Maybe 'twas this one...
My, but this is an oldie, seen initially on the old EZ Boards TMF and then, somewhat revised, on Tickletown, when it was a mere village. Let me get all the dust and cobwebs off. <Puff!> It makes me blush to reconsider it. I feel like revising it yet again. Oh, what the hell...
*The following revised F>F tickle tale is copyright 2001 by the author.
*This story is for readers 18 and over only. Why a minor would want to read this story--which features none of the explicit sex, graphic violence or pyrotechnics routinely found in movies or computer games these days—is beyond me! Wouldn’t you, like, prefer whitewashing this here long, wooden fence?
(Well, it worked for Tom Sawyer…)
*Dedicated to all the psychic charlatans who, at least, leave their customers laughing.
*Can anyone tell me what a break in my lifeline means? (Uh-oh . . .)
MS. FORTUNE’S MISFORTUNE
by Tee Hee Lawrence
Miranda Fortune was in the City for a rare afternoon of shopping, seeing, and being seen. Having
wielded the charge cards in her possession to their breaking point at numerous pricey Soho boutiques, she was hunting for a place to take the load off her feet and refuel with a latte before hailing a cab to Penn Station.
Miranda was a statuesque beauty of athletic bearing: a tad below six feet tall, with broad shoulders, a taut midsection, and long legs that clearly revealed a disciplined workout regimen. Her burnished skin was the color of coffee kissed by cream. Atop she boasted close-cut curls that were predominantly peroxide blond with reddish-brown roots. Behind her reflective Armani sunglasses flashed
lively, sensuous brown eyes.
Weighed down by innumerable chic shopping bags, she click-clacked on her amber Manolo Blahnik pumps—not exactly walking shoes, but in them her long, sleek feet were radiant—along Prince Street in pursuit of a latte. She simply had to take a load off and refuel her caffeine tank before the long shlep to Great Neck.
Miranda was brought to a halt by a sandwich chalkboard standing in front of an ivy-snarled
brownstone. Its message in ornate cursive blue and lavender chalk read:
COMPLETE READING $5.00
Like no other reading you’ve ever had by anyone!
Mrs. Azure will overwhelm you! GUARANTEED
Downstairs. Ring bell. Be patient.
Her aching feet and craving for coffee notwithstanding, Miranda couldn’t resist having her future
told by a fresh teller—and for less than her cab fare to the train station after all. What a cheap thrill! And, after all, wasn’t her name Fortune?
She descended a few steps to a worn wooden door under the stoop and pressed a button that
formed the pupil of a large eye painted in shades of blue and lavender. After a few moments, she’d almost shrugged and set off for that latte again when the door swung open, revealing, well…, revealing an unmistakeable Gypsy fortuneteller.
The woman in the doorway was olive-skinned with piercing hazel eyes and braided grey-streaked raven hair. She only came up to Miranda’s chin, but was built solidly, looking as if she could easily tote the big blonde curly-top over her shoulder. Clad in a flowing blue silk robe, with a lavender head scarf, and displaying flashing golden hoop earrings, she drew from Miranda a stunned stare and a thought spoken aloud.
“Wow! Are you a Gypsy?” asked the Long Islander in high, breathless tones.
“We prefer to be called Roma, but yes,” replied the “gypsy,” in a husky, accented voice.
“And you have come for?”
“Your sign? The $5 reading? Complete?”
“From head to toe.”
“Huh? A palm reading?”
“Yes, of course, my child. I am Mrs. Azure. Come in and be welcome.”
Miranda entered a dark hallway with a large, well-lit room well to the rear. There two younger women—perhaps still teenagers-- were dancing before a large tv screen loudly playing what might have been MTV. Mrs. Azure shouted in a Balkan tongue at the dancers, who leaped to render the tv barely heard. She then directed Miranda through a beaded curtain to her right to a small, dimly-lit room with a strong cinnamon aroma and what sounded like middle-eastern music lightly audible. In the middle of the room was a small round table covered with a faded woven cloth and bearing a glowing glass ball at its center.
“How corny!” thought Miranda. “I’ll bite my tongue, though, let her do her shtick, and,
if the reading’s lame, invoke that sign’s guarantee.”
