Strelnikov
4th Level Red Feather
- Joined
- May 7, 2001
- Messages
- 1,820
- Points
- 0
by Strelnikov
Copyright 2009 by the author
The C-17 transport touched down just after 2 AM on Saturday, but Sara Rosen was wide awake – her body clock stubbornly insisted that it was mid-morning. Two days ago, she had caught a ride on a medevac flight out of Bagram, bound for Ramstein and the nearby Landstuhl Medical Center. She had lucked out in Germany – after a few hours layover, she had crossed the Atlantic with an Air National Guard crew headed home.
Sara was 24, a small girl with green eyes, a disorderly mop of dark brown hair cropped short for convenience, a fit body and a slender waist. She wore what passed for American civilian clothes in The ‘Stan – old-style desert camo patrol cap and BDU’s without insignia, tan desert boots. Her face, neck and hands were deeply tanned; under the clothing, her body hadn’t seen the sun in a very long time.
Sara grabbed her carry-on as soon as the plane came to a stop. The bag contained a few changes of clothes – the sort a student might wear – plus underwear, sneakers, a toothbrush and a few toiletries. All of it was new, bought at the Ramstein Base Exchange the day before. Everything else she owned had been in storage for the past two years.
She showered in the Operations Building. She checked herself out in the mirror before she dressed in her new jeans and a long-sleeve blouse. Her body was lean and hard from hard marching and a third-world diet that was just barely sufficient. She had a brand-new removable bridge to replace three missing teeth on the upper left. A “boilerplate” bridge made by a Russian-trained Afghani dentist was in her bag – where she had been, it attracted less attention than American dental work would have done. The matching scar where the blow had split the lip didn’t look bad, considering that her partner had stitched it in the field with carpet thread. The puckered scars on the front and back of her right thigh, legacy of an AK round that had passed clean through, had started to fade. And her breasts were a nice size – nobody had ever kicked her out of bed – but not like the Dolly Parton rack she had had as an older teen. Breast reduction surgery had taken care of that – she didn’t attract attention like she once had, which was a Good Thing in her line of work.
She caught a ride to the civilian airport terminal across the runway, rented a car, and was on the Interstate by 3 AM. She got off at the Tieson City exit at 5:45. Her stomach rumbled as she drove south on Johnson’s Ferry Road – body clock again, 2 hours late for lunch. She continued south past Tickle Street and turned right on Main Street in the middle of town. The diner across the street from her parents’ drug store would open in a few minutes. She parked, shook a Morley out of the red-and-white cigarette pack, and lit up with a battered Zippo. The lighter was older than she was, a gift from a mentor to an especially promising student. The engraved inscription was worn but still legible – TRUST NO ONE.
The diner opened promptly at 6 AM. Sara ground out her cigarette, locked the car and went in. She took a seat facing the door, with a view out the front windows.
“What’ll you have, hon?” the middle-aged waitress asked. Five years ago, Rachel Griffin had had that job.
Real American food! “Bacon and– ” Sara paused. “Make that steak and two eggs, over easy. Fried potatoes, toast and coffee. And a big glass of orange juice.” She had been raised in a Jewish home, but wasn’t at all observant. Still, this was her home town. The bacon would have upset her parents, if they somehow heard about it.
“Comin’ right up,” the woman said.
A few other customers had come in by the time Sara’s meal came – a police officer, the newspaper guy, some construction workers. The cop was her age – she had gone to high school with him. He looked closely at her, as he would have done with any stranger in this small town, then looked away. Obviously, he hadn’t recognized her.
Two more cups of coffee took Sara to 7 AM. The drugstore opened at 8 AM, but Mom or Dad, sometimes both, always got there an hour early. She paid her tab and left, lighting another cigarette as she did. The car was OK where it was; she left it, crossed the street and walked to the drugstore’s back door on the alley behind Main Street.
“Sara! We didn’t know you were coming!” Mom greeted her – Sara saw that she looked older, the dark hair was a dye job.
They hugged. “So thin you are!” Mom said. “When did you get in?”
Sara laughed. “You sound like Grandma,” she said. “I got here in time for breakfast, you’ll be happy to know. Where’s Dad?”
“Right here, sweetheart,” he said – he had lost a lot more hair, and what remained was mostly gray. “Oh... your package came.” He disappeared, then returned with a small cardboard shipping box. It was heavy for its size, and bore an Armed Forces Post Office postmark. “What’s in the box?”
Sara took the package from him. “What box?” she asked.
“Like that, huh?” he said. “Well, OK, never mind.”
The back door opened again, and two girls came in. One was a Slavic beauty with a great figure, a summer tan, dark blue eyes and long, silvery blonde hair. The other was athletic-looking and very attractive, with Celtic-blue eyes, shoulder-length dark brown hair, and tanned, freckled fair skin. They wore capri pants, sandals, and collared white knit shirts with Rosen’s Rx embroidered over the left breast.
“Morning, Boss,” the blonde said, with just the trace of an New York accent. She spotted Sara. “Who’s this?”
“You remember Sara, don’t you, Katie?” Mom said. Sara suddenly recognized both girls: Katie Budanov and Jamie Shaw, younger sisters of old friends in the neighborhood. They’d been kids when she left home – they must be 18 by now, she figured.
“I do now,” Katie said. “You look thinner than I remember.”
“Boob job,” Sara said. And a strenuous life, and sometimes not enough to eat.
“Wish I’d had that problem,” Jamie said. “What’s the program for today, Mrs. R?”
“Stock room needs cleaning out,” Mom said. “You can take turns cleaning while the other works the register, or– ”
“Work out some other arrangement,” Jamie completed the thought. She kicked off her sandals. “Death Match, Katie – loser has to do the cleaning.”
Anne Kincaid and Melissa Gabreski had invented the Tickling Death Match the year Sara turned 18, and the contests had quickly spread (metastasized?) throughout the neighborhood. The rules were simple: one on one foot tickling, and the last one still tickling was the winner. Sara and her friend Candice Wade had done the same, back when they were working here – she was gratified that these two high school seniors were continuing the tradition. “I’ll referee,” she said.
Katie stepped out of her shoes. Jamie and Katie sat close on the floor, facing each other. They extended their right legs, drew up their left with the bottoms of their left feet flat against their right thighs. Each girl got a firm grip on her opponent’s right foot with her left hand.
“Ready?” Sara asked. The others nodded. “On three – one, two, three, GO!”
Both girls flicked the nails of their left hands on the bottom of her opponent’s trapped foot, fast as they could. Both burst into ticklish laughter, howling with forced mirth. Dad looked disapproving, but said nothing – Mom was OK with it, and anyway, this was old custom.
The tickling fingernails flicked and scratched, each girl covering the other’s foot with fiendish and well-techniqued tickling. Katie concentrated on Jamie’s arch just in front of the heel, where it really, really tickled – Jamie tickle-tortured the exact middle of Katie’s sole, along the crease, and that worked even better. They laughed and laughed, red faced, tickling as fast as they could, each trying to tickle the other out and avoid the same fate herself.
All female members of Jamie’s extended family were tickle maniacs, so she had endured her share of tickling, and given it back too. But she was maybe just a hair more ticklish than Katie, who was the youngest of four sisters and had endurance to spare. Katie’s tickling fingernails flicked and scratched Jamie’s arch and heel and drove her wild. It was more than she could bear – she lost it and collapsed onto her back, laughing at the top of her lungs.
Katie giggled as the tickling sensation faded, then tickled faster as she regained fine motor control. She shifted her legs, quickly grabbed Jamie’s other foot, and trapped both ankles in a leg lock. Jamie just had time to catch a quick breath, and then Katie dug in with both hands, tickling the sweet spots mercilessly, forcing a stream of wild ticklish laughter.
Dad checked his watch. “Well, now that that’s settled, let’s get to work.”
“They’ve got a few more minutes,” Mom said, raising her voice over the laughter. “Leave ‘em be.”
Dad shook his head. “I’ve never understood all this tickling.”
“It’s a girl thing, Sam,” Mom said. “My sister and I used to do it too.”
Jamie was laughing harder now, red-faced, tears running down her cheeks. “You win, Katie,” Sara said. “Quit!”
“Not yet,” Katie said, and kept up her attack – Jamie laughed her head off. Katie’s long, well-manicured nails flicked and scratched, tickling unbearably – Jamie was helpless, all she could do was lay there and laugh. Katie held Jamie’s toes back and tickled the balls of both feet, getting great reactions and wave after wave of laughter. She flicked Jamie’s arches with a guitar-chording motion, then drew a big figure-eight in the back of both arches. Jamie laughed musically, helplessly, face red, tears streaming – she was right on the edge.
