Strelnikov
4th Level Red Feather
- Joined
- May 7, 2001
- Messages
- 1,820
- Points
- 0
by Strelnikov
Copyright 2009 by the author
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“Are we there yet?” Amber said eagerly from the shotgun seat as Brittany drove through the open gate and past the empty stone guard shack. “Are we, huh? Are we?”
“Looks that way,” Cassie said from the back seat.
“Keep it up, and I’ll stop right here and tickle you to death!” Brittany added.
“Might as well stop, slow as you drive,” Cassie said dismissively. “My grandma drives faster.”
“Oh, shut up,” Brittany said. She wheeled into a paved parking lot – half a dozen or so cars were there already. “We’re here – let’s sign in and get a cabin.” The girls had come from Trismegistus University to Leonard Slye State Park for a science fiction convention – a relax-a-con, really – called CampCon. It looked like they’d have a good weekend for the con – it was just a week after Labor Day, and the Indian Summer weather was perfect.
Brittany Sinclair was a freshman from Niagara Falls, a petite girl with bright coppery-red hair cut in a jawline-length style. She just missed being beautiful – she had a fit, toned body, sky-blue eyes and that perfect skin only redheads have. Her personality had a bit of an edge – she was bright and restless, willful and a little self-centered. She was dressed for traveling in a comfy old gray shorts, sandals and a thrift-store t-shirt that said SARA LEE BAKERY / Plant No. 7 / Employee Picnic.
Truth be known, she was a bit of a bully. She had a younger brother, and for years she rode his ass like a rodeo cowboy. Unfortunately, three years ago he had made a pair of related discoveries – her feet were off-the-scale ticklish, and he was suddenly bigger and stronger than she was. He took full advantage, of course, and tickled her silly – for the next two years, she had laughed hard and laughed often. They had come to an accomodation, but Brittany had taken the lesson to heart. Tickling was the ideal chastisement, because it left no marks and nobody took it serious. Since then, she had delighted in tickle-torturing other girls.
Amber Pareto was another freshman. She and Brittany had been best friends for years – now, they were sharing a 4-bedroom dorm apartment with two other girls at school. She was a cutie with silky blonde hair cut short like Brittany’s, blue eyes, a great body, a summer tan, shapely legs, and well-kept, extremely ticklish feet. She wore jeans shorts, flip-flops, and another thrift store shirt that said MICKEY RAT’S CLUB / Bar and Grill / Evans, New York.
Cassidy Mulford – Cassie – was another room-mate, and the the third member of the group. She had grown up on a West Texas cattle ranch 50 miles south of the Texas-New Mexico line, in the valley of the Rio Pecos. She had curves in all the right places, long wavy dark hair, dark brows and lashes, brown eyes and tanned, freckled fair skin. She was a work in progress – a cute girl, no great beauty, with a sunny, open disposition – but in a few more years, she would be absolutely stunning. Brittany had just met her at the start of the term, but she seemed nice enough. Like the others, she wore shorts, sandals and t-shirt – hers said ROY ROGERS / Double-R-Bar Ranch / Victorville, California.
A cardboard sign directed them to Con Registration, on the roofed veranda of a big stone building near the parking lot. The guy with the cash box wore black coveralls and boots and a holstered ray-gun. The word N♂MAD was painted on his forehead, framed with blue-black tiger stripes that extended down his face and neck. But this was a con – he wouldn’t stand out in this crowd.
“Let’s see some ID,” N♂MAD said. “First time here?”
“Yah,” Cassie said, handing over her driver license and signaling for the others to do the same.
“Let’s see... OK, you’re all over 18,” he said, handing their licenses back. “This con’s a little different,” he continued. “Your con membership includes all of your meals, not just snacks and soft drinks. Always plenty of parties here, so there’s plenty of free booze around, if you’re so inclined. And we’ve got this whole Group Camp for the weekend, so don’t worry about shocking the citizens.”
“The website said there’s cabins?” Brittany said.
He handed her a xerox-copied map of the campsite. “Yup, the CC built ‘em during the Depression – this was one of their camps. You’re early – take your pick.” The Civilian Conservation Corps had been intended to provide work for unemployed young men – they planted trees, built park infrastructure, improved rural roads and suchlike. The Corps was organized in quasi-military companies, commanded by an Army Captain or 1st Lieutenant, assisted by a few other officers and sergeants. The cadre were reservists, often unemployed men who were glad to be called-up for the paycheck.
Brittany studied the map. The layout showed its military ancestry – it was centered on a big square field, bordered by unpaved roads, that had once been a parade ground. The parking lot and dining hall were on one side, a group of good-sized cabins that had probably been the headquarters complex was on the adjacent side. Three more roads led away from the side opposite the dining hall, with numbered cabins spaced out along them – a larger building in each group was labeled “Bath House”. The fourth side had a long, open-sided picnic shelter that had begun life as a shelter for vehicles. Beyond that was a patch of woods, with a trail that led across a little creek down to an artificial lake.
The girls selected an unoccupied cabin. The camp roads had once been graveled, but after years of tight budgets and deferred maintenance, the stones had long since returned to the soil. The weather had been dry lately – they raised a rooster-tail of dust as they brought the car around.
The cabin was small, intended for a sergeant. It was board-and-batten construction, lit by a single bare overhead bulb, with a metal roof that overhung a tiny front porch. The windows were screened, but had solid bi-fold shutters instead of glass. The furnishings were basic: a closed-in bench that doubled as a chest built into one end wall, a built-in wooden cabinet with doors, two steel GI double-decker bunks with vinyl-covered mattresses, and a small table with four bent-cane chairs, the 1930s version of the inexpensive utility chair. On the wall over the table was a round metal plate that covered a flue intended for a wood-burning stove.
“Must’ve been pretty gloomy in the winter,” Amber said.
“Would’ve been dark anyway by the time they got back here after work,” Cassie said. “My grandpa was in the CC. He said it was the best thing that ever happened to him.”
“If you say so,” Brittany said dubiously, looking around. “See if there’s a broom over there – I want to knock down some of these spider webs.”
“Wouldn’t hurt to sweep the place out either,” Cassie said. “I’ll get the shutters open.”
“Care to cut cards for the top bunks?” Amber asked afterward. She was a better-than-average card player, as Brittany knew all too well. Still, there were ways of evening the odds...
“You two can have ‘em,” Cassie said, heading off Brittany’s scheming. “I’ve got no use for card games.” Brittany felt a sudden twinge of doubt – an adherent to one of the more austere Protestant churches wouldn’t fit in too well at a con.
They brought their gear inside and set up housekeeping. Afterward, Brittany kicked off her flip-flops. “Let’s take advantage of the day and go barefoot,” she said. She had an ulterior motive – it made tickle attacks easier.
“Good idea,” Amber said, ditching her sandals. “Winter’s coming, and then we’ll be wearing boots for the next 6 months.” In their Midwestern college town, that wasn’t much of an exaggeration.
“Oh, all right,” Cassie said, stepping out of her shoes. “But if I step on a sharp rock– ”
“You grew up on a ranch, but you’re a tenderfoot?” Brittany said.
“Back home, even the Comanches don’t go barefoot,” Cassie said.
“You’ll survive,” Brittany said. She picked up her purse, a Goth backpack style, black trimmed in pink with a skeletal Hello Kitty on it. “C’mon, let’s see what’s going on at the Lodge.”
They spotted a guy walking past as they went outside. He was college age, tanned and fit-looking, with short silvery blond hair and blue eyes. He wore a black Western-style shirt with long sleeves, black jeans with a wide black silver-buckled belt, a wide-brimmed black Stetson with a Montana Break in the tall rounded crown, and (oddly) a pair of lace-up tennis shoes.
Brittany had a weakness for Hitler Jugend types – this weekend might turn out better than just OK. “Howdy, pilgrim,” she said in a bad John Wayne imitation. “You headed West?”
“Headed to the Lodge,” he said. “I’m Will Boyd,” he added, and tipped his hat. “And now, you have the advantage of me.”
Brittany introduced herself and the others. “Cassie here is from Texas,” she said. “You a neighbor of hers?”
“I’m from Illinois,” Will said. “Then again, so was Wyatt Earp.”
“What’s with that outfit at a con?” Cassie asked.
“Ever read the “Hoka” stories?”
Cassie nodded. “Poul Anderson and Gordy Dickson wrote ‘em.”
“I’m the Sheriff of Canyon Gulch.”
“I understand the clothes,” Amber said. “But why are you wearing sneakers?”
“If I wore cowboy boots with this rig, everybody’d think I was a truck driver,” he said, grinning. That got a laugh from all of them.
“Seriously, you’re talking about a highly specialized work shoe,” Cassie said. “They’re not made for walking. The pointy toes are to help you get into the stirrups, the high heels are to keep you there, and the spurs are a real pain in the ass everywhere except on a horse. Trip you up in a heartbeat if you’re not careful.”
“You sound like you know something about it, Tex,” Will said. “You a rancher, with a brand and everything?”
“Yup – my twice-great-grandfather registered it back in the 1880’s,” Cassie said. “Bill Cassidy, his name was – I’m named for him. It looks like this.” She bent down and sketched it in the dirt: –20.
“Minus-20?” Amber asked.
“Bar-20,” Cassie corrected. “Same as the ranch. But these days, we use ear tags like everybody else.”
Brittany headed Cassie off, and linked arms with Will. “Vamanos.”
Cassie started whistling a country-western tune. Something by Leann Rimes? No, Rimes had performed it, but it was much older than that. Patsy Montana, old-time shit-kickin’ music: “I Want To Be A Cowboy’s Sweetheart”.
Amber whistled a response – Gene Autry’s “Back In The Saddle Again”. Brittany flipped them both off with her free hand.
Vendors were setting up outside the lodge by now, Brittany saw. One had set up a marquee tent, with an assortment of knives and swords on a table underneath. A woman had rigged an awning off the side of her van and was setting out jewelry, crystals and other things less describable. Another van rolled up and parked as the girls passed by – the driver waved to them.
They stopped at the blade seller’s table. His wares covered a wide variety of periods and venues, from Imperial Rome to High Middle Ages to Renaissance. Oddly, he had a coiled lariat hung from the pommel of a curved horseman’s sword where it stuck out over the table edge.
What’s with the rope?” Brittany asked.
“It’s a lariat,” the guy said – he was middle-aged, muscular-looking in a wife-beater shirt and leather wrist cuffs, with a shaved head and a neatly trimmed goatee. “Mongols used ‘em to pull enemies off their horses. Goes with that Mongol blade there.”
