Strelnikov
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CON ARTIST: Tickle Street Chapter 12
by Strelnikov
Copyright 2003 by the author
Dramatis Personae (in order of appearance)
Candice Wade
A little beauty, 18 years old, with crystal blue eyes and ash blonde hair, and a very trim and shapely body. An extrovert and sensualist, she loves to be tickled and get in ticklish situations, but if the tickling goes too far, she's out of control. Lately her lust to be tickled has grown and grown, and now she'll do anything to get tickled. She's lived with her parents and sister on Tickle Street since she was five. Her older sister Nicole is away at college.
Emily MacDonald
Emily is a fiery red-head, a petite girl with bright green eyes and shoulder-length hair. She's somewhat older than the rest of the senior class at TCHS – she spent a year in rehab after a car wreck. She and her widowed father moved to Tickle Street last summer. Emily is always looking for fun, even if it involves getting in trouble. Her ticklishness is her greatest weakness, she feels that it makes her too girly and weak.
Anne Kincaid
She’s 18 years old, has a great body, light brown hair and dazzling hazel eyes. She lives with her parents and two brothers, Josh and Jim, in a small city on the Mississippi River near Vicksburg. Anne has a heavenly southern accent and is extremely ticklish. Needless to say, her brothers Josh and Jim take full advantage. She once had the typical southern girl innocence… But she got over it.
Sadistic Siblings
Josh Kincaid is two years older than Anne, Jim is about a year younger. They’re into football (a religious sacrament in the South), cars, fishing, and tickling Anne and her friends – not necessarily in that order.
…plus the Usual Gang of Thieves.
********************
Candice paused in the hotel lobby entrance and regarded the milling crowd. The people were all ages, genders, and sizes. Their clothing was an eclectic mix. Many were in jeans and t-shirts, but there were others. She also saw a goateed bald guy in a black suit, starched white shirt and narrow black necktie; a little group in medieval costumes; a young Conan the Barbarian with acne, who maybe weighed 130 lb; a Princess Leia who was built more like Jabba the Hutt; a wiry middle-aged guy with a walrus mustache, shirtless, in a kilt and tam-o-shanter cap; a couple in their 40’s, each with a pet rat on their right shoulder; others less easily described. These people were Individuals, with a capital “I”.
She turned to her companion. “So this is a Science Fiction Convention,” she said.
“It’s the start of one,” Emily replied. “Let’s check in, and then I’ll show you around.”
They dealt with the hotel first, carried their gear to their room, then joined the line at a folding table in the lobby, where a cheerful woman about 30 years old sat with a laptop and cash box. She was tall, with a Rubenesque figure, her hair was a disorderely black mop that curled around her ears and fell into her eyes. She wore glasses with thin, square black frames, a crinkled white cotton shirt, jeans splattered with artist’s oil paints, bright red lipstick and nail polish, and a white name badge that said JoBelle. She had an artist’s sable brush stuck behind one ear.
The woman greeted Emily warmly when their turn came.
“Hi, Signy! You’re pre-registered, aren’t you? Let’s see… your real name is…”
“Emily MacDonald, Joby. This is Candice Wade – Candy – she’s pre-reg too.”
“Badge names” were common enough at conventions. They were like (and sometimes were) internet screen names. There were 20-year friendships between convention regulars in which neither knew the other’s real name, or where they lived.
“OK, here you are. Welcome to Liberty Hall, Candy. You can spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard,” Joby said. “Here’s your program books. I’ll send your badges to the printer. Let’s see your ID.”
Convention attendees were issued color-coded name badges. This year, the convention’s volunteer staff had white badges. Others age 21 and over had blue, the under-18’s red, the in-betweens yellow. The badges were a convenient way to exclude outsiders from convention events; to keep minors out of adult parties; and to restrict (officially sanctioned) alcohol to the over-21’s.
Both girls produced driver’s licenses. Candice was 18, so she got Candy on a yellow badge. Emily’s said Signy, on blue. Her license was accurate in all respects except the date of her birth – it said she was 23.
And that was just one more oddity about Emily, Candice thought. The license was genuine – Emily’s police officer father must have somehow jiggered the records.
They had only been friends a few months, since the end of October. Candice was unusually perceptive for someone her age, and saw that Emily was subtly different from the other girls on Tickle Street. Emily had joined their Ancient and Honorable Society of Vellatrices, participated in their tickling games. She fit right in with everyone else. But sometimes, Candice thought she saw a look of amused indulgence on Emily’s face, quickly suppressed. Always, there was some inner reserve that the others couldn’t touch.
Maybe just barely surviving the wreck had changed her. Candice liked Emily anyway.
***
Emily led the way to their next stop, the convention hospitality suite on the mezzanine level. The place had been a jazz club in some previous incarnation; now, just the bar remained. There weren’t many people there this early. The bartender, another volunteer, had just finished setting up the beer kegs.
