Sablesword
TMF Master
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Author's Note: It's been a while since I've written any tickle stories, so here's the start of one. I hope to continue it and bring it to a proper ending after multiple tickle-sessions. The setting is actually the same as my earlier "The Tickle Machine" and "Triple Tickle," but centuries later. Enjoy, and please comment.
Katrina's Tickle Cure
by Sablesword
"Welcome to Pristine Meadows," the halfling lady greeted them. "A chair, Tim."
A human attendant, a young man in the livery of the Pristine Meadows Sola, brought forth a wheelchair, and Katrina Humperwolt-Stykes allowed herself to be lowered into it. She was thin and pale, an obvious victim of anemic melancholia. Her husband John, dark-haired, goateed, and conventionally handsome, touched her shoulder in a gesture of comfort that lacked any true affection behind it.
"Please take my wife directly to the Sola Alley," John told Tim. "Don't argue, dear," he added to Katrina as she started to protest. "We're here for your health, not to let you decline in bed. I'll see our luggage to our room, and come for you later."
"One moment," the halfling said. "There is an enchantment within your second trunk."
"That's just my jewelry box," Katrina answered. "It has an old bafflement on it, for protection."
"The Sola has safe-deposit boxes for jewelry."
"No, I only brought paste gems," Katrina mixed truth with lies, "The box itself is actually more valuable than anything inside it, and I'm not even sure why I brought it." She smiled. In fact, the box contained something of great value: A pint of her own blood. She would find a way to use it, somehow, to fake her death, freeing her husband from their loveless marriage. John's own sense of masculine duty would keep him from leaving her otherwise. He would take her from sola to sola, spending both their fortunes in a quest to find a tickle-cure for her.
The Sola Alley was a shaded promenade into which dozens of pairs of pale, anonymous bare feet protruded from wooden walls. Male feet at one end, and female feet at the other, with a circular counter set in the center, dividing the two halves and providing various tickle-implements. A mixture of visitors and Sola attendants wandered up and down, stopping to treat a pair of vulnerable soles to two minutes of tickling, and then turning a second glass over again to time a minute of recovery.
Tim helped Katrina into an empty bay, arranging for her ankles to be trapped as he closed the hatch-stocks. Inside, Katrina set aside the veil thrown over her to conceal her identity. The inside of the bay was decorated with glow-paints depicting a pastoral scene. It gave the illusion of looking out of a dark cave into a brightly-lit meadow, destroying any sense of claustrophobia. Beneath her, comfortable cushions and pillows gave her support as she lay half-reclined on her back. She felt with her feet and found a wooden barrier between them. She would not be able to protect one foot with the other.
It didn't take long for the tickling to begin. Katrina felt fingers gently raking her soles, up and down, first on her right foot, and then her left. Katrina laughed, and the sound of her laughter vanished up the vent that provided her with air. That was why the shrieks and giggles came so faintly into the alley, she thought, and then the pair of hands tickled both her feet at once, leaving her with no space for idle thoughts.
For those two long minutes, Katrina was aware of nothing but the tickling. Of the fingers inflicting their tickle-touches upon her bare soles. She clenched her toes, but the tickle-sensations continued to sink into her insteps, her heels, and the balls of her feet. She tried to twist her feet, but the wooden barrier between them was diabolically effective. Neither foot could cover the other. Both were vulnerable to the fingers now raking up and down, up and down. Laughter flowed from Katrina, uncontrollable, as those unseen fingers tickled and tickled.
The tickling stopped. Katrina caught her breath during the minute of rest, and brushed a strand of brown hair from her face. Then it returned, a different tickler, Katrina sensed, using a different method. Feathers. Many feathers in a fan, their tips running back and forth across her naked soles. Flying across her feet in a flock, again and again, with each migration leaving a tactile trail that made Katrina giggle and squirm. Dozens and dozens of times, for two entire minutes.
A minute of rest.
A comb, lightly scraping her soles, applying short sharp strokes that made Katrina scream her laughter. Short sharp stokes that seemed to seek out every nerve in each of her feet for its own special tickling. Short sharp strokes with brief pauses between them, surely the two minutes were up. But no, they weren't. Short sharp strokes that sent bolts of tickling right through her soles and up her legs. Short sharp strokes of pure, crystallized tickle-sensation. Short sharp strokes that tickled maddeningly until they finally gave way to the minute of recovery.
The tip of a single feather, when the next two tickle-minutes started. A feather that followed a lazy meandering path, first over Katrina's left sole, and then over her right. From the tips of her toes, over the ball, and the instep, and down to the heel, and then back up to her toes. Then again, over her left sole once more. On the third pass, Katrina recognized the pattern. By the last pass, the anticipation of the tickle-to-come had Katrina's whole body clenched tight, her giggles a series of eeks.
Another minute of rest, and then tickling fingers once more. Different fingers, with their own feel on Katrina's trapped soles. A touch that made Katrina feel uniquely helpless. A touch that forced her to squirm and giggle, with that peculiar sensation of utterly unavoidable tickling. One whole minute of inescapable tickling followed by another.
A rest period.