“How does that work?” Amber asked. “I used to watch old Westerns with my grandpa when I was little. I’ve tried it, and never could– ”
“You used clothesline, didn’t you?” Cassie interrupted.
Amber nodded.
“Too limber,” she said. “This is braided rawhide – it’s stiff. Makes all the difference. Mind if I show her?”
“Actually, I’d like to see somebody who knows what they’re doing with that thing,” the guy said. “Go ahead.”
They went to an open space behind Dealer’s Row, and Cassie shook a loop out of the lariat. She flicked it upward, twirled the loop overhead, brought it down and stepped out of it. Twirling sideways now, she stepped back and forth over the bottom, then brought it back overhead and cast it at Brittany. The loop closed over Brittany’s midsection, pinning her arms to her sides. Cassie gave a hard pull – Brittany lost her balance and went down. She was hogtied before she quite knew what had happened.
“See? Nothing to it,” Cassie said. “All we lack is a branding iron.”
Brittany squirmed, but she was tied up tight. “That was funny once,” she said. “Now let me go.”
Cassie released Brittany, coiled the lariat and returned it to its owner. “Let’s see what that woman over there has to offer,” she said, pointing.
The woman was Brittany’s mother’s age or thereabouts. She was medium height, slender, with crow’s feet around her blue eyes, smile lines and a few fine streaks of gray in her curly brown hair. She wore a peasant dress and suede Birkenstock slides without socks. Hes sign said.
ROBIN BERNARD
Jewelry – Gold Bars – Marked Cards – Loaded Dice
Crystals – Church Supplies – Contraceptives
And Much, Much More!
Ask me – I might!
“Anything in particular you’re looking for?” Robin asked.
“Just looking,” Brittany said. “D’you really have church supplies?”
Robin held up a bottle of water. “Boil the hell out of it, and it becomes Holy Water.”
The bookseller in the next stall blew a juicy raspberry, with tremolo. “Get some new material, Robin,” he said.
He had the look of an old hippie, crowding 60, with a weathered face, a a mane of gray hair and full gray beard under a disreputable old Stetson hat. He wore well-faded jeans and Western boots that could stand polishing – his t-shirt was blue, with a red-white-and-blue Republican Party elephant logo. Under the elephant, bold white letters said, Republicans for Voldemort. His sign was hand-painted wood, hanging from the awning. It said:
J. B. Books
Rare Books – Medium and Well Done Too!
George Whittaker, Proprietor
WARNING! Unattended children will be given a latte and a puppy!
His wares were in orange-crate shelves under the awning he had rigged up to the side of his van, with a folding table and two folding camp chairs. “My first customers!” he said, setting out his cash box. “Have a look, it’s all for sale!”
“Let’s see if we can find something to drink first,” Amber suggested.
The bookseller muttered something – it sounded to Brittany like “Dang persnickety female.”
“Huh?” Cassie said.
“Never mind, I talk too much,” he said. “Fact is, some folks call me Gabby. Anyway, there should be drinks in the Lodge – if not, try the kitchen.”
The lodge was T-shaped. The top of the T was a dining hall, with big tables and bent-cane chairs like the ones in the cabin. A stone fireplace was at the far end, with a few wooden rocking chairs nearby. The upright of the T was the kitchen and service areas. The drinks weren’t out yet, so they headed toward the kitchen.
The only one in the kitchen was a guy sharpening a kitchen knife. He looked up when they entered. Brittany noticed him checking out the girls’ bare feet. Did she share a hobby with him? Nah, he’s an old guy, she thought dismissively.
He was past 50, with a gray mustache, close-cropped gray hair and steel rim glasses. Years of good eating had given him an impressive bay window. He wore a t-shirt, faded jeans with suspenders and square-toed harness boots. His t-shirt had a picture of an old-time sixgun – it said God created all men... and underneath, Sam Colt made ‘em equal. Brittany guessed (accurately) that his brown Australian bush hat was his alternative to a ridiculous comb-over.
“Hey, Will, you just get in?” he asked.
“Half an hour ago, Frank,” Will answered. “Found these three strays on the way over here – Amber, Cassie, and the redhead is Brittany.”
“You work fast, my young friend. Well, what can I do for y’all?”
“Is there anything to drink back here?” Cassie asked.
Frank pointed toward the back with the knife. “Still in the reefer – we haven’t got around to putting them out yet.”
Another old guy came from the back, carrying a pair of empty plastic tubs. “We’re working on it, though,” he said – he spoke around the cigarette in his mouth, in the accent of the mid-Tennessee flatlands. He was a tall, gaunt man in late middle age, dressed in black, with a full gray beard and gray pony tail – his mustache and fingers were permanently stained with nicotine. “I’m Bob Sevier, and that grumpy old bastard with the blade is The Original Free Wheelin’ Franklin.”
“Accept no substitutes,” Frank said, grinning, and then introduced the girls to Bob.
Another young guy came in. “Need some help, Bob?” he asked.
“Go round some up,” Bob said, setting down the tubs. His hands shook, ever so slightly, as he poured a cup of coffee and added a splash of bourbon from a bottle next to the pot. That seemed pretty hard core – Brittany figured him for an old and highly experienced alcoholic, always with a drink close to hand.
Frank laid the sharpened knife aside. He poured himself some coffee – black, no whiskey – and lit a cigarette.
“I don’t think you guys should smoke in the kitchen,” Brittany said.
Bob flicked an ash into the trash can. “Get the fuck out of my kitchen,” he said in a conversational tone.
“I think you’re outvoted, Red,” Frank said.
“Well, excu-u-u-se me!” Brittany said.
“Time to leave,” Will said, before anyone else took offense. They went back out into the hall and found seats in the rocking chairs by the fireplace.
“First time here?” Will asked.
“Uh-huh,” Cassie answered. “Not my first con, though.”
“But we’re tenderfeet,” Amber said. “Newbies, whatever.”
“Con Virgins,” Will corrected. “I imagine it’ll be like last year. There’ll be parties, of course. Not much in the way of programming, though, unless you want to organize some yourself.”
“What kind of programming?” Brittany asked.
“At a plain-vanilla con, they’re mostly slide shows, author panel discussions and so forth,” Will said. “Here, it’s a little more free-form. SCA demo, maybe, a bunch of guys beating each other with wooden swords. Or– ”
The Devil bit Brittany on the butt. “How about a Choir Practice, roomie?” she asked cheerfully. “Didn’t think I forgot, did you?”
“Hoped so,” Amber said. “Shit. Where d’you want to do it?”
Brittany grinned evilly. “Let’s go outside where it’s cooler,” she said. “Grab a chair, everybody, we need four of ‘em.”
They took the chairs out onto the covered porch. At Brittany’s direction, they set two chairs close together, facing each other, and the other two nearby. Brittany laid her purse on one, unzipped it and produced a coil of cotton clothesline. “OK, Amber, turn around and put your hands behind your back,” she said. “Will, go in the kitchen and get me a cup full of warm soapy water, and another without soap.”
“What are you doing?” Cassie asked.
“You’ll see.” Brittany tied Amber’s wrists behind her back and took a loop around the waist to anchor them. “Now have a seat and put your feet up.”
Amber sat in one of the facing chairs and put her feet up on the seat of the other – Brittany tied the ankles together, then tied them off to the top arch of the canes, feet through the open chair back. Brittany bound Amber to the chair back around her waists and shoulders, then tied her big toes together with string.
“Guess what I see?” Brittany asked playfully.
“Haven’t a clue,” Amber said, trying to postpone the inevitable.
“I see feet that need a good tickling.”
“What the hell!” Cassie said.
“Haven’t you ever seen anyone get tickled silly?” Brittany asked.
Cassie scowled. “Yah, ME,” she said. “I have two older brothers, and– ”
“You’re about to see it again,” Brittany interrupted. Will was back with a coffee cup in each hand. “Put ‘em down on the empty chair.” She extracted more gear from her purse-pack and put it near the cups – an electric tooth brush, a knotted piece of twine, a hair brush with plastic knobs on the bristle tips and the bristles arranged radially around the handle, some thumb-picks for playing a guitar, and an old-fashioned badger-bristle shaving brush. “Ready, girlfriend?”
“What’s that stuff for?” Cassie asked uneasily.
“To demonstrate my sales pitch, of course,” Brittany said, shifting her purse off the chair. Raising her voice, she launched into a carny-pitchman patter familiar to TV-viewing insomniacs all over America.
“HOW MANY TIMES HAS THIS HAPPENED TO YOU? A perfect pair of ticklish feet, all ready for a good tickling, but they’re FILTHY! Eww!” She cringed dramatically.
“Well, we have the answer,” Brittany went on. She sat, picked up the shaving brush and dipped it in the soapy water. “And it can be yours for the low, low price of only $39.95! It’s fast, it’s easy – it’s the Popiel Ped-O-Matic Scrubbing System!” She lightly dusted Amber’s soles with the soapy brush.
“Ah-haha! Oh shi-i-it! HA-HAHAHAHA! HAHA-HAHA-HAHAHAHAHA!” Amber laughed as Brittany flicked the tickling bristles on her sensitive soles, her hair whipping like a flag as she struggled against her bonds.
“With our patented pre-cleaning system, her feet won’t stay dirty for long,” Brittany continued, raising her voice over the laughter. “Watch how fast it works!” She swapped the shaving brush for the hair brush, held the handle between her palms, and rotated it, applying the bristles to the ball of Amber’s right foot. Hundreds of tiny bristles flicked the ticklish skin, making little contact but tickling like crazy. Amber bucked and squirmed and laughed her head off.
“Something stuck? Not a problem!” Brittany dropped the brush, snatched up two guitar picks and got to work on the creases in the middle of Amber’s soles. “A simple flick of the pick, and it’s gone!” The tickling filled Amber’s universe – she stopped struggling, completely overcome, all she could do was laugh like mad.
“And that’s not all!” Brittany threaded the string between the right little toe and its neighbor and pulled it back and forth – helpless laughter poured out of Amber in a flood. “Toe floss, for those hard-to-reach places!” She worked her way across, tickling between each pair of toes and driving Amber wild.
“Wait, there’s more! You get the Power Scrub for the same low, low price!” Brittany dipped the electric-toothbrush bristles in the soapy water and flicked it on – it buzzed menacingly. “Notice how the two-way action makes fast work of ground-in dirt,” she continued, raising her voice over the laughter and working her way across the ticklish soles. “Even in places like this,” she added – Amber laughed helplessly as Brittany tickled up and down the crease in the center of a sole. “No job too big.” Amber laughed and laughed as Brittany spiraled down the arches and then covered the heels with unbearable tickling. “No job too small,” tickling the tips of the toes and forcing burst after burst of musical laughter.
