Sablesword
TMF Master
- Joined
- Jun 13, 2001
- Messages
- 802
- Points
- 18
Princess Hisolda of the Amazons loosed two arrows at the breast of the crane. The first was turned aside by the feathers of the monster-bird, bronze feathers than not even the centaurs would use for tickling. The second found a gap and sank home.
“Well shot!” called Timon Graybeard. Beside him, Farris Blue-eye nodded agreement.
The crane’s bronze feathers had turned aside their arrows too, despite their centaur bows having an even heavier draw than the warrior-weight Hisolda favored.
Two heads screeched in unison as the crane reared taller than either centaur, wings spread wide as if to take to the air again. Then those wings folded and the monster-bird collapsed onto the short grass.
It had flown north from the Sea of Reeds, across the Inner Sea and into the centaur Land to make a terror of itself. It had ruined Silverhoof Villa and had feasted on centaur-flesh there. Two attempts to bring it down had failed. This attempt was the third, and as Hisolda dodged the knife-sharp feathers of bronze and saw the arrows turned aside, she had feared that it would fail too.
Now the bane of Silverhoof Villa lay dying. Dying but not yet dead. The black eyes of the two heads still glittered with malice, with one evil spirit behind them.
“Betrayal and ruination, horse-men,” the left head hissed. “Betrayal and ruination! What will you do when there is only one foot?”
And the right head said, “Meddling she-warrior! Daughter of Queen Penardun. The curse of my death upon you, Princess Hisolda. Kücuk bir qadin az. Nok az…”
The four eyes filmed over. The two heads fell limp.
Farris touched the charm that hung from his neck, the blue eye that warded against evil. “The curse missed,” he said. “The curse missed.”
“The curse missed.” Hisolda made an amazon gesture against evil. In her thoughts she added I hope.
“You will keep both your feet, Hisolda,” Timon pronounced. His hand made a tickling gesture as he forced a grin, “Your soles, too.”
“Not with these feathers,” Hisolda said. “Who would want them?”
Timon shook himself. “I have no use for them.”
“Nor do I,” Farris said. He glanced at Hisolda, “Burn and bury them with the rest of the carcass?”
“Burn and bury them with the rest of the carcass,” Hisolda said. The two centaurs nodded, accepting her decision. She had made the death shot, after all.
Timon said, “And then, by the gods, we’ll deserve the best wine!”
Drinking the best wine in Sarpedon’s tavern-tent, the three crane-slayers did not speak of the monster-bird’s dying curses. Hisolda was thinking about them, however, and knew the other two were as well.
The curses had referred to the Prophecy: Alja Kentaros mor kental velator velex bartaros mel Uru, nor Kentaros yonvel morkap i patalos, it ran in the Old Tongue of the centaurs. “If the Kentaros should ever fail to visit merciless tickling on foreigners who enter the Land, then will the Kentaros suffer betrayal and ruination.”
And that was why humans in the centaur Land – humans like Hisolda – underwent regular tickle-sessions at the hand (and feathers, and other teasing implements) of the centaurs. The centaurs were gleeful about it, but not cruel, and the humans grumbled but did not beg when the time came to renew their pass tokens for another month. A few humans even admitted openly to enjoying it. (A gift of the goddesses, that was.)
The centaurs handed out merciful tickles in addition. Some of the skinny, sickly amazon males underwent these to build up their strength, Hisolda knew. Anilee Clan Graybadger, drinking cheap cider at a nearby table, underwent a merciful tickle nearly every week – sometimes twice a week – as part of her preferred hangover cure. And the centaurs found occasional other uses for their tickling skills. Still, merciless tickling was what the centaurs were known for, and grumbling about that tickling was what humans in the centaur Land were known for.
Hisolda was one of the grumblers. Not to centaurs like Timon or Farris, but to the other humans, and occasionally to a centauress, as female centaurs only tickled men. She wasn’t a goddess-gifted madwoman like the merry black sorceress Nandi. And yet, in the depth of the tickle, in what Balint of Isgaul called the ‘tickle-drunk,’ Hisolda could sometimes hear a little voice inside her mind. A voice that wanted more.
Still, it was nearly week before her pass tokens expired, Hisolda told herself as she drank the good wine.
Timon Graybeard came for Hisolda on the day her pass tokens expired. This was neither usual nor unusual; sometimes a tickling centaur would escort her to the tickle stocks. Sometimes a centauress would do so – Idalia, or Cora, or one of Hisolda’s other centauress friends. Sometimes she would pair up with another human woman, taking the opportunity to grumble to each other as they trudged together. And sometimes, like today, Timon would show up.
He wasn’t a skilled tickler, at least not by centaur standards. He was familiar with humans, however, due to his long experience as a border guard.
