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Contract: Laughter Is Not An Option (M/F)

November

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Whoever was following Geralt was good, but not good enough to evade a witcher's preturnaturally heightened senses. Even if said witcher was a little bit drunk.

Geralt focused his breathing and honed his hearing, resisting the urge to steal a surreptitious glance backwards. To do so would be to flirt with the danger of spooking his stalker. No, Geralt had to appear blissfully oblivious for his plan to work.

Soft footsteps, a young woman's gait. The swish of fabric against fabric, her breathing quick and shallow, her heart pounding in rapid rhythm. Geralt estimated she was no more than twenty metres behind him, although it was difficult to be sure amid the bustling hubbub that was Novigrad at dusk.

Slowing his gait somewhat, Geralt allowed his pursuer to gradually close as they wove through the busy street past countless taverns and brothels, brushing past throngs of city-folk in varying stages of inebriation.

The crowds began to thin as they approached the docks, and the hum of activity faded behind them. Geralt needed to be sure that he and his mysterious follower would be undisturbed for the confrontation to come.

When he spied his chance, Geralt broke into a fast walk and abruptly turned into a narrow, empty alleyway between two large warehouses. He heard the woman following him curse under her breath and break into a hasty trot.

Geralt drew his dagger from its sheath on his thigh and held it in a reverse grip, his body coiled like a spring. He became dimly aware of the scent of a strong perfume. Lavender, perhaps. Then, he was on her and the time for conscious thought was gone.

He turned as he lunged, using the woman's own momentum to slam her against the stone wall of the alleyway. In a flash, before the stifled scream had fully left her lips, his dagger pressed against her smooth throat.

"When I said I liked it rough, this wasn't quite what I had in mind" Came a breathless voice.

Geralt stared, nonplussed.

"Though if you must do it here witcher, I would at least like to remove my cloak,"

The woman, or perhaps more accurately girl, stood several heads shorter than Geralt. Looking up from underneath the cowl of a thick cloak was a pale face dominated by a pair of large hazel eyes, luminous in the moonlight. Her soft, well-formed lips parted in a smile that contained more than a hint of bitterness.

"If you're just going to stand there like some awe-struck simpleton, you'll be of no use to me. Are you sure you're a Witcher? I thought your kind were supposed to be hardened to even the most hideous monsters."

"Who are you?"

"My names Ania, and you, witcher, are about to do me a great service."

Geralt slowly lowered his dagger from her neck and stepped back from the girl as far as the confines of the alleyway would allow. The girl, Ania, released a pent-up breath and ruefully neatened her clothes.

"And what service would this be?" Geralt said, his voice it's usual gravelly monotone.

"You're going to lift this wretched curse that afflicts me."

The girl spoke with a fiery passion now.

"Of course I'm aware of how this'll work. I've heard it in stories. I know who you are Geralt of Rivia. I know some call you the famed White Wolf. Rest assured, you'll get your reward in due time. "

"Assuming I decide to help you, I'll need details first."

"This place is awfully cold, and not at all romantic," The girl said, sarcasm creeping into her tone. "Could we find someplace more... hospitable to conduct our business?"

Geralt let his silence answer for him. He still had not sheathed his dagger.

Ania sighed dramatically and removed her hood, splaying her slightly-longer-than-shoulder-length dark-brown hair to messily frame her soft features.

"It seems the stories were not lying about how disagreeable witchers were. Very well. It all started one cycle ago. I had attracted the attention of a certain wealthy traveller, a minor noble of some sort. I didn't really care for the details of his birth, just that he had money, and lots of it."

"You seduce many wealthy men that pass through?"

"I'm not ashamed to say it. Every girl's got to make a living, did you expect me to let this face go to waste? These fools have more money than sense anyway, I would wager none noticed the coin I pocketed during our nights together. It certainly beats being one of Marquise Serenity's pet whores to be sold to any buyer no matter how filthy or degenerate."

Ania continued.

"That night, the fool in question was a particularly pathetic man named Damien, if my memory serves me. He waltzed into the inn that night and was throwing coin around like he was desperate to be rid of it. I don't remember much, except that he was fond of drinking and boasting. If he was to be believed, he was at once a dragon-slaying hero and a conqueror of more women than you could fit inside the Royal Palace in Vizima. How he found the time I'll never know."

Geralt grunted impatiently.

"When we went back to his room to... consummate, he proved to be unfortunately inexperienced in the matters of the bed. As he lay there on top of me, as embarrassed as he was impotent, I couldn't help but burst into laughter. If you'd have seen his face, you would have too."