Katie’s enjoying this too much, thought Sara – she grabbed a foot and spider-walked her nails from toes to heel.
“Hey! Ah-hahaha! Sara– haheha! No fair– hehehe!” Katie protested and giggled. Got to give her credit, thought Sara – even distracted, Katie still managed to make a Peace sign and scratch the back of Jamie’s arches and onto the heels, tickling the sweet spots mercilessly.
“Fighting fair means you didn’t plan properly,” Sara said, and scratched the ball of the foot, just behind the big toe. Katie quit tickling, threw back her head and laughed at the top of her lungs – Jamie pulled her feet back and laid there gasping.
Katie kicked at Sara with her free foot – Sara grabbed it and shifted to an arm lock on both ankles, and now Katie was trapped, both feet up and gravity working against her. Sara made a claw of her hand and raked four parallel zig-zag lines down the right foot, toes to heel, using just enough pressure to tickle like crazy. She drew circles, squares and other tickling shapes on Katie’s arches and heels, and Katie laughed like a madwoman. The soles were next – Katie’s toes twitched and curled as she laughed and laughed. Sara found the sweet spots – the balls of Katie’s feet. She tickled left-right-and-repeat, fingernails flying, and Katie’s laughter went off the scale. Sara speeded up – four nail strokes in succession, three times a second – and tickled Katie’s breath away.
Sara released Katie’s ankles. “Hey Katie, did it tickle?” she asked cheerfully.
Katie drew her knees up and laid there gasping. “Yob… tvoyu… mat’… ” she said – the all-purpose coarse Russian curse. Sara’s Russian was no more than serviceable, but everybody knew that one.
Katie sat up and rubbed her feet to get the tickle off. “Serves you right, girlfriend,” Jamie said, and offered her a hand-up. “But you still won – looks like I get to tote that barge and lift that bale.”
“Want me to come home with you, Sara?” Mom asked.
“No, Mom. I wouldn’t be much company anyway,” she said. “I’m pretty jet-lagged.”
“All right then, we’ll see you tonight.”
The minivan parked behind her parents’ car had an old, faded bumper sticker – on it were head-and-shoulders portraits of Groucho Marx and John Lennon, side by side on the left. Next to that, in Russian, it said ALL HAIL MARX AND LENNON, in the same Cyrillic font as the old billboards in Moscow’s Red Square. Intrigued, Sara looked closer. There was an oval insignia the size of a fingernail at the bottom – tiny letters inside it said Printed In Union Shop in English. Katie’s car – the sticker was an immigrant’s joke, making fun of the Communists.
She retrieved her rented car and drove north to Tickle Street. She saw three young girls playing with a dog as she turned in. Two were strawberry-blonde, sisters from the look of them – they appeared to be about 12 and 14. The other was a skinny brunette, 13 or so, with a little-girl hairdo that no longer suited her and a mouthful of railroad tracks. Sara sympathized with the kid – she had been just this sort of scrawny ugly ducking at that age.
She had just gotten inside the house when the doorbell rang. She laid her bag and package down and went to see who had come visiting.
He was a young guy, 21 or 22, extremely fit-looking in shorts, sneakers and a wife-beater shirt – his coppery red hair was cut high-and-tight. He was the kid next door, all grown up, with the look of a soldier who had spent time in some third-world desert shithole – no, a Marine, she corrected herself, seeing the Globe-and-Anchor tattooed on his left shoulder. The helmet and uniform hadn’t protected his face and hands – they were a mass of freckles, old sunburn repeated over a period of months. He had gotten more sun lately – his fair skin was pink and lightly freckled.
“Hi, I’m Austin Luke,” he said. “My folks live next door. I saw the car, and I knew the Rosens are at work– ”
“I’m Sara,” she said. “I remember you. When did you get back?”
“Sword-brothers and me come back since one month,” he said in rough-and-ready Pashto. “Here since two days. You?” he prompted.
“Say what?” Sara replied, though her command of the Pashtun language was infinitely better than his.
He raised an eyebrow. “I think you understood me – you have the look. Army?”
“I was,” Sara said. “Not any more,” she added, heading off further questions.
“Gonna be here long?” he asked. “I’m home on leave. We have a pool now – you could come over and go swimming. Maybe go out tonight and have a few beers.” He grinned. “And I could teach you to speak Pashto.”
Sara laughed. “Jeez Louise, you don’t waste time!” He wasn’t bad-looking, and it had been a while... “Rain check? I’m jet-lagged out.”
“Whenever you’re ready,” he said. “See ya!”
Sara’s old room upstairs was a generic guest room now. She changed into tan cargo shorts and a pink summer top with spaghetti straps – she didn’t bother with shoes.
She opened her package next – it contained a Tokarev auto pistol. Made for the Red Army during World War II, it had passed through many hands since. The coarse-checkered wood grips were darkened with age and worn smooth; not much of the blue finish remained, polished to bright metal by generations of use. But it was light and easy to conceal, fired a powerful 7.62mm submachine gun cartridge, and (most importantly) was flawlessly reliable. She had bought it at a souk in Kandahar, and it had served her well – there were two of the Faithful in Paradise whose fatal mistake had been a failure to look for it under her burqa.
Her old drill instructor had said that a clean weapon is a happy weapon. She broke it down, inspected it and ran a patch through the bore. She reassembled and loaded it – the ammo was Czech, and brand new – and slipped it into a side pocket. Paranoia had served her well too.
She went back outside and sat on the front stoop to smoke, enjoying the friendly sun and green growing things all around. The late-summer morning was just pleasantly warm, and the humidity didn’t parch her skin like old leather. She hadn’t always worn a burqa; conservative Muslim males don’t pee standing up, so in salwar kameez, a long vest and a pakul cap, she had passed as a beardless teen boy. Compared to that rig, the American summer clothes were a joy to wear, and going barefoot... No one went barefoot in the desert.
No one went swimming either. A good soak would be great, but she didn’t have a swim suit, and this late in the season, there wasn’t much chance of finding one. One of Mom’s? No, Mom wore “grandma” suits these days...
Down the street, Jenny Budanov came outside to get the newspaper – she was Katie’s older sister, 21 yrs old, home from college. She was a little shorter than Katie, a little slimmer, but the family resemblance was strong – similar features, same silvery blonde hair and blue eyes. She was in a tube top, short shorts and flip-flops. About my size and build, thought Sara – maybe I can borrow a suit from her. She field-stripped the butt, stood up and headed toward Jenny.
A petite girl, barefoot in shorts and t-shirt, ambushed Jenny from behind the car in the driveway. She had a trim and shapely figure, a luxuriant mane of fiery red hair, bright hazel eyes, skin so fair it seemed almost translucent. Austin’s sister Jessica, 18 yrs old – Sara figured she used SPF 1,000,000 sunblock, or she’d be freckled like a turkey egg. Jessica grabbed Jenny, hooked her feet out from under her and dropped her on her tummy – one flip-flop came adrift and went flying. It was as neat a takedown as Sara had ever seen.
Jessica sat on Jenny facing aft and grabbed the bare foot. “Gotcha!” she gloated, and lightly flicked her nails on Jenny’s upturned sole. Tickle ambush, Sara thought happily – another Tickle Street tradition. She moved closer to watch.
“Hahaha! Jessieee– hehe! Sta– haha! –ap! Hahehaha!” Jenny begged and giggled.
“Yesterday, you tickled me ‘til I thought my toes would fall off,” Jessica said, still tickling lightly. “This is payback!”
“NOOOO!” Jenny wailed. “AH-HAHA! HAHA-HAHA-HAHA! HAHAHAHAHA!” she laughed as Jessica got to work. Jenny bucked and kicked with the free foot – Jessica grabbed the ankle on the upswing and shifted position, trapping both legs in the figure-four leg lock. She flipped off the single sandal – Jenny was hosed now, both feet were perfectly positioned for tickling. Jessica took full advantage, tickling with verve and gusto. Jenny squirmed like a worm and laughed like a madwoman.
Jenny’s feet were extremely ticklish all over, but the soles and balls of her feet were the worst. Jessica tickled Jenny’s soles, watching the toes twitch and curl while Jenny laughed with wild abandon. She drew figure-eight’s, circles, squares, and other tickling shapes in the arches. She scratched and scrabbled on the heels. Jenny laughed and laughed, wildly, helplessly. She was no longer capable of resistance, or even coherent thought – it had been tickled completely away. Family resemblance again – just as ticklish as Katie, same tickle patterns, even their laughter sounded similar.
Jessica tickled down Jenny’s arches, flicking with her nail tips. She switched to drawing figure-eight’s, then a motion like chording a guitar. She saved the best for last – tickling the sole creases and the balls of Jenny’s feet, fast as she could. Jenny laughed her head off at the top of her lungs. Jessica speeded up, and Jenny laughed herself breathless.
