it hung on a post. Romhilde set down her saddlebags and tied the diplomatic pouch so that it hung from her neck. Then she offered Timon her wrists.

“I surrender myself to the law and customs of the Kentaros,” Romhilde said formally. Timon bound her wrists. Then, picking up the saddlebags and slinging them over his lower back, he led the amazon away. He raised a hand to acknowledge the centaur who took his place on watch, and that centaur answered Romhilde’s nod with a nod and smile of his own.

Timon the Younger was indeed younger than his uncle Timon. He was clean-shaven, with dark hair and a dark coat, and hooves of a startling white. He wore the vest that had come in fashion among younger centaurs, and his weapon-harness.

Romhilde, walking beside him, was a typical amazon: Tall and smoothly muscled with golden-brown hair in a long braid. She wore a blouse and short baggy pants of a sort suitable for either walking or riding. Her boots she had left behind with her horse, and now her feet were shod with high-laced sandals.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to carry you?” Timon asked.

“Not unless you let me ride properly,” Romhilde answered. Then for good measure she added, “Fenia is going to give me a ride to Bordertown.”

“Ah,” Timon said. Romhilde smiled. Female centaurs didn’t mind being ridden, at least not by friends, but the males considered it an insult, and faintly perverse. They didn’t mind carrying bound captives slung across their lower backs, even though the burden was at least as great, but riders sitting astride were a different matter.

After a short time Timon and Romhilde came to a sprawling chestnut tree, about a mile away from the entry gate between the amazon realms and the centaur Land. Under this tree were stocks: Well-made and smoothly sanded devices intended to hold ‘flatfooters’ as the centaurs referred to humans. A sign nearby gave the reason in the curly-cue script that the centaurs used: Alja Kentaros mor kental velator velex bartaros mel Uru, nor Kentaros yonvel morkap i patalos. “If the Kentaros should ever fail to visit merciless torment on foreigners who enter the Land, then will the Kentaros suffer betrayal and ruination.”

This was why Romhilde had been brought here as a prisoner. She would be locked into one of the stocks, and her bare feet tickled mercilessly. She found the idea both enticing and unnerving. Now, a month and a half since her last session in the stocks, enticement had won out.

Many of the other amazons considered Romhilde a little bit crazy to keep volunteering for this courier run. One of her friends had even given her an armlet, with the words “tickle me, I like it” inscribed on it in northern runes. Few amazons, after all, would volunteer for even one trip into the centaur Land, while Romhilde came here regularly enough to be put into the stocks half a dozen times a year. On the other hand, Romhilde knew of humans who stayed in the Land and let themselves be put into the stocks every month. Or even more often. That was the true madness.

Wordlessly, Timon untied Romhilde’s wrists and allowed her to climb the chestnut tree. She hung the diplomatic pouch from a branch and dropped back to the ground. Timon had set her saddlebags by the trunk, and now he waited as she removed her sandals. Two minutes later Timon had her secured in one of the stocks, her wrists retied and bound to a wooden beam that ran above and behind the foot-boards, her ankles locked in place, her feet bare with her large toes tied back, her soles exposed and vulnerable. Timon gave her the customary drink from a dipper, then splashed water over her feet. Then he began the preliminary scrub that the centaurs insisted was not a part of the actual tickling.

Romhilde howled. It didn’t matter what the centaurs said, it tickled! If she were not bound, she couldn’t have held still for it. As it was, she squirmed on the bench, pulling uselessly against her bonds until Timon put the stiff-bristled brush away and began what he called “the real tickling.”

The centaur turned away momentarily to set a gnomen on the sundial, out away from the shade of the chestnut. When he returned, he began with his fingers. Slow and straight he raked his fingers down the sole of Romhilde’s right foot, from her toes to her heel. Then he did the same to the sole of her left foot. He alternated between the amazon’s two helpless feet: Right, left, right, left, like the march of a ticklish doom. Four skillful fingers and an equally skillful thumb ran from the base of Romhilde’s toes, down over the ball of her foot, over the soft and sensitive instep, and finally down her heel. Then her other foot received the same soft and teasing treatment. Then the first foot again, after just enough time to let it recover its sensitivity.