“Signy! Well met!” he called out. He spoke with the accent of the mid-Tennessee flatlands. “I didn’t expect to see you here – this con’s a little out of your usual driving range, isn’t it?”
“Hi, Bob! Further south than usual, yeah. I needed to get away, though, and this one was the closest to home this month. This is my friend Candy – it’s her first con.”
Bob was a tall, gaunt man in late middle age, dressed in black, with a full beard and gray pony tail. He made a living as a freelance illustrator. His mustache and fingers were permanently stained with nicotine – Emily had never seen him without a cigarette. His hands shook, ever so slightly. He was an old and highly experienced alcoholic, never visibly under the influence, but always with a drink close to hand. Emily had once kept track, and figured he drank a quart of Evan Williams every day of his life.
But Bob was well liked and respected on the convention circuit. He was generous, an engaging story teller, and always willing (as now) to help with the many tasks required to keep a convention running smoothly.
Another volunteer came in, carrying two 25-pound bags of ice. This one was past 50, in jeans and t-shirt, with a gray mustache and steel rim glasses. Years of good eating had given him an impressive bay window. Emily guessed (accurately) that his brown Australian bush hat covered a gleaming expanse of bald scalp.
Bob helped him put the ice in the tubs that surrounded the kegs, then introduced him.
“Signy, Candy, this grumpy old bastard is my good friend Strelnikov. He’s in charge of con security.”
That meant that he and his assistants encouraged the attendees to adhere to minimum standards of behavior and decorum. (But this was Liberty Hall, and many in this crowd were half a bubble off-level – the norm here would be considered bizarre elsewhere.) They made the rounds of late night parties to encourage revelers to hold the noise down to a dull roar. Mostly, they tried to ensure that the drunks didn’t injure themselves or others, or trash the hotel. The job was a lot like herding cats.
Strelnikov looked at Emily oddly. “Call me Strel,” he said. “Have we met before?”
His accent proclaimed him a native of Western New York – she had lived there, and recognized the broad “a”. He did look familiar somehow, but she couldn’t place him. Well, no matter. “I don’t think so,” she replied.
“Well, any friend of Bob’s is a friend of mine.” With an exaggerated dirty-old-man leer, he added, “Will you have some Madeira, my dear?” It was the setup line for a very old joke on the con circuit.
“No, sir,” Emily replied, putting him firmly in his place. “I’ll have the usual, Bob.”
A dark-haired young girl nearby, 10 or 12 maybe, rolled her eyes. “Oh, daddy!” Her sister, 10 years older with lustrous long dark hair, added “Give it a rest!” Their mother, a tall woman with a few streaks of gray in her dark blonde hair, said to Emily, “Pay him no mind – he’s harmless.”
Bob drew two Shiner Bocks, handed one to Emily, hesitated when he saw Candice’s yellow badge. He set the second beer on the bar. This was a puritanical time, so underage drinking had gone underground. Here, it was winked at, so long as the drinkers were circumspect and didn’t make trouble.
“Listen carefully, young lady,” Bob said to Candice with mock seriousness. “I don’t want to see you take that beer.” And he turned his back and busied himself behind the bar.
“Take it,” Emily whispered.
As they walked away, they heard Bob say, “Damn! Somebody took that beer. Did you see who it was?”
“Nope,” Strel replied, and lit a cigarette.
***
Josh and Jim Kincaid rented the room and carried the luggage in from the car. Their sister Anne joined the line at the con registration table. She was a lovely young woman, a little shorter than average height, with shoulder-length light brown hair, dazzling hazel eyes and a trim and shapely body. She was two months short of her 19th birthday.
“Kincaid… Josh, Anne, Jim. I remember you three from last year,” Joby said from behind her laptop. “Here you are. ID?”
Anne produced all three driver’s licenses – she knew the drill.
“OK, age 20, 18, and… 18 again!” Joby said, surprised.
“Yeah, Jim and I are Irish Twins. I’m 10 months older than he is,” Anne said.
“Oops! And today’s his birthday, I see. Well, he couldn’t ask for a better birthday party than this,” Joby said, and handed the badges and three program books across. “Y’all try to stay out of trouble this time.”
Anne met her brothers in their room and handed them their badges. Josh and Jim had already shook hands with Jack Daniels. Anne fortified herself with a few swallows, and they headed downstairs to the hospitality suite.
The place hadn’t filled up yet – many of the attendees were out for dinner. Joby had handed off her laptop and cash box to another volunteer – she stood at the bar, drinking coffee and chatting with the two old guys behind the bar. There were a few young geeks with gaming stuff, two couples in their 30’s, a blonde and a redhead about her own age. A tall dark-haired guy about 30, in a muscle shirt and a tweed cloth Irish cap – Mike, his name was – sat down with the two girls, hitting on the redhead.