Brittany paused, then swished the shaving brush in the clean water. “Soap scum is no problem either!” She swirled the brush from toes to heels, covering every square inch of ticklish flesh. Amber’s feet were sensitized by the tickling – she didn’t have a sweet spot any more, it was all good.
Brittany dropped the brush. “Have a look, my friends!” she said – she flicked and danced her nails on Amber’s soles, then down the arches to the ticklish heels, covering the ticklish flesh with fiendish and well-techniqued tickling. “Listen to her laugh! Clean feet are happy feet!” Amber laughed, and laughed, and laughed some more, sweaty and red-faced, tears of laughter running down her cheeks.
“This product is not sold in stores,” Brittany said, tickling faster. Amber’s laughter went off the charts, and Brittany raised her voice. “So take advantage of this amazing offer. Operators are standing by – call now.” Then two-handed tickling at warp speed – Amber lost it and laughed herself breathless.
A burst of applause, and Brittany turned to look. The tickling had attracted a dozen people or so, including Robin and Frank.
“Good sales pitch, Red,” Frank said. “Like an old-time medicine show. Kind of a niche product, though, wouldn’t you say?”
“Ron Popiel made millions– ” Robin started.
“Selling niche products to insomniacs,” Frank finished the thought. “And that one’s more useful than most. Hell, I’d buy it.”
“No doubt,” Robin said meaningfully. “Are you OK?” she asked Amber.
Amber nodded. “Yah... but it... tickled... so much... ” she said breathlessly.
“I know,” Robin said simply.
“And that’s the idea,” Brittany added, grinning. “Tickling fingers and ticklish feet – what’s not to like?”
“Being on the receiving end,” Cassie said sourly. “That was mean, tickling her like that!”
“She can take it,” Brittany said. “And besides, it’s lots of fun.”
Amber took a deep breath. “For you, maybe,” she said. To Cassie: “Every Wednesday and Friday afternoon, right before supper, she tickles my feet ‘til I’m delirious. Twice on Sundays. “Choir Practice”, she calls it.”
“You have a beautiful tickle laugh,” Brittany said. “Like music.”
“And you let her do it?” Cassie demanded.
“She’s been doing it for years,” Amber said. “She enjoys doing it, and I don’t really mind. It drives me crazy while it’s happening, but I feel pumped afterward, like being high.”
Cassie scowled. “My brothers used to tickle my feet like that,” she said. “I tried to control it, but I can’t! I begged ‘em to stop, but they did it more! I hated it!”
“It’s not so bad,” Amber said. “Besides, Brittany’s feet are ticklish too. Every so often, I get even.” Just twice, to be exact, thought Brittany gratefully. Getting tickled was an experience she liked a whole lot less.
“That was way over-the-top,” Will said as he started working the knots loose.
“You just about tickled her to death!” Cassie added, untying Amber’s ankles.
“Nowhere close,” Brittany said, unabashed. “I’ll do the same demo on you in an hour or so, and you can see for yourself.”
“Like hell!” Cassie said furiously.
Amber stood up and blotted tears with her t-shirt sleeve. “Take it easy, Cassie, we’re all friends here,” she said – her voice was rough from laughing. “I’m ravenous – always am after she tickles me. Let’s find something to eat.”
There was no big meal tonight, because people would still be coming in well into the evening. They got sandwiches and cups of soup and sat down to eat. The noise level rose as the lodge filled up, and it got hotter. They finished their meal, got fresh drinks and went outside on the porch to cool off.
“Well, what now?” Cassie asked, and stifled a belch. “Oops! ‘Scuse me!”
“There’ll be parties starting in an hour or so,” Will said.
“Then we have some time to kill,” Brittany said, looking at Cassie.
Cassie deliberately misinterpreted the comment – she stood up, yawned and stretched. “I’m gonna go and take a nap so I don’t fade too early. See ya!”
Frank and Robin came outside and found seats nearby. Robin slipped off her shoes and put her feet in Frank’s lap. “Foot rub?” she asked. They weren’t a couple, but they seemed perfectly comfortable with each other. Brittany figured their friendship was older than she was.
“It’ll cost you,” Frank said, cracking his knuckles and grinning.
Robin sighed. “Yah, I know,” she said as he started the foot rub. “Just don’t get carried away, or I might– hehehe!” –hurl all over you.”
“Sorry,” Frank said insincerely.
“No you’re not,” Robin said, not at all upset. “Ahahahaha! That tickles!”
“Want me to stop?”
“Feels good,” she said, closing her eyes. “Even the tickling.”
Bob sat beside Brittany. “I saw you and your friend playing before supper,” she said. “Brittany Sinclair and Amber Pareto, right?”
The girls nodded.
“Brittany, you tickled Amber silly before supper,” he said. “Do y’all do that often?”
“I tickle her as often as I can,” Brittany said. “It’s fun, making her laugh like that.”
“But I don’t get to tickle Brittany too often,” Amber added. “She doesen’t like it.”
“And you do?” Bob asked.
“Sorta,” Amber admitted. “I feel pumped afterward, like being high.”
“Well, enjoy yourselves,” Bob said. “This is Liberty Hall – you can spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard. But here’s some friendly advice: you might want to tone it down just a little.”
“Aw, cut ‘em some slack, Bob,” Robin said. “So much bizarre shit goes on here– Eep! AH-HAHA! HA-HAHAHAHA!”
Brittany looked over. Frank had hold of Robin’s big toes – his nails flicked her ticklish soles, forcing a solid stream of helpless laughter. “That nobody thinks anything of it,” he completed her thought, raising his voice over Robin’s ticklish laughter. “Just as well, or the whole bunch of us would wind up in jail.”
George heard the laughter and came over. “How do, Frank – you’re pretty far north, aren’t you?”
“Didn’t figure it would snow this weekend.” Frank answered, tickling Robin’s arches now. “Hold on, it’s too noisy to talk here.” It’s not easy to look indignant while laughing your head off, but somehow Robin managed. He gave Robin’s heels a burst of tickling, and was rewarded with a flood of laughter.
“OK, that’s enough,” Frank said, and considerately rubbed Robin’s feet to get the tickle off. “Sorry, Robin, but I couldn’t resist.”
“You never could,” she said, not the least bit upset. “Hey, cool shirt, Gabby.”
“Where can I get one?” Frank asked. “I’d much rather shoot with Voldemort than with Dick Cheney.”
“As I live and breathe, a conservative with a sense of humor!” George/Gabby said with fake astonishment.
“Who woulda thunk it?” Frank said, grinning – they were old friends too, it seemed. “Doin’ any good so far?”
“Not yet, but it’ll pick up tomorrow,” George said. “Hey, Fred and Molly are having a party tonight at their cabin. Let’s draft this bunch here, and we can all help ‘em with the setup.”
“I need to get something from my cabin first,” Brittany said. “I’ll see you there in a few minutes.”
When Brittany peeked into the cabin, Cassie was laying on her back on the lower bunk, already asleep. Perfect! She put down her purse, made a loop and slip-knot in the rope, and slipped into the cabin on silent feet. She put the end of the rope over the bar supporting the foot end of the upper bunk, then ever-so-carefully worked the loop under Cassie’s feet. A sudden hard pull, and the loop tightened around Cassie’s ankles and pulled them upward. Cassie ended up with her ankles against the bar, feet up and gravity working against her.
“Wha... What the fuck?” Cassie said, still half asleep.
Brittany took another loop around the raised ankles and tied them off to the bar. “Look at this!” she said. “More dirty feet! Well, I guess I’ll have to tickle ‘em clean.”
“OH NOOO!” Cassie yelled, struggling desperately. “NOT THAT!”
Brittany lightly flicked her nail tips on Cassie’s ticklish soles. “Ple– hehehe! –ease!” Cassie begged and giggled. “Sta– haha! –ap! AH-HAHAHAHA! HAHA-HAHA-HAHAHAHAHA!” Cassie bucked and squirmed and laughed her head off as Brittany dug in, well manicured nails dancing on the sensitive soles. Her tickle laugh was a sweet musical contralto, as pretty as the rest of her.
Brittany drew circles on both heels – Cassie’s laughter went up a notch. She traced circles in Cassie’s arches – Cassie laughed like mad, tears of laughter running down her cheeks. Brittany worked her way up both arches and scratched a sole in the exact center, along the crease – Cassie arched her back and laughed with wild abandon. Gratified by the response, Brittany switched to the other sole crease, tickling with a single nail, then back again. Cassie laughed helplessly, squirming and struggling. Brittany held Cassie’s toes back, made a Peace sign, and scratched lightly on the balls of both feet. Those were the sweet spots, where it really, really tickled – Cassie laughed at the top of her lungs.
“I thought this was what you were up to,” Amber said from the door. “Wasn’t tickling me enough?”
“Nope,” Brittany said, guitar-chording the soles and driving Cassie wild. “When it comes to tickling, way too much is just right.”
But it wouldn’t do to tickle Cassie out too soon. Brittany released the toes and tickled both soles two-handed, watching the toes twitch and curl, getting great reactions and wave after wave of helpless laughter. She drew tickling spirals down Cassie’s arches to the heels, then figure-eight’s on both heels. Cassie laughed and laughed, musically, helplessly, face red, tears streaming – she was losing it, right on the edge. Then Brittany held Cassie’s toes back and drew fast, looping figure-eight’s on the balls of both feet. Cassie was laughing much too hard to speak – in desperation, she slapped the mattress twice.
“Stop it, Brittany!” Amber said. “She tapped out! She’s had enough!”
“Not quite,” Brittany said. “Foot Notes first!” She snatched up a pen – Cassie just had time for a breath, then she was laughing harder than before as Brittany started in, applying just enough pressure to tickle unbearably.
Brittany knew all too well how much Foot Notes tickled – they were one of her brother’s favorite tickle-tortures. They worked just fine on Cassie. First was a solid tickley line down the left sole crease – Cassie’s reaction was so enjoyable that Brittany made the line darker with stroke after stroke. Then using the first line as the upright, a capital R on the right side of the sole, and that was every bit as good. Brittany reused the upright for a second R, reversed, on the ball of the foot, driving Cassie to the edge of madness. Then a heavy solid line underneath, in the arch behind the sole. Cassie was in the zone now, laughing her head off, lost in ticklish delirium.
“Check it out, Amber!” Brittany said happily. “The Double-R-Bar brand, just like on her shirt!”
