Sablesword
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The second of my "centaur tickling" series, also an older story that's been around the net.
ENTRY FEE
by Sablesword
Adoria sat among the boxes and bales and watched the centaurs.
It was her first trip to the centaur Land, although she was not
going to actually cross into it. "Maybe next time," her uncle
Zorian had said. "Absolutely not," her mother had answered. So
now she waited outside the border post while Uncle Zorian went
to do - whatever the centaurs did to visitors.
There were both male and female centaurs here. A few were border
guards; more were waiting for Uncle Zorian to hire them as
porters. They made Adoria feel small. Like her uncle, she was
below average height for a human, with dark hair and eyes. But
she was not a child, by the gods! She was a full-grown woman, if
only just barely, and she had already turned down one proposal
of marriage. After this trip, she would stay with Uncle Zorian.
She would get out from under mother's thumb. Next trip would
dare the unspoken terrors of the centaurs, earn her own dowry,
and choose the suitors *she* wanted and not the ones her mother
tried to force on her.
Now she saw Uncle Zorian returning. He was red-faced and
staggering slightly, almost, but not quite, as if he had drunk a
little too much wine. A female centaur walked beside him: Cora
or Idalia - Adoria wasn't sure of the name. Everyone's attention
was on the returning pair. Adoria stood up and headed for the
border, giving in to a sudden impulse. After her long journey
this trip, she would make at least a token visit into the
centaur Land.
She had gotten perhaps 50 paces across the border, and had
turned back before anyone noticed her. Then everyone seemed to
notice her all at once. "Adoria, you fool!" her uncle shouted.
One of the centaur border-guards came thundering at her.
Frightened, Adoria broke and ran for the border.
After only five steps, the bola caught her, wrapping around both
legs and one arm and throwing her to the ground. The centaur
came up and knelt beside her. Rough, efficient hands bound her
wrists behind her back, then pulled off her sandals and crossed
and bound her ankles. The centaur slung her across his back and
rose. Adoria lay very still and limp, so as not to fall.
Uncle Zorian came up beside her. "Adoria, you fool," he
repeated. "Timon-" he said to the centaur.
"Make it short." Timon said.
Uncle Zorian spoke quickly: "Adoria, listen. Don't cry and don't
beg. They'll respect that. Be brave." Then Timon took her away.
* * *
After a moderate jog, they came to the stocks. Stocks, and other
devices designed to hold people in place. Human-type people,
Adoria corrected herself. Not to hold centaurs. There was also
an awning under which stood a male centaur of about her own age,
a sundial, and a sign.
*Alja Kentaros mor kental velator velex bartaros mel Uru, nor
Kentaros yonvel morkap i patalos.* the sign read in the
centaurs' curlicue script: "If the Kentaros should ever fail to
visit merciless torment on foreigners who enter the Land, then
will the Kentaros suffer betrayal and ruination."
Now Adoria understood. The centaurs weren't simply being cruel;
they had a gods-sent Prophesy to deal with. "I'm sorry," she
whispered, "I didn't know." She was `well cooked' in a phrase
she had heard used somewhere or other. The centaurs wouldn't be
cruel to her, but they would be merciless. And she could only
blame herself.
"Ho, Timon." the younger centaur said. "What sort of flatfooter
are you bringing me now?"
"Ho, Kratos. I'm bringing you a runner. She's Adoria, Zorian's
niece."
"Zorian's niece? I thought she was staying behind."
"She changed her mind. Then she tried to change it again," Timon
said. "Women! Here, help me get her on this bench."
In a few moments, Adoria found herself lying face-down; her
wrists locked in stocks in front of her. Another set of stocks
locked around her ankles, holding her knees bent in a right
angle and leaving the soles of her feet facing straight up. She
heard Timon leave to return to the guard post. She felt water
splash on her feet, felt Kratos wash them with something both
soft and rough - either a sponge or a rag. Adoria bit back a
giggle at the tickle and the silliness of it. As Kratos began to
lace her toes down, Adoria managed to ask, "What are you going
to do?"
Kratos paused. "You weren't told?"
"No."
A longer pause. When Kratos continued, Adoria heard a grin in
his voice. "I am going to tickle-torture you. I am going to
tickle your flat feet until you're limp, until you can't stand
it. And then I'm going to tickle you some more."
"Oh." Adoria felt an excited quiver in her belly.
"You shouldn't have tried to run, you know. That just makes your
time longer."
"Oh."
Kratos stepped away to adjust the gnomen of the sundial. Adoria
tried to wiggle. She could wiggle her fingers and move her body,
but her wrists and ankles were held fast. In addition, leather
straps held her legs and leather lacings held her toes. She
could not move her feet at all. The wrist stocks locked with a
simple but effective pin-lock, out of reach of her fingers. The
ankle stocks had a similar lock, and that latch, of course, was
even further out of her reach. She was stuck.
