Tales from the Golden Feather VI (m/f)

TALES FROM THE GOLDEN FEATHER, VI
The Physician's Tale, or The Delicate Patient
another one of those stories

NO ONE UNDER 18 ALLOWED TO READ THIS STORY WITHOUT A NOTE FROM THEIR DOCTOR.

Our breakfast the next morning was interrupted when the soldier grabbed the serving maid's waist, causing her to shriek, jump, and drop the dish she was carrying. Our hostess came hurrying out of the kitchen as the outraged maid wriggled out of the soldier's grasp and swatted him.

"I won't have anyone interfering with the servants," our hostess said sternly.

"I'm sorry, milady," the soldier said. "I just wanted to hear her laugh -- I was wondering if she were the one laughing all last night."

"You could have asked!" the maid snapped. "It wasn't me. And I'm not even ticklish. You just startled me, is all." She flounced off to the kitchen in offended dignity, leaving the soldier to pick up the broken plate.

I could sympathize with his curiosity, for I was certain I had heard several people laughing at different points during the night. Even if the harper and the forester were together, there had been too many voices for just the two of them alone. The laughter itself was rather soothing to listen to, in truth; it was wondering who was producing it that had kept us awake.

The physician, in particular, looked as if he had slept particularly badly as he rose to begin his tale. All eyes were on him as he cleared his throat and began, "The phenomenon of tickling and ticklishness is one that has baffled medical authorities through the ages. It is not clear how such a small touch should produce such a great reaction. We first find mention of the matter in Galen, who writes -- " Then he stopped and looked around, for several of us were already grumbling.

"You promised us a story, not a lecture!" complained the harper.

The physician removed his glasses and began to wipe their lenses. "I merely thought to broaden your stock of knowledge and allow all of you a better comprehension of the matter at the heart of all our stories ... "

The webster snorted indelicately. "Who needs to understand it, as long as you can enjoy it?" And several of the company cried their assent.

The physician settled his glasses back on his nose and looked around the room sternly. "I see that attempting to educate you is a waste of time. Very well, if you would prefer a story, here it is."

Not long after I had begun the practice of medicine in the city of ------- [the physician began], I received a summons from one of the city's magnates to come and see to his daughter, Katrina. I had heard of this young lady before, from my fellows in the art. She suffered from one false illness after another, imagining a new one nearly every day, or so it seemed. She never kept one physician for very long, for she grew dissatisfied with them easily. It was also rumored that some of those physicians had been beaten and thrown from the city walls by her father's hirelings for attempting to take liberties with her. Whatever the cause, she had never married and rarely stirred from her bed, while her father spent himself empty trying to find some cure for her phantom maladies.

While it may seem dishonest of me to have been willing to take advantage of the lady's delusions to line my pocket, the truth was I needed money. And in any case, it was no worse than what other doctors in the city had done. And if I were to cure her where they could not, my reputation and fortune would be made forever. So I assented, and the next day arrived at the magnate's house in my best clothes, with my medical tools. I was met by a lady's maid and escorted through the house to a large room on the third floor. At the direction of the patient, the maid withdrew, shutting the heavy oak door behind her and leaving the two of us alone.

Katrina was an extraordinarily lovely young lady, with satiny pale skin only slightly pinker than the white linen nightdress she wore. She reclined on an immense bed heaped with pillows and bolsters, her deep black hair spreading out on them like a dark sun. She said nothing, only studying me as I turned from the door and removed my mantle.

"Well, madam," I said as formally as I could, laying the mantle over a chair, "may I ask what is troubling you?"

"I have a wart on my foot, and it pains me greatly. See!" And she raised her right leg, pointing the bare foot at me.

The foot Katrina held out to me was as white as ... well, as the snow outside the window here, and just as unblemished. It was an extremely esthetic specimen, with soft skin, a finely shaped arch, and delicate toes. The act of extending the foot also exposed a considerable amount of her leg from beneath the hem of her nightdress, but she made no move to cover herself again. I forced myself to focus on the foot and think diagnostic thoughts.

"I am afraid I do not see ... " I began.

"Oh, but it's there!" she protested. "Feel it for yourself."