Jessica released the leg lock, dismounted and sat back on her heels. She was grinning ear to ear. “Wasn’t that fun?” she asked.
Jenny laid there gasping, tears running down her cheeks. “I guess... I had... that coming... ” she said breathlessly.
“Good one!” Sara said, coming closer.
Jessica looked up. “How long have you been watching?” she asked. She didn’t seem alarmed – attractive young women aren’t normally regarded as a threat, another common habit of mind that had served Sara well.
“Saw the whole thing,” Sara answered, and introduced herself. “Nice to have a hobby, isn’t it?” she added. “My friends and I used to do the same thing.”
Jenny rolled onto her back. “I know,” she said. “You used to tickle my older sisters ‘til they were raving. Especially Julie – she’s so ticklish, you can just say “tickle” and she laughs.”
“Tickling Alex was fun, but Julie was a world-class ticklee,” Sara agreed. She winked at Jessica. “And besides, redheads turn such a pretty shade of pink when you tickle ‘em.”
Jessica scrambled to her feet. “Don’t even think about it,” she said. “It’s good to see you again, Sara, but not that good. See you around.”
Sara gave Jenny a hand up. “She got you pretty good.”
“Like I said, I deserved it,” Jenny said, shuffling her feet to get the tickle off. “Won’t stop me from tickling her silly again, next chance I get.” She found her flip-flops and stepped into them. “Want some tea? I started the samovar before I came out.”
Sara had drunk enough hot tea over the last several years to float an aircraft carrier. “No thanks. But I’d like to borrow a bikini, if you have one you can spare.”
“No problem – I’ll be right back.”
Sara glanced at the house and yard next door while she waited. The Righetti family had lived there – still did, for all she knew. In a sense, her new life had started with a silly fortune told by a very-stoned Brittany Righetti. “Protector”, Brittany had called her, and that’s what she was, right enough. Sara wondered idly what had become of Brittany. Probably running a con somewhere, she thought uncharitably, unless she had gone to jail by now.
With her grifter’s instinct, Brittany had caught a glimpse of Sara’s true nature. Her First Sergeant had seen more clearly, and passed her name along. And then Mr. Archer had developed it to its fullest extent. Had they done her a favor?
Foolish question – it’s what I am. Suddenly, she felt indescribably weary.
“Will this do?” Jenny asked, interrupting Sara’s thoughts. The bikini was a shade of blue that exactly matched her eyes.
“It’ll be fine,” Sara said. “Thanks, Jenny. Let’s visit later – right now, I think I need a nap.”
Home again, Sara laid the bikini and pistol on the dresser. She laid down on the bed, but she was too wired to sleep. She decided to read for a while, found a generic paperback romance novel – light entertainment that required zero thought – and took it out onto the screened back porch. Two hours later, relaxed, she laid the book aside, went upstairs and laid down again. She had a soldier’s nack for falling asleep instantly – she went out like a light.
She woke up instantly, clear-headed, another soldier’s nack. Just past noon local time, late for supper by her body clock – she foraged for sandwich stuff, built a Dagwood and washed it down with Diet Coke. Back outside on the porch, she had almost finished her book when she heard Austin next door, working around the pool.
“Hey Jarhead!” Sara called out. “Is that pool invitation still good?”
He looked up. “Is the Pope Catholic? Come on over!”
“Six more pages,” she said, holding up the book.
Book finished, she put on her borrowed bikini and grabbed a towel. She found him still by the pool, shirtless in red swim trunks, trying without much success to put sun block on his back.
“Here, give me that,” Sara said. “Need to use it myself anyway,” she added, smearing the greasy stuff on his back. She coated the parts of herself she could reach, then flopped down on her spread-out towel. “Now do mine.”
He worked his way down from her shoulders, pausing when he saw the scar on her thigh. “This what put you out of the Army?” he asked.
“Uh-huh,” Sara answered, though actually the wound hadn’t been a bad one. The medical discharge had simply been an honorable, convenient and unremarkable way to separate her from the Army so that she could move on.
He resumed his task, coating the backs of her legs. “Would you have stayed in otherwise?”
“I hadn’t decided yet, when it happened,” she said. “How about you? Gonna re-up?”
“Just did, for 6 more years,” he said. “The Corps is the best thing that ever happened– ”
“Hehehe!” Sara giggled as he rubbed the bottoms of her feet. “That– haheha! –tickles! What’re– ahaha! –you doing– hahaha!”
“You’re almost as pale as I am,” he said over the giggles. “I’ve gotten burned there – hurts like a sonofabitch.”
A likely story! Sara pulled loose, rolled over and sat up, feet flat on the ground. “I’ll finish it myself,” she said. Wonder if he’s a tickle fiend? Might be kinda fun just to let go – it’s been a while for that too.
They splashed around in the pool, enjoying the water and the warm summer day. Unsurprisingly, there was a certain amount of touchy-feelie. After a while, Sara hugged him close and wrapped her legs around his waist – she gave him a kiss that was a promise of more to come.
“Get a room, you two!” Jessica called out.
“Beat it, sis, we’re busy!” Austin said. Sara saw that the younger girl’s bikini was a shade of green only a redhead could wear.
“That what you call it?” Jessica said.
Her brother splashed her. She jumped in, and it turned into a three-way water fight, with much laughing, splashing, ducking and various foul blows. Finally the girls ganged up on Austin, grabbed his ankles and flipped him under, and the fight ended.
He surfaced, blowing. “Not bad teamwork,” he said. “Semper fi – I’ll make a Marine of you yet, sis.”
“I was a soldier,” Sara reminded him.
“I won’t hold that against you,” he said, and climbed out. “Time for some more goop, or all three of us’ll burn to a crisp.”
Suitably anoited, they sat down in a triangle. Jessica leaned back on her elbows, legs stretched out. Sara, from long habit, sat cross-legged, feet tucked under her knees. Austin copied Sara. “You’ve got good manners,” he complimented her.
“How d’you mean?” Jessica asked.
“Muslims think it’s rude to show the soles of your feet to other people,” he said. “Sara knows – ask her.”
Sara nodded. “He’s right.”
“Not that your rudeness surprises me, sis,” he added.
Jessica grinned, lifted both feet, pointed a sole at each of them and blew a raspberry. Sara and Austin shared a glance – they came up off the ground fast, and each grabbed an ankle. “OH SHIT! WAH-HAHAHA! HAHA-HAHA-HAHAHAHA!” Jessica laughed as they tickled her tender soles.
Jessica was so ticklish that she didn’t have a sweet spot, so everything they did drove her wild. She laughed helplessly as Austin drew circles, squares and other tickling shapes in her arch. Sara flicked and scratched the ticklish heel, four nail strokes in succession, three times a second – Jessica’s fair skin colored, tickled pink.
“She turns such a pretty shade of pink,” Sara said, raising her voice and tickling faster.
“I always thought so,” Austin agreed – he made a claw of his hand and raked the nails down the foot, drawing four fast parallel zig-zag lines and using just enough pressure to tickle unbearably.
“Pretty laugh too – like music,” Sara added. She guitar-chorded the sole, along the crease, and Jessica’s laughter went off the scale.
“I used to play her like a piano,” Austin said, repeating the foot rake. “Didn’t I, sis?” But Jessica was laughing much too hard to answer.
They held back Jessica’s toes and tickled back and forth across both soles. They tickled the soft skin under the toes, then released the toes and tickled the soles again, watching the toes twitch and curl. Austin tickled between Jessica’s toes two-by-two, forcing more bursts of helpless laughter. Sara did him one better – she used four fingers to tickle between all five toes at once. Jessica laughed like a madwoman, unable to move or even form a coherent thought.
“Together now!” Sara said. “Sole to heel!” She tickled the sole, getting great reactions and a flood of laughter. Austin copied her – Jessica was losing it, laughing her head off, lost in ticklish delirium. They tickled down the arches, faster now. Then heel tickling again, fast as they could, and tickled Jessica into gasping, red faced silent laughter.
“You’re pretty good at that,” Austin said. Jessica bucked, trying to free her ankles. “Stop squirming!” he said. “I’ll tell you when we’re through!” He gave Jessica’s sole a burst of nail flicks, and was rewarded with another wild burst of laughter.
“You are too,” Sara replied, letting go. “Calls for more experimentation. But not with Jessie – I think she learned her lesson.”
He let go of the other ankle. “I think you’re right. Beat your feet, sis.” Jessica stomped out of the yard, fuming, head up, a spot of high color on each cheekbone. It’s hard to stomp in bare feet, but somehow she managed. “You’d be wasting your time on me,” he said to Sara. “I’m not the least bit ticklish.”