Today Timon arrived with rope and an enthusiastic grin. Hisolda mustered a return smile and allowed him to carry her off on his back, tied hand and foot. In an odd way, it was an honor for her. Male centaurs were touchy about letting themselves be ridden, even when the riders were tied as prisoners. (Hisolda’s centauress friends considered this touchiness to be a silly male thing.)
Timon’s tie seemed as secure as usual when they started the walk to the tickle stocks. But by the time they arrived, the ropes had worked loose, so much so that Hisolda worried about them falling right off. Then, as Timon let her down at the oak tree, the ropes did fall of.
It was a familiar scene under the oak tree: The tickling stocks under the tree’s shade, two or three other human women undergoing their own tickling, or sitting on the ground to recover, and a trio of centaurs, including Farris with his blue-eye amulet.
But today Farris towered over Hisolda as she sat on the ground, loose coils of rope around her. He was gigantic. So were the other two centaurs. So was Timon, and the three human women. Hisolda stood up and looked around. The spreading oak now loomed like a wooden mountain. Closer to the ground, the tuffs of grass stood waist-high, rather than ankle high, and the rope that had bound her was now too thick to do so. It lay coiled beside a tunic and pair of sandals sized for a giant. Her clothing, Hisolda realized. But… changed.
Farris and Timon were looking down at her with combined expressions of wonder and consternation. Hisolda looked back up at them, with no idea of what to say or do.
Hisolda was the one who had changed. She now stood no more than one foot tall. Completely nude as well, as she had shrunk, but her clothing hadn’t.
“Now what?”
Hisolda, Farris, and Timon spoke those words in an unexpected chorus.
Farris looked down at her through the rings formed by his thumbs and forefingers. “Magic,” he pronounced, “and that’s the end of my abilities.”
“Of course it’s magic,” Timon said. “The curse of the Crane didn’t miss after all. We need to send for Nandi. Or your sister Fenia, now that she’s back from the West. She’s a sorceress too.”
“Um.” Farris nodded to the side, where the dark-skinned sorceress Nandi sat in one of the stocks. Her coral-black hair shook, and her usual merry smile was now a merry laugh, as Kratos Shortmane, one of the younger centaur stallions, applied an enthusiastic tickle to her soles. As one of the few humans who openly admitted to enjoying their tickle-sessions, Nandi was obviously having a grand time, and Kratos was just as obviously not finished with her yet.
“Fenia will be coming to carry Nandi off,” Farris said. “The two of them said they wanted a chance for some magic-girl talk.” He looked at the laughing black sorceress, and then at the sign displaying the Prophecy. “We can’t wait for that.”
A familiar-strange feeling came to Hisolda, the one she now always felt when she faced her next tickle-session: Not a desire to delay, but rather a sense that she ought to want a delay. “I won’t fit in the stocks now.” She looked at the now-too-thick rope coiled among her now-too-large clothing. “Do you have smaller ropes?”
It was a silly question. The cords normally used for toe-ties worked well on the wrists and ankles of a foot-tall Hisolda. She shortly found herself face-up and spread-eagle on a bench, with Farris looming over her.
The traditional ladle of water was now too big for Hisolda to drink from, so Farris improvised with a large acorn-cap. Then he drenched her whole body with the ladle, rather than just her feet, and now he held up a brush.
Instead of the traditional scrubbing brush, it was one with softer bristles, and instead of applying it to her wet feet, he applied it to her wet body. Hisolda laughed at its tickling touch – different from that of the scrubbing brush while being at least as teasing – and Farris made the usual noises about this being a mere preliminary, not intended to tickle.
Then Farris set the brush aside and began to tickle Hisolda with intent, applying a vos-hawk’s wing feather to her bare skin. The centaurs considered the feathers of the vos-hawk to be the best tickling feathers, and used the feathers of other birds only in feather-fans or other specialized ways. Hisolda had never seen any reason to doubt the centaurs on this point, and Farris wasn’t giving her one now.
Centaurs traditionally tickled the feet of their victims, mostly the soles, and occasionally the tops of the feet as well. Farris had decided that Hisolda’s feet were now too tiny for that, and had chosen to break with tradition, applying his tickles to her entire foot-tall body. So Hisolda felt the teasing feather tip on her legs: On the outsides of her legs and the insides of her thighs, and underneath, on the surprisingly ticklish spots at the backs of her knees. She felt the feather tip move up to tickle the sides of her hips and the sides of her torso, and she could only squirm and laugh helplessly in response. The stocks no longer fit her, but the cords that bound her now made her as helpless and as vulnerable to a centaur’s tickling as she’d ever been.
The tickling tease of the feather’s tip came to Hisolda’s arms. She felt it glide over her lower arms, over the backs of her hands, and over her upper arms. Farris teased one arm at a time, to draw Hisolda’s attention and make her giggle. She then squealed at the touch of two feathers at once, the tips in her armpits, wiggling. Then Farris set the second feather aside, drawing Hisolda’s attention to the remaining tip as it tickle-teased her neck and chest, stroked around and between and over her breasts, and wiggled here and there and everywhere on her belly.