Her voice took on a bitter tone, and her smile faded somewhat.

"Jumping up in a rage, the vile man cursed me in a thousand different ways and beat me within an inch of my life. Right before he left, he vowed that 'I would never find pleasure in sex again, until I endured under feather and brush'. I'm paraphrasing of course, he was far more vulgar."

"So what happened?" Geralt asked. Now Ania grew slightly embarrassed.

"Since that day, I have never been too... sensitive... to have relations with any man or woman."

"Sensitive?"

Ania looked away as she spoke, her voice quieter, as if she loathed to say it.

"It.... tickles too much..."

Geralt immediately had a flash of inspiration, and he was sure he knew how to lift the curse. This was one of the simplest cases he had to deal with, and of that he was thankful.

"You need to undergo the trial of the feather and brush. I've heard of it from stories a bard friend told me. Priests from a very specific cult long lost to time used to put their recruits through it as a test for virginity. Supposedly, if you laughed at any point during the trial, you were not a virgin and therefore unfit to serve in the temple. All nonsense of course, but it seems to be the key to your curse."

"What does this trial involve?"

"If I recall correctly, it involved a number of different tasks performed within the hour of midnight. It was a test of endurance by tickling."

Ania's already pale face blanched a shade of ghostly white.

"I was afraid you would say that."





It was night again when Ania met Geralt at the agreed location; a small hut not far from Novigrad, used chiefly by hunters as a base for their expeditions during season. Now it lay dormant under the crescent moon, softly lit from within by the flickering glow a burning fire.

Ania approached the door hesitantly, with no small amount of trepidation. Still, she would not let herself entertain the thought of running away for even a moment. Her strength was the only thing that had gotten her through the many challenges of her life, and she was not about to let it fail her.

The door opened with a juddering creak and a hearty warmth billowed out to hit her, threatening to knock her over with its force. Geralt was already inside awaiting her arrival.

There was something subtly off about the witcher. Maybe it was his unnaturally white hair, tied loosely behind his head. Maybe it was his skin, a shade of pale white most commonly associated with the recently deceased. Maybe it was his eyes, with pupils slitted like a wild cats, perpetually dilating and contracting to adjust to the light.

Most likely, it was the ever present threat of violence which radiated off him like the musk of a predator, instilling in Ania an instinctual sense of quiet unease.

"I've gathered all the supplies, and made all the preparations." Said Geralt. "Now all that’s left is to begin the trial. Are you ready?"

Ania swallowed.

"Well, best just to get it over with."

Ania dutifully lay on the wooden table that had been moved into the centre of the small room. It had been padded with a few layers of thick leather and fur to make it more comfortable.

How considerate, Ania thought.

The witcher worked quickly to secure her wrists and ankles to each corner of the table, using similarly padded leather restraints so that she was spread in an x-shape. Giving each cuff a curious tug, Ania was dismayed to realise she could barely move.

"You should have removed your boots before I restrained you," Said Geralt, bemused.

"I was hoping you'd do the honours."

The witcher gave her a blank look, and Ania was pleased to see the barest hint of exasperation on his scarred features. The feeling faded quickly when Geralt reached down to grasp the boot of her left foot, and Ania became distinctly aware of the sweat on her palms.

With a casual tug, her left boot dropped to the floor with a wooden thump, where it was quickly joined by her right boot. The same was done to her thick woollen socks, a rare luxury for a woman of her birth and one of the many perks of her profession.

The warmth from the fire met the tender skin of her feet pleasantly, but to Ania the sensation only served to remind her of her acute vulnerability. She shivered, but she was not cold.

"Trial number one: the girl must endure a griffin feather, applied to the feet, for two-and-twenty minutes without succumbing to laughter."

Geralt was reading from a worn book, his back to the bound girl. Ania's eyes grew wide when he turned to face her, brandishing the largest feather she had ever seen in her life.

"Times ticking." The witcher said, turning a small hourglass.

As if in slow motion, the feather descended on Aria's helpless right foot. She debated closing her eyes, but quickly thought better of it. Better she was prepared for when the feather struck.

The feather brushed down her sole, it's stiff bristles making the faintest impression on her soft skin. Ania was not prepared.

The reaction was violent. Ania's brain instantly lit up as if struck with electricity, and one could be forgiven for thinking that was the case based on the way her body moved.

All the muscles in her body contracted, rattling the table as she strained her bondage. Her legs desperately tried to draw her feet away from the torturous stroking of the feather, but the ankle cuffs held true.