The redhead excused herself and left with Mike. The blonde kicked off her shoes, propped her bare feet up on an empty chair, and started reading her program book.
Anne nudged Josh and grinned. “Let’s join her,” she said.
Jim and Josh grinned back. Here we go again!
The blonde – Candy – had been drinking too. She was fascinated by Josh’s Southern accent – and in all truth, Josh was pretty slick. He had the makings of a con artist – he could sell ice cubes to Eskimos. Anne wasn’t at all surprised when he suggested the levitation trick.
“Sure,” Josh said. “Candy, I’ll levitate this table with you on it, and us along with you.”
The girl hadn’t figured out the joke, but was willing to be a good sport.
“Lay down on the table, flat on your back,” he said. “Anne, grab her ankles. Jim, get her right hand. I’ll take the left. OK, one…two…three…”
***
Joby had gone to dinner with Strel and his family, so Bob was holding the fort by himself. He had spotted the three siblings when they entered the room. He watched their conversation with Signy’s little blonde friend and the setup for the levitation trick.
Rules of conduct were different here – practical jokes were acceptable, so long as they didn’t go too far. Bob knew that cons were infested with closet ticklephiles – he had his suspicions about Strel, and for that matter Joby too. But these three had outed themselves long ago, and had elevated tickling to an art form. Candy was about to get tickled silly.
Yup – there they go again! Candy burst into wild ticklish laughter. The two brothers each had hold of a wrist, and lobster-clawed the girl’s sides with their free hands. The sister had Candy’s ankles in an arm lock, enthusiastically tickling her feet with the other hand.
One minute – two – three – The little blonde bucked and squirmed, laughing her head off. Her laughter went off the scale as the older brother tickled onto her tummy.
That was just about enough of a good thing. Bob ground out his cigarette and walked toward them.
“OK, that’s enough. Turn her loose,” Bob said. “Are you OK, Candy?”
“I’m fine,” she replied, a little out of breath. “Good one, you guys!”
“Take it somewhere a little less public,” Bob said. “We warned y’all last year.”
Emily came in with Mike, carrying a bag of takeout food. “Candy! Bob, what the hell is going on?”
“These young folks just gave your friend a ticklish initiation,” he replied. “I was… discussing… it with them.”
“You get this one free,” Emily said in a cold voice. “Try it again, and I’ll kick your asses into the middle of next week!”
“Hey, chill, everybody!” Candice said. “It was a good joke. No harm, no foul.”
“I think y’all had better go somewhere else for a while,” Bob told the siblings.
Yeah, yeah,” the younger brother said. As they left, he pretended to sneeze: “Ahhs- hole!”
The hospitality suite started filling up about then, so Bob went back behind the bar. Friday wasn’t a big night for room parties. Tonight, this was where the action was.
Signy said she couldn’t abide the boink-a-doink techno “music” at the dance, so she and Candy spent a good bit of time in the hospitality suite that night. Candy was just what she appeared to be, Bob thought – a young woman still exploring herself. Signy was different. He had met her a year and a half ago, still on crutches, hair still growing out, the surgical scars raw and red. The surgeons had known their business – the scars were almost imperceptible now. The hair had grown out into a glorious fiery red mane, and she moved like a young girl again. No… like a mature woman with the vitality of a young girl.
Bob was 60, and felt every day of it; Signy looked younger than her friend. Age difference was no bar to friendship at a con. But with Signy, Bob sometimes had the impression of a woman his own age. Well, he reflected, she had plenty of time to think things through after her accident.
The three sibs drifted in and out a few times too. They were on their best behavior. Problem solved.
***
Candice slept late on Saturday. They had made the rounds of the few room parties the night before, then spent time in the hospitality suite. Afterward, they had joined Mike in a sing-along on the mezzanine – guitars, a dulcimer, a mandolin, a fiddle, doumbek and bhodran drums. Her soprano and Emily’s contralto had harmonized beautifully.
The orange juice, ice and vodka concoction at the Nashville Sci-Fi club’s room party – “swill”, they called it – had packed a deceptive wallop, especially on top of the beer she had had earlier. The bottle of Irish whiskey making the rounds at the sing-along had nearly done her in. Candice was a little hung over when Emily woke her just before noon. A shower, two aspirins and some very bad instant coffee made with hot water from the tap cured that.
The two girls visited the art room, which held a few excellent pieces and many dreadful renderings of dragons, unicorns and fantasy characters. The dealer room had books new and used, comics, gaming materials, videos, junk jewelry, swords and daggers that wouldn’t cut butter. They took in a “Meet the Authors” event and a panel discussion about military-themed science fiction.