“Great atmosphere!” she giggled.
“Yes, you can’t hear the street noise here. This basement is well sound-proofed. With my lively daughters,” Mrs. Azure said, rolling her eyes, “I keep peace with the neighbors that way.”
Miranda placed her myriad shopping bags and her Hermes handbag under the little table and sat in the squeaky wooden chair Mrs. Azure offered. The long lass kicked off her stiff new pumps and sighed as she flexed her weary and tender brown tootsies. The older woman sat in an armchair across the table, and immediately took Miranda’s hands in her own.
“Now, let us see what you have brought me.”
She studied the visitor’s right palm, and then, her left palm, humming to herself and clucking her tongue. Holding Miranda’s right hand firmly in her right, Mrs. Azure lightly stroked the palm with her long, blue-painted fingernails. Miranda’s mouth twitched, then she gave in to giggles and tried to pull her hand out of the reader’s strong grasp.
“Eeee! That-that tickles!” the blonde sputtered, blushing.
“Hmmmm. Very, very sensitive palms,” crooned the reader, casting a quick glance at Miranda’s
ample bare feet, their coffee toned tops and pale, pink soles jiggling, their long , canary-nailed toes wiggling atop the expensive shoes. A knowing smile flashed across her lips as she regained Miranda’s hand and traced ever so lightly the lines of the tender palm.
“Now there is much meaning here,” she intoned, holding the hand tightly as her long nails feathered the palm while Miranda twitched and barely stifled her mounting giggles. “But the meaning is . . . cloudy. In such cases—very rare—it would be a mistake to interpret such palms without the added meaning that comes from the soles.”
“R-read my soul? That-that’s just silly,” stammered Miranda, desperate to have the palm tickling stop.
“The soles of your feet, my child.”
“Gee, I never heard of that.”
“It is very rare. But in your case, needed.”
Suddenly suspicious, Miranda pulled back her hand and said, “ Oh, I knew it! What more will
it cost me?”
“It is part of the complete reading for the agreed-upon price,” deadpanned the seer. “I cannot
—indeed, will not tell you what matter of fate I saw in your hands until you permit me to read your feet.”
Miranda started to place her long bare feet upon the table, when Mrs. Azure arose. The Roma walked to a floral-patterned sofa, and, after clicking on a floor lamp at its right end, motioned for her guest to join her.
“Please. Lay face down upon the sofa, and place your feet upon this nice, soft pillow
by this bright light.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Miranda did just that, her head and shoulders resting on a pillow on the left end, and her feet, soles upturned, in the warm circle of light at the other. Mrs. Azure, moving with surprising speed, promptly sat back upon the sofa with her strong legs placed across the blonde’s calves. Thus Miranda’s legs were pinned, and the Roma, her left elbow on the pillow, hovered closely over her guest’s very pretty, truly trapped bare feet.
“Hey! I-I can’t move!” Miranda cried, trying but failing to see the woman behind her.
“Are you uncomfortable, child?”
“N-no, but I feel kinda awkward and, well, helpless. I really can’t move my legs at all.”
“Good! Your feet will be nice and still in this very good light. I will be able to read them from here at an excellent angle, right at my fingertips. I just require two special tools to trace the delicate lines
on your pretty soles, so pink they are and so soft.”
Mrs. Azure then called out loudly in the Balkan tongue. Immediately, the daughters--softer, slightly taller, not quite finished versions of their mother, ran laughing to her, and she, with a sly smile, whispered instructions as they nodded with delight. Miranda again tried, unsuccessfully, to twist her upper body and peer at the giggling trio.
“Now, now, no peeking, my child. You’ll make it uncomfortable for yourself and make an accurate reading harder,” remonstrated the Roma, who selected a large stiff goose quill and a soft peacock feather from a vase her older daughter brought to her. She twirled the quill in the air millimeters above
Miranda’s exceedingly soft soles, glowing quite pink and still moist from their hours in the pumps. The toes wiggled as the quill swept the air alongside them.
“Yes,” Mrs. Azure crooned, “I want to be careful to trace these…tender lines with the utmost delicacy…slowly… so that you—an intelligent, young woman—can draw a clear lesson from each touch of
my, ah…tool. Now, then, here are the looooong lines . . .”