All she could do was curl her foot protectively, wrinkling her pretty arch and squeezing her bubble-like toes. A lot of good that did her.

Ania tried holding her breath. She tried hyperventilating. She clenched her jaw so hard she felt her teeth shake. Nothing made her ticklish ordeal any more bearable. She desperately wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, but she knew if she did so she would not be able to stop the torrent of giggles that would flood out with it.

Maddeningly, the feather continued its lazy path up and down the slightly pink sole of her foot. At times, the witcher would switch feet, consulting the damned book for technique and procedure. The feather was so large in comparison to her dainty feet that a single stroke would set every nerve in her sole alight with ticklish sensation. No matter how she wiggled her feet, she could not escape it's teasing touch.

Occasionally, the witcher would stroke the feather horizontally across Aria's tightly curled toes, and it took all of Aria's will to stop herself from shouting. What a cruel joke the gods had played on her, to give her such ridiculously ticklish toes.

A pox on them, she thought venomously. I'll never utter another prayer as long as I live.

"Nnnngggghhhh.... ahhhhhhh.... pffffssshhht."

Aria could no longer stop groans from escaping through her locked teeth. She twisted and turned, throwing her head from side to side without a care for the discomfort in her contorting neck and spine. If anything, it was a welcome distraction from the stiff feather teasing and tormenting her vulnerable feet.

It took a few seconds before Ania registered that Geralt had stopped, so focused had she been on not laughing.

"A bit ticklish huh?" Said Geralt with a sadistic glint.

Ania fervently wished all manner of disaster and misfortune upon him, in the most vulgar of terms.

The witcher only smirked, and took out a brush that would not be out of place in the hands of a painter.

The threats and curses began anew, and Geralt was forced to raise his voice to declare the next stage of the challenge.

"Trial number two: The girl must endure a blessed brush, applied to the torso, for two-and-twenty minutes. She must not laugh."

Before Aria could protest, Geralt ripped open her thick wool shirt and flung it away from her body.

"What the devil are you doing witcher? Have you lost your mind?" Aria shouted

"Must have forgotten to mention that the torso must be nude." Geralt said deadpan.

Aria swore she saw wicked amusement dancing in yellow eyes, and renewed her futile struggling.

Without a word, Geralt turned the hourglass and her torment began anew.

The first stroke began at her right elbow, and teasingly traced down soft underside of her forearm. It was a light stroke, enough to send shivers through her body but not enough to quite tickle. It might have even felt good, if not for the promise of what was to come.

Sure enough, the brush reached the edge of her armpit. Ania tried in vain to pull down her arms, but the ropes held firm. Already, she felt desperate laughter building inside of her like lava in a volcanic vent.

She refused to believe herself so vulnerable, to something as childish as tickling.

The brush curved around the outer edge of her armpit, avoiding the smooth skin of her hollows. Impossibly slowly, it traced the faint outline of her ribcage, causing Ania to abruptly arch her back.

Travelling past her shapely breasts, the brush continued its path across the silky plains of her stomach. Geralt could not tear his eyes off of her smooth belly, as it flexed and heaved under the bristles, undulating almost sensually.

For Ania, this was a whole different challenge to the foot tickling. Every spot on her feet were deathly ticklish, even the tops and ankles. Of course some spots were more ticklish than others, but as long as the feather had been in contact with her delicate skin she had been alight with ticklish sensation.

On the other hand, her upper body had a much larger surface area for the brush to cover, and each area tickled in a horribly different way. The witcher, to his credit, proved to be an absolutely devious tickler, keeping the brush moving across her torso so that Ania could not grow accustomed to the sensation.

"Ghghgh-gh-ggh-ghghg." Ania's growl had the tell-tale rhythm of laughter.

"I'll ignore that one on a technicality," Geralt said with mock magnanimity.

Tickling each "zone" on Ania's torso gave a different, but predictable, reaction, amusing the witcher to no end.

All it took was one flick of the brush across those exposed ribs, and Ania would arch like a woman being exorcised. Meandering the brush across her smooth belly would cause her abs to flex and jerk violently. But not all areas were made equal.

The belly button might have been the worst. On the rare occasions Geralt would spiral the bristles into the adorable hollow, Ania would buck violently like an untamed stallion. It was an utterly unfamiliar feeling to the girl, and not one she enjoyed.

"Ooooh! Don't do that again!" She choked out.