Twice that afternoon, they heard bursts of ticklish female laughter. Apparently, the Mississippi sibs were at it again. When their paths crossed, Anne had smiled sweetly, and her brothers had grinned like cat-eating canaries. Candice had no hard feelings – it had been a good joke they had played on her – but Emily scowled.
Late Saturday afternoon, Candice and Emily sat through “Plan 9 From Outer Space” in the video room, a movie so bad that it had achieved a cult following. Meanwhile, Anne laughed like mad at the top of her lungs. Jim had her wrists pinned to the hotel bed, tickling her sides and tummy. Josh sat on the bed with her ankles in a leg lock, tickling both feet, paying special attention to her very ticklish heels. They tickled her until she was sweaty and breathless – practicing their art, they said, for the redhead. They hadn’t figured yet how they were going to manage it, but that they would tickle her silly, they had no doubt.
Nor did Anne. She was looking forward to it.
***
Bob had once remarked that hall costumes were one’s everyday clothes in some alternate universe. Emily wasn’t sure about that, but they were a con tradition, one she enjoyed.
In their room after supper, Emily opened a small travel case. “OK, Candice,” she said. “I’m gonna introduce you to hall costuming. First, we paint our nails. Toenails too, we’ll be barefoot. Let’s see… Use this one.”
When they finished, Candice’s nails were a pearly white, Emily’s forest green with gold glitter.
“Now for your costume,” Emily said. “Strip to the buff.”
It didn’t take long to put the costume together. “Take a look at yourself,” Emily said when she finished with Candice.
“Wow!” said Candice as regarded herself in the full length mirror. Her costume was three white scallop shells attached with theatrical adhesive, a tiara of sand-dollar shells, and a few wisps of filmy blue material that exactly matched the color of her eyes. “I can’t wear this in public!”
“Sure you can,” Emily replied. “Help me with mine.”
Emily’s costume was a few strategically draped artificial ivy vines that enhanced rather than concealed, and a wreath of the same in her hair. The combination of fair skin, green vines, bright green eyes, and fiery red hair was stunning.
“You’re… beautiful,” Candice said.
“And you are too. Let’s go.”
The art auction had started by the time they got back downstairs. Emily thought the auctions were about as interesting as watching haircuts, so the girls just circulated while they waited for the room parties to start. They met up with Mike in the hospitality suite. Emily liked him, but… She wasn’t in the mood tonight. She performed a skillful handoff, and suddenly Mike discovered that he wasn’t with Emily any more, but with Candice.
They were photographed by the “official” photographer, a skinny middle aged guy from Nashville. He posed Candice in front of the big aquarium built into the wall of the lobby, and Emily on the salad bar of the closed restaurant. He talked them into entering their sea sprite and forest sprite costumes in the costume contest. Candice gave the idea a twist, sent Mike out for two vending-machine soft drinks, and they did their act as a beverage commercial (“I’m a sea sprite.” “I’m a forest sprite.” “How do we quench our thirst? We drink SPRITE!”) They got an Honorable Mention, not bad for an unrehearsed last-minute walk-on.
They made a round of the room parties – almost a dozen of them, the place was really jumping. At one of them, Josh Kincaid and his sibs worked the levitation trick on another newbie. They were pretty drunk. Time to leave, Emily thought, and drew Candice and Mike after her.
They stopped in to say hello to Bob in the hospitality suite on their way to the dance. The dance, in the hotel ballroom, was much better tonight – oldies mostly, with some later music thrown in. The chandeliers were turned down to the lowest dimmer setting – most of the illumination came from the light show and the open doors. The place was packed, with no lack of dance partners, and the music deafeningly loud.
Emily took a break after three fast dances in a row; she had no particular desire to slow-dance with anyone here. She found a place to sit off to one side, behind the speakers, and propped her feet up on another chair. The music wasn’t nearly so loud there, and the light show was pointed away from her, onto the dance floor. She watched Candice slow-dancing with Mike. They had been together all night. Looks like she’ll get lucky tonight, Emily thought. She lifted her hair off the back of her neck, then stretched, her arms over her head, and…
***
Strel made another round of the parties. It was almost 3 AM. There were only three still going, and it looked like those would close down soon.
He took the stairs back down to the mezzanine. There was still activity in the hospitality suite, but that was pretty sedate too. Bob had closed the bar at 2:30. A few die-hards had filled ice buckets and the like with beer, but pretty soon they would finish it and stagger off too. Time to check the dance. Another hour, and I can crash, he thought. I’m getting too old for this shit.
Surprisingly, the dance was still going strong. He saw Mike slow-dancing with Candy. Looks like he’s gonna get lucky tonight – right after this dance, unless I miss my guess.
The music stopped. Suddenly Candy ran off the dance floor to the left, leaving Mike standing there flat-footed. What the hell?
A commotion in the corner of the room – shouts – laughter? Oh shit, he thought as he ran after her. Here we go!
