Hunting the Hunter
part II
by Kid Indy
Don Pedro de la Sierra was furious when he received the news. "Capitan Smythe will die for this!" he shouted as he slammed his fist down on the table. He read the note that Sara had written him and that Don Miguel had brought. "Get my sailors together. That pirate has been a menace to Spain long enough, and now he has taken my Sara!" The officers of La Pantera nodded and left the room to gather the crew. Pedro studied his charts carefully and found Moon Island in the islands known as the Bahamas.
On that island, so named because of the curving arms that ended only half a mile from each other and gave the island a crescent moon shape, three ships pulled alongside a safe beach on the north face. Boats began to ferry people onto the island, and before long Sara del Furzo found herself on one of the boats heading in. She could see that horses awaited them on shore, and she began to resent Smythe's hand, a constant presence on her arm.
As they boarded the smaller boat, Smythe said, "Welcome to my home. It was a grant from the King, you know." He gestured grandly as he surveyed the small, maybe four mile long, island.
"Your king gave you an island?"
"Yes, for services rendered and treasure stolen. All from your king, of course." He poked her in the ribs as he said this, and she squirmed, still resenting.
"And now you're holding me for ransom?"
"In a sense, but you're more a hostage. Remember when you wrote to Don Pedro telling him where you would be?"
"Si."
"Well, your young love isn't one to pay ransoms to pirates. He'll come looking for me, but he'll bring enough troops to kill me and all my brave sailors."
"Then why are you not scared?"
Smythe handed her a telescope. "Look to the northwest." Sara did, and she saw eight large ships on the horizon. "These are all the pirates who have come under danger on account of your handsome little pirate hunter. They're going to be waiting on the other side of the island. When my ship" he pointed to the small English vessel "flees into the bay, your Pedro will follow. And when he does, my friends close off the harbor and trap him. Then," he pointed to the opening of the bay, "my secret gift will be unveiled."
"Secret gift?"
"Yes. Cannons purchased from the Chinese. They're quite ingenious, really. They'll launch flaming pots into Pedro's ship, and he will have no choice but to surrender once the fires start." Sara looked but could see no such cannons. Reading her eyes, Smythe said, "Right now they're hidden in the trees. They'll only come out moments before they start lighting our little Don's ship on fire." Sara's hand flew to her mouth.
One horse carried Smythe and Sara while other armed men rode flanking them over a ridge and into a valley that they could not see from the shore. Next to one of the streams coming off the hills was a large and ornate house. People were moving here and there in the valley, collecting something from what looked like a small farm. "Sugar farmers," Smythe said. "I also have a rum distillery down the valley. It will be my business when the Spanish coffers run dry." He laughed at his own joke and gave Sara's ribs another squeeze. She squealed and turned on him.
"You will stop doing that at once!" Her olive face was turning red; her black hair flew as her dark eyes sparkled.
"My dear Sara, we are not going to do well waiting on Pedro if you keep barking orders at me. Paul! John!" Sara flinched as she heard the familiar English names. The two sailors quickly rode up to the lead horses. "When we get to the house, take Sara inside and give her her new clothes."
"I do not want your clothes, pirate!" Sara felt proud of her defiance and the little English she could speak.
"Give her ten minutes to change and wash. If she does not, you may change and wash her." John and Paul chuckled and leered at Sara. She cowered. "But remember, her virtue you will not touch." The sailors looked only mildly disappointed. Changing over to Spanish, he told Sara, "If you do not change your clothes,"
"They will change them for me. I heard you, pirate."
"And call me Smythe. It will make your stay much more pleasant. I was going to wait until tomorrow to enjoy you again, but perhaps tonight would be better." He licked his lips so that she could see it, then he dismounted his horse, motioned John and Paul over, and started inside. Sara only screamed for a moment as her strange escorts took her to the guest chambers.
Don Pedro was in his boat heading toward the Bahamas by nightfall. His war frigate held one hundred twenty of his best fighters, and two more ships followed, each one hundred twenty men and thirty cannon strong. He wished the wind would carry him faster and once again swore that Smythe's head would soon hang from his prow. He sailed on.