With a wicked grin, the witcher immediately trailed the brush across her belly button, causing the girl to scream with ticklish frustration.

By the time Geralt stopped tickling, Ania's supple body was covered in a fine sheen of glistening sweat and her ample breasts heaved with ragged breath.

"Well done, I didn't think someone so ticklish could make it so far." Said Geralt.

"Just hurry up and untie me you bastard."

It took a while for Ania's exhausted brain to realise that Geralt had not moved. Dread blossomed inside the pit of her stomach and her eyes grew wide.

"The trial of the feather and brush! We've done the feather, and we've done the brush! That’s it, that’s what you said!"

"Well, you see my bard friend heard tell of a secret third trial. A final test."

Geralt was almost shocked at the fiery strength of the vitriol that followed. Where had the exhaustion gone? Maybe he hadn't tickled her hard enough after all.

"Trial number three. Fingers."

Without further ado, Geralt dug his fingers into the girls' ribs. The reaction was electric.

"PFFFFFFTTT. GAHHHHHH!"

He quickly spidered his hands down to her soft belly, where he poked and prodded at her deliciously receptive skin. The room immediately filled with desperate grunts and squeals.

There was only one spot so far left untouched; in fact Geralt had been saving it for this very moment. As if guided by magnets, his hands went straight to the smooth hollows of Ania's armpits.

"GAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA HAHAHA AHAA!"

The cat was out of the bag, and it wasn't going back in.

Ania cursed her restraints as she tried and failed to bring her elbows down to guard her most deathly ticklish spot.

Somehow, in spite of her manic wiggling and thrashing, the witcher managed to keep his hands a perfect distance from both armpits so that just the tips of his fingers spidered effortlessly across her sweat-slicked skin.

"OHOHOHO GOD IHIHIHIHIH CAAAAN'T TAKE IT!" Ania screamed amidst wracking laughter.

Not wanting to desensitize her armpits, Geralt switched to tickling the area of her ribs adjacent to her pale breasts, which now pleasingly glistened with sweat. Two fingers was all it took to drive the poor girl insane. It was almost too easy.

"PLEASE! PLEHEHEHEASE!" Ania begged. "IHIHI"VE FAILED! YOUHUHO CAN STOOOP!"

Geralt couldn't stop himself from teasing the poor, ticklish girl.

"What's the problem? I've never heard of anyone failing this trial." It wasn't a lie, but Geralt had no way of knowing if it was true.

Geralt's fingers quested down to Ania's inner thighs, which proved to be just as ridiculously ticklish as the rest of her. Geralt wasn't even surprised. At this point, finding out Ania wasn't stupidly ticklish somewhere would have been a real surprise.

"PLEEAAASE!" IHIHI'M TOO TICKLISH! I'M BEGIHIHING YOU"

"I can certainly see that." Geralt replied unsympathetically.

He moved down her long shapely legs methodically, tickling the length of her strong thighs and around her squirming knees. Even her calves were delightfully sensitive.

"Hmmmmm. Were these feet ticklish? I don't remember." Geralt teased.

"PLEASE, I'VE ALREADY FAILED! I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY- HAHAHAHA"

Ania was cut off by the sensation of a single finger scratching down her left sole, leaving a trail of nerves alight with tickling. She could only scrunch her pretty sole in Geralt's grip as he spidered his fingers across her fine arch and her narrow heel. His fingernails left ever so faint creases on her soft pink skin.

"That’s right, It's all coming back to me now." Geralt shouted over the hysteria. "As ticklish as the rest of you. I should have known."

Ania could only laugh.



When Geralt undid her bonds, Ania's soles were blushed a shade of pink.

"Congratulations, you passed the trial of feather and brush." Geralt said.

Ania blinked, confused.

"But.... I broke... in the third trial..."

"Well, lets just say that old folk tales can be embellished sometimes."

Ania understood immediately.

"You added a trial?" The girl said in disbelief.

"Of course not. I just had to be thorough. You never know with these kinds of curses." Geralt lied.

In her exhaustion, the once fiery girl was demure. She was huddled in furs Geralt had found from around the hut, her arms wrapped around her legs. Her pale toes poking out over the bench she sat on, flexing idly in the warmth of the fire.

After some deliberation, she looked at Geralt with eyes full of restrained hope.

"Do you think it worked then? Will I still be too sensitive... down there... to have sex?"

Geralt smiled.

"There's only one way to find out."
 
Thanks! I'm afraid I got a little carried away with the introduction length, but I'm pretty proud of the tickling part once I got to it ;)
 
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