Signy had been sitting in a chair with her feet propped on another. Now, she was laughing like crazy. Josh Kincaid had grabbed both of her wrists, holding them over her head, while he tickled her sides and tummy with the other hand. Anne had straddled the girl’s ankles, and was tickling both feet, fingers flying. Signy bucked and squirmed, laughing her head off.
Candy had tried to help her friend. Jim Kincaid had gotten her in a bear hug from behind and was tickling her sides cross-draw style. She kicked and struggled, but with both feet off the ground she lacked leverage. She, too, was laughing at the top of her lungs.
The music started again – “Born To Be Wild” blasting out of the speakers. “KNOCK IT OFF!” Strel bellowed. “RIGHT FUCKING NOW!”
Jim dropped Candy. She rounded on him, took a wild swing that missed. Strel pushed them apart.
Anne and Josh had stopped tickling. Signy yelled “Get OFF me, you cracker bitch!”
Strel heard a voice from behind him: “Need some help?” Mike. That evened the odds.
“Outside – all of you!”
A little knot of people gathered in their wake as they left. Joby elbowed her way to the front and headed them off. Good – somebody with sense. “Y’all go back to the dance,” she said. “There’s nothing to see here.”
She turned to the little group outside. “OK, let’s sort this out. What happened? Signy, you first.”
“These three knuckleheads attacked me!” she said, fuming. “Candy too!”
“That’s what I saw too, Joby,” Strel added.
“We warned y’all,” she told the sibs. “Last year, and again yesterday – twice. What the hell were y’all thinking?”
“They weren’t,” said Strel. “I say, let’s pull their badges and blackball them.”
“Hey, come on, Joby,” Anne said. “It was all in fun. We didn’t mean any harm.”
“Y’all know the rules. This crosses way over the line. We’re all here to have a good time. We don’t need trouble like this.” She paused, considering. “Here’s how it’s gonna go. Jim is hammered – I’m surprised he can still stand up. Take him up to your room and let him sleep it off – and stay there. If I see y’all again before morning, don’t bother coming back next year, because y’all are gonna be blackballed.”
Josh looked rebellious, but saw the look he got from Mike and subsided. Mike had realized he wasn’t going to get lucky after all, and was ready to pound somebody.
“You heard the lady,” Strel said. “Beat it!”
***
Jim passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow. Anne and Josh pulled his shoes off, covered him and left him. Josh wasn’t much better off, and went to bed too. But Anne was still restless.
The hotel had a fitness facility on the mezzanine floor – exercise machines, a sauna, a hot tub. Maybe a good hot soak would help her sleep. She hadn’t brought a swim suit. Well then, bra and panties if there was someone else there, nude if there wasn’t. She shucked out of her clothes, put on the fluffy white terry robe the hotel provided, and headed back downstairs.
She heard voices when she went into the room with the hot tub. Oh well – she had more underclothes upstairs. She slipped out of the robe and eased into the tub.
“Well, look who’s here!” Signy said. “Doesen’t listen too well, does she, Candice?”
“Hey, no hard feelings, huh?” Anne said, and stood up. “I’m sorry we pissed you off. I don’t want any more trouble.”
“Should have thought of that earlier,” Candy said.
Anne abandoned her robe and ran for it. She was halfway through the exercise room when Candy caught up with her. Signy piled on, and the two wrestled Anne down to the floor.
“We’re gonna give you-all a taste of your own medicine!” Candy said. Typical Yankee – can’t pronounce “y’all” and doesen’t know that it’s always plural.
Signy had retrieved the robes. She stripped the waist ties out of them, and she and Candy used them to tie Anne up. Anne ended up on her back, feet up in the air. Her wrists were bound together over her head and tied off to a weight machine. Her ankles were tied to the handlebars of the stationary bicycle.
“Hey, come on, let me go,” Anne said. In response, Signy circled a fingernail around the ball of her right foot.
Hehehe! Sta-hahaha-ap! Ple-hehe-ease! Not my f-hehehe-eet!” Anne begged.
“As you wish,” Signy said, and dropped to her knees next to Anne. Candy did the same.
“NOOOO! HAHAHAHA-HAHAHA-HAHAHA-HAHAHAHAHA!” Anne burst into ticklish laughter as the two girls spider-walked their nails in her armpits. She laughed helplessly as they tickled their way down her ribs, getting on each rib and the sensitive spaces in between. And then they tickled and lobster clawed her sides. Anne bucked violently to escape the tickling, laughing at the top of her lungs.
Candy tickled onto Anne’s tummy, watching the muscles jump and twitch. Signy joined her, and their four hands roamed over Anne’s abs. Anne was past the point of resistance by now, all she could do was lay there and laugh. And they kept her laughing – tummy, sides, tummy again, back to her ticklish sides. Anne laughed with wild abandon, tears streaming down her cheeks.