Sara reluctantly washed up and changed into her new clothes, a dress that hugged tight to her limber torso (her father had her trained as a classic dancer) and ended slightly below her knees. The sleeveless dress also showed off the tops of her breasts, something that she certainly was not accustomed to. The shoes that she had been given elevated her heels more than she was comfortable, and she knew that they would make her legs tired. John came in and announced dinner, and she complied, hoping that her lover would be there soon.
Smythe treated her to a veritable feast; the fruits alone were exquisite. When she inquired into why she was receiving this royal treatment, he replied, "You are my guest. My quarrel is with Pedro, not with you. Please, enjoy my hospitality." Sara was taken aback, and she wondered whether he still intended to "enjoy" her. He proved an excellent conversation partner, and as the meal wore on, his English accent dwindled away.
After dinner they retired to a drawing room. "You'll excuse my rough handling of you earlier," he said. "You see, I had to get that letter written, and tying you up was the quickest way to do so without hurting you."
"Are you not going to apologize for the awful tickling you gave me?"
"Not at all. I think you enjoyed it. In fact, put your foot on the stool."
Sara had taken an extra glass of wine, and she was in the mood for a little flirting. She put her left foot on the padded stool in front of her. "But Senor Smythe, I hated it when you tickled. I have never liked that."
He pulled the shoe off of her foot, giving it some air that felt quite good. "I think you are lying to me. Shall we see?"
"How are you going to do that?" He quickly drew a finger down her bare sole, and she let out a surprised shriek. She pulled her foot back. "Don't do that! I told you I didn't like it!" Her face, however, wore a wine-tipsy smile.
"But you smile as if you like it. Give me your other foot." She extended that leg, and he took off the other shoe. "You see, the Chinese sailors who sold me the cannons taught me that women think they hate tickling but will beg for more if they're honest. Do you believe that?"
"Not at all, Capitan." Why was she doing this? She knew that the smooth Englishman's eyes were playing tricks on her, but she kept the game up.
"Then let me test you." He walked to a chest in the corner of the room and pulled out what looked like four fur hand warmers. "I'm going to put these on you so that I can tickle you better."
Sara could see the thin ropes attached to the cuffs, and she became suddenly serious. "No, Capitan. I won't let you."
"I could call John and Paul and have them put you in the cuffs." Sara did not want that, so as Smythe turned the cuffs inside out so that the fur was on the inside and the leather on the outside, she took a deep breath and tried to think non-ticklish thoughts. The pirate captain strapped both her feet tightly to the ottoman, and her hands he pulled up over the back of the chair and anchored her left cuff to the right chair leg and her right to the left. Going back to the chest, he pulled out two feathers, blue this time, and two gloves whose fingertips were topped with parrots' talons. She started to giggle in anticipation.
"See, you are already enjoying it! Now I know that my theory is right." He set down the tools and walked behind her. "Are you ready to test the idea?"
"No, please!"
"Good!" His fingertips dug into her underarms, drawing the squeal of a little girl who was not used to being tickled. That noise coming from such a comely twenty-year-old woman was a wonderful thing, and he kept digging in. She tried to grab onto his hair with her cuffed hands, but he dodged his head to the side and kept stroking and prodding that soft noblewoman's skin. He picked up one of the feathers and began twirling it in her right armpit, drawing a trill of high-pitched giggles and a new wave of Spanish begging.
Her face was once again red, and after he had tickled her armpits for several minutes she yelled, "I do not enjoy it! And I will not beg for more! Untie me, Capitan! You said that you meant me no harm!"
"Harm? You've done nothing but laugh since you sat down." He began to walk towards her feet. "And I know for certain that my theory is right. I just haven't tickled you enough!"
"No!" The sustained "O" note soared as he began scratching her left ankle and right sole. He scrabbled and stroked and scratched and wiggled all over her tender pink soles, and she could not stand it. She was thrashing about, her hair sticking to her forehead and her beautiful eyes blazing. And her laugh, that wonderful laugh, filled the room with a sweet soprano staccato. He grabbed her toes and tickled under them with a feather; he scratched at her heel and sustained her giggle until he himself soared aloft. When he stopped, Sara still laughed for a few seconds if only because she could not remember anything else. She gasped and started begging again as he started to put on the gloves.
"Don't worry. This won't hurt. But it will make it more fun for you."
"I don't love this! I want out!"
"Well, I'm certain my theory is right." His eyes shone with a deception completed. "I suppose I'll just keep tickling until you beg for more!" Sara's eyes widened. She wanted out, but only begging for more tickling would get her there. She could not even think of Don Pedro as her fear welled up.