I was about to argue with her, but I remembered one of the foremost medical principles I had been taught in my student days: always humor a wealthy patient. I reached out a hand and touched her in the center of the foot. Her leg twitched and she made a small noise in her throat. The skin was extraordinarily smooth and cool under my fingertips.

"I feel nothing," I said reluctantly, thinking I should really take my hand away.

"It's lower down," she said in a tiny voice. "Move your fingers .... "

Humor her, I thought, and ran my fingers down along her sole, seeking the invisible wart. She let out an unmistakable giggle and her foot jerked away reflexively, a shade faster than I could pull my hand back. Humoring a patient was one thing ... tickling the foot of the daughter of one of the city's most wealthy and powerful men was quite another. But before I could say anything, she held the foot back out again. "I'm sorry. You almost had it," she said in a tone of total sincerity, looking up at me with guileless dark eyes.

What choice did I have? Was I going to call her a liar and risk my fee? Of course not. What I did was put my hand on the sole again, even though I felt nothing. When she suggested I feel a little to the left, I shifted my fingers in that direction, and once again she burst into giggles and pulled her foot away. "You'll have to hold my ankle, Doctor," she said in that same utterly innocent voice. "I'm sorry I'm so .... sensitive."

And so, as if in a dream, I found myself holding Katrina's ankle firmly in one hand and, with my other, feeling all around her foot for the mythical wart. She pressed a corner of her pillow to her mouth to partially muffle her wild giggles, removing it to yelp a fresh direction to me every so often -- "Up furtherheeheeheemmmmm -- heehee -- no, left -- aaammmmmhhh -- underthetoes eeeeek!mmmmmhhheehee .... " I hardly remember how long the examination lasted, but I am certain I felt every inch of that foot from the ankle downward. At last, though, she pulled her foot from my grasp, straightening her nightdress primly and brushing her hair out of her pinkened face. "Thank you, Doctor," she said politely. "It feels much better now. I shall tell my father you have helped me." I was still trying to understand what had happened when I was out on the street again with a freshly filled purse in my hand.

A week flashed by, and then another message arrived at my door: I was wanted once again at the mansion. The prospect of earning another fee was too much to pass up, so I made my way there. Katrina was lying on her bed again as I entered, looking as if she had not moved since I first visited.

"How may I help you today?" I asked.

"I am so glad you came, Doctor," she said. "I have a terrible pain in my side, and I am certain I can feel a hard bump beneath the skin. Come and see!" And before I could protest, she had rolled onto one side and, with a surprising deftness, undone the laces on the side of her nightgown, laying herself bare from shoulder to hip.

As if in a dream, I watched myself walk to her bedside and look down into the gap in her nightgown. I watched myself reach out and lay fingers on her waist, and the sudden feel of smooth, cool skin snapped me back to myself.

"It was in the ribs," she said.

"Of course," I said, and moved my hand up until it was touching the thin velvety skin over her ribs. I could feel the delicate shape of each bone beneath it, and the racing of her heart behind them. But it could not have been beating as fast as mine. I swallowed, and pressed a rib with my forefinger, working the fingertip into the sleek skin.

Katrina let out a soft squeal and twitched all over. I dug a second finger between her ribs, and she gasped and grabbed a pillow to press to her face. It did not quite absorb all the silver sound of her giggles. Abruptly I found myself tickling her ribs in earnest, squeezing and burrowing with all five fingers. She shrieked into the pillow, her body wriggling like a snake on ice but never quite breaking away from me. There was no pretense of examining her any more ... I was tickling her and enjoying it, and so was she. Intoxicated, I grabbed hold of her ribs with my other hand, intending to see how she reacted to a ten-finger tickle, but she gave a yell that the pillow only barely muffled and skidded across the bed, out of my grasp. Raising her head, she looked at me with bright eyes through the curtain of her disarranged hair.

"The pain is gone, Doctor. Thank you. There is no need to ... overdo the treatment."