“But I am,” Sara said. “Very.” And sometimes, it turns me on. Hell, I’m half-way there already...
“Hey there!” the UPS guy called from the driveway. “I’ve got a delivery for Sara Rosen next door. You willing to sign for it?”
“I’m Sara Rosen,” she called back – she signed, took the package and sent him on his way.
The box was about 18” on a side, and light for its size. She opened it and extracted a white Stetson cowboy hat with an extreme rodeo style. Tucked into the rattlesnake-skin band was a note:
You earned this. Welcome back.
––Archer
Austin gave her an odd look. “You a cowgirl?” he asked.
“Cowboy,” she corrected absently. It was a term-of-art in her trade for someone who went way above and far beyond – she had earned it, and then some. She returned the hat to the box and looked at the angle of the afternoon sun – 4 PM, near enough. The drugstore closed early on Saturday – Mom and Dad would be home soon. “I’ve enjoyed today, my friend, but right now I’m whipped. You doing anything tomorrow?”
“Whatever you like,” he said.
She grinned and pinched his butt. “A walk in the woods, and you can show me where the wild goose goes. Be prepared.”
Back home, she put her hat in her room and changed back into the shorts and top she wore earlier. She went back outside barefoot and sat on the stoop to smoke. Down the street, Katie’s car was in the driveway already. Mom and Dad always stayed later to close up, but they would be home soon.
Katie came outside, barefoot in shorts and t-shirt. “Hey Sara, I’ve got something for you,” she called out. Jessica was with her, in the clothes she had worn earlier.
They’re up to something, thought Sara, and I’m pretty sure I know what. But it’ll be good practice for tomorrow. She had killed with her bare hands – the trick would be to resist just enough to be convincing, make them work for it but not hurt them while she was doing it...
She put out her cigarette and walked over. “What’cha got?” she asked.
“You!” Jessica said. “GET HER!”
Sara ended up on her tummy, hogtied with nylon straps. The bondage rig was Candice’s invention, years ago – it immobilized her, but didn’t chafe or cut off circulation. As planned, her attackers were breathless and nursing a few bruises, convinced they had overpowered her.
“What’s going on?” a girlish voice asked. Sara looked up – the young strawberry-blonde sisters and the little brunette, without the dog.
Katie tossed her hair back out of her face. “She tickled the shit out of me this morning,” she said.
“And me, this afternoon,” Jessica added. She kneeled at Sara’s trapped feet, with a knee on either side to prevent a roll-over. “It’s payback time!”
“HAHAHAHAHA! AH-HAHAHAHA!” Sara laughed as Jessica got to work, fingernails flicking across her ticklish soles. She struggled to escape, but hogtied as she was, there was no hope. Might as well relax and enjoy it, she thought, laughing her head off.
“That looks like fun,” one of the young ones said.
“Olivia’s ticklish,” said another.
Sara blinked away tears, still laughing like mad, and looked up. The little brunette was running away, flat out, with the two sisters in hot pursuit. But the tickling fingernails flicked and scratched the balls of her feet, forcing stream after stream of helpless laughter, and Sara zoned out – the tickling sensation had completely overpowered her.
Jessica tickled Sara’s heels, then up her arches to her soles – Sara’s toes twitched and curled as she laughed and laughed. Jessica tickled fiendishly, side to side across both arches just behind the soles, and Sara laughed with wild abandon. She guitar-chorded the soles, paying special attention to the sole creases, and Sara laughed her head off. Then drawing fast, looping figure-eight’s around the balls of both feet, driving Sara wild. It went on for what seemed like forever.
“Save some for me!” Katie said, and Sara got a breather. Was that ticklish laughter she heard from up the street? She rolled onto her side, saw that her own laughter had attracted more spectators – Jenny and Jamie. “Want some of this?” Katie asked them. “You can go after me.”
Jenny looked over at Jamie, then at Jessica. “Nah, I’ve got a better idea.”
Jessica took off running, with Jenny and Jamie right behind. The two pursuers were barefoot – Jessica was wearing flip-flops, and they slowed her down. The other girls caught her two houses down and dumped her. Each grabbed an ankle, stood up and flipped off a sandal.
“OHNONOTTHAT!” Jessica yelled. “HAHAHA! HAHAHA-HAHA-HAHAHA!” as Jamie and Jenny dug in, fingernails flying on ticklish flesh.
“Break’s over,” Katie said. She rolled Sara back onto her tummy and started in on her, tickling the trapped feet mercilessly. Sara’s feet were beyond ticklish now, all over – she laughed at the top of her lungs.
Katie tickled Sara’s heels and arches, getting great reactions and wave after wave of helpless laughter. She tickled up the arches to the soles, making the toes twitch, then held the toes back and tickled the stretched out soles. She shifted one hand under the right toes, the other to the left heel, and countermarched both hands, tickling from toes to heels and back. Then holding Sara’s toes back again, Katie attacked the balls of Sara’s feet, tickling mercilessly. Sara lapsed into ticklish delirium – she laughed, and laughed, and laughed some more.
Katie quit eventually – Sara giggled weakly as she drifted back from Tickle Hell. She laid there gasping and red-faced as Katie released her. Her throat was dry, her face was streaked with tears of laughter, her abs ached from laughing.
“How was that, Sara?” Katie asked. Two houses down, Jessica was still laughing like mad, the happy result of tickling fingernails on ticklish feet.
“I’ll... get you... for this,” Sara said breathlessly, but she wasn’t really upset. In fact, maybe she ought to take that walk with Austin right now... No, better to wait ‘til tomorrow. It’ll be lots better then.
“Gotta catch me first,” Katie said, and left her. Sara rolled over and sat up on the second attempt, wincing a little – her abs were pretty sore. She checked out the tickling scene – Jamie had Jessica’s ankles in an arm lock while Jenny tickled both feet, two-handed, forcing a solid stream of helpless laughter. Katie stood there, watching and making helpful suggestions.
“Are you OK?” The young brunette was standing there – she didn’t look much better off.
“Yah... What’s your name, kid?” Sara asked.
“Olivia Harris,” she said. “I live down the street.”
“I know – I used to baby-sit for your parents when you were a baby. They get you?”
Olivia nodded.
“Me too. Wasn’t too bad, was it?”
“Yes it was!” Olivia said hotly. “I’m sooo ticklish, and they always gang up on me! And not just them either– ”
“The Righetti sisters used to do me the same way,” Sara interrupted. “Trick One is to relax and let it flow right through you, and enjoy it if you can. My friend Candice loved to be tickled, can you imagine that?” There was a lot more to it, but Sara wasn’t going to say so – let the kid find out for herself some other time. She grinned wickedly. “Trick Two is to be sneaky and get even, with compound interest. That was a lot of fun, making them laugh.”
“If you say so,” Olivia said dubiously.
“I do. And there’s another thing... ”
“What’s that?”
“Check Jessie out,” Sara said, waving toward the two ticklers and their laughing red-headed victim. “See what a pretty color she is?”
Jamie still had the arm-lock, but now she was tickling a foot with one hand, while Jenny tickled the sole and heel of the other two-handed. Katie smoothly took over the arm lock – Jamie turned loose and tickled with both hands, and Jessica’s laughter went off the charts. Jenny moved aside, leaving both feet to Jamie – Jessica’s laughter went down a notch, but she was still laughing pretty hard. The laughter had an edge of desperation now, the redhead was very near the limit of her endurance. Tag-team tickling, thought Sara. We used to do that too.
“They tickled her pink, see?” Sara continued. “I bet your two friends would– ”
“Yeah!” Olivia said. “They sure would!”
Mom and Dad drove up and parked in the driveway. Sara stood up. “Gotta go, Olivia,” she said. “Remember what I told you.”
Who would believe it, thought Sara. My friends and I have all moved on, but this neighborhood is still infested with tickle maniacs, and will be for years to come. Is it the name? What is it about this place?
***THE END***
...and that’s all, folks!
I inherited Tickle Street from tummyticklish01, who left this board after writing about 7 or 8 stories. When I started, I figured I might do maybe a dozen more Tickle Street episodes. This story marks an even half-century.
I've tried to make the stories stand alone, because not everyone wants to wade thru an entire series as long as this one turned out to be. I’ve tried to give each of my characters a distinct personality, otherwise why should anyone care about them? And I’ve tried to keep Tickle Street fresh and fun. You the Reader will have to judge whether I’ve succeeded.
Now it’s time to quit and move on to other things. All of my stories are somehow related – the Tickle Street cast may show up again from time to time, because I like them too much to leave them untickled. But this is the last Tickle Street story I’ll write.