Then that feather tip returned to Hisolda’s feet. She felt the feather stroke each sole in turn, left and right. And again, and again, and again. Occasionally the feather teased the tops of her feet, before applying yet another tickle to each sole in turn.
Farris hadn’t been able to tie her now-tiny toes, but the spread-eagle tie meant that her feet were held her feet well apart, completely unable to defend each other. Her toes clenched and spread in response to the tickling touch, and when they spread, they were open to a sudden screaming tickle-strike.
The overall feathering ended, and Hisolda felt it begin all over again, Farris changed the pattern so that she could not anticipate the next touch of the merciless feather as it stoked and wiggled and teased her legs and belly and soles and every other part of her nude body.
Sometimes Hisolda felt Farris apply just one feather, and sometimes two, to tickle both armpits and then both feet at once. Again and again, she felt the teasing feather tip run over her sides and up and down her arms and legs. On the insides and outsides of her thighs. Over the tops of her feet as well as her soles. Over her chest, and around and around and around her belly with gentle, irresistible strokes and swirls.
Under that merciless centaur-tickling, Hisolda squirmed and laughed helplessly. And as the soles of her feet were again tickle-teased by the vos-hawk feather, she felt the beginnings of the tickle-drunk. Of the tickle-madness. Of that little voice waking up in the back of her mind, waiting to whisper that it wanted more.
Hisolda’s feet were tiny, now, but they didn’t feel tiny. They felt full-sized – full-sized and receiving a big tickle. She felt the second feather again, as Farris once more tickled both soles simultaneously. He kept tickling and tickling and tickling those soles, with occasional licks to the tops of her feet. And pinned down as she was, small and spread-eagled on the bench, there was nothing she could do but squirm and laugh and twist and squeal.
A pause, and Hisolda gasped for breath. Farris grinned down at her, and she saw him bring the vos-hawk feathers back into play. This time, however, the tickle was not so warrior-wild. Instead the tempo slowed, and the tickling touch became steady and implacable.
As Hisolda squirmed and giggled under this new tickle-tease, she realized Farris was still using the feathers. In a normal session, the centaur tickling her would be on his third implement by now. Those implements were now too big – just as the stocks were too big. Even the feathers were over-large for her curse-belittled body. But Farris was making them tickle anyway.
And that steady tickle-march continued. And continued. And continued. Hisolda felt the feather-tips touch belly and legs and arms and soles and everywhere else. Making her giggle. And then squirm and giggle some more, as they kept up that subtle skillful tickle.
Yes, yes, yes, that little voice in Hisolda’s head whispered. More, more, more! Hisolda was sinking deeper into the tickle-madness – and she knew it.
After an endless time that wasn’t long enough, another pause came. Looking up, Hisolda saw that Farris had decided to switch to a new implement after all. Or rather to go back to an old one. He was holding the soft brush he’d used earlier – and now he applied it with intent to tickle.
“Eeeeee!” Hisolda squealed. Wheeee! the voice in her head said gleefully. The soft bristles seemed to tickle all over. They didn’t of course, even with her now-tiny body. But they seemed to, as Farris skillfully applied the brush. He was an expert tickler, and now he was proving it.
The soft brush tickled and tickled and tickled, and Hisolda was completely helpless and unable to avoid it. She could fight the cords, but she could not escape. She was nude and spread-eagled and completely vulnerable as that brush continued to tickle and tickle and tickle.
Hisolda felt the soft tease brush across each foot and turn, and then tickle everywhere. She felt it run back and forth over her belly, and then tickle everywhere. She felt it run down one side, then the other, and then tickle everywhere. And there was nothing she could do except struggle and squirm and laugh and laugh and laugh.
The tickling paused again after another endless time. Hisolda again caught her breath. Then she blinked. Nandi was looking down at her through the rings formed by her thumbs and forefingers. So was an amazon that Hisolda couldn’t quite recognize.
Hisolda blinked again. The ‘amazon’ was Fenia Goldmane, the centauress sorceress whose blue eyes and braided blonde hair made her look like an amazon from the waist up.
“Yes, it’s the crane’s curse,” Nandi said. She giggled, tickle-drunk from her own just-finished session. “Sorry.”
“It didn’t miss,” Fenia said. “Almost, but not quite.”
“Not quite,” Nandi agreed. She giggled again. “Sorry. But the curse clipped you, Hisolda. Instead of making you one-footed, it made you one foot tall.”
Fenia shrugged. “If you had worn a blue eye-bead, like my brother, the curse would have been turned completely. As it was…” she shrugged again.
“That’s all very well,” Timon interrupted, “but what do we do now?”
Nandi and Fenia began to talk to each other, using an arcane jargon that Hisolda couldn’t follow. It didn’t help when Farris resumed his tickling.