Strands of yarn pressed against Katrina's feet. Rubbed up and down her insteps. Run slowly between her toes. Between her toes! Fingers held her toes, keeping her from clenching them, and the fuzzy strands of yarn ran between her toes! She felt a quick, distracting tickle applied to her insteps. Then once again. Fuzzy strands of yarn! Between her toes! Between her toooeeessss!
A longer period of recovery. Katrina grew nervous, anticipating the tickles that might start at any moment. Then a scrub-brush, savage and yet peculiarly tender. Prickly tickly on the pads of her toes, on the balls of her feet, her insteps, and her heels. Prickly tickly over her entire sole. Both soles, of both feet. A full minute of that fierce and unabashed tickling. Two minutes of stiff tickling that made her laugh so hard that tears started from her eyes.
A tickle-free minute. Katrina closed her eyes and relaxed.
Flaps of cloth slapping lightly against her feet. This didn't tickle at all - at least at first. Then it tickled lightly, flapping against her insteps and the balls of her feet. Then it tickled a little more. Flap flap flap flap flap. Katrina suddenly gasped. It was as if a floodgate had suddenly opened. A raging river of tickle-sensation flowed into her helpless feet. She howled with laughter, squirming, twisting, unable to either resist or avoid the tickle-flood provoked by that flap flap flap of cloth. Finally, the flood abated, giving Katrina one more minute of rest with no tickling at all.
A comb again, or rather two combs. Hands held Katrina's toes, making her feet even more helpless, as two combs ran slowly - slowly - up her soles, starting at the base of her heels. Slowly, slowly, the teeth tickle-scraped her soles. Second by second, the tickle-sensations crept toward her toes. Finally, they arrived, only to return to her heels and begin again. Six times the slow comb-tickling raked Katrina's feet before the two tickle-minutes finally ended.
One more minute of rest, and then Katrina felt the silken touch of soft-bristled paint brushes on her feet. So soft, so soothing they felt against her soles - so why was she laughing so hard? Why was she squirming? Why did her toes clench, what was making her so deeply aware of that diabolical barrier that kept her feet from protecting each other?
Suddenly Katrina knew the answer. It tickled! It tickled terribly. It tickled wonderfully. It inflicted tickle-sensations beyond tickling on her already tickle-outraged feet. It coated her soles with those implacable tickle-sensations, making her wild, pushing back the melancholy that had smothered her for so long. She couldn't stand it, but it was impossible to escape. She couldn't bear it, but she was helpless to avoid it. She couldn't bear it, it felt so wonderful, but she didn't have a choice.
The tickling ended for the last time, and the melancholy returned. Katrina was limp when the attendant released her, throwing the veil back over her head, lifting her into the wheelchair, and delivering her back to her husband in their room.
to be continued...
Katrina's Tickle Cure
by Sablesword
"Welcome to Pristine Meadows," the halfling lady greeted them. "A chair, Tim."
A human attendant, a young man in the livery of the Pristine Meadows Sola, brought forth a wheelchair, and Katrina Humperwolt-Stykes allowed herself to be lowered into it. She was thin and pale, an obvious victim of anemic melancholia. Her husband John, dark-haired, goateed, and conventionally handsome, touched her shoulder in a gesture of comfort that lacked any true affection behind it.
"Please take my wife directly to the Sola Alley," John told Tim. "Don't argue, dear," he added to Katrina as she started to protest. "We're here for your health, not to let you decline in bed. I'll see our luggage to our room, and come for you later."
"One moment," the halfling said. "There is an enchantment within your second trunk."
"That's just my jewelry box," Katrina answered. "It has an old bafflement on it, for protection."
"The Sola has safe-deposit boxes for jewelry."
"No, I only brought paste gems," Katrina mixed truth with lies, "The box itself is actually more valuable than anything inside it, and I'm not even sure why I brought it." She smiled. In fact, the box contained something of great value: A pint of her own blood. She would find a way to use it, somehow, to fake her death, freeing her husband from their loveless marriage. John's own sense of masculine duty would keep him from leaving her otherwise. He would take her from sola to sola, spending both their fortunes in a quest to find a tickle-cure for her.
#
The Sola Alley was a shaded promenade into which dozens of pairs of pale, anonymous bare feet protruded from wooden walls. Male feet at one end, and female feet at the other, with a circular counter set in the center, dividing the two halves and providing various tickle-implements. A mixture of visitors and Sola attendants wandered up and down, stopping to treat a pair of vulnerable soles to two minutes of tickling, and then turning a second glass over again to time a minute of recovery.
Tim helped Katrina into an empty bay, arranging for her ankles to be trapped as he closed the hatch-stocks. Inside, Katrina set aside the veil thrown over her to conceal her identity. The inside of the bay was decorated with glow-paints depicting a pastoral scene. It gave the illusion of looking out of a dark cave into a brightly-lit meadow, destroying any sense of claustrophobia. Beneath her, comfortable cushions and pillows gave her support as she lay half-reclined on her back. She felt with her feet and found a wooden barrier between them. She would not be able to protect one foot with the other.
