Rainy Day

Balint howled with laughter as the stiff brush scrubbed his soles. He always did; he couldn’t help it. It tickled! It always tickled, and as usual the centauress wielding the brush chided him for it. “Hush! We haven’t even begun yet.”

The centauress was Damia Goldenmane, who along with her cousin Lais Darkhoof had won the right to apply tickle-torments to Balint and his partner Otholl. If Balint turned his head to the right, he could see the dark-skinned southerner lying on his bench, strapped down much as he was himself, with his legs sticking up, tied to a post at the end of the bench, putting his feet at a convenient height for a centauress. The pole came between his feet, keeping them protecting each other, and there were arrangements to secure his toes as well.

To Balint’s left stood the sign that explained it. Alja Kentaros mor kental velator velex bartaros mel Uru, nor Kentaros yonvel morkap i patalos, read the Prophesy in the curlicue script that the centaurs used: “If the Kentaros should ever fail to visit merciless torment on foreigners who enter the Land, then will the Kentaros suffer betrayal and ruination.” Next to the sign was a sundial, useless in the current weather. Balint could see the rain drops bouncing off the stone, just as he could hear the rain pattering on the canvas awning stretched out overhead.

This part of the centaur Land got more rain than the border, and fewer human visitors - “flatfooters” the centaurs called them. Balint and Otholl had shown their pass-tokens when they came to the village, and had immediately expressed their willingness to have them renewed. Balint knew that the centaurs were friendly toward those humans who respected their laws and customs - and decidedly unfriendly toward those who did not. So did Otholl, now, after that experience two months ago. But it did put them in this nidicolous position before they could obtain work and pay from the locals.

“How will you know the time?” Balint asked. “You can’t use the sundial.”

“Don’t worry, we have arrangements,” Lais answered as she walked past, holding an amphora in her arms.

“We use a rain-clock,” Damia explained over her shoulder. She joined Lais at the sundial, and moved the gnomen aside to make room for a stand. Lais stood the amphora upright, and the two female centaurs raised their hands, chanting.

“Magic,” Otholl muttered. “We’re going to be tickled by witches.”

“Would it be any better if they weren’t witches?” Balint asked.

Otholl grinned, white teeth against his dark face. “No, not with female centaurs.”

“That’s right,” Lais told him as she returned. After wiping the rain from her face with a cloth, she went to Otholl’s feet, while Damia moved over to Balint. Then the real tickling began.

Balint heard Otholl’s laughter, over the patter of the rain. He heard his own forced laughter as well. But most of his attention flew to the soles of his feet. His helpless feet, where Damia’s skilled fingers danced across his naked soles. She wasn’t the most skillful tickler that Balint had encountered here in the centaur Land, but she was skillful enough, and she made up for any shortcomings with her enthusiasm. Balint felt the fingers scritch-scritch-scritching up and down his left foot, and then his right. And then both feet together. This was followed by a slower and more deliberate tickle; one that sought out and found all the most sensitive places on Balint’s right sole. Then, squirming and laughing, Balint felt those sensitive areas grow, until they covered the whole of his right sole.

Now Damia began her searching tickle on Balint’s left sole. Again Balint squirmed and laughed, and again he felt the tickle-spots grow. This time, however, the slow tickling was interspersed with sudden attacks on his other foot, reminding him that his right sole was trapped and exquisitely ticklish as well.

A moment’s pause, and Balint felt Damia apply cords to his toes, making his feet even more helpless than before. Then the tickling renewed, the raking, wiggling fingers of Damia’s enthusiastic hands applied to both of his vulnerable feet at once. The tickle-sensations poured into Balint through his soles, down his legs, and flooded out of him as uncontrollable laughter. He struggled against his bonds, for no man could hold still for that tickling. But centaurs were as skilled at securing their victims as they were at tickling them. Balint could not possibly escape the leather straps holding him in place. His struggles, informing him of this fact, served to increase his sense of ticklish helplessness.

At the other bench, Lais started right off by tying Otholl’s toes in place. Then she applied a little wooden roller, one with blunt knobs carved into it that bit teasingly. Otholl heard Lais say something about the contrast between his pale soles and the rest of his skin, but the forced laughter kept him from understanding her words. Those little knobs poked cheerfully at the nerve endings of both of his big feet. They tickle-poked as they ran over his heels, over the balls of his feet, and over his insteps. He struggled against the straps holding him down on the bench, unable to keep from doing so. Unable to keep the giggles and laughter from fountaining out as the blunt little knobs tickled his feet. Both feet, running back and forth and back and forth, then up and down and up and down. Sometimes more slowly, sometimes more quickly.

Lais had more tickling skill than her cousin, and she applied her experience mercilessly. Her tempo was calculated, as was the pressure and positioning she applied to the roller. Otholl would testify to her skill. Did testify, through his struggles and his laughter, as he felt that teasing roller run across his vulnerable soles again and again and again.