Hope you had as much fun reading them as I did writing them.
Strelnikov
Copyright 2009 by the author
The C-17 transport touched down just after 2 AM on Saturday, but Sara Rosen was wide awake – her body clock stubbornly insisted that it was mid-morning. Two days ago, she had caught a ride on a medevac flight out of Bagram, bound for Ramstein and the nearby Landstuhl Medical Center. She had lucked out in Germany – after a few hours layover, she had crossed the Atlantic with an Air National Guard crew headed home.
Sara was 24, a small girl with green eyes, a disorderly mop of dark brown hair cropped short for convenience, a fit body and a slender waist. She wore what passed for American civilian clothes in The ‘Stan – old-style desert camo patrol cap and BDU’s without insignia, tan desert boots. Her face, neck and hands were deeply tanned; under the clothing, her body hadn’t seen the sun in a very long time.
Sara grabbed her carry-on as soon as the plane came to a stop. The bag contained a few changes of clothes – the sort a student might wear – plus underwear, sneakers, a toothbrush and a few toiletries. All of it was new, bought at the Ramstein Base Exchange the day before. Everything else she owned had been in storage for the past two years.
She showered in the Operations Building. She checked herself out in the mirror before she dressed in her new jeans and a long-sleeve blouse. Her body was lean and hard from hard marching and a third-world diet that was just barely sufficient. She had a brand-new removable bridge to replace three missing teeth on the upper left. A “boilerplate” bridge made by a Russian-trained Afghani dentist was in her bag – where she had been, it attracted less attention than American dental work would have done. The matching scar where the blow had split the lip didn’t look bad, considering that her partner had stitched it in the field with carpet thread. The puckered scars on the front and back of her right thigh, legacy of an AK round that had passed clean through, had started to fade. And her breasts were a nice size – nobody had ever kicked her out of bed – but not like the Dolly Parton rack she had had as an older teen. Breast reduction surgery had taken care of that – she didn’t attract attention like she once had, which was a Good Thing in her line of work.
She caught a ride to the civilian airport terminal across the runway, rented a car, and was on the Interstate by 3 AM. She got off at the Tieson City exit at 5:45. Her stomach rumbled as she drove south on Johnson’s Ferry Road – body clock again, 2 hours late for lunch. She continued south past Tickle Street and turned right on Main Street in the middle of town. The diner across the street from her parents’ drug store would open in a few minutes. She parked, shook a Morley out of the red-and-white cigarette pack, and lit up with a battered Zippo. The lighter was older than she was, a gift from a mentor to an especially promising student. The engraved inscription was worn but still legible – TRUST NO ONE.
The diner opened promptly at 6 AM. Sara ground out her cigarette, locked the car and went in. She took a seat facing the door, with a view out the front windows.
“What’ll you have, hon?” the middle-aged waitress asked. Five years ago, Rachel Griffin had had that job.
Real American food! “Bacon and– ” Sara paused. “Make that steak and two eggs, over easy. Fried potatoes, toast and coffee. And a big glass of orange juice.” She had been raised in a Jewish home, but wasn’t at all observant. Still, this was her home town. The bacon would have upset her parents, if they somehow heard about it.
“Comin’ right up,” the woman said.
A few other customers had come in by the time Sara’s meal came – a police officer, the newspaper guy, some construction workers. The cop was her age – she had gone to high school with him. He looked closely at her, as he would have done with any stranger in this small town, then looked away. Obviously, he hadn’t recognized her.
Two more cups of coffee took Sara to 7 AM. The drugstore opened at 8 AM, but Mom or Dad, sometimes both, always got there an hour early. She paid her tab and left, lighting another cigarette as she did. The car was OK where it was; she left it, crossed the street and walked to the drugstore’s back door on the alley behind Main Street.
“Sara! We didn’t know you were coming!” Mom greeted her – Sara saw that she looked older, the dark hair was a dye job.
They hugged. “So thin you are!” Mom said. “When did you get in?”
Sara laughed. “You sound like Grandma,” she said. “I got here in time for breakfast, you’ll be happy to know. Where’s Dad?”
“Right here, sweetheart,” he said – he had lost a lot more hair, and what remained was mostly gray. “Oh... your package came.” He disappeared, then returned with a small cardboard shipping box. It was heavy for its size, and bore an Armed Forces Post Office postmark. “What’s in the box?”
Sara took the package from him. “What box?” she asked.
“Like that, huh?” he said. “Well, OK, never mind.”
The back door opened again, and two girls came in. One was a Slavic beauty with a great figure, a summer tan, dark blue eyes and long, silvery blonde hair. The other was athletic-looking and very attractive, with Celtic-blue eyes, shoulder-length dark brown hair, and tanned, freckled fair skin. They wore capri pants, sandals, and collared white knit shirts with Rosen’s Rx embroidered over the left breast.
“Morning, Boss,” the blonde said, with just the trace of an New York accent. She spotted Sara. “Who’s this?”
“You remember Sara, don’t you, Katie?” Mom said. Sara suddenly recognized both girls: Katie Budanov and Jamie Shaw, younger sisters of old friends in the neighborhood. They’d been kids when she left home – they must be 18 by now, she figured.
“I do now,” Katie said. “You look thinner than I remember.”
“Boob job,” Sara said. And a strenuous life, and sometimes not enough to eat.
“Wish I’d had that problem,” Jamie said. “What’s the program for today, Mrs. R?”
“Stock room needs cleaning out,” Mom said. “You can take turns cleaning while the other works the register, or– ”
“Work out some other arrangement,” Jamie completed the thought. She kicked off her sandals. “Death Match, Katie – loser has to do the cleaning.”
Anne Kincaid and Melissa Gabreski had invented the Tickling Death Match the year Sara turned 18, and the contests had quickly spread (metastasized?) throughout the neighborhood. The rules were simple: one on one foot tickling, and the last one still tickling was the winner. Sara and her friend Candice Wade had done the same, back when they were working here – she was gratified that these two high school seniors were continuing the tradition. “I’ll referee,” she said.
Katie stepped out of her shoes. Jamie and Katie sat close on the floor, facing each other. They extended their right legs, drew up their left with the bottoms of their left feet flat against their right thighs. Each girl got a firm grip on her opponent’s right foot with her left hand.
“Ready?” Sara asked. The others nodded. “On three – one, two, three, GO!”
Both girls flicked the nails of their left hands on the bottom of her opponent’s trapped foot, fast as they could. Both burst into ticklish laughter, howling with forced mirth. Dad looked disapproving, but said nothing – Mom was OK with it, and anyway, this was old custom.
The tickling fingernails flicked and scratched, each girl covering the other’s foot with fiendish and well-techniqued tickling. Katie concentrated on Jamie’s arch just in front of the heel, where it really, really tickled – Jamie tickle-tortured the exact middle of Katie’s sole, along the crease, and that worked even better. They laughed and laughed, red faced, tickling as fast as they could, each trying to tickle the other out and avoid the same fate herself.
All female members of Jamie’s extended family were tickle maniacs, so she had endured her share of tickling, and given it back too. But she was maybe just a hair more ticklish than Katie, who was the youngest of four sisters and had endurance to spare. Katie’s tickling fingernails flicked and scratched Jamie’s arch and heel and drove her wild. It was more than she could bear – she lost it and collapsed onto her back, laughing at the top of her lungs.
Katie giggled as the tickling sensation faded, then tickled faster as she regained fine motor control. She shifted her legs, quickly grabbed Jamie’s other foot, and trapped both ankles in a leg lock. Jamie just had time to catch a quick breath, and then Katie dug in with both hands, tickling the sweet spots mercilessly, forcing a stream of wild ticklish laughter.
Dad checked his watch. “Well, now that that’s settled, let’s get to work.”
“They’ve got a few more minutes,” Mom said, raising her voice over the laughter. “Leave ‘em be.”
Dad shook his head. “I’ve never understood all this tickling.”
“It’s a girl thing, Sam,” Mom said. “My sister and I used to do it too.”
Jamie was laughing harder now, red-faced, tears running down her cheeks. “You win, Katie,” Sara said. “Quit!”
“Not yet,” Katie said, and kept up her attack – Jamie laughed her head off. Katie’s long, well-manicured nails flicked and scratched, tickling unbearably – Jamie was helpless, all she could do was lay there and laugh. Katie held Jamie’s toes back and tickled the balls of both feet, getting great reactions and wave after wave of laughter. She flicked Jamie’s arches with a guitar-chording motion, then drew a big figure-eight in the back of both arches. Jamie laughed musically, helplessly, face red, tears streaming – she was right on the edge.
Katie’s enjoying this too much, thought Sara – she grabbed a foot and spider-walked her nails from toes to heel.