Romhilde laughed and laughed. She couldn’t possibly keep from laughing in response to that expert and effective touch, and she knew that it would make things even worse if she tried. So the giggles poured out from her as she squirmed and shifted, held securely in place by the stocks, and waited for Timon to bring this tickling to an end. She knew he would, eventually, but only to inflict a new form of tickling on her perfectly vulnerable soles.

Eventually Timon did stop raking Romhilde’s soles, but only to pick up a vos-hawk feather. Romhilde felt its soft-firm tip wander over her trapped and vulnerable feet as Timon applied it with expert care. A meandering line ran back and forth across her insteps, and up to the balls of her feet, and back down to her heels. “Ah, ah, ah,” Romhilde gasped, then burst into giggles once more as Timon switched to quick short strokes. The touch of the feather’s tip fell on both helpless soles as fast as rain. The light quick strokes seemed to seek out every sensitive nerve. Tickle sensations sank into Romhilde’s skin, and she became profoundly aware of her feet. Of how ticklish they were, of how Timon was tickling their most ticklish spots, and of how everywhere was the most ticklish spot.

Then Romhilde felt Timon grasp her little toe. He gently spread the toes on her right foot, the large toe being tied in place and the little one being gently pulled away. The vos-hawk feather - the most effective tickling feather known to human or centaur - teased the tender spaces thus exposed. The amazon squealed, twisting, as the feather flicked and stroked, and touched and wiggled.

Now Timon released his grip, and Romhilde clenched her toes, as best she could with her feet bound as they were. She felt Timon grasp her other little toe, and inhaled deeply - then let her breath out as a long laugh as the centaur teased between the toes on her right foot. It was impossibly exquisite, that tickle-teasing: Impossible to avoid, impossible to ignore, and impossible to resist. Romhilde giggled and giggled and giggled. She squirmed and writhed, pulling at her wrists, and her struggles made her more and more aware of her helplessness. More and more aware of the soft tickling touches that she could not possibly avoid. And still the feather in the centaur’s hand continued to lick and stroke between her helpless toes.

The tickling paused. Romhilde realized that tears had started in her eyes, tears of laughter. More would come when Timon started up again, but for now he was sorting through his implements. Romhilde breathed deeply, and tried to flex her feet. This rest, she knew, would only last long enough for her to recover her sensitivity.

“Plenty of time yet,” Timon told her, speaking for the first time since the initial scrub. He held up a polished wooden spoon. “What do think of this?”

“How does a spoon work?” Romhilde asked. Timon raised his eyebrows, and she instantly regretted her question.

“Like this,” came the answer. Romhilde giggled madly, struggling and twisting as the slick-smooth bowl of the spoon ran over her soles, pouring tickle-sensations into them. “And like this.” Romhilde shrieked as Timon gently scraped the edge of the spoon over the heels and balls of the trapped feet before him. “And like this, again.” The smooth rubbing resumed, and this time it went on. And on. And on.

It wasn’t a particularly intense sole-tease, but it was steady: Tickle-sensations poured into Romhilde’s feet, and giggles poured out of her. She squirmed and writhed as the giggles poured out of her, and sweated, and cried tears of laughter.

Romhilde wanted desperately to pull her feet away from that smooth, wiggly teasing sensation that Timon so expertly applied to her soles. But she couldn’t, and her futile attempts only made her more aware of the tickling, of the unbearable pleasure of it. She slumped now, still giggling uncontrollably. The tickling of her helpless soles now felt to her like a bath heated slightly too hot, or like drinking a little too much wine. Timon, continuing the smooth rubbing tickle, gave her a superior look, smug over her weakness. But she didn’t care. He deserved to look at her like that. She was weak, at his hands (and tickle-implements). He had melted her, proving her weakness, and she didn’t care.

The tickling ended at last, and Timon released Romhilde from the stocks. Timon and Fenia had released her from the stocks, Romhilde realized as she lay huddled on the grass. The female centaur had arrived unnoticed during the last part of the tickle-torment.