Otholl felt the little wooden knobs roll slowly up his left sole, from his heel to his toes. Then slowly up his right sole. Then down his left sole, again slow and teasing. Then down his right, inflicting dainty little tickle-bites to his trapped foot. Otholl braced himself, as best he could, for another slow rolling tickle, only to be surprised by a rapid back-and-forth. Back and forth, bumpity bumpity tickle-bump, causing Otholl to scream with laughter.

Balint could hear the laughter forced from his partner, but it barely registered. He was too busy laughing himself. Too much of his attention was focused on his own soles, and the merciless tickle-treatment that Damia was inflicting. She had switched to a pair of feathers, one in each hand. Vos-hawk feathers, the most effective tickle-provoking feathers produced by any bird.

Which was why the centaurs favored them, Balint knew. And he knew that their reputation was entirely deserved. He could feel the tips of those two feathers on the soles of his feet as they meandered about. He could feel them with perfect clarity, as they each traced a path of nearly pure tickle over his trapped feet.

Tickle tickle tickle tickle, the twin feathers whispered as they ran softly over the pads of Balint’s toes and meandered down over his insteps. Giggle giggle giggle came Balint’s reply as he pulled uselessly at the straps holding his arms to the bench. Tickle tickle tickle tickle the feathers whispered as they spiraled around his insteps and teased the spaces between his toes. Giggle giggle giggle came the reply again as Balint made a futile effort to pull his trapped feet away. Tickle tickle, the feathers slipped exquisitely soft tickle-sensations past the calluses of ball and heel. Tickle tickle tickle tickle, the gentle, merciless teasing went on and on and on.

Otholl gasped for breath as his own tickling paused. “Not done yet,” Lais told him cheerfully as she put away the roller. Otholl looked aside at the amphora. The rain was diminishing. “Not done yet,” Lais repeated. Then Otholl exploded with laughter as Lais applied a brush to his feet.

It was a broad brush, with long, soft bristles. A dry brush, applying a silken kiss to Otholl’s soles. To his trapped and helpless soles, held in place, vulnerable to the whispering, tickling touch. To the slow strokes that sent in those maddening tickle-sensations, first into one instep, and then into the other.

Otholl pulled at the straps holding his arms as Lais applied the slow and gentle tease from the heel of his left foot up to the tips of his toes. Then slowly, gently, up his right foot in the same tickling way. Then up his left foot again, painting a steady, inexorable path that tickled each sole in turn. Slow, and steady, and entirely predictable. Soft, and gentle, and impossible to resist. Otholl enjoyed it, but he could never have made himself lie still to receive the in-pouring of tickle if he weren’t strapped in place.

Yes, Otholl enjoyed the tickling, for all that he couldn’t stand it. He had come to the centaur Land for the purpose of learning to endure the tickle-torments, and the best way to do that was to enjoy them. But it was a precarious enjoyment. Unbearably delicious tickle-sensations flooded his soles with each slow stroke that Lais applied, but at any moment the pleasure might turn into pure torment. At any moment. At any moment.

For now, however, Otholl squirmed and howled with pleasure at the soft soft tickle-tickle that Lais painted slowly onto his huge and helpless feet.

Balint also noticed the slackening rain, during the brief respite that Damia gave him. What if it stopped? How long would the tickle-torments continue if rainwater no longer fell into the amphora?

His concerns were cut short by the touch of a stiff scrub-brush. He heard Damia say, “Now this is what a brush is like when it really tickles.” He had to agree. The way Damia wielded the stiff brush made it tickle more than when she was just scrubbing his feet at the start of the session. Much more. Much much more.

It prickle-tickled all around the edges of his soles. It tickled his heels, and the balls of his feet, as Damia gave them quick strokes. Quick strokes, but with long pauses between each stroke. Pauses that let the tickle-sensations sink in, that let anticipation build for the next quick tickle-prickle stroke.

“This is much more effective than a simple scrubbing,” Damia said, as she slowed down the strokes. “Don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Balint admitted. “Heehee hahahaha! Yes, yes. Hahahee heheheehee! Yes it is heehahee heeheehee! And I hate it! Aieeeheehee!”

Damia smiled knowingly at him and picked up the tempo once more. Quick tickling strokes with pauses between. Balint’s complaint had sounded false even in his own ears. If he really hated these monthly ticklings, he wouldn’t be here. He’d have left the centaur Land after the first month. He certainly wouldn’t be here in the middle of the Land, where the village centaur-maids were eager for tickle victims.

Stroke. Pause. Stroke. Pause. Stiff tickle brushes over the balls of Balint’s feet and the pads of his toes, as his soles were held completely vulnerable for Damia’s tickling attentions. Stroke. Pause. Stroke. Pause. Maddening tickle strokes over his insteps, and here, there, and everywhere over the rest of his feet as well. Stroke. Pause. Stroke. Pause. Stroke...

