Hair of the Asp

Anilee Clan Greybadger slouched stiffly into the open-air shop and wordlessly set a silver on the counter. Mellos Darkeye gave her an equally silent look of reproval before setting out a clay cup and filling it with one of the amphora from behind him.

Anilee knew that look: You’re a flat-footer, a human, it said. Not a centaur. Even if you are an Amazon, you should still water your wine when you drink. She ignored the look, tossing off the cold herbal tea and closing her eyes in relief as the ache behind them faded.

When she opened them again, the Mellos jerked his head, and she followed him past the brass gong to the back of the shop. The hangover cure wasn’t as simple as gulping down the centaur’s dark brew. It had to be ‘fixed,’ or else its relief would vanish after a few minutes, returning to Anilee that miserable feeling she had on entering the shop.

In the back of the shop were two sets of stocks: A common one-human set, and a belly-stock that held the feet facing skyward as the captive lay prone. Mellos kept them in part “to keep in practice,” but mostly for the purpose of ‘fixing’ the herbal potions he brewed and sold. Nandi the Sorceress had once tried to explain it to Anilee. It had something to do with a human body’s natural magic dispelling the magic of the potion, and with a good solid tickling suppressing the body’s magic in turn.

At another wordless gesture from the centaur, Anilee sat in the common stocks, allowing her ankles to be secured by the wooden boards and her wrists to be tied behind the post at her back. She went through something similar each month, every time she renewed her pass-tokens. All humans did, in the centaur Land, because of the Prophesy.

Mellos offered Anilee the traditional dipper of water, and splashed the rest of the pail on her bare feet, before scrubbing them with a stiff brush. Anilee laughed. It tickled! It always tickled. Every human that Anilee had ever spoken to had said that it tickled. But the centaurs always claimed that this initial cleaning was not really part of the tickle-session. Not a part of the merciless ‘torment’ that the Law required the centaurs to inflict on every flatfoot ‘stranger’ in their Land. Complaining about that tickling was a popular pastime among the humans (except among the god-touched few who openly enjoyed it). On the other hand, the complaints did seem a trifle insincere. Those humans who found tickling to be a genuine torment did not come to the centaur Land. Or if they did, they left very quickly after their first session.

“And now we begin,” Mellos said, speaking for the first time. A moment later, Anilee felt the touch of a feather-fan on her helpless soles. Up and down the feather tips ran, from her heels to her toes, and back again. Up and down. Then back and forth, soft and insidious, teasing her feet. Making her squirm as they moved lightly over her insteps. Whispering that she could not escape their touch. Reminding her of the captivity of her toes, and the imprisonment of her ankles, as they tickle-teased the exposed skin between. Gently forcing the tickle sensations into her feet, and forcing her to squirm, and whimper, and occasionally giggle.

Then Mellos stroked the feather-fan up again. Anilee felt it run up her heels, over her insteps, over the balls of her feet, and up from the base of her toes to their pads. Down again, the soft tickle-touch ran from toes to heels, but slowly, with a lazy stroke. Again, slowly, up her right foot only, this time. Very slowly, squirmingly slow. Ticklingly slow. Making Anilee squirm and squirm as the light light touch crept up her heel. As it crossed the heel line into the arch. As it continued, slowly, slowly, up her right instep. As it passed the right foot’s diaphragm, to tease the ball. As it reached her toes at last, tickling their base, and lightly teasing the pad

A pause, followed by another tickle-stroke, this time up her left sole. A tickle-stroke just as slow as before. A light, teasing stroke that Anilee couldn’t possibly resist. That she didn’t resist. She giggled, twisting to fight the bonds that held her. But, as always, Mellos had tied her well. Her giggles were all that could escape. The centaurs knew how to secure their flatfooter victims, and their sturdy stocks and other devices did not permit escape. They held their captives perfectly. They held Anilee perfectly, as Mellos applied his slow and expert tickle.

There were, perhaps, a dozen more of the gentle, creeping tickle-strokes. Anilee lost count, as the feather-fan alternated between her bare right foot and her and her equally vulnerable left. But at last it ended. Briefly. Temporarily, as Mellos turned away to select a new tickle-implement, and as Anilee caught her breath. Just long enough for her helpless soles to recover their sensitivity.