Mrs. Azure, with just the tip of the goose quill, began to stroke back and forth along the length of Miranda’s soles, following some spidery lines and their tenuous tributaries. The blonde gasped and jerked, futilely trying to free her helpless feet.
“Oh-no-no-no-no! St-stop! Eh-heh-heh-heh-heeeee . . .”
Miranda was roiled with laughter as the Roma “pointed out” the lines under the blonde’s toes with the goose quill, then “indicated” the lines of the instep with the peacock feather tip, and “demonstrated” that there were little lines all over the soles by spider-walking her long fingernails thereupon. The visitor’s entreaties were buried in her raucous laughter, which delighted the broadly-smiling Mrs. Azure, still firmly
restraining her victim’s legs despite the latter’s efforts to be free.
A nod from their mother, and the daughters, laughing, descended on the shopping bags under the table, examining their contents. They gleefully grabbed the Hermes bag, and fought over the riches within: a not inconsiderable sum of cash, the many, many charge cards. Given a moment’s breather, Miranda, gasping, sobbing, giggling, turned and spied the harvesting out of the corners of her tearing eyes.
“You’re thieves! Damn Gypsies! Help! Police! Help! Aieee! Stop! Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha…”
“Propaganda. Stereotypes. And we’re Roma, please,” pointed out Mrs. Azure, her fingernails playfully scratching Miranda’s arches. “We are merely redistributing wealth from a rich, silly woman to a poor, hard-working family. And your screams will alert no one. I told you about the soundproofing.”
“ Well, heh-heh, you can forget the credit cards,” stammered Miranda. “They’re, heh-heh-heh, all maxxed out.”
Mrs. Azure in reply narrowed her eyes, muttered a curse, and intensified her play across Miranda’s soles with her long, blue fingernails. The blonde yelped, her laughter fueled by her amazement that she was so easily made helpless.
One of the foraging teens found an ATM card in the Hermes bag.. She brought it to her mother, who smiled and pinched Miranda’s tightly-clad buttocks.
“O.K., you silly, ticklish woman. We have found a lovely ATM card. And for a bank with a branch just a few blocks away. So convenient! Tell us, please, the necessary PIN.”
“Sure,” panted Miranda, “like I’d tell you—aiee!ih-ih-ha-ha-ha . . .”
Miranda’s throaty refusal was met, not only with the mother maliciously scribbling with the quill across her tender soles, but one daughter’s grabbing hold of her wrists while the other spiritedly dug her fingertips into the blonde’s sides from armpits to hips. Her eyes were quickly blinded by tears. Her high-pitched shrieks of laughter gave way to nigh silent paroxysms when the blue fingernails began a concerted exploration of the recesses between her toes. How long could she hold out against such wickedly applied persuasion?
“Nuh-nuh-hee-hee-hee-eh-heh-heh . . .”
Miranda screamed and bucked hilariously, but the trio held firm and expertly—as if practicing a well-honed craft-- tickled her to a veritable Niagara upon her cheeks and between her legs. Exhausted, she blurted, “Look-heh-I-hehheh-I dunno the PIN. Ahhahhahaa! H-honest!”
“Come now, my child. Lying to us…” the Roma chided. “You will laugh to the edge of madness. Such a tall, proud, fancy lady, so sure and so rich, until cootchy-coo…”--as she scratched under Miranda’s long toes—“… you’re a weak, little girl.”
“Ahhahahahaaa! N-no! Re-heehee-really!” Miranda shrieked. “Look-heh--for my license--hahaha--in my shoe. Check—OhGodStophaha—the name on the—ahha—charge cards and <snicker> the ATM card.”
Following their mother’s nod, the daughters brought her the Hermes bag and Miranda’s shoes. She ceased her tickling— much to Miranda’s audible relief—while she found, under the insole of the right pump, a driver’s license bearing Miranda’s picture.
“This isn’t you!” insisted Mrs. Azure. “This woman has red rolls on her head.”
“’Rows. They were ‘rows,” Miranda said, still struggling for breath. “That was me six months ago. I change hair color and style a lot. I gotta…I gotta keep changing my looks…for my…business.”