“Hey! Ah-hahaha! Sara– haheha! No fair– hehehe!” Katie protested and giggled. Got to give her credit, thought Sara – even distracted, Katie still managed to make a Peace sign and scratch the back of Jamie’s arches and onto the heels, tickling the sweet spots mercilessly.
“Fighting fair means you didn’t plan properly,” Sara said, and scratched the ball of the foot, just behind the big toe. Katie quit tickling, threw back her head and laughed at the top of her lungs – Jamie pulled her feet back and laid there gasping.
Katie kicked at Sara with her free foot – Sara grabbed it and shifted to an arm lock on both ankles, and now Katie was trapped, both feet up and gravity working against her. Sara made a claw of her hand and raked four parallel zig-zag lines down the right foot, toes to heel, using just enough pressure to tickle like crazy. She drew circles, squares and other tickling shapes on Katie’s arches and heels, and Katie laughed like a madwoman. The soles were next – Katie’s toes twitched and curled as she laughed and laughed. Sara found the sweet spots – the balls of Katie’s feet. She tickled left-right-and-repeat, fingernails flying, and Katie’s laughter went off the scale. Sara speeded up – four nail strokes in succession, three times a second – and tickled Katie’s breath away.
Sara released Katie’s ankles. “Hey Katie, did it tickle?” she asked cheerfully.
Katie drew her knees up and laid there gasping. “Yob… tvoyu… mat’… ” she said – the all-purpose coarse Russian curse. Sara’s Russian was no more than serviceable, but everybody knew that one.
Katie sat up and rubbed her feet to get the tickle off. “Serves you right, girlfriend,” Jamie said, and offered her a hand-up. “But you still won – looks like I get to tote that barge and lift that bale.”
“Want me to come home with you, Sara?” Mom asked.
“No, Mom. I wouldn’t be much company anyway,” she said. “I’m pretty jet-lagged.”
“All right then, we’ll see you tonight.”
The minivan parked behind her parents’ car had an old, faded bumper sticker – on it were head-and-shoulders portraits of Groucho Marx and John Lennon, side by side on the left. Next to that, in Russian, it said ALL HAIL MARX AND LENNON, in the same Cyrillic font as the old billboards in Moscow’s Red Square. Intrigued, Sara looked closer. There was an oval insignia the size of a fingernail at the bottom – tiny letters inside it said Printed In Union Shop in English. Katie’s car – the sticker was an immigrant’s joke, making fun of the Communists.
She retrieved her rented car and drove north to Tickle Street. She saw three young girls playing with a dog as she turned in. Two were strawberry-blonde, sisters from the look of them – they appeared to be about 12 and 14. The other was a skinny brunette, 13 or so, with a little-girl hairdo that no longer suited her and a mouthful of railroad tracks. Sara sympathized with the kid – she had been just this sort of scrawny ugly ducking at that age.
She had just gotten inside the house when the doorbell rang. She laid her bag and package down and went to see who had come visiting.
He was a young guy, 21 or 22, extremely fit-looking in shorts, sneakers and a wife-beater shirt – his coppery red hair was cut high-and-tight. He was the kid next door, all grown up, with the look of a soldier who had spent time in some third-world desert shithole – no, a Marine, she corrected herself, seeing the Globe-and-Anchor tattooed on his left shoulder. The helmet and uniform hadn’t protected his face and hands – they were a mass of freckles, old sunburn repeated over a period of months. He had gotten more sun lately – his fair skin was pink and lightly freckled.
“Hi, I’m Austin Luke,” he said. “My folks live next door. I saw the car, and I knew the Rosens are at work– ”
“I’m Sara,” she said. “I remember you. When did you get back?”
“Sword-brothers and me come back since one month,” he said in rough-and-ready Pashto. “Here since two days. You?” he prompted.
“Say what?” Sara replied, though her command of the Pashtun language was infinitely better than his.
He raised an eyebrow. “I think you understood me – you have the look. Army?”
“I was,” Sara said. “Not any more,” she added, heading off further questions.
“Gonna be here long?” he asked. “I’m home on leave. We have a pool now – you could come over and go swimming. Maybe go out tonight and have a few beers.” He grinned. “And I could teach you to speak Pashto.”
Sara laughed. “Jeez Louise, you don’t waste time!” He wasn’t bad-looking, and it had been a while... “Rain check? I’m jet-lagged out.”
“Whenever you’re ready,” he said. “See ya!”
Sara’s old room upstairs was a generic guest room now. She changed into tan cargo shorts and a pink summer top with spaghetti straps – she didn’t bother with shoes.
She opened her package next – it contained a Tokarev auto pistol. Made for the Red Army during World War II, it had passed through many hands since. The coarse-checkered wood grips were darkened with age and worn smooth; not much of the blue finish remained, polished to bright metal by generations of use. But it was light and easy to conceal, fired a powerful 7.62mm submachine gun cartridge, and (most importantly) was flawlessly reliable. She had bought it at a souk in Kandahar, and it had served her well – there were two of the Faithful in Paradise whose fatal mistake had been a failure to look for it under her burqa.
Her old drill instructor had said that a clean weapon is a happy weapon. She broke it down, inspected it and ran a patch through the bore. She reassembled and loaded it – the ammo was Czech, and brand new – and slipped it into a side pocket. Paranoia had served her well too.
She went back outside and sat on the front stoop to smoke, enjoying the friendly sun and green growing things all around. The late-summer morning was just pleasantly warm, and the humidity didn’t parch her skin like old leather. She hadn’t always worn a burqa; conservative Muslim males don’t pee standing up, so in salwar kameez, a long vest and a pakul cap, she had passed as a beardless teen boy. Compared to that rig, the American summer clothes were a joy to wear, and going barefoot... No one went barefoot in the desert.
No one went swimming either. A good soak would be great, but she didn’t have a swim suit, and this late in the season, there wasn’t much chance of finding one. One of Mom’s? No, Mom wore “grandma” suits these days...
Down the street, Jenny Budanov came outside to get the newspaper – she was Katie’s older sister, 21 yrs old, home from college. She was a little shorter than Katie, a little slimmer, but the family resemblance was strong – similar features, same silvery blonde hair and blue eyes. She was in a tube top, short shorts and flip-flops. About my size and build, thought Sara – maybe I can borrow a suit from her. She field-stripped the butt, stood up and headed toward Jenny.
A petite girl, barefoot in shorts and t-shirt, ambushed Jenny from behind the car in the driveway. She had a trim and shapely figure, a luxuriant mane of fiery red hair, bright hazel eyes, skin so fair it seemed almost translucent. Austin’s sister Jessica, 18 yrs old – Sara figured she used SPF 1,000,000 sunblock, or she’d be freckled like a turkey egg. Jessica grabbed Jenny, hooked her feet out from under her and dropped her on her tummy – one flip-flop came adrift and went flying. It was as neat a takedown as Sara had ever seen.
Jessica sat on Jenny facing aft and grabbed the bare foot. “Gotcha!” she gloated, and lightly flicked her nails on Jenny’s upturned sole. Tickle ambush, Sara thought happily – another Tickle Street tradition. She moved closer to watch.
“Hahaha! Jessieee– hehe! Sta– haha! –ap! Hahehaha!” Jenny begged and giggled.
“Yesterday, you tickled me ‘til I thought my toes would fall off,” Jessica said, still tickling lightly. “This is payback!”
“NOOOO!” Jenny wailed. “AH-HAHA! HAHA-HAHA-HAHA! HAHAHAHAHA!” she laughed as Jessica got to work. Jenny bucked and kicked with the free foot – Jessica grabbed the ankle on the upswing and shifted position, trapping both legs in the figure-four leg lock. She flipped off the single sandal – Jenny was hosed now, both feet were perfectly positioned for tickling. Jessica took full advantage, tickling with verve and gusto. Jenny squirmed like a worm and laughed like a madwoman.
Jenny’s feet were extremely ticklish all over, but the soles and balls of her feet were the worst. Jessica tickled Jenny’s soles, watching the toes twitch and curl while Jenny laughed with wild abandon. She drew figure-eight’s, circles, squares, and other tickling shapes in the arches. She scratched and scrabbled on the heels. Jenny laughed and laughed, wildly, helplessly. She was no longer capable of resistance, or even coherent thought – it had been tickled completely away. Family resemblance again – just as ticklish as Katie, same tickle patterns, even their laughter sounded similar.
Jessica tickled down Jenny’s arches, flicking with her nail tips. She switched to drawing figure-eight’s, then a motion like chording a guitar. She saved the best for last – tickling the sole creases and the balls of Jenny’s feet, fast as she could. Jenny laughed her head off at the top of her lungs. Jessica speeded up, and Jenny laughed herself breathless.