“And now I have a chance to try these,” Mellos said, holding up his hands. “These” were a pair of mittens of a brown cloth. From the East, but not silk. The opposite of silk, in fact: Rough and dull instead of smooth and shiny.

“I’ve heard of those,” Anilee said. “Master Balint says that it should be called ‘tickle-cloth.’”

Mellos snorted amusement, and his hands disappeared below Anilee’s line of sight. “You’ll get to decide for yourself, if the name’s justified.”

“Heehahahahah heehahaha!” Anilee answered. The mittens dug into both her feet at once, without subtlety. Tweaking the base of her toes, rubbing the bellies of her soles, and inflicting a prickly-tickle in the hearts of her feet. Pouring in the tickle-sensations.

Or squeezing them in, with a series of tickle-pinches. All over Anilee’s feet. Making her squirm, and laugh, and struggle helplessly. Tickling with a tickle that was very different from the light tease of the feather fan. But that still tickled. Enormously. And it didn’t stop. Anilee continued to feel the centaur’s strong hands squeezing and teasing. Tickling her tirelessly as the laughter fountained out of her. Tickling and tickling, on and on and on.

The tempo changed. “Hahaha hee a-hahahahaha!” Anilee laughed. She pulled hard at her bonds – useless struggles, and she knew it. But she could stop them any more than she could keep from laughing. The two handed tickle now stroked her soles. Her trapped and helpless soles, exposed to the tickle that ran up and down the outer rims of her insteps. That ran up and down both insteps at once, doubling the tickle-sensations, and then doubling them again. That ran up and down the centerlines of her feet. Up and down both feet at once. Scrubbing her heel-bottoms, sending tickle-spikes shooting up her legs. Running up her insteps, stroking the pads of her toes, and moving in circles over the balls of her feet.

“What do you think now?” Mellos grinned at her.

“Hee a-hahahahaha heeheeheeha!” Anilee answered him, screwing her eyes shut as his powerful tickles poured into her through her vulnerable feet. And still the tickling continued.

Until it stopped. Another break, to let her ticklishness recover. To let her become aware of how exposed her feet were. Exposed and vulnerable. Helpless and hot; flushed from the tickle treatments they just received. Sometimes the centaur in charge of the tickling would splash more water on them, at this point. Cooling them to refresh the nerve endings for another bout. Most of the time, however, they didn’t, applying the new tickle instead to nerves that were hot and sensitive. Anilee waited to see what Mellos would do, this time.

What he did was secure her toes. Her large toes had already been tied, keeping her feet from protecting each other. Now her other toes were secured as well, held down by a wooden bar that protected them while leaving the rest of her soles completely vulnerable. That task accomplished, Anilee could only watch as Mellos turned to his stand of tickle-implements, set conveniently centaur-high.

“I think,” Mellos mused. “I think the oil-stone, next. Yes, the oil-stone.” He grinned suddenly, holding up the polished sphere, attached to its wooden handle. Anilee suppressed a whimper. A happy whimper. She would never ever admit it to anyone else – and she would barely admit it even to herself – but the oil-stone was her favorite.

A moment later, Anilee shrieked. Her laughter came out twice as quickly as before, at the cool kiss of the oil-slick stone. Its touch was both hard and gentle, and it seemed to make her nerve-endings dance.

The stone spun in the hands of Mellos, polish-tickling her heels and her insteps. Moving here, and there, and everywhere, inflicting a lightning-tickle against her feet. Tickling and tickling and tickling. Anilee squirmed and laughed and giggled and struggled. Then her struggles faded as the giggles took over. She still needed to be held in place; her reflexes would have pulled her away from the tickle if it weren’t for the restraints. But she no longer fought the restraints. Instead, she giggled. Her mouth giggled. Her face giggled. Her throat giggled. Her chest giggled. And her feet giggled as the oil-stone, dancing in the expert hands of Mellos, tickled and tickled and tickled.