He now used the tips of his fingers, very lightly, inflicting a lazy tickle. It didn’t produce laughter or even a stream of giggles, only an occasional giggle or squirm that bubbled up. It was the softest, lightest tickle that he could apply without – quite – showing mercy.
Timon watched the human and centaur sorceresses talk, but he looked like he didn’t understand either. Farris wasn’t paying attention. Hisolda felt him tease her left sole with his fingertip. That fingertip was now large enough to cover her entire sole, and it tickled just enough to remind Hisolda that her tickling wasn’t over. It wiggled and teased just enough to produce an occasional giggle, as Hisolda lay spread-eagle on the stocks’ bench and the arcane conversation continued in the background.
“We have it!” Nandi giggled. “Sorry,” she said. “Hisolda will tell you how to lift the curse. When the answer comes to her. That curse really did just clip her, and it’s ready to fall apart, given just a little push. The right little push.”
“You can play the part of the Questioner,” Fenia told Timon, “and you, Farris, can ‘encourage’ her.” The centauress wiggled her fingers.
Timon asked, “You won’t need to cast any spells?”
“No,” Fenia said. “No spells.”
The steady teasing of Hisolda’s soles brought up squirm from her. The others ignored it. Except for Farris, who Hisolda sensed was paying close attention to his delicate oversized tickle of her undersized feet.
Nandi said, “A spell would just make things more tangled. This is simpler.” Once more she giggled. “Sorry.”
“We can try a spell later if this doesn’t work,” Fenia said. “Right now I’m carrying off Nandi, and we’ll see the three of you later.”
Fenia trotted off, with Nandi riding her. Farris smiled down at Hisolda. She felt his forefingers alternate the tease of her now-tiny soles, and when the sounds of Fenia’s hooves had faded, he brought the tips of all ten of his fingers in to play.
In previous sessions, Hisolda had experienced vigorous tickle-dances, and Farris or one of the other centaurs applied a finger-tickle. This one wasn’t like that. Instead, it continued that light and lazy tickle. Hisolda felt the delicate touch of those now-huge fingers on her now-small body, just enough to remind her that she was being tickled. Just enough to produce an occasional squirm, or an occasional giggle. But she knew if she tried to speak, it would force both a squirm and a giggle.
“Tell us how to break the curse, Hisolda,” Timon said gently.
Hisolda squirmed. “I – heehee I heeheehee don’t know how! Heeheehee!”
Farris kept the lazy tease going. Hisolda felt his wandering touch return to her soles before moving up to her belly and to the rest of her vulnerable bare skin. And then she felt it return to her soles again. The tickle-pattern sometimes repeated, and sometimes changed, and the uncertainty keep Hisolda’s attention on the teasing touches.
Hisolda giggled at the touch on her bare left sole, knowing that her right sole and the rest of her would soon receive that lazy tickle-touch as well. Her legs and arms and sides and belly all would get their share as she lay helplessly spread-eagled on the bench. On the stocks-bench, whose ankle holes were now far too big for her.
Memory came of the times when those ankle holes weren’t too big. When her large toes were tied together, and Farris or one of the other centaurs applied merciless finger-tickles between her toes. It was amazing how Farris could now tickle those soles with the tips of his forefingers almost covering them. He couldn’t get between her toes, but he made up for it elsewhere. Like her sides. And between her breasts. Tickling!
Timon spoke again. “Tell us how to break the curse, Hisolda.”
“Hee! I don’t heeheehee know! Heehee!” Hisolda squirmed again.
The large and lazy tickle continued, keeping Hisolda simmering. In a minute, she would squirm or giggle again. In another minute, she would giggle or squirm again. Farris could keep that teasing tickle going for as long as it took, until the answer came.
Time passed. Squirms came. Giggles came. The tickles kept coming, on Hisolda’s tiny and naked body, full-sized touches that tickled everywhere. Hisolda could not avoid them. She could not escape. Nor could she answer Timon’s patiently repeated question.
“Tell us how to break the curse, Hisolda.”
Another squirm. “I don’t heeheehee know how!”
Hisolda felt only the fingertips of her tickler’s right hand now. His left hand was tease-caressing her with a wisp of silk, drawn lightly over her body. That caress tickled too, in the same lazy and persistent way that could keep going forever. Forever and ever and ever.
“Tell us how to break the curse, Hisolda,” Timon said once again.
Once again Hisolda squirmed. “I don’t heeheehee know how!”
The tip of the forefinger kept alternating between her soles, keeping up that lazy tickle.
You like this, don’t you? the voice of tickle-madness whispered in her mind.
No! Yes! No! I want my full height back!
But you like this, don’t you?
Yes. Yes she did. But only because she was now taken by the tickle-madness.
Very well then, I’ll tell you, you shameless hussy. When you put your clothes back on, the curse of the bronze crane will break and crumble into pieces.