Adoria heard Kratos return, humming slightly to himself. She
could have caught a glimpse of him if she had twisted, but she
decided not to waste the effort. The bench, she suddenly
realized, was built to hold her naked soles at the level of a
centaur's worktable: They were just the right height for a
craftsman to comfortably reach and work on. And Kratos, she
suspected, was a craftsman at tickling.
Another belly-quiver ran through her, like the one on her first
sea-voyage when the ship first entered open waters. Then the
tickling began.
It started with gentle touches. Some of them felt like they from
Kratos' fingers, some from something feather-soft, and some from
a hard stylus or quill. Adoria felt Kratos keep a slow and
steady tempo, probing random spots until he had tested every
spot on her soles. Some of the spots were only mildly ticklish
but others were quite sensitive. Adoria giggled, squealing
slightly as Kratos hit an especially ticklish spot. Adoria never
knew where the next touch would fall, nor how much it would
tickle, and the uncertainty increased her sensitivity to every
touch.
The random touches gave way to stroking. Kratos used feather-
and fingertips, touching gently, persistently, and
penetratingly. Adoria could not believe that such a gentle touch
could have such a strong effect. She tried to ignore it, tried
to relax, tried to let the stroking on her soles sooth her, but
she could not. As gentle as Kratos' touch was, it was still a
tickle. Under it Adoria squirmed and giggled.
Then Kratos pounced. His gentle touch turned into a vigorous
roiling attack that ran up and down Adoria's soles and forced
peals of laughter from her. With the feather, he invaded the
tender skin between Adoria's toes. Adoria squealed and jerked,
and pulled wildly at the stocks. But those stocks were built to
hold an amazon warrior, and Adoria's girlish strength couldn't
even make them creak.
Unlike the earlier stroking, this attack wasn't constant. Kratos
would tickle vigorously for a minute, and then he would give
Adoria a minute's respite. With each pause, Adoria would feel a
faint hope that the tickle-torment was over, and then another
tickle-attack would dash her hopes. But at last came a longer
pause.
"Is it over? Please?" Adoria asked at last.
"Oh no, only a little more than half way. I'm just thinking
about what to try next," Kratos answered. "Now if you hadn't
tried to run, it would be almost over."
"I'm sorry."
"I'm sure you are. But I'm afraid I still have to keep working
on you."
"You're enjoying this!" Adoria accused.
"I have to prove myself," Kratos answered primly. He did not,
Adoria noticed, deny enjoying it. "Hrm," Kratos continued.
"This, I think."
"This" felt leathery as it scraped and rubbed Adoria's feet. It
must be that leather oddment she had seen without noticing when
Kratos and Timon had locked her into the stocks. Once,
somewhere, she had heard it called a "bullfeather," and she had
wondered why it was called that and what it was good for. But
now she was learning. Gods and goddesses was she learning now!
She never imagined that leather could tickle, and certainly not
like this. It was worse than the gentle stroking, worse than the
attacks of Kratos' fingers, worse even than the probes of the
feather between her toes. There was no part of the universe left
but her body, no part of her body left but the soles of her
feet, and nothing else happening in the universe but the
tickling. Adoria could only lie limply on the bench and laugh.
At last, the leather-tickle ended. Sometime after that, Adoria
realized that it had ended. She was sweat-soaked, and exhausted,
and sore from too much laughter. But Kratos *still* wasn't done.
He was rubbing her feet with some sort of salve. It wasn't an
intended tickle, but it still made Adoria squirm and whimper.
Then Adoria felt water poured over her feet. Then Kratos applied
a scrub-brush.
Adoria screamed. She would go mad. She couldn't bear it. But it
wasn't pain. It wasn't even agony, it was too much pleasure,
more pleasure than even a goddess could stand and she must be
mad because she didn't want it to stop.
But it did stop at last, and Kratos released her from her
restraints. He offered her a drink of water and a strong
shoulder to lean on. He caught her and carried her when she
found herself too weak to walk.
Adoria saw the sign again as Kratos carried her away: *Alja
Kentaros mor kental velator velex bartaros mel Uru, nor Kentaros
yonvel morkap i patalos* She knew that she would not betray the
centaurs. They might torment her with tickling, but they would
not harm her. They didn't feel any malice toward her. And she
didn't feel any toward them. She was their friend, and that they
were hers.
* * *
Back at the border post, Timon handed Adoria the precious pass
tokens for entry into the centaur Land. "Your mother's going to
skin us both," Uncle Zorian said. But he was smiling. "It looks
like you're going to come with me to Naranos after all. You've
earned it."