It didn't take long for the tickling to begin. Katrina felt fingers gently raking her soles, up and down, first on her right foot, and then her left. Katrina laughed, and the sound of her laughter vanished up the vent that provided her with air. That was why the shrieks and giggles came so faintly into the alley, she thought, and then the pair of hands tickled both her feet at once, leaving her with no space for idle thoughts.
For those two long minutes, Katrina was aware of nothing but the tickling. Of the fingers inflicting their tickle-touches upon her bare soles. She clenched her toes, but the tickle-sensations continued to sink into her insteps, her heels, and the balls of her feet. She tried to twist her feet, but the wooden barrier between them was diabolically effective. Neither foot could cover the other. Both were vulnerable to the fingers now raking up and down, up and down. Laughter flowed from Katrina, uncontrollable, as those unseen fingers tickled and tickled.
The tickling stopped. Katrina caught her breath during the minute of rest, and brushed a strand of brown hair from her face. Then it returned, a different tickler, Katrina sensed, using a different method. Feathers. Many feathers in a fan, their tips running back and forth across her naked soles. Flying across her feet in a flock, again and again, with each migration leaving a tactile trail that made Katrina giggle and squirm. Dozens and dozens of times, for two entire minutes.
A minute of rest.
A comb, lightly scraping her soles, applying short sharp strokes that made Katrina scream her laughter. Short sharp stokes that seemed to seek out every nerve in each of her feet for its own special tickling. Short sharp strokes with brief pauses between them, surely the two minutes were up. But no, they weren't. Short sharp strokes that sent bolts of tickling right through her soles and up her legs. Short sharp strokes of pure, crystallized tickle-sensation. Short sharp strokes that tickled maddeningly until they finally gave way to the minute of recovery.
The tip of a single feather, when the next two tickle-minutes started. A feather that followed a lazy meandering path, first over Katrina's left sole, and then over her right. From the tips of her toes, over the ball, and the instep, and down to the heel, and then back up to her toes. Then again, over her left sole once more. On the third pass, Katrina recognized the pattern. By the last pass, the anticipation of the tickle-to-come had Katrina's whole body clenched tight, her giggles a series of eeks.
Another minute of rest, and then tickling fingers once more. Different fingers, with their own feel on Katrina's trapped soles. A touch that made Katrina feel uniquely helpless. A touch that forced her to squirm and giggle, with that peculiar sensation of utterly unavoidable tickling. One whole minute of inescapable tickling followed by another.
A rest period.
Strands of yarn pressed against Katrina's feet. Rubbed up and down her insteps. Run slowly between her toes. Between her toes! Fingers held her toes, keeping her from clenching them, and the fuzzy strands of yarn ran between her toes! She felt a quick, distracting tickle applied to her insteps. Then once again. Fuzzy strands of yarn! Between her toes! Between her toooeeessss!
A longer period of recovery. Katrina grew nervous, anticipating the tickles that might start at any moment. Then a scrub-brush, savage and yet peculiarly tender. Prickly tickly on the pads of her toes, on the balls of her feet, her insteps, and her heels. Prickly tickly over her entire sole. Both soles, of both feet. A full minute of that fierce and unabashed tickling. Two minutes of stiff tickling that made her laugh so hard that tears started from her eyes.
A tickle-free minute. Katrina closed her eyes and relaxed.
Flaps of cloth slapping lightly against her feet. This didn't tickle at all - at least at first. Then it tickled lightly, flapping against her insteps and the balls of her feet. Then it tickled a little more. Flap flap flap flap flap. Katrina suddenly gasped. It was as if a floodgate had suddenly opened. A raging river of tickle-sensation flowed into her helpless feet. She howled with laughter, squirming, twisting, unable to either resist or avoid the tickle-flood provoked by that flap flap flap of cloth. Finally, the flood abated, giving Katrina one more minute of rest with no tickling at all.
A comb again, or rather two combs. Hands held Katrina's toes, making her feet even more helpless, as two combs ran slowly - slowly - up her soles, starting at the base of her heels. Slowly, slowly, the teeth tickle-scraped her soles. Second by second, the tickle-sensations crept toward her toes. Finally, they arrived, only to return to her heels and begin again. Six times the slow comb-tickling raked Katrina's feet before the two tickle-minutes finally ended.
One more minute of rest, and then Katrina felt the silken touch of soft-bristled paint brushes on her feet. So soft, so soothing they felt against her soles - so why was she laughing so hard? Why was she squirming? Why did her toes clench, what was making her so deeply aware of that diabolical barrier that kept her feet from protecting each other?
Suddenly Katrina knew the answer. It tickled! It tickled terribly. It tickled wonderfully. It inflicted tickle-sensations beyond tickling on her already tickle-outraged feet. It coated her soles with those implacable tickle-sensations, making her wild, pushing back the melancholy that had smothered her for so long. She couldn't stand it, but it was impossible to escape. She couldn't bear it, but she was helpless to avoid it. She couldn't bear it, it felt so wonderful, but she didn't have a choice.
The tickling ended for the last time, and the melancholy returned. Katrina was limp when the attendant released her, throwing the veil back over her head, lifting her into the wheelchair, and delivering her back to her husband in their room.
to be continued...