“You’re enjoying this too much,” Amber said sourly.
“Guilty as charged!” Brittany spider-walked her nails on the back arches and onto the heels – four nail strokes in succession, three times a second – and tickled Cassie’s breath away.
Brittany released Cassie’s ankles. “Now she’s had enough.”
Cassie laid there gasping, trying to get her breathing and heart rate normal again. She shuffled her feet on the mattress to get the tickle off and winced – her abs must be a little sore. “Oh... Ghod... ” she said breathlessly.
“Nope, just Amber and me,” Brittany said. “Now that you’re awake, let’s help set up a party.”
“We’ll join you after we change clothes,” Amber said. “C’mon, Cassie, alley-oop!”
The setup took about half an hour. Fred was a burly guy in his 40’s, in a black Utilikilt – Molly was blonde, a little older than her husband. They set up a bar and got to work mixing up a tub of alcoholic punch. Robin, George and Frank were there – they strung up Christmas lights along the porch and through the trees nearby. Cassie and Amber showed up – Amber had a Daisy Mae thing going, ragged cutoff shorts, tight red top with black polka-dots, bare feet. Cassie’s costume was similar, but her shorts were shorter and her black top was tighter and more revealing.
“Hey, check this out!” George said. “Daisy Mae and Moonbeam McSwine! Who says kids don’t study the classics any more?”
“You need new glasses, Gabby,” Robin said. “She’s Stupefyin’ Jones – even I can see that.”
Brittany spotted Will and walked over. “You just get here?”
“Nah, been here a while,” Will said. He was dressed like before, but he had added a red-and-white checkered neckerchief with a silver slide shaped like a longhorn skull, tall black tooled-leather boots with high heels, pointed toes and long Mexican-style spurs, and a black two-gun rig with a pair of holstered blasters.
“I like it,” Robin said. “You know what Bob says about con costumes?” Brittany shook her head. “They’re your everyday clothes in an alternate universe.”
They finished just before sundown. “Probably blow every fuse in the camp when I plug these lights in,” Fred grumbled. “I think Thomas Edison wired this place.”
“You say that every year,” Molly said. “Plug ‘em in, and I’ll start some music. We’re open for business.”
The party got pretty big after a while, 30 or 40 people or so, and Brittany drank enough punch to achieve a respectable buzz. Bob made an appearance in a woodland-pattern camouflage tuxedo with black satin lapels and trouser seam stripes, spit-shined jump boots, and a starched white shirt with black bow tie and cummerbund. He was an engaging story-teller, and he was in top form – Brittany drifted over to listen.
The music stopped. “Hey Bob, this is for you!” Fred called, and played a Johnny Cash tune: “I’ve Been Everywhere”.
“You’re being dissed, my friend,” Frank said.
“I believe you’re right,” Bob said. “Not the first– ”
A disturbance from near the bar – they looked around. One of the young guys was uber-drunk and belligerent – he was arguing with Molly, but she wasn’t having any of it. “Nope, I think you’ve had enough,” she said firmly.
George and Frank came up to him on either side. “Easy, young fella,” George said. He raised his voice. “Anybody know this guy?”
“He’s my buddy,” Will said. “Name’s Jim Meaker.”
“Put him to bed, before he falls down and hurts himself,” Frank said.
“Mind your own fucking business, old man,” the young drunk said angrily, rounding on him.
“This is my business,” Frank said. “That lady is my friend.”
And then Bob appeared, holding his hand out. “Jim, my friend, welcome!” he said, shaking Jim’s hand. But he didn’t turn loose, and he was stronger than he looked – he had Jim anchored now. “Let’s talk things over.”
“Well, that’s that,” George said.
“Stick around, young fella,” Frank added to Will. “I’m too old, fat and fucked up to carry your buddy to his cabin.”
“What d’you mean?” Brittany asked.
“Age and treachery beats youth and strength,” Robin said. “This ain’t Bob’s first rodeo, pilgrim. Watch and learn.”
Bob put an arm around Jim’s shoulder, guided him toward the bar and said something to Molly. She poured two straight whiskeys, and Bob and Jim hammered them down. Jim was holding onto the bar top as Bob passed the glasses back for a refill. The young drunk threw the second drink back, overbalanced and landed flat on his back with a solid whump!
“Tim-ber-r-r!” Frank said.
Bob scooped up the dropped glass and tossed it to Molly – he still had his own. “Your buddy just passed out,” he said to Will, speaking with great care and precision. “Pour him into bed and keep an eye on him for a while.” He sipped his drink and shook his head sadly. “What’s the younger generation coming to, Frank? You held your liquor a lot better, back in the day.” A professional opinion if ever there was one, thought Brittany. When it came to heavy drinking, Bob was clearly a pro – he was under the influence but not obviously so, still vertical, steady on his feet and making sense.
A few more drinks and I’ll be none-of-the-above – that punch packed a wallop. Brittany looked around, but Amber and Cassie were nowhere in sight. Probably went to change again, she thought, shivering a little – the night was growing cool. Time to get a sweater...
Four hands grabbed Brittany as she came in through the cabin door. She struggled, but the odds were against her – Amber and Cassie tied her up in a chair like Amber had been, feet through the back of a facing chair. Brittany didn’t struggle – she was had, and she knew it. “Well, what now?” she asked, though she was pretty sure she knew the answer.
The others shifted the table so her feet were over the edge, soles toward the center. “Payback,” Cassie said succinctly. “Take turns, or both together?” she asked Amber.
Both of them were wearing their thrift-store shirts again. “Hey, we’re in an alternate universe this weekend, right?” Amber said.
“I suppose you could say that,” Cassie said. “Where are you going with this?”
“Let’s pretend this is West Texas in 1885,” Amber said. “We’ll play a friendly game of Blackjack– ”
“I told you, I’ve got no use for card games,” Cassie interrupted.
“Let me finish!” Amber said. “And the winning hand gets to tickle her for a minute or so.”
Cassie considered.. “Make it five,” she said wickedly.
“Too much!” Brittany protested desperately. “You’ll tickle me to death!”
“Split the difference – go for three, and the winner deals the next hand,” Amber said, and lightly tickled Brittany’s soles. “That suit you?” she asked.
“Hahaha! Just– hehe! –get it– ahaha! –over with– haheha!” Brittany said and giggled, squirming a little.
“Coming right up!” Amber said cheerfully. Both girls took a seat, facing each other across the table with Brittany’s feet in between. Amber shuffled and dealt, and won the first hand. “Your ass is grass, girlfriend, and I’m the narc!” she said, guitar-chording both of Brittany’s heels.
“HAHAHAHA! HAHA-HAHAHA!” Brittany laughed, squirming and struggling. Amber tickled Brittany’s arches just in front of the heels, fingernails flying, then up both arches to the soles. She was very, very good – it tickled horribly!
“Check it out!” Cassie said over Brittany’s helpless laughter. “You tickled her pink!”
“Sure is a pretty color,” Amber said, tickling faster. “How am I doin’ on time?”
Cassie checked her watch. “5, 4, 3, 2, 1, quit!” she said, and Brittany got a breather. She didn’t waste her breath begging while they played out the next hand – she figured it wouldn’t do any good, and anyway she would need it all to laugh.
Cassie won this time – she spread Brittany’s toes apart two by two, scratching between each pair, tickling like crazy. She held the toes back and scrabbled her nails on the soft skin underneath. Then across both soles, side to side and back again, and Brittany’s sweet musical laughter filled the air.
“Time!” Amber said. Brittany sat there gasping, tears running down her cheeks. Her feet were off-the-scale ticklish, and it tickled so much! Even worse, the short bouts of tickling let her get plenty of air, so they wouldn’t tickle her out – they could keep this up all night. But worst of all was the anticipation...
All too soon, Amber was tickling her soles two-handed – Brittany’s toes twitched and curled as she laughed like a crazy woman. Amber zig-zagged her nails up and down the creases in the middle of the soles, and Brittany’s helpless laughter streamed out like a flood. Then two fingernails, drawing fast looping figure-eight’s around and onto the balls of both feet. Brittany went crazy, bucking and squirming, laughing at the top of her lungs.
“Time’s up!” Cassie said. The next hand took a little longer to play out, but not long enough – ticklish laughter poured out of Brittany as Cassie flicked her nail tips on the heels, then up the arches to the soles. She attacked the arches just behind the soles, and that finished it. Brittany laughed her head off and ran out of air – Cassie had tickled her breath away.
“Oops!” Amber said. “Looks like you overdid it.”
Cassie shuffled and dealt. “Nah, when it comes to tickling, way too much is just right.” Brittany remembered saying that earlier. They’re gonna tickle me to death, she thought despairingly.
Cassie won the next five hands. She held Brittany’s toes back and scratched lightly under them, tickling the soft skin, and Brittany laughed with wild abandon. Next time, Cassie tickled both soles two-handed, watching the toes twitch and curl, then down the arches to the ticklish heels – Brittany bucked and squirmed and laughed her head off. After that, she tickled Brittany’s heels and arches, getting great reactions and wave after wave of helpless laughter. Fourth time around, she tickled up the arches to the soles, making the toes twitch again, then held the toes back and tickled the stretched out soles. Brittany laughed and laughed, musically, helplessly, face red, tears streaming – she was losing it, right on the edge. Finally, holding Brittany’s toes back again, Cassie attacked the balls of Brittany’s feet, tickling mercilessly. Brittany laughed herself breathless again.
“You’ve been mighty lucky with these cards,” Amber said suspiciously.
“She’s... cheating... ” Brittany gasped – just guessing, she couldn’t see through the tears of laughter.
“Of course I am,” Cassie said. A pause, and then: “You mean, you’re not?”
“No,” Amber said. “I thought you said you had no use for card games,” she added accusingly.
“I did. But I never said I don’t know how to play.”
Amber laughed. “No, you didn’t,” she said. “Oh well, I think she learned her lesson. Didn’t you?” she asked Brittany sweetly, tickling the arches just in front of the heels and onto the heels behind. Brittany’s laughter was off the scale, they really were gonna tickle her to death!
Not quite – Amber quit, and the girls released their victim. Brittany sat there gasping, red-faced and sweaty, face streaked with tears. “How was that, girlfriend?” Amber asked.
“I’ll... get you... for this... ” Brittany said breathlessly.
“Bold words for someone in your position,” Cassie said, making tickling motions. Brittany cringed, she really couldn’t take any more.
“Forget it,” Amber said. “Let’s find another party.”
“Not me,” Brittany said. She was exhausted, sober again, and feeling a little hung over. She climbed into her bunk and curled up under the blankets to ease her aching abs. She was asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.