Now Hisolda knew. But she would wait until Timon asked again before she spoke. Let Farris keep working that magical, merciless tickle-tease just a little longer.
(end)
“Well shot!” called Timon Graybeard. Beside him, Farris Blue-eye nodded agreement.
The crane’s bronze feathers had turned aside their arrows too, despite their centaur bows having an even heavier draw than the warrior-weight Hisolda favored.
Two heads screeched in unison as the crane reared taller than either centaur, wings spread wide as if to take to the air again. Then those wings folded and the monster-bird collapsed onto the short grass.
It had flown north from the Sea of Reeds, across the Inner Sea and into the centaur Land to make a terror of itself. It had ruined Silverhoof Villa and had feasted on centaur-flesh there. Two attempts to bring it down had failed. This attempt was the third, and as Hisolda dodged the knife-sharp feathers of bronze and saw the arrows turned aside, she had feared that it would fail too.
Now the bane of Silverhoof Villa lay dying. Dying but not yet dead. The black eyes of the two heads still glittered with malice, with one evil spirit behind them.
“Betrayal and ruination, horse-men,” the left head hissed. “Betrayal and ruination! What will you do when there is only one foot?”
And the right head said, “Meddling she-warrior! Daughter of Queen Penardun. The curse of my death upon you, Princess Hisolda. Kücuk bir qadin az. Nok az…”
The four eyes filmed over. The two heads fell limp.
Farris touched the charm that hung from his neck, the blue eye that warded against evil. “The curse missed,” he said. “The curse missed.”
“The curse missed.” Hisolda made an amazon gesture against evil. In her thoughts she added I hope.
“You will keep both your feet, Hisolda,” Timon pronounced. His hand made a tickling gesture as he forced a grin, “Your soles, too.”
“Not with these feathers,” Hisolda said. “Who would want them?”
Timon shook himself. “I have no use for them.”
“Nor do I,” Farris said. He glanced at Hisolda, “Burn and bury them with the rest of the carcass?”
“Burn and bury them with the rest of the carcass,” Hisolda said. The two centaurs nodded, accepting her decision. She had made the death shot, after all.
Timon said, “And then, by the gods, we’ll deserve the best wine!”
------------------=O+O+O=------------------
Drinking the best wine in Sarpedon’s tavern-tent, the three crane-slayers did not speak of the monster-bird’s dying curses. Hisolda was thinking about them, however, and knew the other two were as well.
The curses had referred to the Prophecy: Alja Kentaros mor kental velator velex bartaros mel Uru, nor Kentaros yonvel morkap i patalos, it ran in the Old Tongue of the centaurs. “If the Kentaros should ever fail to visit merciless tickling on foreigners who enter the Land, then will the Kentaros suffer betrayal and ruination.”
And that was why humans in the centaur Land – humans like Hisolda – underwent regular tickle-sessions at the hand (and feathers, and other teasing implements) of the centaurs. The centaurs were gleeful about it, but not cruel, and the humans grumbled but did not beg when the time came to renew their pass tokens for another month. A few humans even admitted openly to enjoying it. (A gift of the goddesses, that was.)
The centaurs handed out merciful tickles in addition. Some of the skinny, sickly amazon males underwent these to build up their strength, Hisolda knew. Anilee Clan Graybadger, drinking cheap cider at a nearby table, underwent a merciful tickle nearly every week – sometimes twice a week – as part of her preferred hangover cure. And the centaurs found occasional other uses for their tickling skills. Still, merciless tickling was what the centaurs were known for, and grumbling about that tickling was what humans in the centaur Land were known for.
Hisolda was one of the grumblers. Not to centaurs like Timon or Farris, but to the other humans, and occasionally to a centauress, as female centaurs only tickled men. She wasn’t a goddess-gifted madwoman like the merry black sorceress Nandi. And yet, in the depth of the tickle, in what Balint of Isgaul called the ‘tickle-drunk,’ Hisolda could sometimes hear a little voice inside her mind. A voice that wanted more.
Still, it was nearly week before her pass tokens expired, Hisolda told herself as she drank the good wine.
------------------=O+O+O=------------------
Timon Graybeard came for Hisolda on the day her pass tokens expired. This was neither usual nor unusual; sometimes a tickling centaur would escort her to the tickle stocks. Sometimes a centauress would do so – Idalia, or Cora, or one of Hisolda’s other centauress friends. Sometimes she would pair up with another human woman, taking the opportunity to grumble to each other as they trudged together. And sometimes, like today, Timon would show up.
He wasn’t a skilled tickler, at least not by centaur standards. He was familiar with humans, however, due to his long experience as a border guard.
Today Timon arrived with rope and an enthusiastic grin. Hisolda mustered a return smile and allowed him to carry her off on his back, tied hand and foot. In an odd way, it was an honor for her. Male centaurs were touchy about letting themselves be ridden, even when the riders were tied as prisoners. (Hisolda’s centauress friends considered this touchiness to be a silly male thing.)