“Ah-haaah!” Mrs. Azure sighed with recognition. “I now see, Miss… Fortune.” She was holding
Miranda’s driver’s license next to the ATM card, which bore a different name. “You are no better than
us. You stole—oh, excuse me, ‘borrowed’ this bag and its many riches yourself. You went on a spree,eh?”
Mrs. Azure fingered Miranda’s toes lightly, and the blonde fought her rising giggles until:
“Yes! Yes! Ha-ha! O.K! I pinched the bag from a dork at the train station. Ha-ha! Stop!”
“Why, my sister,” smiled the reader, “such wicked behavior deserves my gift of pleasure to you.”
With undisguised glee, the Roma resumed her ten-fingered “reading.” Having gauged which spots elicited the greatest hysteria in her customer, she concentrated her delicate touch. Miranda’s pleas for mercy were swamped by her waves of laughter, even coherent thought surrendering to the nails stroking the arch of one foot and the big toe of the other.
Finally, concurrent rhythmic five-fingered strokes from heel-to-toes and back, over and over for long minutes without rest saw Miranda’s eyes eventually widen with her awareness of an imminent explosion within, her laughter now superceded by staggered gasps ending in a rushing roar of pleasure. The fingers slowed as her head sunk into the pillow amidst sighs and giggles.
Mrs. Azure barked a Roma order to one daughter, who ran down the corridor. Daughter returned a few moments later with a small bowl of smoking herbs, which she held by the visitor’s flushed, sweaty face, until the blonde giggled her way into sleep. A brush of the goose quill across her equally flushed soles yielded but a twitch, proving her slumber sound enough for some maneuvers.
Mrs. Azure made certain that they had left Miranda cash enough for carfare. The stolen cards
were returned to the Hermes bag, her license hidden again in her shoe, and the shopping bags to neat order, their contents complete. (What could the family do, after all, with a Hello, Kitty! saki serving set or velour leopard slacks?)
Miranda awoke, seated at the little round table, with her Manolo Blahnik pumps on and her palms up in the hands of Mrs. Azure. She felt flushed and . . . sated, of all things, here and now.
“Whew! The atmosphere here got me all . . . dreamy. It’s the weirdest feeling. My sides ache.
My feet tingle. I’m fighting the giggles. I usually don’t feel this way except, uh, in bed.” She shook her head, unable to remove the silly smile on her face. “So, what do you see in my hand?”
“I see,” intoned Mrs. Azure with gravity, “a past filled with laughter and a future no doubt filled with many pairs of expensive shoes.”
After a pregnant pause, Miranda cracked, “Uh-huh, well, that’s not worth $5.”
She shrugged then and brought the Hermes bag up to the table. Fishing through (and thinking, “Boy! I spent more of that mark’s cash than I thought.”) its contents, she produced a crumpled fiver, and held it out to the reader.
“No, no,” demurred the Roma, “the guarantee. Keep your money, and leave happy.”
“Ooo-kay, it’s a little weird,” trilled Miranda, “but good-bye.”
The out-of-towner went off, hoping the walk to Sixth Avenue—and a cab— wouldn’t take too great a toll on her now really sensitive feet. She thought that it really was a pity that the Gypsy reading didn’t amount to more than a moment’s glance at her palm and a silly fortune, like something out of a cookie from Chinese take-out. She would have liked to have found out if her future held a really big score,
a heist to retire on. Now, that would have tickled her…
Leaning back on the sofa, Mrs. Azure, a smile spreading unbidden to her lips, counted the many bills Miranda had “left” behind. So intent was she on her counting that, while giggles bubbled up her throat,
she proceeded, despite the considerable distraction from the two peacock feathers which her daughters, seated at her feet, were almost imperceptibly brushing under her wiggling blue-painted toes. Like mother, like daughters . . .
***Tee Hee here again: Yes, rest assured I know that the stereotype of the Gypsy thief is unfair and meretricious, and I used it here with the same writer’s license I used with the idea that Miranda’s tootsies are not just highly ticklish but are also easily stimulated erogenous zones. All in the cause of a playful tickle tale . . .
very nice work!