"Pleeeee--" She could not even say "favor" as the gloved fingertips tormented her soles again. She screamed and she giggled, but "por favor" could not get out, much less "tickle me more." She fought and fought for that moment of control, but Smythe was wiping her out. He scratched under her knees and inside her thigh, bringing a new kind of guilty pleasure into the picture for Sara. He scratched the soft flesh between her toes, and he occasionally traced circles around her heel. He stopped for a moment, and Sara knew she had her chance.
"Please, Senor Smythe, tickle me more." Her heart raced as he paused.
"I suppose I will, if you really want me to."
"No! You said that--" Again she fell into a squeal as he started working the awful claws up and down her exposed underarms. He worked her sides from the undersides of her upper arms to the barely exposed ridges of her precious few visible ribs. She tried to curse him, but again her words would not come. And most horrifyingly, she started to wish he would tickle her thighs again. She knew that she would have to confess this.
After a lengthy tickle, Smythe took his gloves off, and Sara slowly caught her breath. He undid her wrist cuffs, then her ankle cuffs, and she sat back in the chair. "So did you enjoy that, dear?"
Sara stared at him with all the defiance she could muster. "My Pedro will kill you, pirate."
"No, my dear, he won't. We will either capture or kill him, and we will ransom you and maybe him back to your rich, spoiled families. And all you will have to remember me by will be our little moments together." He poked her in the belly as he said this, and she could only muster a little swat. "Now go to bed, Sara. We'll have a big day tomorrow if your Pedro comes. And if he doesn't, we'll just have to" he twirled one of the feathers in his fingers "have some more fun."
Don Pedro de la Sierra looked to the North as his fleet sailed on. He hoped and prayed that Smythe, that English dog, had not harmed his Sara. His hand instinctively grasped the hilt of his sword as he thought and sailed.
* * * * * * * * *
Okay, I lied. This might turn out to be another seven-part story. But I really like tickling this one!
As always, I appreciate your feedback, your comments, and your ideas as to what should happen to our lovely Sara del Furzo next.
Kid Indy
part II
by Kid Indy
Don Pedro de la Sierra was furious when he received the news. "Capitan Smythe will die for this!" he shouted as he slammed his fist down on the table. He read the note that Sara had written him and that Don Miguel had brought. "Get my sailors together. That pirate has been a menace to Spain long enough, and now he has taken my Sara!" The officers of La Pantera nodded and left the room to gather the crew. Pedro studied his charts carefully and found Moon Island in the islands known as the Bahamas.
On that island, so named because of the curving arms that ended only half a mile from each other and gave the island a crescent moon shape, three ships pulled alongside a safe beach on the north face. Boats began to ferry people onto the island, and before long Sara del Furzo found herself on one of the boats heading in. She could see that horses awaited them on shore, and she began to resent Smythe's hand, a constant presence on her arm.
As they boarded the smaller boat, Smythe said, "Welcome to my home. It was a grant from the King, you know." He gestured grandly as he surveyed the small, maybe four mile long, island.
"Your king gave you an island?"
"Yes, for services rendered and treasure stolen. All from your king, of course." He poked her in the ribs as he said this, and she squirmed, still resenting.
"And now you're holding me for ransom?"
"In a sense, but you're more a hostage. Remember when you wrote to Don Pedro telling him where you would be?"
"Si."
"Well, your young love isn't one to pay ransoms to pirates. He'll come looking for me, but he'll bring enough troops to kill me and all my brave sailors."
"Then why are you not scared?"
Smythe handed her a telescope. "Look to the northwest." Sara did, and she saw eight large ships on the horizon. "These are all the pirates who have come under danger on account of your handsome little pirate hunter. They're going to be waiting on the other side of the island. When my ship" he pointed to the small English vessel "flees into the bay, your Pedro will follow. And when he does, my friends close off the harbor and trap him. Then," he pointed to the opening of the bay, "my secret gift will be unveiled."
"Secret gift?"
"Yes. Cannons purchased from the Chinese. They're quite ingenious, really. They'll launch flaming pots into Pedro's ship, and he will have no choice but to surrender once the fires start." Sara looked but could see no such cannons. Reading her eyes, Smythe said, "Right now they're hidden in the trees. They'll only come out moments before they start lighting our little Don's ship on fire." Sara's hand flew to her mouth.