Anilee sat on the bench, arms hugging knees, and listened to Mellos lecturing her. “So water your wine at least for tonight. Better yet, for the rest of the week, even if you can’t bring yourself to make it a permanent habit. I mean it. You can’t rely on these potions to keep working, if you swallow them day after day, the way you’ve been doing. If you come in tomorrow, that hangover tisane of mine you’ve been guzzling might work – or it might not. If it doesn’t, you’ll be having the worst morning of your life.”

Anilee’s jaw clamped. She wanted to shout back at Mellos. But he was right. Oh, Nandi would no doubt explain (in her complicated sorceress way) that it was actually the tickling that was losing its effect, rather than the centaur’s potions. But it still came to the same thing in the end: The hangover cure would fail. Mellos was right, furies take it. So Anilee made herself meekly promise that she would water her wine.

The next morning, Anilee slouched stiffly into the open-air shop once again. Mellos frowned mightily at her, but before he could speak, she set a dead snake down on the counter.

“I am not hung over.” She spoke carefully, barely able to hear her own voice over the ringing in her ears. “I got bit.” She pointed at the body of the deaf adder.

She saw the centaur’s eyes widen before he whirled around to grab an amphora. A smaller amphora, high up on the shelves. The venom of a deaf adder wouldn’t kill her. Probably. But without the antidote, it would kill her hearing, leaving her as deaf as the snake itself.

Mellos poured out a second dose, after Anilee had taken the first. She swallowed that one, as well, grimacing a bit over the bitter taste. The ringing in her ears faded. She headed to the back, in obedience to his gesture, and heard the gong ring behind her.

Into the belly-stocks, this time. Leather straps holding her in place against the polished wood. Legs bent at the knees; feet held high. Soles perfectly positioned for the tickle. A second centaur joined Mellos. Twisting her neck, Anilee recognized Timon. Timon the Younger, that was; nephew to gray old Timon the border guard. He looked worried. Both the centaurs looked worried, and that made Anilee worry herself. She remembered what Mellos had said the day before: You can’t rely on these potions to keep working, if you swallow them day after day, the way you’ve been doing. She’d been drinking hangover cure every day for a week, now. And now when she really needed an antidote to work… it might not.

Timon bent down to offer her the dipper of water. Anilee drank. “Stop worrying,” Timon waggled his eyebrows. “I’ve been studying your weaknesses.” Anilee found herself smiling back at him, but it was a sickly sort of smile. The centaur’s promise, or threat, was not entirely reassuring.

Anilee felt water splash on her bare feet. Then the touch of the scrubbing brush. Two brushes, producing a sputtering giggle that tripped over itself in its haste to get out. The brush on her right foot tickled as it usually did, making her want to howl with laughter. But the touch of the second brush, on her left sole, tickled even more.

Then the centaurs began what they called the ‘real’ tickling. A wooden spoon rubbed and scraped and teased one sole, while blunt centaur-fingers launched a tickle-assault on the other. Anilee laughed, pulling against her bonds. The spoon tickled. And tickled. It distracted her will, and drained all possible tickle-resistance from her. But the fingers tickle-tickled! They soaked her right sole with tickles. They danced from heel to toes and back again. Tickle-dancing. Making her squirm. Making her giggle and laugh.

The tickle-dance ran up and down her right foot. It ran side to side across the sole. It ran in circles, and spirals. Tickling and tickling. And while the fingers tickled, the spoon produced an accompanying tease on her left sole: Scrape-scrape-rub-scrape. Tickle tickle tickle.

The tickling switched. Now the fingers danced across her left foot. Timon’s fingers. Anilee recognized them now. And he had been studying her weaknesses. The spoon now tickle-scraped and tickle-rubbed her right sole, but the fingers on her right sole tickle-tickled.

A pause. Deep breaths. Time enough for her soles to recover. Just enough time. The tickle-assault renewed just when they were at their most sensitive.

The silken kiss of a soft brush dry-painted her right sole. Her helpless right foot, held in the stocks with perfect vulnerability. Tickling! Then the stubby knobs of a wooden roller gently bit her equally helpless left foot.