At some point - Otholl wasn’t sure when - Lais had switched to her fingers as the instruments of tickle-torment applied to his soles. Dancing, merry, scritching fingers; fingers that seemed to laugh themselves as they forced laughter from Otholl’s bound body. Quick-tickling fingers, softer than the roller but firmer than the soft brush. Expert tickling fingers, wandering over the entire expanse of his helpless and vulnerable feet, from his heels to his toes, and not neglecting his insteps and the balls of his feet along the way. Otholl couldn’t relax - it was impossible with that steady tickling tickle playing over his soles - but he could enjoy it. For golden minutes he could enjoy being tickled by those sweet, unbearable, skillful fingers, without fear of the tickle-sensations turning into sudden agony.

Balint gibbered. Damia had set aside the stiff brush, and now was applying the wooden roller. Nor was she pausing between her tickle-strokes. Roll roll roll without pause the roller ran up and down and back and forth across the soles of Balint’s feet. The little wooden knobs pressed their tickle-sensations into his feet, without pause or letup. Tickle sensations that screamed into Balint’s feet. Into his insteps. Into the balls and heels. Into the pads of his toes and even between them. Tickle sensations that poured down his legs to make his belly shake with laughter. Little tickle-nips that formed gigantic herds of unbearable teasing. Making him laugh until tears started in his eyes.

The roller paused, and Balint caught his breath. He saw Damia counting to herself, and he whimpered. He knew she was giving him time to recover. Just enough time so as to make the tickling even more when it resumed.

Then it resumed. Tickle-bumpity-tickle, Balint felt the roller as it ran up and down his soles. Tickle-bumpity-tickle, as it made Balint howl with laughter. Tickle-bumpity-tickle, and Balint could feel every little knob as Damia applied the roller to his left foot once more, and then again to his right. Tickle-bumpity-tickle. Tickle-bumpity-tickle. Tickle-bumpity-bumpity-tickle!

Otholl squirmed and grimaced, screwing his eyes shut. The tickle-torment he now felt Lais applying to his soles was not making him laugh. He almost wished it would. Almost.

It was a gentle tickle, like the soft brush, but different. It was the tips of two feathers, moving across the soles of his trapped and helpless feet. Vos-hawk feathers, applying a philosophically pure tickle to his insteps, and to the rest of his feet as well. Mathematically straight lines of tickle, zig-zagging from heel to toes. Maddening lines of tickle running diagonally over his insteps. One line of tickle applied to each foot, by that pair of feathers Lais wielded.

Slowly. Otholl felt Lais drag the feather-tips slowly down his trapped feet. Giving time for him to anticipate the progress of that pure, gentle tickle. Slowly the feathers applied their soft tease as Lais zig-zagged them back up to his toes. Giggles began to leak from Otholl as he felt the edge of those two tickle-feathers slowly apply a cross-hatch pattern to his vulnerable soles. The two feathers tickled. Slowly.

Balint sighed in relief. Damia was massaging his poor trapped feet, rubbing oil into them, and it didn’t tickle at all. But it was a momentary relief, and Balint knew it. He glanced aside to where Otholl was receiving the same respite, and beyond, where the rain had stopped falling into the amphora. Overhead, water dripped from the awning, but no longer drummed on the canvas.

Damia seemed to read his mind. “Don’t worry,” she said. “The gods will provide.”

“The gods will provide,” Lais echoed. Balint watched as she picked up a stream-polished pebble and began to run it over Otholl’s oil-slick soles. The big black man exploded with laughter. A moment later Balint exploded himself, at the fiendishly tickle-inducing touch of the pebble Damia ran across his own soles.

This was a whole river of tickling, as the pebble slid over Balint’s oiled feet. Tickling that made him laugh until tears ran from his eyes. Tickling that made his feet seem to grow, until they were as big as the rest of him. And those huge and helpless feet were just as ticklish as before, as the stone whizzed across ball and instep.

Slip, slip, slide, slip. Balint could do nothing, nothing at all to protect his feet from the oily tickles being inflicted on him. Slip, slide, slip, slip. He could only laugh and laugh, struggling futilely against the bonds that held him for Damia’s attentions. And his struggles were becoming feeble, now, after his long tickling. Slide, slip, slip, slip. The path of the stone didn’t just tickle, it sent waves of tickle-sensation running through the entirety of the foot. First his right sole, and then his left. Back and forth, and then with sudden change-ups, where the same foot received two or three strokes before the tickle-stone shifted to the other. Slip, slip, slip, slide. The massive, maddening, merciless tickling that roared through him. Into his soles, and then into his bones, it went on, and on, and on.

Crash! The amphora fell over, spilling its water. The tickling ceased, finished for another month in the centaur Land.

(End)