One horse carried Smythe and Sara while other armed men rode flanking them over a ridge and into a valley that they could not see from the shore. Next to one of the streams coming off the hills was a large and ornate house. People were moving here and there in the valley, collecting something from what looked like a small farm. "Sugar farmers," Smythe said. "I also have a rum distillery down the valley. It will be my business when the Spanish coffers run dry." He laughed at his own joke and gave Sara's ribs another squeeze. She squealed and turned on him.
"You will stop doing that at once!" Her olive face was turning red; her black hair flew as her dark eyes sparkled.
"My dear Sara, we are not going to do well waiting on Pedro if you keep barking orders at me. Paul! John!" Sara flinched as she heard the familiar English names. The two sailors quickly rode up to the lead horses. "When we get to the house, take Sara inside and give her her new clothes."
"I do not want your clothes, pirate!" Sara felt proud of her defiance and the little English she could speak.
"Give her ten minutes to change and wash. If she does not, you may change and wash her." John and Paul chuckled and leered at Sara. She cowered. "But remember, her virtue you will not touch." The sailors looked only mildly disappointed. Changing over to Spanish, he told Sara, "If you do not change your clothes,"
"They will change them for me. I heard you, pirate."
"And call me Smythe. It will make your stay much more pleasant. I was going to wait until tomorrow to enjoy you again, but perhaps tonight would be better." He licked his lips so that she could see it, then he dismounted his horse, motioned John and Paul over, and started inside. Sara only screamed for a moment as her strange escorts took her to the guest chambers.
Don Pedro was in his boat heading toward the Bahamas by nightfall. His war frigate held one hundred twenty of his best fighters, and two more ships followed, each one hundred twenty men and thirty cannon strong. He wished the wind would carry him faster and once again swore that Smythe's head would soon hang from his prow. He sailed on.
Sara reluctantly washed up and changed into her new clothes, a dress that hugged tight to her limber torso (her father had her trained as a classic dancer) and ended slightly below her knees. The sleeveless dress also showed off the tops of her breasts, something that she certainly was not accustomed to. The shoes that she had been given elevated her heels more than she was comfortable, and she knew that they would make her legs tired. John came in and announced dinner, and she complied, hoping that her lover would be there soon.
Smythe treated her to a veritable feast; the fruits alone were exquisite. When she inquired into why she was receiving this royal treatment, he replied, "You are my guest. My quarrel is with Pedro, not with you. Please, enjoy my hospitality." Sara was taken aback, and she wondered whether he still intended to "enjoy" her. He proved an excellent conversation partner, and as the meal wore on, his English accent dwindled away.
After dinner they retired to a drawing room. "You'll excuse my rough handling of you earlier," he said. "You see, I had to get that letter written, and tying you up was the quickest way to do so without hurting you."
"Are you not going to apologize for the awful tickling you gave me?"
"Not at all. I think you enjoyed it. In fact, put your foot on the stool."
Sara had taken an extra glass of wine, and she was in the mood for a little flirting. She put her left foot on the padded stool in front of her. "But Senor Smythe, I hated it when you tickled. I have never liked that."
He pulled the shoe off of her foot, giving it some air that felt quite good. "I think you are lying to me. Shall we see?"
"How are you going to do that?" He quickly drew a finger down her bare sole, and she let out a surprised shriek. She pulled her foot back. "Don't do that! I told you I didn't like it!" Her face, however, wore a wine-tipsy smile.
"But you smile as if you like it. Give me your other foot." She extended that leg, and he took off the other shoe. "You see, the Chinese sailors who sold me the cannons taught me that women think they hate tickling but will beg for more if they're honest. Do you believe that?"
"Not at all, Capitan." Why was she doing this? She knew that the smooth Englishman's eyes were playing tricks on her, but she kept the game up.
"Then let me test you." He walked to a chest in the corner of the room and pulled out what looked like four fur hand warmers. "I'm going to put these on you so that I can tickle you better."
Sara could see the thin ropes attached to the cuffs, and she became suddenly serious. "No, Capitan. I won't let you."