I would have disputed that if I could, but how does one ask a patient to submit to further tickling? Inspiration struck. "Ah ... " I began, trying to sound as learned as I could. "In cases like this, it is ... er ... not uncommon for the ... the lesion to spontaneously switch from one side to another. I think ... ahem .... that to be safe, it would be a ... a good idea for me to ... investigate the other side. As well. To be certain."

Katrina looked at me for a moment, her eyes sparkling, and then abruptly rolled over to present her other side to me. "I trust your opinion, Doctor!" she said, pulling the laces from their courses eagerly.

If I did not find the mysterious bump there either, it was not for lack of trying. I did, however, find numerous ticklish spots scattered all along Katrina's ribs, She took the "examination" well, squirming happily and keeping her hands pressed over her mouth to stifle her laughter in a way I found adorable. But when I forgot myself and let my hand drift down to the warm softness of her belly, she slapped at it, and I withdrew from her nightdress hastily.

"Now, Doctor, you're here to check my ribs," she said teasingly, rolling onto her back and putting her hands behind her head. "Don't let your hands go where they're not supposed to be."

Suddenly recalling who I was, where I was, and what would happen to me if Katrina's father ever had a hint of what had been going on here, I became flustered. With a perfunctory farewell, I hastily took my mantle and bag and left -- with another fee, of course. It was not until the next day, reviewing the scene at leisure, that I realized that she had been challenging me, and I had failed to meet the challenge. I was determined not to repeat that failure if I could avoid it, and was glad when I received yet another summons to Katrina's house a few days later.

"I fear I have an infected toenail," she announced, extending five perfect toes for my examination. Naturally, I insisted on checking all ten toes, as well as the soles themselves -- the infection might have spread -- to her giggly delight. I pretended not to notice the faces and noises she was making as I ran my fingers all up and down and around each twitching, flexing toe. Finally, though, she pulled her feet away, declaring herself cured once more. But rather than take my leave, I rose and moved to sit on the edge of her bed, laying my palms on her belly. Even through the nightdress, I relished the feel of the warm, gentle mound.

"Doctor," she warned me, not even bothering to keep the smile off her face now. "What are you doing?" Barely suppressed giggles made her belly quiver enticingly under my hands.

"It is entirely possible for an infected toenail to affect the digestion," I said confidently. "I would not be doing my job if I did not investigate the possibility." And before she could make any objection, I began to gently knead her stomach through the nightdress with the tips of my fingers. She went rigid with surprise for a moment, then she was squirming as I tickled all around her belly. Her little heels beat a tattoo on the bed as she kicked, her head tossed, and her hands clawed at the bedclothes in ticklish ecstasy. Then I probed under her ribs, and her hands flew to her mouth to seal in hysteria. The muffled sound of her squealing that leaked past her fingers was like music to me. I did not stop there, but went higher, tickling her ribs as she bucked and fought me just hard enough to guarantee that she would lose. I then forced each elbow up in turn and worked a finger or two into the tight, smooth hollow of each armpit. When I wiggled them, her eyes snapped wide open, her body convulsed, and she made a yell of laughter that, even with her hands blocking her mouth, I was sure the maid -- if not the whole house -- heard. But in the state of mind I was in, I could only consider such concerns abstractly, for about a second. The rest of me wanted to wiggle my fingers again and make her yell again. So I did, and she did. I did it a third time, and she practically bounced clear of the bed for a second, so violent were her struggles. Her kicking feet sent pillows sailing across the room.

I was about to tickle her armpits a fourth time, and a fifth and perhaps a hundredth, when she let go of her mouth long enough to grab my forearms and screech in a hoarse high whisper, "No more, or I'll scream truly!"

Even in my fevered state, I knew that would doom both of us, so I withdrew reluctantly and rose, picking up my bag and mantle from the chair where I had laid them. When I turned back, she was lying on one side, smiling. "I had no idea the underarms were involved in digestion," she said.

This time, I didn't miss a beat. "The lymphatic system, milady." Striding to the bed, I took hold of her arm and pulled it over her head. "Swellings here, or here, or here" -- I indicated each location with a light touch of my forefinger in each spot--"or here, or here, or between here and here .... " Katrina's hair hid her face, but she was shaking all over, making odd noises deep inside herself, and twisting her arm helplessly in my grasp. "Or here, or here, or especially HERE ... all can indicate poor nutrition or infection." I let her arm drop. "I recommend you have those places checked ... often." And I left the room and collected my fee, feeling rather pleased with myself.