ENTRY FEE
by Sablesword
Adoria sat among the boxes and bales and watched the centaurs.
It was her first trip to the centaur Land, although she was not
going to actually cross into it. "Maybe next time," her uncle
Zorian had said. "Absolutely not," her mother had answered. So
now she waited outside the border post while Uncle Zorian went
to do - whatever the centaurs did to visitors.
There were both male and female centaurs here. A few were border
guards; more were waiting for Uncle Zorian to hire them as
porters. They made Adoria feel small. Like her uncle, she was
below average height for a human, with dark hair and eyes. But
she was not a child, by the gods! She was a full-grown woman, if
only just barely, and she had already turned down one proposal
of marriage. After this trip, she would stay with Uncle Zorian.
She would get out from under mother's thumb. Next trip would
dare the unspoken terrors of the centaurs, earn her own dowry,
and choose the suitors *she* wanted and not the ones her mother
tried to force on her.
Now she saw Uncle Zorian returning. He was red-faced and
staggering slightly, almost, but not quite, as if he had drunk a
little too much wine. A female centaur walked beside him: Cora
or Idalia - Adoria wasn't sure of the name. Everyone's attention
was on the returning pair. Adoria stood up and headed for the
border, giving in to a sudden impulse. After her long journey
this trip, she would make at least a token visit into the
centaur Land.
She had gotten perhaps 50 paces across the border, and had
turned back before anyone noticed her. Then everyone seemed to
notice her all at once. "Adoria, you fool!" her uncle shouted.
One of the centaur border-guards came thundering at her.
Frightened, Adoria broke and ran for the border.
After only five steps, the bola caught her, wrapping around both
legs and one arm and throwing her to the ground. The centaur
came up and knelt beside her. Rough, efficient hands bound her
wrists behind her back, then pulled off her sandals and crossed
and bound her ankles. The centaur slung her across his back and
rose. Adoria lay very still and limp, so as not to fall.
Uncle Zorian came up beside her. "Adoria, you fool," he
repeated. "Timon-" he said to the centaur.
"Make it short." Timon said.
Uncle Zorian spoke quickly: "Adoria, listen. Don't cry and don't
beg. They'll respect that. Be brave." Then Timon took her away.
* * *
After a moderate jog, they came to the stocks. Stocks, and other
devices designed to hold people in place. Human-type people,
Adoria corrected herself. Not to hold centaurs. There was also
an awning under which stood a male centaur of about her own age,
a sundial, and a sign.
*Alja Kentaros mor kental velator velex bartaros mel Uru, nor
Kentaros yonvel morkap i patalos.* the sign read in the
centaurs' curlicue script: "If the Kentaros should ever fail to
visit merciless torment on foreigners who enter the Land, then
will the Kentaros suffer betrayal and ruination."
Now Adoria understood. The centaurs weren't simply being cruel;
they had a gods-sent Prophesy to deal with. "I'm sorry," she
whispered, "I didn't know." She was `well cooked' in a phrase
she had heard used somewhere or other. The centaurs wouldn't be
cruel to her, but they would be merciless. And she could only
blame herself.
"Ho, Timon." the younger centaur said. "What sort of flatfooter
are you bringing me now?"
"Ho, Kratos. I'm bringing you a runner. She's Adoria, Zorian's
niece."
"Zorian's niece? I thought she was staying behind."
"She changed her mind. Then she tried to change it again," Timon
said. "Women! Here, help me get her on this bench."
In a few moments, Adoria found herself lying face-down; her
wrists locked in stocks in front of her. Another set of stocks
locked around her ankles, holding her knees bent in a right
angle and leaving the soles of her feet facing straight up. She
heard Timon leave to return to the guard post. She felt water
splash on her feet, felt Kratos wash them with something both
soft and rough - either a sponge or a rag. Adoria bit back a
giggle at the tickle and the silliness of it. As Kratos began to
lace her toes down, Adoria managed to ask, "What are you going
to do?"
Kratos paused. "You weren't told?"
"No."
A longer pause. When Kratos continued, Adoria heard a grin in
his voice. "I am going to tickle-torture you. I am going to
tickle your flat feet until you're limp, until you can't stand
it. And then I'm going to tickle you some more."
"Oh." Adoria felt an excited quiver in her belly.
"You shouldn't have tried to run, you know. That just makes your
time longer."
"Oh."
Kratos stepped away to adjust the gnomen of the sundial. Adoria
tried to wiggle. She could wiggle her fingers and move her body,
but her wrists and ankles were held fast. In addition, leather
straps held her legs and leather lacings held her toes. She
could not move her feet at all. The wrist stocks locked with a
simple but effective pin-lock, out of reach of her fingers. The
ankle stocks had a similar lock, and that latch, of course, was
even further out of her reach. She was stuck.