Timon’s tie seemed as secure as usual when they started the walk to the tickle stocks. But by the time they arrived, the ropes had worked loose, so much so that Hisolda worried about them falling right off. Then, as Timon let her down at the oak tree, the ropes did fall of.
It was a familiar scene under the oak tree: The tickling stocks under the tree’s shade, two or three other human women undergoing their own tickling, or sitting on the ground to recover, and a trio of centaurs, including Farris with his blue-eye amulet.
But today Farris towered over Hisolda as she sat on the ground, loose coils of rope around her. He was gigantic. So were the other two centaurs. So was Timon, and the three human women. Hisolda stood up and looked around. The spreading oak now loomed like a wooden mountain. Closer to the ground, the tuffs of grass stood waist-high, rather than ankle high, and the rope that had bound her was now too thick to do so. It lay coiled beside a tunic and pair of sandals sized for a giant. Her clothing, Hisolda realized. But… changed.
Farris and Timon were looking down at her with combined expressions of wonder and consternation. Hisolda looked back up at them, with no idea of what to say or do.
Hisolda was the one who had changed. She now stood no more than one foot tall. Completely nude as well, as she had shrunk, but her clothing hadn’t.
“Now what?”
Hisolda, Farris, and Timon spoke those words in an unexpected chorus.
Farris looked down at her through the rings formed by his thumbs and forefingers. “Magic,” he pronounced, “and that’s the end of my abilities.”
“Of course it’s magic,” Timon said. “The curse of the Crane didn’t miss after all. We need to send for Nandi. Or your sister Fenia, now that she’s back from the West. She’s a sorceress too.”
“Um.” Farris nodded to the side, where the dark-skinned sorceress Nandi sat in one of the stocks. Her coral-black hair shook, and her usual merry smile was now a merry laugh, as Kratos Shortmane, one of the younger centaur stallions, applied an enthusiastic tickle to her soles. As one of the few humans who openly admitted to enjoying their tickle-sessions, Nandi was obviously having a grand time, and Kratos was just as obviously not finished with her yet.
“Fenia will be coming to carry Nandi off,” Farris said. “The two of them said they wanted a chance for some magic-girl talk.” He looked at the laughing black sorceress, and then at the sign displaying the Prophecy. “We can’t wait for that.”
A familiar-strange feeling came to Hisolda, the one she now always felt when she faced her next tickle-session: Not a desire to delay, but rather a sense that she ought to want a delay. “I won’t fit in the stocks now.” She looked at the now-too-thick rope coiled among her now-too-large clothing. “Do you have smaller ropes?”
It was a silly question. The cords normally used for toe-ties worked well on the wrists and ankles of a foot-tall Hisolda. She shortly found herself face-up and spread-eagle on a bench, with Farris looming over her.
The traditional ladle of water was now too big for Hisolda to drink from, so Farris improvised with a large acorn-cap. Then he drenched her whole body with the ladle, rather than just her feet, and now he held up a brush.
Instead of the traditional scrubbing brush, it was one with softer bristles, and instead of applying it to her wet feet, he applied it to her wet body. Hisolda laughed at its tickling touch – different from that of the scrubbing brush while being at least as teasing – and Farris made the usual noises about this being a mere preliminary, not intended to tickle.
Then Farris set the brush aside and began to tickle Hisolda with intent, applying a vos-hawk’s wing feather to her bare skin. The centaurs considered the feathers of the vos-hawk to be the best tickling feathers, and used the feathers of other birds only in feather-fans or other specialized ways. Hisolda had never seen any reason to doubt the centaurs on this point, and Farris wasn’t giving her one now.
Centaurs traditionally tickled the feet of their victims, mostly the soles, and occasionally the tops of the feet as well. Farris had decided that Hisolda’s feet were now too tiny for that, and had chosen to break with tradition, applying his tickles to her entire foot-tall body. So Hisolda felt the teasing feather tip on her legs: On the outsides of her legs and the insides of her thighs, and underneath, on the surprisingly ticklish spots at the backs of her knees. She felt the feather tip move up to tickle the sides of her hips and the sides of her torso, and she could only squirm and laugh helplessly in response. The stocks no longer fit her, but the cords that bound her now made her as helpless and as vulnerable to a centaur’s tickling as she’d ever been.
The tickling tease of the feather’s tip came to Hisolda’s arms. She felt it glide over her lower arms, over the backs of her hands, and over her upper arms. Farris teased one arm at a time, to draw Hisolda’s attention and make her giggle. She then squealed at the touch of two feathers at once, the tips in her armpits, wiggling. Then Farris set the second feather aside, drawing Hisolda’s attention to the remaining tip as it tickle-teased her neck and chest, stroked around and between and over her breasts, and wiggled here and there and everywhere on her belly.