After that, my visits to the mansion went much more straightforwardly. Though she kept up the pretense of constant illness for others, we were honest with each other: she loved to be tickled, I loved tickling her. She still occasionally invented imaginary ailments for herself that always seemed to involve a ticklish body part -- sore back, a callus on the foot, a stomachache, or yes, swollen lymph nodes -- but for the most part I simply tickled her where my fancy took me. As sensitive as she was, I was sure to please her wherever my fingers happened to land. And not only fingers, for we also played with feathers from her pillows, the fur trim of my mantle, and brushes and other implements from my medical bag. Discovering what tickled Katrina most, and where, was more pleasant than any experiment I had done in my student days, and every hour I was not with her I would spend thinking up new ways to tickle her. I even began to secretly write an essay on tickling, although I doubt it could ever have been published, for it was truly all about Katrina.

It was incredibly dangerous, of course, and I think that was part of the attraction. I tried to take some precautions, though. Because one stray laugh would ruin us, I designed a gag of cloth and leather and presented it to her. She loved it, and insisted on keeping it under a pillow between my visits. Tying it in place became one of our rituals, a signal that we were no longer doctor and patient but tickler and tickled.

I wished I could lock the door. What if the maid -- or anyone else -- were to walk in and see Katrina naked to the waist and sitting crosslegged on her bed, hands folded atop her head? She would be quaking with stifled laughter as I ran my fingers down her sides and back, traced the curves of her breasts, and teased the little valleys of her armpits until she could stand it not a second longer and collapsed among the pillows, thrashing and kicking and with tears of laughter streaming from her tightly closed eyes. It was a wonderful thing to watch, but I did not want it to be the last sight I ever beheld.

We had one terrifying moment when Katrina, squirming energetically during a bout of rib-tickling, accidentally kicked a porcelain ewer off her night table to the floor, where it shattered. Fortunately, I had enough presence of mind to roll off the bed immediately, and Katrina likewise had enough presence of mind to bury her face in the pillows and pull a sheet over her head, hiding the gag. Still, it seemed like barely a second passed before the maid came through the door at nearly a dead run. She was starting to frame some sort of objection when I grabbed up my mantle and bag and hustled her out, explaining severely that the patient was sleeping and must not be disturbed. I do not know how Katrina explained the broken ewer, or what the maid might have thought of my rather reddened face and rumpled clothes, but she gave us no further trouble in the days to come.

After that, I thought it advisable to bind Katrina hand and foot before we started the "treatment," and she agreed eagerly. It was a joy for both of us, though I had feared she might dislike being so helpless. But now I could tickle her slowly and steadily, without interruption from her writhing, endlessly increasing the delicious torment. And with her immobile, I could wander all over her body at will, from tiny wriggling toes ... to the satin curves of her buttocks, almost as soft as the feathers that tickled her so there ... to the exquisitely ticklish arcs of her sides, where I could lay a finger anywhere and be certain she would squirm in response. She was completely at my mercy now, and loved it so much that she would greet me already naked and already with the bindings knotted around her wrists and ankles, so I needed only spend a moment making them secure before I started the tickling.

I had to remember to keep an eye on the hourglass, for it would have been all too easy to lose myself entirely in the intricate play of fingers and skin, of planning what to do next to get her even wilder. And of course, Katrina herself lost all consciousness of time in her ticklish frenzies. If someone were to wonder what was taking me so long to deal with an itch or a pain in the stomach, it would not go well for us. I made a point of grumbling to the maid and a few other servants about Katrina's fussiness, the endless demands she made on me, and I hoped they accepted that explanation. We both wished I could get her somewhere else, somewhere I could tickle her for hours, but it was not to be. She rarely ever left the house, and when she did, she was always firmly guarded and chaperoned. I even thought of marrying her, but her father would never entertain the proposal of a young physician of common birth. So we made the best of it we could, enjoying our few hours each week together as much as possible.