Copyright 2009 by the author
************************
“Are we there yet?” Amber said eagerly from the shotgun seat as Brittany drove through the open gate and past the empty stone guard shack. “Are we, huh? Are we?”
“Looks that way,” Cassie said from the back seat.
“Keep it up, and I’ll stop right here and tickle you to death!” Brittany added.
“Might as well stop, slow as you drive,” Cassie said dismissively. “My grandma drives faster.”
“Oh, shut up,” Brittany said. She wheeled into a paved parking lot – half a dozen or so cars were there already. “We’re here – let’s sign in and get a cabin.” The girls had come from Trismegistus University to Leonard Slye State Park for a science fiction convention – a relax-a-con, really – called CampCon. It looked like they’d have a good weekend for the con – it was just a week after Labor Day, and the Indian Summer weather was perfect.
Brittany Sinclair was a freshman from Niagara Falls, a petite girl with bright coppery-red hair cut in a jawline-length style. She just missed being beautiful – she had a fit, toned body, sky-blue eyes and that perfect skin only redheads have. Her personality had a bit of an edge – she was bright and restless, willful and a little self-centered. She was dressed for traveling in a comfy old gray shorts, sandals and a thrift-store t-shirt that said SARA LEE BAKERY / Plant No. 7 / Employee Picnic.
Truth be known, she was a bit of a bully. She had a younger brother, and for years she rode his ass like a rodeo cowboy. Unfortunately, three years ago he had made a pair of related discoveries – her feet were off-the-scale ticklish, and he was suddenly bigger and stronger than she was. He took full advantage, of course, and tickled her silly – for the next two years, she had laughed hard and laughed often. They had come to an accomodation, but Brittany had taken the lesson to heart. Tickling was the ideal chastisement, because it left no marks and nobody took it serious. Since then, she had delighted in tickle-torturing other girls.
Amber Pareto was another freshman. She and Brittany had been best friends for years – now, they were sharing a 4-bedroom dorm apartment with two other girls at school. She was a cutie with silky blonde hair cut short like Brittany’s, blue eyes, a great body, a summer tan, shapely legs, and well-kept, extremely ticklish feet. She wore jeans shorts, flip-flops, and another thrift store shirt that said MICKEY RAT’S CLUB / Bar and Grill / Evans, New York.
Cassidy Mulford – Cassie – was another room-mate, and the the third member of the group. She had grown up on a West Texas cattle ranch 50 miles south of the Texas-New Mexico line, in the valley of the Rio Pecos. She had curves in all the right places, long wavy dark hair, dark brows and lashes, brown eyes and tanned, freckled fair skin. She was a work in progress – a cute girl, no great beauty, with a sunny, open disposition – but in a few more years, she would be absolutely stunning. Brittany had just met her at the start of the term, but she seemed nice enough. Like the others, she wore shorts, sandals and t-shirt – hers said ROY ROGERS / Double-R-Bar Ranch / Victorville, California.
A cardboard sign directed them to Con Registration, on the roofed veranda of a big stone building near the parking lot. The guy with the cash box wore black coveralls and boots and a holstered ray-gun. The word N♂MAD was painted on his forehead, framed with blue-black tiger stripes that extended down his face and neck. But this was a con – he wouldn’t stand out in this crowd.
“Let’s see some ID,” N♂MAD said. “First time here?”
“Yah,” Cassie said, handing over her driver license and signaling for the others to do the same.
“Let’s see... OK, you’re all over 18,” he said, handing their licenses back. “This con’s a little different,” he continued. “Your con membership includes all of your meals, not just snacks and soft drinks. Always plenty of parties here, so there’s plenty of free booze around, if you’re so inclined. And we’ve got this whole Group Camp for the weekend, so don’t worry about shocking the citizens.”
“The website said there’s cabins?” Brittany said.
He handed her a xerox-copied map of the campsite. “Yup, the CC built ‘em during the Depression – this was one of their camps. You’re early – take your pick.” The Civilian Conservation Corps had been intended to provide work for unemployed young men – they planted trees, built park infrastructure, improved rural roads and suchlike. The Corps was organized in quasi-military companies, commanded by an Army Captain or 1st Lieutenant, assisted by a few other officers and sergeants. The cadre were reservists, often unemployed men who were glad to be called-up for the paycheck.
Brittany studied the map. The layout showed its military ancestry – it was centered on a big square field, bordered by unpaved roads, that had once been a parade ground. The parking lot and dining hall were on one side, a group of good-sized cabins that had probably been the headquarters complex was on the adjacent side. Three more roads led away from the side opposite the dining hall, with numbered cabins spaced out along them – a larger building in each group was labeled “Bath House”. The fourth side had a long, open-sided picnic shelter that had begun life as a shelter for vehicles. Beyond that was a patch of woods, with a trail that led across a little creek down to an artificial lake.
The girls selected an unoccupied cabin. The camp roads had once been graveled, but after years of tight budgets and deferred maintenance, the stones had long since returned to the soil. The weather had been dry lately – they raised a rooster-tail of dust as they brought the car around.
The cabin was small, intended for a sergeant. It was board-and-batten construction, lit by a single bare overhead bulb, with a metal roof that overhung a tiny front porch. The windows were screened, but had solid bi-fold shutters instead of glass. The furnishings were basic: a closed-in bench that doubled as a chest built into one end wall, a built-in wooden cabinet with doors, two steel GI double-decker bunks with vinyl-covered mattresses, and a small table with four bent-cane chairs, the 1930s version of the inexpensive utility chair. On the wall over the table was a round metal plate that covered a flue intended for a wood-burning stove.
“Must’ve been pretty gloomy in the winter,” Amber said.
“Would’ve been dark anyway by the time they got back here after work,” Cassie said. “My grandpa was in the CC. He said it was the best thing that ever happened to him.”
“If you say so,” Brittany said dubiously, looking around. “See if there’s a broom over there – I want to knock down some of these spider webs.”
“Wouldn’t hurt to sweep the place out either,” Cassie said. “I’ll get the shutters open.”
“Care to cut cards for the top bunks?” Amber asked afterward. She was a better-than-average card player, as Brittany knew all too well. Still, there were ways of evening the odds...
“You two can have ‘em,” Cassie said, heading off Brittany’s scheming. “I’ve got no use for card games.” Brittany felt a sudden twinge of doubt – an adherent to one of the more austere Protestant churches wouldn’t fit in too well at a con.
They brought their gear inside and set up housekeeping. Afterward, Brittany kicked off her flip-flops. “Let’s take advantage of the day and go barefoot,” she said. She had an ulterior motive – it made tickle attacks easier.
“Good idea,” Amber said, ditching her sandals. “Winter’s coming, and then we’ll be wearing boots for the next 6 months.” In their Midwestern college town, that wasn’t much of an exaggeration.
“Oh, all right,” Cassie said, stepping out of her shoes. “But if I step on a sharp rock– ”
“You grew up on a ranch, but you’re a tenderfoot?” Brittany said.
“Back home, even the Comanches don’t go barefoot,” Cassie said.
“You’ll survive,” Brittany said. She picked up her purse, a Goth backpack style, black trimmed in pink with a skeletal Hello Kitty on it. “C’mon, let’s see what’s going on at the Lodge.”
They spotted a guy walking past as they went outside. He was college age, tanned and fit-looking, with short silvery blond hair and blue eyes. He wore a black Western-style shirt with long sleeves, black jeans with a wide black silver-buckled belt, a wide-brimmed black Stetson with a Montana Break in the tall rounded crown, and (oddly) a pair of lace-up tennis shoes.
Brittany had a weakness for Hitler Jugend types – this weekend might turn out better than just OK. “Howdy, pilgrim,” she said in a bad John Wayne imitation. “You headed West?”
“Headed to the Lodge,” he said. “I’m Will Boyd,” he added, and tipped his hat. “And now, you have the advantage of me.”
Brittany introduced herself and the others. “Cassie here is from Texas,” she said. “You a neighbor of hers?”
“I’m from Illinois,” Will said. “Then again, so was Wyatt Earp.”
“What’s with that outfit at a con?” Cassie asked.
“Ever read the “Hoka” stories?”
Cassie nodded. “Poul Anderson and Gordy Dickson wrote ‘em.”
“I’m the Sheriff of Canyon Gulch.”
“I understand the clothes,” Amber said. “But why are you wearing sneakers?”
“If I wore cowboy boots with this rig, everybody’d think I was a truck driver,” he said, grinning. That got a laugh from all of them.
“Seriously, you’re talking about a highly specialized work shoe,” Cassie said. “They’re not made for walking. The pointy toes are to help you get into the stirrups, the high heels are to keep you there, and the spurs are a real pain in the ass everywhere except on a horse. Trip you up in a heartbeat if you’re not careful.”
“You sound like you know something about it, Tex,” Will said. “You a rancher, with a brand and everything?”
“Yup – my twice-great-grandfather registered it back in the 1880’s,” Cassie said. “Bill Cassidy, his name was – I’m named for him. It looks like this.” She bent down and sketched it in the dirt: –20.
“Minus-20?” Amber asked.
“Bar-20,” Cassie corrected. “Same as the ranch. But these days, we use ear tags like everybody else.”
Brittany headed Cassie off, and linked arms with Will. “Vamanos.”
Cassie started whistling a country-western tune. Something by Leann Rimes? No, Rimes had performed it, but it was much older than that. Patsy Montana, old-time shit-kickin’ music: “I Want To Be A Cowboy’s Sweetheart”.
Amber whistled a response – Gene Autry’s “Back In The Saddle Again”. Brittany flipped them both off with her free hand.
Vendors were setting up outside the lodge by now, Brittany saw. One had set up a marquee tent, with an assortment of knives and swords on a table underneath. A woman had rigged an awning off the side of her van and was setting out jewelry, crystals and other things less describable. Another van rolled up and parked as the girls passed by – the driver waved to them.
They stopped at the blade seller’s table. His wares covered a wide variety of periods and venues, from Imperial Rome to High Middle Ages to Renaissance. Oddly, he had a coiled lariat hung from the pommel of a curved horseman’s sword where it stuck out over the table edge.
What’s with the rope?” Brittany asked.
“It’s a lariat,” the guy said – he was middle-aged, muscular-looking in a wife-beater shirt and leather wrist cuffs, with a shaved head and a neatly trimmed goatee. “Mongols used ‘em to pull enemies off their horses. Goes with that Mongol blade there.”