Then that feather tip returned to Hisolda’s feet. She felt the feather stroke each sole in turn, left and right. And again, and again, and again. Occasionally the feather teased the tops of her feet, before applying yet another tickle to each sole in turn.
Farris hadn’t been able to tie her now-tiny toes, but the spread-eagle tie meant that her feet were held her feet well apart, completely unable to defend each other. Her toes clenched and spread in response to the tickling touch, and when they spread, they were open to a sudden screaming tickle-strike.
The overall feathering ended, and Hisolda felt it begin all over again, Farris changed the pattern so that she could not anticipate the next touch of the merciless feather as it stoked and wiggled and teased her legs and belly and soles and every other part of her nude body.
Sometimes Hisolda felt Farris apply just one feather, and sometimes two, to tickle both armpits and then both feet at once. Again and again, she felt the teasing feather tip run over her sides and up and down her arms and legs. On the insides and outsides of her thighs. Over the tops of her feet as well as her soles. Over her chest, and around and around and around her belly with gentle, irresistible strokes and swirls.
Under that merciless centaur-tickling, Hisolda squirmed and laughed helplessly. And as the soles of her feet were again tickle-teased by the vos-hawk feather, she felt the beginnings of the tickle-drunk. Of the tickle-madness. Of that little voice waking up in the back of her mind, waiting to whisper that it wanted more.
Hisolda’s feet were tiny, now, but they didn’t feel tiny. They felt full-sized – full-sized and receiving a big tickle. She felt the second feather again, as Farris once more tickled both soles simultaneously. He kept tickling and tickling and tickling those soles, with occasional licks to the tops of her feet. And pinned down as she was, small and spread-eagled on the bench, there was nothing she could do but squirm and laugh and twist and squeal.
A pause, and Hisolda gasped for breath. Farris grinned down at her, and she saw him bring the vos-hawk feathers back into play. This time, however, the tickle was not so warrior-wild. Instead the tempo slowed, and the tickling touch became steady and implacable.
As Hisolda squirmed and giggled under this new tickle-tease, she realized Farris was still using the feathers. In a normal session, the centaur tickling her would be on his third implement by now. Those implements were now too big – just as the stocks were too big. Even the feathers were over-large for her curse-belittled body. But Farris was making them tickle anyway.
And that steady tickle-march continued. And continued. And continued. Hisolda felt the feather-tips touch belly and legs and arms and soles and everywhere else. Making her giggle. And then squirm and giggle some more, as they kept up that subtle skillful tickle.
Yes, yes, yes, that little voice in Hisolda’s head whispered. More, more, more! Hisolda was sinking deeper into the tickle-madness – and she knew it.
After an endless time that wasn’t long enough, another pause came. Looking up, Hisolda saw that Farris had decided to switch to a new implement after all. Or rather to go back to an old one. He was holding the soft brush he’d used earlier – and now he applied it with intent to tickle.
“Eeeeee!” Hisolda squealed. Wheeee! the voice in her head said gleefully. The soft bristles seemed to tickle all over. They didn’t of course, even with her now-tiny body. But they seemed to, as Farris skillfully applied the brush. He was an expert tickler, and now he was proving it.
The soft brush tickled and tickled and tickled, and Hisolda was completely helpless and unable to avoid it. She could fight the cords, but she could not escape. She was nude and spread-eagled and completely vulnerable as that brush continued to tickle and tickle and tickle.
Hisolda felt the soft tease brush across each foot and turn, and then tickle everywhere. She felt it run back and forth over her belly, and then tickle everywhere. She felt it run down one side, then the other, and then tickle everywhere. And there was nothing she could do except struggle and squirm and laugh and laugh and laugh.
The tickling paused again after another endless time. Hisolda again caught her breath. Then she blinked. Nandi was looking down at her through the rings formed by her thumbs and forefingers. So was an amazon that Hisolda couldn’t quite recognize.
Hisolda blinked again. The ‘amazon’ was Fenia Goldmane, the centauress sorceress whose blue eyes and braided blonde hair made her look like an amazon from the waist up.
“Yes, it’s the crane’s curse,” Nandi said. She giggled, tickle-drunk from her own just-finished session. “Sorry.”
“It didn’t miss,” Fenia said. “Almost, but not quite.”
“Not quite,” Nandi agreed. She giggled again. “Sorry. But the curse clipped you, Hisolda. Instead of making you one-footed, it made you one foot tall.”
Fenia shrugged. “If you had worn a blue eye-bead, like my brother, the curse would have been turned completely. As it was…” she shrugged again.
“That’s all very well,” Timon interrupted, “but what do we do now?”
Nandi and Fenia began to talk to each other, using an arcane jargon that Hisolda couldn’t follow. It didn’t help when Farris resumed his tickling.
He now used the tips of his fingers, very lightly, inflicting a lazy tickle. It didn’t produce laughter or even a stream of giggles, only an occasional giggle or squirm that bubbled up. It was the softest, lightest tickle that he could apply without – quite – showing mercy.