They kept it up for a long time. Just when she thought she would go crazy with the tickling, they stopped and left her gasping.
“Candice, I’m impressed. You’re a real artist at this,” Signy said.
“We’re at a con. Does that make me a con artist?” Candy asked, grinning.
Signy chuckled. “I suppose so.” She stood up. “This tile floor is killing my knees.”
“OK, let’s tickle her feet for a while,” Candy replied.
“Oh nooo!” Anne gasped. “You said… you wouldn’t… tickle… my feet!”
“I lied,” Signy said, and flicked her nails along the tips of the toes on Anne’s right foot. Candy took the other foot, spread the toes and tickled between them. Anne burst into all-out laughter again.
Candy kept up the toe tickling. Signy held the toes back on the other foot and tickled under them, then onto the stretched out sole. Anne howled with forced mirth, red faced, tears streaming. Her tormentors tickled down her arches, drawing figure-eight’s and other tickling shapes. And then – oh ghod no! – they tickled onto her heels, fingernails flicking and scrabbling. Anne’s laughter went wild as she struggled desperately to pull her feet away.
“The heels! Tickle her heels!” Candy said, and both girls picked up the pace. Anne lapsed into ticklish delirium, laughing her head off. They kept her there while she laughed, and laughed, and laughed some more.
They tickled her breathless, gave her a short breather, then started in on her again. Signy tickled up Anne’s arch to her sole, spread Anne’s toes and scratched lightly between them, causing more loud bursts of helpless laughter. Candy held the toes on the other foot back and tickled under them, side to side. Still holding the toes back, she followed that by tickling the stretched out sole, paying special attention to the crease in the middle. Then both girls released Anne’s toes and tickled with both hands, down the arches to the ticklish heels, and the fiendish and well-techniqued tickling had Anne howling with forced mirth.
Anne’s ribs and abs ached from laughing. The sky was turning rosy in the east outside the window when they finally quit.
“Have you learned your lesson?” Signy asked her.
Anne was a wreck – sweaty, hair a mess, feeling like her tummy had been beaten with a board. “Oh ghod, yes…” she gasped.
They untied her. As she slipped the bonds off Anne’s ankle, Signy grabbed it and gave the foot another minute of tickle torture. Anne laughed like a madwoman, too weak to resist.
They left her lying there. She had to grab the stationary bike to stand up.
Josh was snoring when she got to the room, lying diagonally across the bed. She rolled Jim over on the other bed. As she did, he let fly with an eye-watering blast of flatulence. Ghasp! Ghagg! Rrretch! That room party on the fourth floor – the one with the chili – he must have had three bowls of the stuff!
She made herself a pallet in the corner with the bedspreads Her ribs and tummy still hurt. If she was lucky, she might get four or five hours of sleep before checkout time.
***
Candice and Emily checked out, loaded the car, and then went to the hospitality suite to say goodbye. Strel was there with his family, chatting with Joby – he waved. Both girls gave Bob a big hug and a sloppy kiss. Candice kissed Mike goodbye, and slipped him some tongue. It hadn’t worked out last night, but maybe she would see him again.
They saw Anne and her brothers on the way out. Josh looked pretty rocky. Jim had a five-star hangover – he’d have to start feeling lots better just to be well enough to die. Anne looked exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes.
Candice had had a great time at the con – she would have to talk with Emily about doing another. And she had had great fun tickling Anne. That had been a bonus. Too bad she would never have a chance to tickle her again.
***THE END***
by Strelnikov
Copyright 2003 by the author
Dramatis Personae (in order of appearance)
Candice Wade
A little beauty, 18 years old, with crystal blue eyes and ash blonde hair, and a very trim and shapely body. An extrovert and sensualist, she loves to be tickled and get in ticklish situations, but if the tickling goes too far, she's out of control. Lately her lust to be tickled has grown and grown, and now she'll do anything to get tickled. She's lived with her parents and sister on Tickle Street since she was five. Her older sister Nicole is away at college.
Emily MacDonald
Emily is a fiery red-head, a petite girl with bright green eyes and shoulder-length hair. She's somewhat older than the rest of the senior class at TCHS – she spent a year in rehab after a car wreck. She and her widowed father moved to Tickle Street last summer. Emily is always looking for fun, even if it involves getting in trouble. Her ticklishness is her greatest weakness, she feels that it makes her too girly and weak.
Anne Kincaid
She’s 18 years old, has a great body, light brown hair and dazzling hazel eyes. She lives with her parents and two brothers, Josh and Jim, in a small city on the Mississippi River near Vicksburg. Anne has a heavenly southern accent and is extremely ticklish. Needless to say, her brothers Josh and Jim take full advantage. She once had the typical southern girl innocence… But she got over it.