Jessica released the leg lock, dismounted and sat back on her heels. She was grinning ear to ear. “Wasn’t that fun?” she asked.
Jenny laid there gasping, tears running down her cheeks. “I guess... I had... that coming... ” she said breathlessly.
“Good one!” Sara said, coming closer.
Jessica looked up. “How long have you been watching?” she asked. She didn’t seem alarmed – attractive young women aren’t normally regarded as a threat, another common habit of mind that had served Sara well.
“Saw the whole thing,” Sara answered, and introduced herself. “Nice to have a hobby, isn’t it?” she added. “My friends and I used to do the same thing.”
Jenny rolled onto her back. “I know,” she said. “You used to tickle my older sisters ‘til they were raving. Especially Julie – she’s so ticklish, you can just say “tickle” and she laughs.”
“Tickling Alex was fun, but Julie was a world-class ticklee,” Sara agreed. She winked at Jessica. “And besides, redheads turn such a pretty shade of pink when you tickle ‘em.”
Jessica scrambled to her feet. “Don’t even think about it,” she said. “It’s good to see you again, Sara, but not that good. See you around.”
Sara gave Jenny a hand up. “She got you pretty good.”
“Like I said, I deserved it,” Jenny said, shuffling her feet to get the tickle off. “Won’t stop me from tickling her silly again, next chance I get.” She found her flip-flops and stepped into them. “Want some tea? I started the samovar before I came out.”
Sara had drunk enough hot tea over the last several years to float an aircraft carrier. “No thanks. But I’d like to borrow a bikini, if you have one you can spare.”
“No problem – I’ll be right back.”
Sara glanced at the house and yard next door while she waited. The Righetti family had lived there – still did, for all she knew. In a sense, her new life had started with a silly fortune told by a very-stoned Brittany Righetti. “Protector”, Brittany had called her, and that’s what she was, right enough. Sara wondered idly what had become of Brittany. Probably running a con somewhere, she thought uncharitably, unless she had gone to jail by now.
With her grifter’s instinct, Brittany had caught a glimpse of Sara’s true nature. Her First Sergeant had seen more clearly, and passed her name along. And then Mr. Archer had developed it to its fullest extent. Had they done her a favor?
Foolish question – it’s what I am. Suddenly, she felt indescribably weary.
“Will this do?” Jenny asked, interrupting Sara’s thoughts. The bikini was a shade of blue that exactly matched her eyes.
“It’ll be fine,” Sara said. “Thanks, Jenny. Let’s visit later – right now, I think I need a nap.”
Home again, Sara laid the bikini and pistol on the dresser. She laid down on the bed, but she was too wired to sleep. She decided to read for a while, found a generic paperback romance novel – light entertainment that required zero thought – and took it out onto the screened back porch. Two hours later, relaxed, she laid the book aside, went upstairs and laid down again. She had a soldier’s nack for falling asleep instantly – she went out like a light.
She woke up instantly, clear-headed, another soldier’s nack. Just past noon local time, late for supper by her body clock – she foraged for sandwich stuff, built a Dagwood and washed it down with Diet Coke. Back outside on the porch, she had almost finished her book when she heard Austin next door, working around the pool.
“Hey Jarhead!” Sara called out. “Is that pool invitation still good?”
He looked up. “Is the Pope Catholic? Come on over!”
“Six more pages,” she said, holding up the book.
Book finished, she put on her borrowed bikini and grabbed a towel. She found him still by the pool, shirtless in red swim trunks, trying without much success to put sun block on his back.
“Here, give me that,” Sara said. “Need to use it myself anyway,” she added, smearing the greasy stuff on his back. She coated the parts of herself she could reach, then flopped down on her spread-out towel. “Now do mine.”
He worked his way down from her shoulders, pausing when he saw the scar on her thigh. “This what put you out of the Army?” he asked.
“Uh-huh,” Sara answered, though actually the wound hadn’t been a bad one. The medical discharge had simply been an honorable, convenient and unremarkable way to separate her from the Army so that she could move on.
He resumed his task, coating the backs of her legs. “Would you have stayed in otherwise?”
“I hadn’t decided yet, when it happened,” she said. “How about you? Gonna re-up?”
“Just did, for 6 more years,” he said. “The Corps is the best thing that ever happened– ”
“Hehehe!” Sara giggled as he rubbed the bottoms of her feet. “That– haheha! –tickles! What’re– ahaha! –you doing– hahaha!”
“You’re almost as pale as I am,” he said over the giggles. “I’ve gotten burned there – hurts like a sonofabitch.”
A likely story! Sara pulled loose, rolled over and sat up, feet flat on the ground. “I’ll finish it myself,” she said. Wonder if he’s a tickle fiend? Might be kinda fun just to let go – it’s been a while for that too.
They splashed around in the pool, enjoying the water and the warm summer day. Unsurprisingly, there was a certain amount of touchy-feelie. After a while, Sara hugged him close and wrapped her legs around his waist – she gave him a kiss that was a promise of more to come.
“Get a room, you two!” Jessica called out.
“Beat it, sis, we’re busy!” Austin said. Sara saw that the younger girl’s bikini was a shade of green only a redhead could wear.
“That what you call it?” Jessica said.
Her brother splashed her. She jumped in, and it turned into a three-way water fight, with much laughing, splashing, ducking and various foul blows. Finally the girls ganged up on Austin, grabbed his ankles and flipped him under, and the fight ended.
He surfaced, blowing. “Not bad teamwork,” he said. “Semper fi – I’ll make a Marine of you yet, sis.”
“I was a soldier,” Sara reminded him.
“I won’t hold that against you,” he said, and climbed out. “Time for some more goop, or all three of us’ll burn to a crisp.”
Suitably anoited, they sat down in a triangle. Jessica leaned back on her elbows, legs stretched out. Sara, from long habit, sat cross-legged, feet tucked under her knees. Austin copied Sara. “You’ve got good manners,” he complimented her.
“How d’you mean?” Jessica asked.
“Muslims think it’s rude to show the soles of your feet to other people,” he said. “Sara knows – ask her.”
Sara nodded. “He’s right.”
“Not that your rudeness surprises me, sis,” he added.
Jessica grinned, lifted both feet, pointed a sole at each of them and blew a raspberry. Sara and Austin shared a glance – they came up off the ground fast, and each grabbed an ankle. “OH SHIT! WAH-HAHAHA! HAHA-HAHA-HAHAHAHA!” Jessica laughed as they tickled her tender soles.
Jessica was so ticklish that she didn’t have a sweet spot, so everything they did drove her wild. She laughed helplessly as Austin drew circles, squares and other tickling shapes in her arch. Sara flicked and scratched the ticklish heel, four nail strokes in succession, three times a second – Jessica’s fair skin colored, tickled pink.
“She turns such a pretty shade of pink,” Sara said, raising her voice and tickling faster.
“I always thought so,” Austin agreed – he made a claw of his hand and raked the nails down the foot, drawing four fast parallel zig-zag lines and using just enough pressure to tickle unbearably.
“Pretty laugh too – like music,” Sara added. She guitar-chorded the sole, along the crease, and Jessica’s laughter went off the scale.
“I used to play her like a piano,” Austin said, repeating the foot rake. “Didn’t I, sis?” But Jessica was laughing much too hard to answer.
They held back Jessica’s toes and tickled back and forth across both soles. They tickled the soft skin under the toes, then released the toes and tickled the soles again, watching the toes twitch and curl. Austin tickled between Jessica’s toes two-by-two, forcing more bursts of helpless laughter. Sara did him one better – she used four fingers to tickle between all five toes at once. Jessica laughed like a madwoman, unable to move or even form a coherent thought.
“Together now!” Sara said. “Sole to heel!” She tickled the sole, getting great reactions and a flood of laughter. Austin copied her – Jessica was losing it, laughing her head off, lost in ticklish delirium. They tickled down the arches, faster now. Then heel tickling again, fast as they could, and tickled Jessica into gasping, red faced silent laughter.
“You’re pretty good at that,” Austin said. Jessica bucked, trying to free her ankles. “Stop squirming!” he said. “I’ll tell you when we’re through!” He gave Jessica’s sole a burst of nail flicks, and was rewarded with another wild burst of laughter.
“You are too,” Sara replied, letting go. “Calls for more experimentation. But not with Jessie – I think she learned her lesson.”
He let go of the other ankle. “I think you’re right. Beat your feet, sis.” Jessica stomped out of the yard, fuming, head up, a spot of high color on each cheekbone. It’s hard to stomp in bare feet, but somehow she managed. “You’d be wasting your time on me,” he said to Sara. “I’m not the least bit ticklish.”