Timon watched the human and centaur sorceresses talk, but he looked like he didn’t understand either. Farris wasn’t paying attention. Hisolda felt him tease her left sole with his fingertip. That fingertip was now large enough to cover her entire sole, and it tickled just enough to remind Hisolda that her tickling wasn’t over. It wiggled and teased just enough to produce an occasional giggle, as Hisolda lay spread-eagle on the stocks’ bench and the arcane conversation continued in the background.
“We have it!” Nandi giggled. “Sorry,” she said. “Hisolda will tell you how to lift the curse. When the answer comes to her. That curse really did just clip her, and it’s ready to fall apart, given just a little push. The right little push.”
“You can play the part of the Questioner,” Fenia told Timon, “and you, Farris, can ‘encourage’ her.” The centauress wiggled her fingers.
Timon asked, “You won’t need to cast any spells?”
“No,” Fenia said. “No spells.”
The steady teasing of Hisolda’s soles brought up squirm from her. The others ignored it. Except for Farris, who Hisolda sensed was paying close attention to his delicate oversized tickle of her undersized feet.
Nandi said, “A spell would just make things more tangled. This is simpler.” Once more she giggled. “Sorry.”
“We can try a spell later if this doesn’t work,” Fenia said. “Right now I’m carrying off Nandi, and we’ll see the three of you later.”
Fenia trotted off, with Nandi riding her. Farris smiled down at Hisolda. She felt his forefingers alternate the tease of her now-tiny soles, and when the sounds of Fenia’s hooves had faded, he brought the tips of all ten of his fingers in to play.
In previous sessions, Hisolda had experienced vigorous tickle-dances, and Farris or one of the other centaurs applied a finger-tickle. This one wasn’t like that. Instead, it continued that light and lazy tickle. Hisolda felt the delicate touch of those now-huge fingers on her now-small body, just enough to remind her that she was being tickled. Just enough to produce an occasional squirm, or an occasional giggle. But she knew if she tried to speak, it would force both a squirm and a giggle.
“Tell us how to break the curse, Hisolda,” Timon said gently.
Hisolda squirmed. “I – heehee I heeheehee don’t know how! Heeheehee!”
Farris kept the lazy tease going. Hisolda felt his wandering touch return to her soles before moving up to her belly and to the rest of her vulnerable bare skin. And then she felt it return to her soles again. The tickle-pattern sometimes repeated, and sometimes changed, and the uncertainty keep Hisolda’s attention on the teasing touches.
Hisolda giggled at the touch on her bare left sole, knowing that her right sole and the rest of her would soon receive that lazy tickle-touch as well. Her legs and arms and sides and belly all would get their share as she lay helplessly spread-eagled on the bench. On the stocks-bench, whose ankle holes were now far too big for her.
Memory came of the times when those ankle holes weren’t too big. When her large toes were tied together, and Farris or one of the other centaurs applied merciless finger-tickles between her toes. It was amazing how Farris could now tickle those soles with the tips of his forefingers almost covering them. He couldn’t get between her toes, but he made up for it elsewhere. Like her sides. And between her breasts. Tickling!
Timon spoke again. “Tell us how to break the curse, Hisolda.”
“Hee! I don’t heeheehee know! Heehee!” Hisolda squirmed again.
The large and lazy tickle continued, keeping Hisolda simmering. In a minute, she would squirm or giggle again. In another minute, she would giggle or squirm again. Farris could keep that teasing tickle going for as long as it took, until the answer came.
Time passed. Squirms came. Giggles came. The tickles kept coming, on Hisolda’s tiny and naked body, full-sized touches that tickled everywhere. Hisolda could not avoid them. She could not escape. Nor could she answer Timon’s patiently repeated question.
“Tell us how to break the curse, Hisolda.”
Another squirm. “I don’t heeheehee know how!”
Hisolda felt only the fingertips of her tickler’s right hand now. His left hand was tease-caressing her with a wisp of silk, drawn lightly over her body. That caress tickled too, in the same lazy and persistent way that could keep going forever. Forever and ever and ever.
“Tell us how to break the curse, Hisolda,” Timon said once again.
Once again Hisolda squirmed. “I don’t heeheehee know how!”
The tip of the forefinger kept alternating between her soles, keeping up that lazy tickle.
You like this, don’t you? the voice of tickle-madness whispered in her mind.
No! Yes! No! I want my full height back!
But you like this, don’t you?
Yes. Yes she did. But only because she was now taken by the tickle-madness.
Very well then, I’ll tell you, you shameless hussy. When you put your clothes back on, the curse of the bronze crane will break and crumble into pieces.
Now Hisolda knew. But she would wait until Timon asked again before she spoke. Let Farris keep working that magical, merciless tickle-tease just a little longer.
(end)