Adoria heard Kratos return, humming slightly to himself. She
could have caught a glimpse of him if she had twisted, but she
decided not to waste the effort. The bench, she suddenly
realized, was built to hold her naked soles at the level of a
centaur's worktable: They were just the right height for a
craftsman to comfortably reach and work on. And Kratos, she
suspected, was a craftsman at tickling.
Another belly-quiver ran through her, like the one on her first
sea-voyage when the ship first entered open waters. Then the
tickling began.
It started with gentle touches. Some of them felt like they from
Kratos' fingers, some from something feather-soft, and some from
a hard stylus or quill. Adoria felt Kratos keep a slow and
steady tempo, probing random spots until he had tested every
spot on her soles. Some of the spots were only mildly ticklish
but others were quite sensitive. Adoria giggled, squealing
slightly as Kratos hit an especially ticklish spot. Adoria never
knew where the next touch would fall, nor how much it would
tickle, and the uncertainty increased her sensitivity to every
touch.
The random touches gave way to stroking. Kratos used feather-
and fingertips, touching gently, persistently, and
penetratingly. Adoria could not believe that such a gentle touch
could have such a strong effect. She tried to ignore it, tried
to relax, tried to let the stroking on her soles sooth her, but
she could not. As gentle as Kratos' touch was, it was still a
tickle. Under it Adoria squirmed and giggled.
Then Kratos pounced. His gentle touch turned into a vigorous
roiling attack that ran up and down Adoria's soles and forced
peals of laughter from her. With the feather, he invaded the
tender skin between Adoria's toes. Adoria squealed and jerked,
and pulled wildly at the stocks. But those stocks were built to
hold an amazon warrior, and Adoria's girlish strength couldn't
even make them creak.
Unlike the earlier stroking, this attack wasn't constant. Kratos
would tickle vigorously for a minute, and then he would give
Adoria a minute's respite. With each pause, Adoria would feel a
faint hope that the tickle-torment was over, and then another
tickle-attack would dash her hopes. But at last came a longer
pause.
"Is it over? Please?" Adoria asked at last.
"Oh no, only a little more than half way. I'm just thinking
about what to try next," Kratos answered. "Now if you hadn't
tried to run, it would be almost over."
"I'm sorry."
"I'm sure you are. But I'm afraid I still have to keep working
on you."
"You're enjoying this!" Adoria accused.
"I have to prove myself," Kratos answered primly. He did not,
Adoria noticed, deny enjoying it. "Hrm," Kratos continued.
"This, I think."
"This" felt leathery as it scraped and rubbed Adoria's feet. It
must be that leather oddment she had seen without noticing when
Kratos and Timon had locked her into the stocks. Once,
somewhere, she had heard it called a "bullfeather," and she had
wondered why it was called that and what it was good for. But
now she was learning. Gods and goddesses was she learning now!
She never imagined that leather could tickle, and certainly not
like this. It was worse than the gentle stroking, worse than the
attacks of Kratos' fingers, worse even than the probes of the
feather between her toes. There was no part of the universe left
but her body, no part of her body left but the soles of her
feet, and nothing else happening in the universe but the
tickling. Adoria could only lie limply on the bench and laugh.
At last, the leather-tickle ended. Sometime after that, Adoria
realized that it had ended. She was sweat-soaked, and exhausted,
and sore from too much laughter. But Kratos *still* wasn't done.
He was rubbing her feet with some sort of salve. It wasn't an
intended tickle, but it still made Adoria squirm and whimper.
Then Adoria felt water poured over her feet. Then Kratos applied
a scrub-brush.
Adoria screamed. She would go mad. She couldn't bear it. But it
wasn't pain. It wasn't even agony, it was too much pleasure,
more pleasure than even a goddess could stand and she must be
mad because she didn't want it to stop.
But it did stop at last, and Kratos released her from her
restraints. He offered her a drink of water and a strong
shoulder to lean on. He caught her and carried her when she
found herself too weak to walk.
Adoria saw the sign again as Kratos carried her away: *Alja
Kentaros mor kental velator velex bartaros mel Uru, nor Kentaros
yonvel morkap i patalos* She knew that she would not betray the
centaurs. They might torment her with tickling, but they would
not harm her. They didn't feel any malice toward her. And she
didn't feel any toward them. She was their friend, and that they
were hers.
* * *
Back at the border post, Timon handed Adoria the precious pass
tokens for entry into the centaur Land. "Your mother's going to
skin us both," Uncle Zorian said. But he was smiling. "It looks
like you're going to come with me to Naranos after all. You've
earned it."
.