“But I am,” Sara said. “Very.” And sometimes, it turns me on. Hell, I’m half-way there already...
“Hey there!” the UPS guy called from the driveway. “I’ve got a delivery for Sara Rosen next door. You willing to sign for it?”
“I’m Sara Rosen,” she called back – she signed, took the package and sent him on his way.
The box was about 18” on a side, and light for its size. She opened it and extracted a white Stetson cowboy hat with an extreme rodeo style. Tucked into the rattlesnake-skin band was a note:
You earned this. Welcome back.
––Archer
Austin gave her an odd look. “You a cowgirl?” he asked.
“Cowboy,” she corrected absently. It was a term-of-art in her trade for someone who went way above and far beyond – she had earned it, and then some. She returned the hat to the box and looked at the angle of the afternoon sun – 4 PM, near enough. The drugstore closed early on Saturday – Mom and Dad would be home soon. “I’ve enjoyed today, my friend, but right now I’m whipped. You doing anything tomorrow?”
“Whatever you like,” he said.
She grinned and pinched his butt. “A walk in the woods, and you can show me where the wild goose goes. Be prepared.”
Back home, she put her hat in her room and changed back into the shorts and top she wore earlier. She went back outside barefoot and sat on the stoop to smoke. Down the street, Katie’s car was in the driveway already. Mom and Dad always stayed later to close up, but they would be home soon.
Katie came outside, barefoot in shorts and t-shirt. “Hey Sara, I’ve got something for you,” she called out. Jessica was with her, in the clothes she had worn earlier.
They’re up to something, thought Sara, and I’m pretty sure I know what. But it’ll be good practice for tomorrow. She had killed with her bare hands – the trick would be to resist just enough to be convincing, make them work for it but not hurt them while she was doing it...
She put out her cigarette and walked over. “What’cha got?” she asked.
“You!” Jessica said. “GET HER!”
Sara ended up on her tummy, hogtied with nylon straps. The bondage rig was Candice’s invention, years ago – it immobilized her, but didn’t chafe or cut off circulation. As planned, her attackers were breathless and nursing a few bruises, convinced they had overpowered her.
“What’s going on?” a girlish voice asked. Sara looked up – the young strawberry-blonde sisters and the little brunette, without the dog.
Katie tossed her hair back out of her face. “She tickled the shit out of me this morning,” she said.
“And me, this afternoon,” Jessica added. She kneeled at Sara’s trapped feet, with a knee on either side to prevent a roll-over. “It’s payback time!”
“HAHAHAHAHA! AH-HAHAHAHA!” Sara laughed as Jessica got to work, fingernails flicking across her ticklish soles. She struggled to escape, but hogtied as she was, there was no hope. Might as well relax and enjoy it, she thought, laughing her head off.
“That looks like fun,” one of the young ones said.
“Olivia’s ticklish,” said another.
Sara blinked away tears, still laughing like mad, and looked up. The little brunette was running away, flat out, with the two sisters in hot pursuit. But the tickling fingernails flicked and scratched the balls of her feet, forcing stream after stream of helpless laughter, and Sara zoned out – the tickling sensation had completely overpowered her.
Jessica tickled Sara’s heels, then up her arches to her soles – Sara’s toes twitched and curled as she laughed and laughed. Jessica tickled fiendishly, side to side across both arches just behind the soles, and Sara laughed with wild abandon. She guitar-chorded the soles, paying special attention to the sole creases, and Sara laughed her head off. Then drawing fast, looping figure-eight’s around the balls of both feet, driving Sara wild. It went on for what seemed like forever.
“Save some for me!” Katie said, and Sara got a breather. Was that ticklish laughter she heard from up the street? She rolled onto her side, saw that her own laughter had attracted more spectators – Jenny and Jamie. “Want some of this?” Katie asked them. “You can go after me.”
Jenny looked over at Jamie, then at Jessica. “Nah, I’ve got a better idea.”
Jessica took off running, with Jenny and Jamie right behind. The two pursuers were barefoot – Jessica was wearing flip-flops, and they slowed her down. The other girls caught her two houses down and dumped her. Each grabbed an ankle, stood up and flipped off a sandal.
“OHNONOTTHAT!” Jessica yelled. “HAHAHA! HAHAHA-HAHA-HAHAHA!” as Jamie and Jenny dug in, fingernails flying on ticklish flesh.
“Break’s over,” Katie said. She rolled Sara back onto her tummy and started in on her, tickling the trapped feet mercilessly. Sara’s feet were beyond ticklish now, all over – she laughed at the top of her lungs.
Katie tickled Sara’s heels and arches, getting great reactions and wave after wave of helpless laughter. She tickled up the arches to the soles, making the toes twitch, then held the toes back and tickled the stretched out soles. She shifted one hand under the right toes, the other to the left heel, and countermarched both hands, tickling from toes to heels and back. Then holding Sara’s toes back again, Katie attacked the balls of Sara’s feet, tickling mercilessly. Sara lapsed into ticklish delirium – she laughed, and laughed, and laughed some more.
Katie quit eventually – Sara giggled weakly as she drifted back from Tickle Hell. She laid there gasping and red-faced as Katie released her. Her throat was dry, her face was streaked with tears of laughter, her abs ached from laughing.
“How was that, Sara?” Katie asked. Two houses down, Jessica was still laughing like mad, the happy result of tickling fingernails on ticklish feet.
“I’ll... get you... for this,” Sara said breathlessly, but she wasn’t really upset. In fact, maybe she ought to take that walk with Austin right now... No, better to wait ‘til tomorrow. It’ll be lots better then.
“Gotta catch me first,” Katie said, and left her. Sara rolled over and sat up on the second attempt, wincing a little – her abs were pretty sore. She checked out the tickling scene – Jamie had Jessica’s ankles in an arm lock while Jenny tickled both feet, two-handed, forcing a solid stream of helpless laughter. Katie stood there, watching and making helpful suggestions.
“Are you OK?” The young brunette was standing there – she didn’t look much better off.
“Yah... What’s your name, kid?” Sara asked.
“Olivia Harris,” she said. “I live down the street.”
“I know – I used to baby-sit for your parents when you were a baby. They get you?”
Olivia nodded.
“Me too. Wasn’t too bad, was it?”
“Yes it was!” Olivia said hotly. “I’m sooo ticklish, and they always gang up on me! And not just them either– ”
“The Righetti sisters used to do me the same way,” Sara interrupted. “Trick One is to relax and let it flow right through you, and enjoy it if you can. My friend Candice loved to be tickled, can you imagine that?” There was a lot more to it, but Sara wasn’t going to say so – let the kid find out for herself some other time. She grinned wickedly. “Trick Two is to be sneaky and get even, with compound interest. That was a lot of fun, making them laugh.”
“If you say so,” Olivia said dubiously.
“I do. And there’s another thing... ”
“What’s that?”
“Check Jessie out,” Sara said, waving toward the two ticklers and their laughing red-headed victim. “See what a pretty color she is?”
Jamie still had the arm-lock, but now she was tickling a foot with one hand, while Jenny tickled the sole and heel of the other two-handed. Katie smoothly took over the arm lock – Jamie turned loose and tickled with both hands, and Jessica’s laughter went off the charts. Jenny moved aside, leaving both feet to Jamie – Jessica’s laughter went down a notch, but she was still laughing pretty hard. The laughter had an edge of desperation now, the redhead was very near the limit of her endurance. Tag-team tickling, thought Sara. We used to do that too.
“They tickled her pink, see?” Sara continued. “I bet your two friends would– ”
“Yeah!” Olivia said. “They sure would!”
Mom and Dad drove up and parked in the driveway. Sara stood up. “Gotta go, Olivia,” she said. “Remember what I told you.”
Who would believe it, thought Sara. My friends and I have all moved on, but this neighborhood is still infested with tickle maniacs, and will be for years to come. Is it the name? What is it about this place?
***THE END***
...and that’s all, folks!
I inherited Tickle Street from tummyticklish01, who left this board after writing about 7 or 8 stories. When I started, I figured I might do maybe a dozen more Tickle Street episodes. This story marks an even half-century.
I've tried to make the stories stand alone, because not everyone wants to wade thru an entire series as long as this one turned out to be. I’ve tried to give each of my characters a distinct personality, otherwise why should anyone care about them? And I’ve tried to keep Tickle Street fresh and fun. You the Reader will have to judge whether I’ve succeeded.
Now it’s time to quit and move on to other things. All of my stories are somehow related – the Tickle Street cast may show up again from time to time, because I like them too much to leave them untickled. But this is the last Tickle Street story I’ll write.
Hope you had as much fun reading them as I did writing them.
Strelnikov