Sadistic Siblings
Josh Kincaid is two years older than Anne, Jim is about a year younger. They’re into football (a religious sacrament in the South), cars, fishing, and tickling Anne and her friends – not necessarily in that order.
…plus the Usual Gang of Thieves.
********************
Candice paused in the hotel lobby entrance and regarded the milling crowd. The people were all ages, genders, and sizes. Their clothing was an eclectic mix. Many were in jeans and t-shirts, but there were others. She also saw a goateed bald guy in a black suit, starched white shirt and narrow black necktie; a little group in medieval costumes; a young Conan the Barbarian with acne, who maybe weighed 130 lb; a Princess Leia who was built more like Jabba the Hutt; a wiry middle-aged guy with a walrus mustache, shirtless, in a kilt and tam-o-shanter cap; a couple in their 40’s, each with a pet rat on their right shoulder; others less easily described. These people were Individuals, with a capital “I”.
She turned to her companion. “So this is a Science Fiction Convention,” she said.
“It’s the start of one,” Emily replied. “Let’s check in, and then I’ll show you around.”
They dealt with the hotel first, carried their gear to their room, then joined the line at a folding table in the lobby, where a cheerful woman about 30 years old sat with a laptop and cash box. She was tall, with a Rubenesque figure, her hair was a disorderely black mop that curled around her ears and fell into her eyes. She wore glasses with thin, square black frames, a crinkled white cotton shirt, jeans splattered with artist’s oil paints, bright red lipstick and nail polish, and a white name badge that said JoBelle. She had an artist’s sable brush stuck behind one ear.
The woman greeted Emily warmly when their turn came.
“Hi, Signy! You’re pre-registered, aren’t you? Let’s see… your real name is…”
“Emily MacDonald, Joby. This is Candice Wade – Candy – she’s pre-reg too.”
“Badge names” were common enough at conventions. They were like (and sometimes were) internet screen names. There were 20-year friendships between convention regulars in which neither knew the other’s real name, or where they lived.
“OK, here you are. Welcome to Liberty Hall, Candy. You can spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard,” Joby said. “Here’s your program books. I’ll send your badges to the printer. Let’s see your ID.”
Convention attendees were issued color-coded name badges. This year, the convention’s volunteer staff had white badges. Others age 21 and over had blue, the under-18’s red, the in-betweens yellow. The badges were a convenient way to exclude outsiders from convention events; to keep minors out of adult parties; and to restrict (officially sanctioned) alcohol to the over-21’s.
Both girls produced driver’s licenses. Candice was 18, so she got Candy on a yellow badge. Emily’s said Signy, on blue. Her license was accurate in all respects except the date of her birth – it said she was 23.
And that was just one more oddity about Emily, Candice thought. The license was genuine – Emily’s police officer father must have somehow jiggered the records.
They had only been friends a few months, since the end of October. Candice was unusually perceptive for someone her age, and saw that Emily was subtly different from the other girls on Tickle Street. Emily had joined their Ancient and Honorable Society of Vellatrices, participated in their tickling games. She fit right in with everyone else. But sometimes, Candice thought she saw a look of amused indulgence on Emily’s face, quickly suppressed. Always, there was some inner reserve that the others couldn’t touch.
Maybe just barely surviving the wreck had changed her. Candice liked Emily anyway.
***
Emily led the way to their next stop, the convention hospitality suite on the mezzanine level. The place had been a jazz club in some previous incarnation; now, just the bar remained. There weren’t many people there this early. The bartender, another volunteer, had just finished setting up the beer kegs.
“Signy! Well met!” he called out. He spoke with the accent of the mid-Tennessee flatlands. “I didn’t expect to see you here – this con’s a little out of your usual driving range, isn’t it?”
“Hi, Bob! Further south than usual, yeah. I needed to get away, though, and this one was the closest to home this month. This is my friend Candy – it’s her first con.”
Bob was a tall, gaunt man in late middle age, dressed in black, with a full beard and gray pony tail. He made a living as a freelance illustrator. His mustache and fingers were permanently stained with nicotine – Emily had never seen him without a cigarette. His hands shook, ever so slightly. He was an old and highly experienced alcoholic, never visibly under the influence, but always with a drink close to hand. Emily had once kept track, and figured he drank a quart of Evan Williams every day of his life.
But Bob was well liked and respected on the convention circuit. He was generous, an engaging story teller, and always willing (as now) to help with the many tasks required to keep a convention running smoothly.
Another volunteer came in, carrying two 25-pound bags of ice. This one was past 50, in jeans and t-shirt, with a gray mustache and steel rim glasses. Years of good eating had given him an impressive bay window. Emily guessed (accurately) that his brown Australian bush hat covered a gleaming expanse of bald scalp.
Bob helped him put the ice in the tubs that surrounded the kegs, then introduced him.