“How does that work?” Amber asked. “I used to watch old Westerns with my grandpa when I was little. I’ve tried it, and never could– ”
“You used clothesline, didn’t you?” Cassie interrupted.
Amber nodded.
“Too limber,” she said. “This is braided rawhide – it’s stiff. Makes all the difference. Mind if I show her?”
“Actually, I’d like to see somebody who knows what they’re doing with that thing,” the guy said. “Go ahead.”
They went to an open space behind Dealer’s Row, and Cassie shook a loop out of the lariat. She flicked it upward, twirled the loop overhead, brought it down and stepped out of it. Twirling sideways now, she stepped back and forth over the bottom, then brought it back overhead and cast it at Brittany. The loop closed over Brittany’s midsection, pinning her arms to her sides. Cassie gave a hard pull – Brittany lost her balance and went down. She was hogtied before she quite knew what had happened.
“See? Nothing to it,” Cassie said. “All we lack is a branding iron.”
Brittany squirmed, but she was tied up tight. “That was funny once,” she said. “Now let me go.”
Cassie released Brittany, coiled the lariat and returned it to its owner. “Let’s see what that woman over there has to offer,” she said, pointing.
The woman was Brittany’s mother’s age or thereabouts. She was medium height, slender, with crow’s feet around her blue eyes, smile lines and a few fine streaks of gray in her curly brown hair. She wore a peasant dress and suede Birkenstock slides without socks. Hes sign said.
ROBIN BERNARD
Jewelry – Gold Bars – Marked Cards – Loaded Dice
Crystals – Church Supplies – Contraceptives
And Much, Much More!
Ask me – I might!
“Anything in particular you’re looking for?” Robin asked.
“Just looking,” Brittany said. “D’you really have church supplies?”
Robin held up a bottle of water. “Boil the hell out of it, and it becomes Holy Water.”
The bookseller in the next stall blew a juicy raspberry, with tremolo. “Get some new material, Robin,” he said.
He had the look of an old hippie, crowding 60, with a weathered face, a a mane of gray hair and full gray beard under a disreputable old Stetson hat. He wore well-faded jeans and Western boots that could stand polishing – his t-shirt was blue, with a red-white-and-blue Republican Party elephant logo. Under the elephant, bold white letters said, Republicans for Voldemort. His sign was hand-painted wood, hanging from the awning. It said:
J. B. Books
Rare Books – Medium and Well Done Too!
George Whittaker, Proprietor
WARNING! Unattended children will be given a latte and a puppy!
His wares were in orange-crate shelves under the awning he had rigged up to the side of his van, with a folding table and two folding camp chairs. “My first customers!” he said, setting out his cash box. “Have a look, it’s all for sale!”
“Let’s see if we can find something to drink first,” Amber suggested.
The bookseller muttered something – it sounded to Brittany like “Dang persnickety female.”
“Huh?” Cassie said.
“Never mind, I talk too much,” he said. “Fact is, some folks call me Gabby. Anyway, there should be drinks in the Lodge – if not, try the kitchen.”
The lodge was T-shaped. The top of the T was a dining hall, with big tables and bent-cane chairs like the ones in the cabin. A stone fireplace was at the far end, with a few wooden rocking chairs nearby. The upright of the T was the kitchen and service areas. The drinks weren’t out yet, so they headed toward the kitchen.
The only one in the kitchen was a guy sharpening a kitchen knife. He looked up when they entered. Brittany noticed him checking out the girls’ bare feet. Did she share a hobby with him? Nah, he’s an old guy, she thought dismissively.
He was past 50, with a gray mustache, close-cropped gray hair and steel rim glasses. Years of good eating had given him an impressive bay window. He wore a t-shirt, faded jeans with suspenders and square-toed harness boots. His t-shirt had a picture of an old-time sixgun – it said God created all men... and underneath, Sam Colt made ‘em equal. Brittany guessed (accurately) that his brown Australian bush hat was his alternative to a ridiculous comb-over.
“Hey, Will, you just get in?” he asked.
“Half an hour ago, Frank,” Will answered. “Found these three strays on the way over here – Amber, Cassie, and the redhead is Brittany.”
“You work fast, my young friend. Well, what can I do for y’all?”
“Is there anything to drink back here?” Cassie asked.
Frank pointed toward the back with the knife. “Still in the reefer – we haven’t got around to putting them out yet.”
Another old guy came from the back, carrying a pair of empty plastic tubs. “We’re working on it, though,” he said – he spoke around the cigarette in his mouth, in the accent of the mid-Tennessee flatlands. He was a tall, gaunt man in late middle age, dressed in black, with a full gray beard and gray pony tail – his mustache and fingers were permanently stained with nicotine. “I’m Bob Sevier, and that grumpy old bastard with the blade is The Original Free Wheelin’ Franklin.”
“Accept no substitutes,” Frank said, grinning, and then introduced the girls to Bob.
Another young guy came in. “Need some help, Bob?” he asked.
“Go round some up,” Bob said, setting down the tubs. His hands shook, ever so slightly, as he poured a cup of coffee and added a splash of bourbon from a bottle next to the pot. That seemed pretty hard core – Brittany figured him for an old and highly experienced alcoholic, always with a drink close to hand.
Frank laid the sharpened knife aside. He poured himself some coffee – black, no whiskey – and lit a cigarette.
“I don’t think you guys should smoke in the kitchen,” Brittany said.
Bob flicked an ash into the trash can. “Get the fuck out of my kitchen,” he said in a conversational tone.
“I think you’re outvoted, Red,” Frank said.
“Well, excu-u-u-se me!” Brittany said.
“Time to leave,” Will said, before anyone else took offense. They went back out into the hall and found seats in the rocking chairs by the fireplace.
“First time here?” Will asked.
“Uh-huh,” Cassie answered. “Not my first con, though.”
“But we’re tenderfeet,” Amber said. “Newbies, whatever.”
“Con Virgins,” Will corrected. “I imagine it’ll be like last year. There’ll be parties, of course. Not much in the way of programming, though, unless you want to organize some yourself.”
“What kind of programming?” Brittany asked.
“At a plain-vanilla con, they’re mostly slide shows, author panel discussions and so forth,” Will said. “Here, it’s a little more free-form. SCA demo, maybe, a bunch of guys beating each other with wooden swords. Or– ”
The Devil bit Brittany on the butt. “How about a Choir Practice, roomie?” she asked cheerfully. “Didn’t think I forgot, did you?”
“Hoped so,” Amber said. “Shit. Where d’you want to do it?”
Brittany grinned evilly. “Let’s go outside where it’s cooler,” she said. “Grab a chair, everybody, we need four of ‘em.”
They took the chairs out onto the covered porch. At Brittany’s direction, they set two chairs close together, facing each other, and the other two nearby. Brittany laid her purse on one, unzipped it and produced a coil of cotton clothesline. “OK, Amber, turn around and put your hands behind your back,” she said. “Will, go in the kitchen and get me a cup full of warm soapy water, and another without soap.”
“What are you doing?” Cassie asked.
“You’ll see.” Brittany tied Amber’s wrists behind her back and took a loop around the waist to anchor them. “Now have a seat and put your feet up.”
Amber sat in one of the facing chairs and put her feet up on the seat of the other – Brittany tied the ankles together, then tied them off to the top arch of the canes, feet through the open chair back. Brittany bound Amber to the chair back around her waists and shoulders, then tied her big toes together with string.
“Guess what I see?” Brittany asked playfully.
“Haven’t a clue,” Amber said, trying to postpone the inevitable.
“I see feet that need a good tickling.”
“What the hell!” Cassie said.
“Haven’t you ever seen anyone get tickled silly?” Brittany asked.
Cassie scowled. “Yah, ME,” she said. “I have two older brothers, and– ”
“You’re about to see it again,” Brittany interrupted. Will was back with a coffee cup in each hand. “Put ‘em down on the empty chair.” She extracted more gear from her purse-pack and put it near the cups – an electric tooth brush, a knotted piece of twine, a hair brush with plastic knobs on the bristle tips and the bristles arranged radially around the handle, some thumb-picks for playing a guitar, and an old-fashioned badger-bristle shaving brush. “Ready, girlfriend?”
“What’s that stuff for?” Cassie asked uneasily.
“To demonstrate my sales pitch, of course,” Brittany said, shifting her purse off the chair. Raising her voice, she launched into a carny-pitchman patter familiar to TV-viewing insomniacs all over America.
“HOW MANY TIMES HAS THIS HAPPENED TO YOU? A perfect pair of ticklish feet, all ready for a good tickling, but they’re FILTHY! Eww!” She cringed dramatically.
“Well, we have the answer,” Brittany went on. She sat, picked up the shaving brush and dipped it in the soapy water. “And it can be yours for the low, low price of only $39.95! It’s fast, it’s easy – it’s the Popiel Ped-O-Matic Scrubbing System!” She lightly dusted Amber’s soles with the soapy brush.
“Ah-haha! Oh shi-i-it! HA-HAHAHAHA! HAHA-HAHA-HAHAHAHAHA!” Amber laughed as Brittany flicked the tickling bristles on her sensitive soles, her hair whipping like a flag as she struggled against her bonds.
“With our patented pre-cleaning system, her feet won’t stay dirty for long,” Brittany continued, raising her voice over the laughter. “Watch how fast it works!” She swapped the shaving brush for the hair brush, held the handle between her palms, and rotated it, applying the bristles to the ball of Amber’s right foot. Hundreds of tiny bristles flicked the ticklish skin, making little contact but tickling like crazy. Amber bucked and squirmed and laughed her head off.
“Something stuck? Not a problem!” Brittany dropped the brush, snatched up two guitar picks and got to work on the creases in the middle of Amber’s soles. “A simple flick of the pick, and it’s gone!” The tickling filled Amber’s universe – she stopped struggling, completely overcome, all she could do was laugh like mad.
“And that’s not all!” Brittany threaded the string between the right little toe and its neighbor and pulled it back and forth – helpless laughter poured out of Amber in a flood. “Toe floss, for those hard-to-reach places!” She worked her way across, tickling between each pair of toes and driving Amber wild.
“Wait, there’s more! You get the Power Scrub for the same low, low price!” Brittany dipped the electric-toothbrush bristles in the soapy water and flicked it on – it buzzed menacingly. “Notice how the two-way action makes fast work of ground-in dirt,” she continued, raising her voice over the laughter and working her way across the ticklish soles. “Even in places like this,” she added – Amber laughed helplessly as Brittany tickled up and down the crease in the center of a sole. “No job too big.” Amber laughed and laughed as Brittany spiraled down the arches and then covered the heels with unbearable tickling. “No job too small,” tickling the tips of the toes and forcing burst after burst of musical laughter.