"I could call John and Paul and have them put you in the cuffs." Sara did not want that, so as Smythe turned the cuffs inside out so that the fur was on the inside and the leather on the outside, she took a deep breath and tried to think non-ticklish thoughts. The pirate captain strapped both her feet tightly to the ottoman, and her hands he pulled up over the back of the chair and anchored her left cuff to the right chair leg and her right to the left. Going back to the chest, he pulled out two feathers, blue this time, and two gloves whose fingertips were topped with parrots' talons. She started to giggle in anticipation.
"See, you are already enjoying it! Now I know that my theory is right." He set down the tools and walked behind her. "Are you ready to test the idea?"
"No, please!"
"Good!" His fingertips dug into her underarms, drawing the squeal of a little girl who was not used to being tickled. That noise coming from such a comely twenty-year-old woman was a wonderful thing, and he kept digging in. She tried to grab onto his hair with her cuffed hands, but he dodged his head to the side and kept stroking and prodding that soft noblewoman's skin. He picked up one of the feathers and began twirling it in her right armpit, drawing a trill of high-pitched giggles and a new wave of Spanish begging.
Her face was once again red, and after he had tickled her armpits for several minutes she yelled, "I do not enjoy it! And I will not beg for more! Untie me, Capitan! You said that you meant me no harm!"
"Harm? You've done nothing but laugh since you sat down." He began to walk towards her feet. "And I know for certain that my theory is right. I just haven't tickled you enough!"
"No!" The sustained "O" note soared as he began scratching her left ankle and right sole. He scrabbled and stroked and scratched and wiggled all over her tender pink soles, and she could not stand it. She was thrashing about, her hair sticking to her forehead and her beautiful eyes blazing. And her laugh, that wonderful laugh, filled the room with a sweet soprano staccato. He grabbed her toes and tickled under them with a feather; he scratched at her heel and sustained her giggle until he himself soared aloft. When he stopped, Sara still laughed for a few seconds if only because she could not remember anything else. She gasped and started begging again as he started to put on the gloves.
"Don't worry. This won't hurt. But it will make it more fun for you."
"I don't love this! I want out!"
"Well, I'm certain my theory is right." His eyes shone with a deception completed. "I suppose I'll just keep tickling until you beg for more!" Sara's eyes widened. She wanted out, but only begging for more tickling would get her there. She could not even think of Don Pedro as her fear welled up.
"Pleeeee--" She could not even say "favor" as the gloved fingertips tormented her soles again. She screamed and she giggled, but "por favor" could not get out, much less "tickle me more." She fought and fought for that moment of control, but Smythe was wiping her out. He scratched under her knees and inside her thigh, bringing a new kind of guilty pleasure into the picture for Sara. He scratched the soft flesh between her toes, and he occasionally traced circles around her heel. He stopped for a moment, and Sara knew she had her chance.
"Please, Senor Smythe, tickle me more." Her heart raced as he paused.
"I suppose I will, if you really want me to."
"No! You said that--" Again she fell into a squeal as he started working the awful claws up and down her exposed underarms. He worked her sides from the undersides of her upper arms to the barely exposed ridges of her precious few visible ribs. She tried to curse him, but again her words would not come. And most horrifyingly, she started to wish he would tickle her thighs again. She knew that she would have to confess this.
After a lengthy tickle, Smythe took his gloves off, and Sara slowly caught her breath. He undid her wrist cuffs, then her ankle cuffs, and she sat back in the chair. "So did you enjoy that, dear?"
Sara stared at him with all the defiance she could muster. "My Pedro will kill you, pirate."
"No, my dear, he won't. We will either capture or kill him, and we will ransom you and maybe him back to your rich, spoiled families. And all you will have to remember me by will be our little moments together." He poked her in the belly as he said this, and she could only muster a little swat. "Now go to bed, Sara. We'll have a big day tomorrow if your Pedro comes. And if he doesn't, we'll just have to" he twirled one of the feathers in his fingers "have some more fun."
Don Pedro de la Sierra looked to the North as his fleet sailed on. He hoped and prayed that Smythe, that English dog, had not harmed his Sara. His hand instinctively grasped the hilt of his sword as he thought and sailed.
* * * * * * * * *
Okay, I lied. This might turn out to be another seven-part story. But I really like tickling this one!
As always, I appreciate your feedback, your comments, and your ideas as to what should happen to our lovely Sara del Furzo next.Kid Indy