Fenia had a tan coat, and blonde hair and blue eyes. These last two were rare among the centaurs, and when she wore her hair in a long braid (as she did now) she looked like an amazon herself. At least from the waist up. And if that weren’t enough, she was a sorceress as well. She produced a goblet from thin air and filled it from a small leather flask.

“Drink this,” Fenia told Romhilde, just as she had at the end of a number of previous tickle sessions.

“Thank you.” The amazon drank the herbal tea that would soothe her laughter-worn throat. “Thank you,” she repeated.

Fenia shrugged. “What are friends for?”

Feeling better, Romhilde reached for her sandals and started lacing them up. “I have something for you, too,” she said.

Fenia put her fingers to her temples. “Hmm. Let me use my arcane powers. Could it be... an apple tart?”

“How did you guess?” Romhilde asked rhetorically. She always brought an apple tart for her friend on her trips into the Land. “I have something else I’d like you to look at, too. After I get the pouch.”

Romhilde stood and stamped the ground hard. It was her own method of settling nerves after a tickle-session. When she felt less shaky, she climbed the chestnut tree. And then felt shaky and pale again when she saw nothing on the branch where she had left the diplomatic pouch. “It’s gone,” she whispered. She looked around. Leaves, branches, unripened chestnuts, a scrawny squirrel dodging behind the trunk. She dropped back to the ground. “It’s gone,” she repeated. “The pouch is gone; I can’t find it.”

“Are you sure you checked the right place?” Timon asked.

“I’m sure.”

The three of them spent the next half hour searching for the missing pouch and discussing what might have happened to it. No one else had come to the stocks. The squirrels they had seen were too small and scrawny to have moved it. “Maybe if they were three times as big and strong,” Romhilde said. But the pouch wasn’t on the branch where the amazon had left it, and they couldn’t find it anywhere else.

“I think you need to get more amazons to help search,” Fenia suggested.

“I can’t leave this place until I find it,” Romhilde answered. “Can’t you use a divination spell?”

“Not if it has the usual protective seal. I’m not an amazon, so it will resist my magic. That’s why I suggested getting amazons to help look.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve learned any spells since I last saw you,” Timon said. “If I’m understanding Fenia, what it needs is divination from an amazon.”

“Maybe,” Romhilde said. Then she stood straight and closed her eyes. An idea had come to her, and she didn’t think she liked it. No, to be honest, she either hated it or loved it, and she couldn’t tell which. She opened her eyes again and bent down to dig through her saddlebags, left by the trunk of the tree. “Here, look at this.” She showed Fenia an armlet, a copper band with the words tickle me, I like it inscribed on it in northern runes.

“My cousin Senta gave this to me. She said it had an oracle enchantment on it that would become active when the wearer was, well, tickled. I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. About the enchantment, I mean. Giving it to me was a joke of hers, of course.”

Fenia took the armlet, looked at it, muttered something under her breath, and looked at it again. “Yes,” she said. “It’s weak, but it does have an oracle enchantment. It will only find things nearby, and it will only work once before needing to be renewed, though.”

“Good enough.” Romhilde took the armlet and put it on her arm. She stepped over to the stocks she’d just been tickled in, sat down, and started unlacing her sandals. “Let’s go ahead and do this, then.” She still didn’t know if she loved or hated the idea, so the only thing to do, she told herself, was to press forward until it was too late to retreat.

“Are you sure about this?” Timon’s words were serious, but a grin kept creeping over his face, despite his efforts to beat it back. “I’d be glad to help, but I don’t know if its a good idea.”

“I can’t leave until I find the pouch,” Romhilde insisted.

Fenia touched Timon’s arm. “Go ahead, Timon. It’s the only idea we have. I’ll stand back and watch.”

Romhilde swung her legs up, placing her ankles in the openings of the now-unlocked stocks. She tried to ignore the little voices in the back of her mind. One whispered are you sure that this is a good idea? But the other one said go ahead, you know you like it. Then Timon closed the stocks, locking Romhilde in place, and it was too late to back out.