Brittany paused, then swished the shaving brush in the clean water. “Soap scum is no problem either!” She swirled the brush from toes to heels, covering every square inch of ticklish flesh. Amber’s feet were sensitized by the tickling – she didn’t have a sweet spot any more, it was all good.
Brittany dropped the brush. “Have a look, my friends!” she said – she flicked and danced her nails on Amber’s soles, then down the arches to the ticklish heels, covering the ticklish flesh with fiendish and well-techniqued tickling. “Listen to her laugh! Clean feet are happy feet!” Amber laughed, and laughed, and laughed some more, sweaty and red-faced, tears of laughter running down her cheeks.
“This product is not sold in stores,” Brittany said, tickling faster. Amber’s laughter went off the charts, and Brittany raised her voice. “So take advantage of this amazing offer. Operators are standing by – call now.” Then two-handed tickling at warp speed – Amber lost it and laughed herself breathless.
A burst of applause, and Brittany turned to look. The tickling had attracted a dozen people or so, including Robin and Frank.
“Good sales pitch, Red,” Frank said. “Like an old-time medicine show. Kind of a niche product, though, wouldn’t you say?”
“Ron Popiel made millions– ” Robin started.
“Selling niche products to insomniacs,” Frank finished the thought. “And that one’s more useful than most. Hell, I’d buy it.”
“No doubt,” Robin said meaningfully. “Are you OK?” she asked Amber.
Amber nodded. “Yah... but it... tickled... so much... ” she said breathlessly.
“I know,” Robin said simply.
“And that’s the idea,” Brittany added, grinning. “Tickling fingers and ticklish feet – what’s not to like?”
“Being on the receiving end,” Cassie said sourly. “That was mean, tickling her like that!”
“She can take it,” Brittany said. “And besides, it’s lots of fun.”
Amber took a deep breath. “For you, maybe,” she said. To Cassie: “Every Wednesday and Friday afternoon, right before supper, she tickles my feet ‘til I’m delirious. Twice on Sundays. “Choir Practice”, she calls it.”
“You have a beautiful tickle laugh,” Brittany said. “Like music.”
“And you let her do it?” Cassie demanded.
“She’s been doing it for years,” Amber said. “She enjoys doing it, and I don’t really mind. It drives me crazy while it’s happening, but I feel pumped afterward, like being high.”
Cassie scowled. “My brothers used to tickle my feet like that,” she said. “I tried to control it, but I can’t! I begged ‘em to stop, but they did it more! I hated it!”
“It’s not so bad,” Amber said. “Besides, Brittany’s feet are ticklish too. Every so often, I get even.” Just twice, to be exact, thought Brittany gratefully. Getting tickled was an experience she liked a whole lot less.
“That was way over-the-top,” Will said as he started working the knots loose.
“You just about tickled her to death!” Cassie added, untying Amber’s ankles.
“Nowhere close,” Brittany said, unabashed. “I’ll do the same demo on you in an hour or so, and you can see for yourself.”
“Like hell!” Cassie said furiously.
Amber stood up and blotted tears with her t-shirt sleeve. “Take it easy, Cassie, we’re all friends here,” she said – her voice was rough from laughing. “I’m ravenous – always am after she tickles me. Let’s find something to eat.”
There was no big meal tonight, because people would still be coming in well into the evening. They got sandwiches and cups of soup and sat down to eat. The noise level rose as the lodge filled up, and it got hotter. They finished their meal, got fresh drinks and went outside on the porch to cool off.
“Well, what now?” Cassie asked, and stifled a belch. “Oops! ‘Scuse me!”
“There’ll be parties starting in an hour or so,” Will said.
“Then we have some time to kill,” Brittany said, looking at Cassie.
Cassie deliberately misinterpreted the comment – she stood up, yawned and stretched. “I’m gonna go and take a nap so I don’t fade too early. See ya!”
Frank and Robin came outside and found seats nearby. Robin slipped off her shoes and put her feet in Frank’s lap. “Foot rub?” she asked. They weren’t a couple, but they seemed perfectly comfortable with each other. Brittany figured their friendship was older than she was.
“It’ll cost you,” Frank said, cracking his knuckles and grinning.
Robin sighed. “Yah, I know,” she said as he started the foot rub. “Just don’t get carried away, or I might– hehehe!” –hurl all over you.”
“Sorry,” Frank said insincerely.
“No you’re not,” Robin said, not at all upset. “Ahahahaha! That tickles!”
“Want me to stop?”
“Feels good,” she said, closing her eyes. “Even the tickling.”
Bob sat beside Brittany. “I saw you and your friend playing before supper,” she said. “Brittany Sinclair and Amber Pareto, right?”
The girls nodded.
“Brittany, you tickled Amber silly before supper,” he said. “Do y’all do that often?”
“I tickle her as often as I can,” Brittany said. “It’s fun, making her laugh like that.”
“But I don’t get to tickle Brittany too often,” Amber added. “She doesen’t like it.”
“And you do?” Bob asked.
“Sorta,” Amber admitted. “I feel pumped afterward, like being high.”
“Well, enjoy yourselves,” Bob said. “This is Liberty Hall – you can spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard. But here’s some friendly advice: you might want to tone it down just a little.”
“Aw, cut ‘em some slack, Bob,” Robin said. “So much bizarre shit goes on here– Eep! AH-HAHA! HA-HAHAHAHA!”
Brittany looked over. Frank had hold of Robin’s big toes – his nails flicked her ticklish soles, forcing a solid stream of helpless laughter. “That nobody thinks anything of it,” he completed her thought, raising his voice over Robin’s ticklish laughter. “Just as well, or the whole bunch of us would wind up in jail.”
George heard the laughter and came over. “How do, Frank – you’re pretty far north, aren’t you?”
“Didn’t figure it would snow this weekend.” Frank answered, tickling Robin’s arches now. “Hold on, it’s too noisy to talk here.” It’s not easy to look indignant while laughing your head off, but somehow Robin managed. He gave Robin’s heels a burst of tickling, and was rewarded with a flood of laughter.
“OK, that’s enough,” Frank said, and considerately rubbed Robin’s feet to get the tickle off. “Sorry, Robin, but I couldn’t resist.”
“You never could,” she said, not the least bit upset. “Hey, cool shirt, Gabby.”
“Where can I get one?” Frank asked. “I’d much rather shoot with Voldemort than with Dick Cheney.”
“As I live and breathe, a conservative with a sense of humor!” George/Gabby said with fake astonishment.
“Who woulda thunk it?” Frank said, grinning – they were old friends too, it seemed. “Doin’ any good so far?”
“Not yet, but it’ll pick up tomorrow,” George said. “Hey, Fred and Molly are having a party tonight at their cabin. Let’s draft this bunch here, and we can all help ‘em with the setup.”
“I need to get something from my cabin first,” Brittany said. “I’ll see you there in a few minutes.”
When Brittany peeked into the cabin, Cassie was laying on her back on the lower bunk, already asleep. Perfect! She put down her purse, made a loop and slip-knot in the rope, and slipped into the cabin on silent feet. She put the end of the rope over the bar supporting the foot end of the upper bunk, then ever-so-carefully worked the loop under Cassie’s feet. A sudden hard pull, and the loop tightened around Cassie’s ankles and pulled them upward. Cassie ended up with her ankles against the bar, feet up and gravity working against her.
“Wha... What the fuck?” Cassie said, still half asleep.
Brittany took another loop around the raised ankles and tied them off to the bar. “Look at this!” she said. “More dirty feet! Well, I guess I’ll have to tickle ‘em clean.”
“OH NOOO!” Cassie yelled, struggling desperately. “NOT THAT!”
Brittany lightly flicked her nail tips on Cassie’s ticklish soles. “Ple– hehehe! –ease!” Cassie begged and giggled. “Sta– haha! –ap! AH-HAHAHAHA! HAHA-HAHA-HAHAHAHAHA!” Cassie bucked and squirmed and laughed her head off as Brittany dug in, well manicured nails dancing on the sensitive soles. Her tickle laugh was a sweet musical contralto, as pretty as the rest of her.
Brittany drew circles on both heels – Cassie’s laughter went up a notch. She traced circles in Cassie’s arches – Cassie laughed like mad, tears of laughter running down her cheeks. Brittany worked her way up both arches and scratched a sole in the exact center, along the crease – Cassie arched her back and laughed with wild abandon. Gratified by the response, Brittany switched to the other sole crease, tickling with a single nail, then back again. Cassie laughed helplessly, squirming and struggling. Brittany held Cassie’s toes back, made a Peace sign, and scratched lightly on the balls of both feet. Those were the sweet spots, where it really, really tickled – Cassie laughed at the top of her lungs.
“I thought this was what you were up to,” Amber said from the door. “Wasn’t tickling me enough?”
“Nope,” Brittany said, guitar-chording the soles and driving Cassie wild. “When it comes to tickling, way too much is just right.”
But it wouldn’t do to tickle Cassie out too soon. Brittany released the toes and tickled both soles two-handed, watching the toes twitch and curl, getting great reactions and wave after wave of helpless laughter. She drew tickling spirals down Cassie’s arches to the heels, then figure-eight’s on both heels. Cassie laughed and laughed, musically, helplessly, face red, tears streaming – she was losing it, right on the edge. Then Brittany held Cassie’s toes back and drew fast, looping figure-eight’s on the balls of both feet. Cassie was laughing much too hard to speak – in desperation, she slapped the mattress twice.
“Stop it, Brittany!” Amber said. “She tapped out! She’s had enough!”
“Not quite,” Brittany said. “Foot Notes first!” She snatched up a pen – Cassie just had time for a breath, then she was laughing harder than before as Brittany started in, applying just enough pressure to tickle unbearably.
Brittany knew all too well how much Foot Notes tickled – they were one of her brother’s favorite tickle-tortures. They worked just fine on Cassie. First was a solid tickley line down the left sole crease – Cassie’s reaction was so enjoyable that Brittany made the line darker with stroke after stroke. Then using the first line as the upright, a capital R on the right side of the sole, and that was every bit as good. Brittany reused the upright for a second R, reversed, on the ball of the foot, driving Cassie to the edge of madness. Then a heavy solid line underneath, in the arch behind the sole. Cassie was in the zone now, laughing her head off, lost in ticklish delirium.
“Check it out, Amber!” Brittany said happily. “The Double-R-Bar brand, just like on her shirt!”
“You’re enjoying this too much,” Amber said sourly.