But even that could not last. When I was leaving the mansion one winter night, a servant approached me and hailed me. I looked at him with distaste, for he was an ill-kempt, unpleasant fellow, with hair like moldy hay, a face whose ugliness was not hidden by the dirt smeared on it, and clothes stained and spotted from the kitchen. And he was looking at me with a smirking familiarity I liked not at all.

Introducing himself, unasked, as Joachim, the wretch said, "Do you have a moment for me, Doctor? I have something you'd like to see..."

I would have brushed him off, but there was something in his tone that suggested that that would be a bad idea. So instead I followed him back upstairs to the third floor. I thought for a moment we were returning to Katrina's room, that she had sent this fellow to call me back for further treatment. But instead, he turned aside, taking up a candle and leading me through a maze of dusty, disused corridors, until he paused in front of a paneled wall. He pointed, and I saw a small hole bored in the wall, with golden light streaming out of it.

"Take a look, Doctor," snickered my guide.

I peered through the hole with failing heart, knowing what I would see -- and there was Katrina lying on her bed, gloriously nude and glowing in the firelight, stretching luxuriously, and occasionally giggling to herself in memory of what had happened to her just a few minutes before. Just the sight of her made me want to rush back in there and tickle her further. But then I thought of this villain watching her -- and me -- and thinking the same thoughts, and it was all I could do to keep from striking him as I straightened up and turned back to him.

"All right," I said, keeping my voice calm only with terrible effort. "What do you want?" And I reached for the purse at my side, but he stopped me. The leer on his face exposed his badly decayed teeth, and I took a step back in instinctive revulsion at the smell.

"I want to be the one to do that to her," he said. "Next time, you tie her up, and blindfold her too. Then all you do is sit back and let me show you how to make her really scream and wiggle that little -- "

"Don't be absurd," I cut him off before he could get any cruder. "Katrina's maid won't allow you in her room."

His leer grew wider. "That's what you think. I can deal with her. You just do what I say, or I'll go to the master, and tell him what I've seen you doing with his daughter."

What could I do? I made empty promises and left the mansion with my mind in a whirl. I would never betray her like that, allow that sneaking worm to lay hands on her. But I could see no other course; any other would lead to death and disgrace. All too soon, though, the magnate's boy was at my door again, telling me that "milady" was suffering greatly from her aching feet, and would I come to see to her?

I sat in my study with the boy waiting patiently. I hated what I would have to do, hated it with all my soul, but there was nothing else for it. Slowly and reluctantly, I wrote a letter to Katrina telling her that we were discovered, sealed it, and passed it to the boy, telling him that it was instructions for the brewing of a medicine that would cure her. When he had gone, I began to gather my goods, and by the afternoon I had left the city. Nor have I ever gone back.

As for Katrina, I never saw her again. I heard in a roadside inn a few years later that her father had married her off to some stolid old gentleman. She had tolerated it for about six months before running off with an itinerant artist who had come to paint her portrait. I do not know where she is now, but wherever she is, I hope she is happy.

At the close of the physician's tale, we were all mostly silent, each of us wondering how he or she could have dealt with such a situation. The harper declared that she would have eloped in a situation like that, but the summoner dismissed the idea as romantic nonsense and said the physician had behaved as best he could. While I privately agreed that the physician had given up too easily, it was hard to condemn him when he so obviously lamented those lost days. The young lady, for one, seemed particularly stricken by the tale; she excused herself and went upstairs while the rest of us were still engaged in our discussion.

Eventually, though, the talk turned once again to who would tell the next tale. At that point, the serving maid, who was bringing the physician a glass of wine to clear his throat, spoke up: "I've got one too. Can I tell it?"

We were all surprised, for she had never involved herself in our discussions before, only listening to the tales from the kitchen doorway and disappearing within afterward. But our hostess gave her assent, and so then did the rest of us. The soldier jokingly complained that someone who was not ticklish could hardly tell a story fitting our theme, to which the maid only said, "Wait until you hear it, then decide!" and returned to the kitchen with a satisfied air.


NEXT: The Maid's Tale, or The Thing in the Woods.