A few minutes of anticipation went past while Romhilde’s wrists and big toes were tied. She drank from the offered dipper of water, felt more water splashed on her feet, and watched Timon pick up the brush to begin the scrubbing.

Romhilde howled at this preliminary not-tickling that tickled intensely. Then she laughed some more as Timon switched to finger-tickling. Slow straight strokes ran down Romhilde’s feet, first on her right sole, then on her left. She realized that the centaur was duplicating the previous session as closely as he could. That knowledge, the ability to anticipate each soft and nerve-teasing touch before it came, made the amazon feel even more squirmy-sensitive than before.

Romhilde felt the air grow thick and strange. It was the enchantment taking effect. She became more sensitive to everything around her. Which meant that she became more sensitive to the things Timon was doing to the soles of her feet. First the long slow finger-strokes, raking one sole and then the other. Then the switch to the vos-hawk feather, with its exquisitely soft and penetrating touch.

Romhilde felt Timon use that feather with the same expert ease as before, forcing tickle sensations into the soles held helplessly before him. Her soles, except that they belonged to him right now, to tease and tickle and tickle and tease as he would. Romhilde laughed and laughed, uncontrollably. She squirmed and twisted, as the tickle-sensations ran up her legs.

It was like being tickled twice over. Romhilde could anticipate each touch of the feather’s tip as it teased insteps and heels, the balls of her feet and the toes. Then she could feel the tickling itself, making her laugh and squirm, and nothing she could do would hinder the continuing tickle tickle tickle in the slightest way.

Romhilde writhed in anticipation: Timon was about to tickle between her toes. A vision lurked just beyond her perception, and then the toe-tickling began. As he had before, Timon held her toes apart with one hand and used the feather in his other hand to touch and stroke the tender spaces between. Romhilde giggled and giggled and giggled. That tickling touch seemed to fill her with green giggles, like the leaves of the chestnut above. Giggles whose stems lay with those teasing tickling strokes that ran between her toes. First on one foot, and then on the other. Maddening strokes, for Timon with his gentle fingers holding her little toe in place would not allow her to resist. Not even slightly.

And now the time came for the wooden spoon. Romhilde shrieked in anticipation, and then again as the wooden edge scraped with gentle intensity over her trapped left foot and then her right. Each time it ran down her soles, she had a vision, a flash of fur among green chestnut-leaves. Timon began rubbing the polished-smooth bowl of the spoon over her insteps and helpless laughter poured from her once more.

Amid the laughter, amid the outrageous tickling Timon inflicted on her, Romhilde’s vision became more clear. She could see a squirrel, big and fat, dragging the diplomatic pouch along a chestnut-branch. But Romhilde could hardly speak for the giggles pouring from her, forced out by Timon’s skillful tickling of her incredibly sensitive soles.

“Heeheeheeheeheehee!” she giggled. “Heeheeha squir heeheehee big heeha squirrel heeheehee in in the tree heeheeheehee! Big squirrel heehahaha heehee in the heehee treeheeheehee!”

“I see it,” Fenia said. Romhilde found herself looking at her friend through the vision, as the centauress picked up a rock and threw it into the tree. The fat squirrel dropped down along with the pouch, chittered angrily, and ran off. Romhilde saw Fenia pick up the pouch, and then the vision ended.

The tickling had ended too, Romhilde realized, but the echoes were still tingling in her feet. “Eeep,” she said, as Fenia hung the pouch around her neck.

It took some time for Romhilde to recover enough to stand up, but at last she did, stomping sandaled feet once again to settle outraged nerves. Fenia put out an arm to steady Romhilde. Timon was still grinning, a fact that Fenia noticed as well, and commented on.

Timon’s grin grew even broader. “Well, yes. I enjoyed that. I don’t often get a chance for a second session right away. Especially with the same flatfooter.” His grin faded back to its original level of smugness. “Thank you,” he said to Romhilde.

“What are friends for?” Romhilde answered with a shrug. Then, with Timon’s help, she clambered onto Fenia’s back and rode off deeper into the centaur Land.