“Guilty as charged!” Brittany spider-walked her nails on the back arches and onto the heels – four nail strokes in succession, three times a second – and tickled Cassie’s breath away.
Brittany released Cassie’s ankles. “Now she’s had enough.”
Cassie laid there gasping, trying to get her breathing and heart rate normal again. She shuffled her feet on the mattress to get the tickle off and winced – her abs must be a little sore. “Oh... Ghod... ” she said breathlessly.
“Nope, just Amber and me,” Brittany said. “Now that you’re awake, let’s help set up a party.”
“We’ll join you after we change clothes,” Amber said. “C’mon, Cassie, alley-oop!”
The setup took about half an hour. Fred was a burly guy in his 40’s, in a black Utilikilt – Molly was blonde, a little older than her husband. They set up a bar and got to work mixing up a tub of alcoholic punch. Robin, George and Frank were there – they strung up Christmas lights along the porch and through the trees nearby. Cassie and Amber showed up – Amber had a Daisy Mae thing going, ragged cutoff shorts, tight red top with black polka-dots, bare feet. Cassie’s costume was similar, but her shorts were shorter and her black top was tighter and more revealing.
“Hey, check this out!” George said. “Daisy Mae and Moonbeam McSwine! Who says kids don’t study the classics any more?”
“You need new glasses, Gabby,” Robin said. “She’s Stupefyin’ Jones – even I can see that.”
Brittany spotted Will and walked over. “You just get here?”
“Nah, been here a while,” Will said. He was dressed like before, but he had added a red-and-white checkered neckerchief with a silver slide shaped like a longhorn skull, tall black tooled-leather boots with high heels, pointed toes and long Mexican-style spurs, and a black two-gun rig with a pair of holstered blasters.
“I like it,” Robin said. “You know what Bob says about con costumes?” Brittany shook her head. “They’re your everyday clothes in an alternate universe.”
They finished just before sundown. “Probably blow every fuse in the camp when I plug these lights in,” Fred grumbled. “I think Thomas Edison wired this place.”
“You say that every year,” Molly said. “Plug ‘em in, and I’ll start some music. We’re open for business.”
The party got pretty big after a while, 30 or 40 people or so, and Brittany drank enough punch to achieve a respectable buzz. Bob made an appearance in a woodland-pattern camouflage tuxedo with black satin lapels and trouser seam stripes, spit-shined jump boots, and a starched white shirt with black bow tie and cummerbund. He was an engaging story-teller, and he was in top form – Brittany drifted over to listen.
The music stopped. “Hey Bob, this is for you!” Fred called, and played a Johnny Cash tune: “I’ve Been Everywhere”.
“You’re being dissed, my friend,” Frank said.
“I believe you’re right,” Bob said. “Not the first– ”
A disturbance from near the bar – they looked around. One of the young guys was uber-drunk and belligerent – he was arguing with Molly, but she wasn’t having any of it. “Nope, I think you’ve had enough,” she said firmly.
George and Frank came up to him on either side. “Easy, young fella,” George said. He raised his voice. “Anybody know this guy?”
“He’s my buddy,” Will said. “Name’s Jim Meaker.”
“Put him to bed, before he falls down and hurts himself,” Frank said.
“Mind your own fucking business, old man,” the young drunk said angrily, rounding on him.
“This is my business,” Frank said. “That lady is my friend.”
And then Bob appeared, holding his hand out. “Jim, my friend, welcome!” he said, shaking Jim’s hand. But he didn’t turn loose, and he was stronger than he looked – he had Jim anchored now. “Let’s talk things over.”
“Well, that’s that,” George said.
“Stick around, young fella,” Frank added to Will. “I’m too old, fat and fucked up to carry your buddy to his cabin.”
“What d’you mean?” Brittany asked.
“Age and treachery beats youth and strength,” Robin said. “This ain’t Bob’s first rodeo, pilgrim. Watch and learn.”
Bob put an arm around Jim’s shoulder, guided him toward the bar and said something to Molly. She poured two straight whiskeys, and Bob and Jim hammered them down. Jim was holding onto the bar top as Bob passed the glasses back for a refill. The young drunk threw the second drink back, overbalanced and landed flat on his back with a solid whump!
“Tim-ber-r-r!” Frank said.
Bob scooped up the dropped glass and tossed it to Molly – he still had his own. “Your buddy just passed out,” he said to Will, speaking with great care and precision. “Pour him into bed and keep an eye on him for a while.” He sipped his drink and shook his head sadly. “What’s the younger generation coming to, Frank? You held your liquor a lot better, back in the day.” A professional opinion if ever there was one, thought Brittany. When it came to heavy drinking, Bob was clearly a pro – he was under the influence but not obviously so, still vertical, steady on his feet and making sense.
A few more drinks and I’ll be none-of-the-above – that punch packed a wallop. Brittany looked around, but Amber and Cassie were nowhere in sight. Probably went to change again, she thought, shivering a little – the night was growing cool. Time to get a sweater...
Four hands grabbed Brittany as she came in through the cabin door. She struggled, but the odds were against her – Amber and Cassie tied her up in a chair like Amber had been, feet through the back of a facing chair. Brittany didn’t struggle – she was had, and she knew it. “Well, what now?” she asked, though she was pretty sure she knew the answer.
The others shifted the table so her feet were over the edge, soles toward the center. “Payback,” Cassie said succinctly. “Take turns, or both together?” she asked Amber.
Both of them were wearing their thrift-store shirts again. “Hey, we’re in an alternate universe this weekend, right?” Amber said.
“I suppose you could say that,” Cassie said. “Where are you going with this?”
“Let’s pretend this is West Texas in 1885,” Amber said. “We’ll play a friendly game of Blackjack– ”
“I told you, I’ve got no use for card games,” Cassie interrupted.
“Let me finish!” Amber said. “And the winning hand gets to tickle her for a minute or so.”
Cassie considered.. “Make it five,” she said wickedly.
“Too much!” Brittany protested desperately. “You’ll tickle me to death!”
“Split the difference – go for three, and the winner deals the next hand,” Amber said, and lightly tickled Brittany’s soles. “That suit you?” she asked.
“Hahaha! Just– hehe! –get it– ahaha! –over with– haheha!” Brittany said and giggled, squirming a little.
“Coming right up!” Amber said cheerfully. Both girls took a seat, facing each other across the table with Brittany’s feet in between. Amber shuffled and dealt, and won the first hand. “Your ass is grass, girlfriend, and I’m the narc!” she said, guitar-chording both of Brittany’s heels.
“HAHAHAHA! HAHA-HAHAHA!” Brittany laughed, squirming and struggling. Amber tickled Brittany’s arches just in front of the heels, fingernails flying, then up both arches to the soles. She was very, very good – it tickled horribly!
“Check it out!” Cassie said over Brittany’s helpless laughter. “You tickled her pink!”
“Sure is a pretty color,” Amber said, tickling faster. “How am I doin’ on time?”
Cassie checked her watch. “5, 4, 3, 2, 1, quit!” she said, and Brittany got a breather. She didn’t waste her breath begging while they played out the next hand – she figured it wouldn’t do any good, and anyway she would need it all to laugh.
Cassie won this time – she spread Brittany’s toes apart two by two, scratching between each pair, tickling like crazy. She held the toes back and scrabbled her nails on the soft skin underneath. Then across both soles, side to side and back again, and Brittany’s sweet musical laughter filled the air.
“Time!” Amber said. Brittany sat there gasping, tears running down her cheeks. Her feet were off-the-scale ticklish, and it tickled so much! Even worse, the short bouts of tickling let her get plenty of air, so they wouldn’t tickle her out – they could keep this up all night. But worst of all was the anticipation...
All too soon, Amber was tickling her soles two-handed – Brittany’s toes twitched and curled as she laughed like a crazy woman. Amber zig-zagged her nails up and down the creases in the middle of the soles, and Brittany’s helpless laughter streamed out like a flood. Then two fingernails, drawing fast looping figure-eight’s around and onto the balls of both feet. Brittany went crazy, bucking and squirming, laughing at the top of her lungs.
“Time’s up!” Cassie said. The next hand took a little longer to play out, but not long enough – ticklish laughter poured out of Brittany as Cassie flicked her nail tips on the heels, then up the arches to the soles. She attacked the arches just behind the soles, and that finished it. Brittany laughed her head off and ran out of air – Cassie had tickled her breath away.
“Oops!” Amber said. “Looks like you overdid it.”
Cassie shuffled and dealt. “Nah, when it comes to tickling, way too much is just right.” Brittany remembered saying that earlier. They’re gonna tickle me to death, she thought despairingly.
Cassie won the next five hands. She held Brittany’s toes back and scratched lightly under them, tickling the soft skin, and Brittany laughed with wild abandon. Next time, Cassie tickled both soles two-handed, watching the toes twitch and curl, then down the arches to the ticklish heels – Brittany bucked and squirmed and laughed her head off. After that, she tickled Brittany’s heels and arches, getting great reactions and wave after wave of helpless laughter. Fourth time around, she tickled up the arches to the soles, making the toes twitch again, then held the toes back and tickled the stretched out soles. Brittany laughed and laughed, musically, helplessly, face red, tears streaming – she was losing it, right on the edge. Finally, holding Brittany’s toes back again, Cassie attacked the balls of Brittany’s feet, tickling mercilessly. Brittany laughed herself breathless again.
“You’ve been mighty lucky with these cards,” Amber said suspiciously.
“She’s... cheating... ” Brittany gasped – just guessing, she couldn’t see through the tears of laughter.
“Of course I am,” Cassie said. A pause, and then: “You mean, you’re not?”
“No,” Amber said. “I thought you said you had no use for card games,” she added accusingly.
“I did. But I never said I don’t know how to play.”
Amber laughed. “No, you didn’t,” she said. “Oh well, I think she learned her lesson. Didn’t you?” she asked Brittany sweetly, tickling the arches just in front of the heels and onto the heels behind. Brittany’s laughter was off the scale, they really were gonna tickle her to death!
Not quite – Amber quit, and the girls released their victim. Brittany sat there gasping, red-faced and sweaty, face streaked with tears. “How was that, girlfriend?” Amber asked.
“I’ll... get you... for this... ” Brittany said breathlessly.
“Bold words for someone in your position,” Cassie said, making tickling motions. Brittany cringed, she really couldn’t take any more.
“Forget it,” Amber said. “Let’s find another party.”
“Not me,” Brittany said. She was exhausted, sober again, and feeling a little hung over. She climbed into her bunk and curled up under the blankets to ease her aching abs. She was asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.
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