Anilee howled. It tickled like the scrub brush, only ten times more exciting. It had to be Timon with the roller, and Mellos on the other foot. The soft brush was smooth and steady, almost soothing. Except for the tickle sensations that sank in, and ran down her leg to push out the giggles. But the roller on her other foot wasn’t steady at all. Anilee could feel Timon varying the tempo, with perfectly demonic timing. Producing tickle sensations that screamed into her helpless left sole, and down her left leg, and produced laughter that tripped over the giggles from the brush.

A pause. “Can you hear me?” Mellos asked.

“Yes,” Anilee managed. It came out as a whimper.

“Good. At least it’s working. But there’s more and worse to come, you know.”

“Yes.” But that whimper was inaccurate. Anilee had come to the point of wanting more. Or at least to the point where she would admit to wanting more. If anyone were to have asked her.

Then the more came.

The soft brush now dry-painted her vulnerable left sole. Brush brush brush brush. Tickle tickle tickle tickle. And the knobby roller ran over her right sole, with an implacable steadiness. Roll roll roll roll. Tickle tickle tickle tickle. Steadily, covering the soles of both feet. From the toes to the heels and back again.

It kept going. Brush brush brush brush. Tickle tickle tickle tickle. Roll roll roll roll. Tickle tickle tickle tickle. It kept going, on and on. Tickle sensations, pouring into the soles of both feet, running down both legs to fill Anilee’s entire body with tickle. Still it kept going. Brush roll brush roll. Tickle tickle tickle tickle. Making Anilee squirm. Causing the laughter to fountain out. Brush roll brush roll. Tickle tickle tickle tickle.

Anilee was completely helpless. She could not escape no matter how she struggled. She didn’t want to escape, but she couldn’t help struggling. Not any more than she could help laughing. Not while the centaurs kept pouring those tickle-sensations into her vulnerable soles. Brush brush brush brush. Tickle tickle tickle tickle. Roll roll roll roll. Tickle tickle tickle tickle.

It finally stopped. A minute later, Anilee realized that it had stopped. She heard Mellos asking “Are your ears ringing?”

“No,” she answered. “Yes. I can’t tell.” She frowned. She couldn’t tell. But she didn’t want the tickle to end, either. Not quite yet.

“One more round,” Timon said. “Just to be sure.”

“Are you going to use the oil stone?” Anilee asked.

Mellos frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t think so.”

“No, not the oil stone,” Timon agreed.

Anilee made a tiny sound of disappointment. She felt Timon massage her feet, preparing them for that one last tickle. She felt the wooden strips move into place, holding her toes down as they had the day before, first on her right foot, and then on her left. Protecting her toes, but leaving the rest of her soles even more helpless.

The tickle came. It was a sweeping tickle, with a broom. A pair of brooms: Whisk brooms sweeping back and forth, rather than up and down. Sweep sweep sweep. Anilee could feel every straw as the brooms swept back and forth. Over her heels and insteps, and over the balls of her feet. Sweep sweep sweep. Her toes were spared the tickle, but that didn’t matter: The rest of her feet felt utterly vulnerable. Because they were utterly vulnerable. And the two centaurs were taking full advantage of it. Sweep sweep sweep.

Every straw seemed to seek out its own nerve ending to tease. Sweep sweep sweep. Anilee laughed so hard that she started to cry. Sweep sweep sweep. She was tickle-drunk, now, her soles hot and flushed. Sweep sweep sweep.

And then her feet began to grow. At least that’s what it felt like, even though Anilee knew it was a delusion. She couldn’t see her feet, trapped as she was, but she knew they had to be the same size as always. Just red-hot and tender. But they felt as if they were a yard long each. Or longer. With each thumb-width of skin being completely, utterly ticklish. And completely and utterly tickled, held helpless beneath the two sweeping brooms. Steady, relentless brooms. Tickling with each sweep. Showing no sign that they would ever stop.

Anilee sat, knees drawn up, waiting nervously for the ringing in her ears to start again. She looked up to see Mellos. Can you hear me? he mouthed. But Anilee could hear his lips smack.

“That’s not funny!” she protested. Mellos just looked at her. “All right,” she conceded. “I’ll be watering my wine for a while.”