The Second Time

It was the hardest thing she had ever done.

The Lady Hisolda, ambassador from the Amazons to the centaur Land, made herself walk steadily. This was the second time she had come here. The last time, exactly one month earlier, the centaurs had had to drag her here. She had thrown a tantrum like a little boy. Afterwards, she had promised herself that she wouldn’t do that again. She was a grown woman, an Amazon, and an Ambassador. Even if her posting here was something cooked up to get her out of the way, she still had her duty to perform. But it was hard.

She had come early, in the first hour of the morning, anxious to get the ordeal over with. The sun threw long shadows and the grass was wet with dew as she arrived at the place of torment. There were several stocks and other devices there, all designed to hold humans. There was also a sign explaining their purpose: Alja Kentaros mor kental velator velex bartaros mel Uru, nor Kentaros yonvel morkap i patalos it read in the curly script of the centaurs. “If the Kentaros should ever fail to visit merciless torment on foreigners who enter the Land, then will the Kentaros suffer betrayal and ruination.”

It was a Prophesy sent by the gods. It was something no sane person, whether human or centaur, dared defy. Hisolda was a human, a “flatfooter” and therefore a foreigner. She might be an ambassador, but she was still subject to the Prophesy and to the centaur’s Law on the matter.

Rodas was waiting for her. He was an older centaur, buff and hearty. But then all male centaurs seemed buff and hearty to Hisolda. She was use to the waif-thin males of the Amazon nation.

“Ho, my lady,” Rodas smiled at her. The centaurs were friendly enough to humans who respected their laws. “A fine morning to you. You’re here early.”

“Yes.” Hisolda pulled off her boots and spoke the ritual phrase: “ ‘I surrender myself to the law and custom of the Kentaros.’ ” She tried to smile back at him.

“Since you’re here so early, you can choose your device,” Rodas said. Hisolda looked over the various stocks. They were of wood, strong and heavily built, and highly polished. Most of them held their victims in a sitting position, but one was designed for a kneeling victim, and a couple would hold a victim lying down, either on the back or the belly. All of them would hold the ankles and feet rigidly, but they varied in their arrangements to restrain the victims’ wrists and necks. “Go and try each one out before you choose,” Rodas suggested.

It was a kindness but not a mercy, Hisolda realized after she had tried the first set of stocks. It meant that she had to walk barefoot over the dew-wet grass. There was also something about having to choose how she would be held helpless. Even worse, a horrible little voice in her head craved the tickle-torment to come, even while the rest of her dreaded it. Trying the different stocks caused the little voice to grow stronger.

Finally, Hisolda chose a chair. She sat in it and let Rodas strap her arms to the arms of the chair and her ankles to the broad bar in front of the seat. Her legs stuck out, presenting her feet for Rodas’ convenience. Rodas left to set the gnomon on the sundial and to bring back his implements. Hisolda squirmed in the chair as much as she could, which wasn’t much. She’d chosen it because it had seemed the most comfortable, but that might have been a mistake. She’d now have little to distract her from the tickling to come.

“Here we are,” Rodas said when he came back. “Ready to begin.” He offered Hisolda the usual dipper of water, and she accepted gratefully. Her mouth was dry. He then poured the rest of the water over her feet, and started scrubbing with a brush.

Hisolda cried out and began to giggle. This initial scrubbing wasn’t suppose to be part of the torment, but it tickled anyway. She had soft feet, so Rodas had chosen a relatively soft brush. Of course, all humans had relatively soft feet, compared to centaurs, but the centaur tickle-experts understood the variations of softness and toughness in human feet and adjusted their techniques accordingly.

Rodas stopped. Hisolda caught her breath. “There,” Rodas said. “Now we are ready to begin.” He applied the scrub-brush again, and Hisolda learned that he had not been trying to tickle, before. Now he was, and she discovered what it was like when an expert tickler wielded the brush with the intent to tickle. Laughter poured out of her.

Her toes had not been tied (yet), but the straps held her ankles too far apart for her feet to cover each other. They could only twist and squirm, and that was not enough against an expert tickler like Rodas. He varied his assault, now on one foot, now on the other, now brushing lightly, now scrubbing vigorously, here on the instep, there on the heel, then on the toes. Hisolda struggled wildly - and uselessly. The straps held her helpless and she could not escape the tickling.

After a time, Rodas relented. He set aside the brush and let Hisolda catch her breath while he made his next selection. He chose a “bullfeather,” a leather implement of tickling torment that the centaurs had developed. It could be devastating in expert hands, and Rodas knew well how to use it. This time, however, Hisolda managed to fight it. She concentrated on her breathing, and only a few giggles escaped her.

But Rodas was too canny to let this go on for long. He brought out a pair of vos-falcon feathers. Of all the birds in the world, the vos-falcon’s wing feathers were the best for tickling. And Rodas had two: One in each hand. He traced them up and down the soles of Hisolda’s feet. Sometimes he’d tickle both feet at once, and other times he’d alternate strokes. He’d seek out the most sensitive spots on the instep and between the toes. Slowly and relentlessly, he’d push Hisolda to the edge of hysteria, and then with skilled flicks he’d make her scream and then melt with laughter.

Hisolda couldn’t imagine anything being worse, and at the same time knew that the worst was still coming. Rodas brought out leather throngs and used them to leash her large toes. Her feet could no longer squirm as they had squirmed before. Then Rodas brought back the bullfeather. This time Hisolda couldn’t fight it. She could only suffer the tickling, laughing helplessly, tears running down her face.

The tickling went on and on and on. It wasn’t the most intense tickling Hisolda had suffered, but it was relentless. It was merciless. It seemed that it would never end, that she would be laughing forever. Finally it did end, and Hisolda knew relief that her tickle-torment was finally over for the month.

But it wasn’t.

Rodas set aside the bullfeather and, to Hisolda’s horror, brought out oil. He coated his fingers and her soles with the oil and began an oil-slick finger tickling. It was almost too much; Hisolda almost broke down and begged for mercy, the one thing she knew she must never ever do. At best, Rodas would ignore her pleas for the tickling to stop. At worst... She choked down her pleas. Then that nasty little voice woke again, the part that craved this tickle-torment. She had to choke down a different plea, that Rodas keep going. She feared that she was going mad. Then Rodas picked up the tempo every so slightly and Hisolda couldn’t think at all. There was only the tickling and the laughter.

At last, it truly ended. The sun finally reached the gnomon, and Hisolda was too exhausted to continue. With Rodas’ help, she managed to pull her boots back on, but she continued to sit in the chair. She felt as if she had been through a hard battle, which she supposed she had, in a way.

Hisolda finally left when two other women came for their monthly torment. Next month she would have to fight her battle again. But she didn’t want to think about that, right now.