“Signy, Candy, this grumpy old bastard is my good friend Strelnikov. He’s in charge of con security.”
That meant that he and his assistants encouraged the attendees to adhere to minimum standards of behavior and decorum. (But this was Liberty Hall, and many in this crowd were half a bubble off-level – the norm here would be considered bizarre elsewhere.) They made the rounds of late night parties to encourage revelers to hold the noise down to a dull roar. Mostly, they tried to ensure that the drunks didn’t injure themselves or others, or trash the hotel. The job was a lot like herding cats.
Strelnikov looked at Emily oddly. “Call me Strel,” he said. “Have we met before?”
His accent proclaimed him a native of Western New York – she had lived there, and recognized the broad “a”. He did look familiar somehow, but she couldn’t place him. Well, no matter. “I don’t think so,” she replied.
“Well, any friend of Bob’s is a friend of mine.” With an exaggerated dirty-old-man leer, he added, “Will you have some Madeira, my dear?” It was the setup line for a very old joke on the con circuit.
“No, sir,” Emily replied, putting him firmly in his place. “I’ll have the usual, Bob.”
A dark-haired young girl nearby, 10 or 12 maybe, rolled her eyes. “Oh, daddy!” Her sister, 10 years older with lustrous long dark hair, added “Give it a rest!” Their mother, a tall woman with a few streaks of gray in her dark blonde hair, said to Emily, “Pay him no mind – he’s harmless.”
Bob drew two Shiner Bocks, handed one to Emily, hesitated when he saw Candice’s yellow badge. He set the second beer on the bar. This was a puritanical time, so underage drinking had gone underground. Here, it was winked at, so long as the drinkers were circumspect and didn’t make trouble.
“Listen carefully, young lady,” Bob said to Candice with mock seriousness. “I don’t want to see you take that beer.” And he turned his back and busied himself behind the bar.
“Take it,” Emily whispered.
As they walked away, they heard Bob say, “Damn! Somebody took that beer. Did you see who it was?”
“Nope,” Strel replied, and lit a cigarette.
***
Josh and Jim Kincaid rented the room and carried the luggage in from the car. Their sister Anne joined the line at the con registration table. She was a lovely young woman, a little shorter than average height, with shoulder-length light brown hair, dazzling hazel eyes and a trim and shapely body. She was two months short of her 19th birthday.
“Kincaid… Josh, Anne, Jim. I remember you three from last year,” Joby said from behind her laptop. “Here you are. ID?”
Anne produced all three driver’s licenses – she knew the drill.
“OK, age 20, 18, and… 18 again!” Joby said, surprised.
“Yeah, Jim and I are Irish Twins. I’m 10 months older than he is,” Anne said.
“Oops! And today’s his birthday, I see. Well, he couldn’t ask for a better birthday party than this,” Joby said, and handed the badges and three program books across. “Y’all try to stay out of trouble this time.”
Anne met her brothers in their room and handed them their badges. Josh and Jim had already shook hands with Jack Daniels. Anne fortified herself with a few swallows, and they headed downstairs to the hospitality suite.
The place hadn’t filled up yet – many of the attendees were out for dinner. Joby had handed off her laptop and cash box to another volunteer – she stood at the bar, drinking coffee and chatting with the two old guys behind the bar. There were a few young geeks with gaming stuff, two couples in their 30’s, a blonde and a redhead about her own age. A tall dark-haired guy about 30, in a muscle shirt and a tweed cloth Irish cap – Mike, his name was – sat down with the two girls, hitting on the redhead.
The redhead excused herself and left with Mike. The blonde kicked off her shoes, propped her bare feet up on an empty chair, and started reading her program book.
Anne nudged Josh and grinned. “Let’s join her,” she said.
Jim and Josh grinned back. Here we go again!
The blonde – Candy – had been drinking too. She was fascinated by Josh’s Southern accent – and in all truth, Josh was pretty slick. He had the makings of a con artist – he could sell ice cubes to Eskimos. Anne wasn’t at all surprised when he suggested the levitation trick.
“Sure,” Josh said. “Candy, I’ll levitate this table with you on it, and us along with you.”
The girl hadn’t figured out the joke, but was willing to be a good sport.
“Lay down on the table, flat on your back,” he said. “Anne, grab her ankles. Jim, get her right hand. I’ll take the left. OK, one…two…three…”
***
Joby had gone to dinner with Strel and his family, so Bob was holding the fort by himself. He had spotted the three siblings when they entered the room. He watched their conversation with Signy’s little blonde friend and the setup for the levitation trick.
Rules of conduct were different here – practical jokes were acceptable, so long as they didn’t go too far. Bob knew that cons were infested with closet ticklephiles – he had his suspicions about Strel, and for that matter Joby too. But these three had outed themselves long ago, and had elevated tickling to an art form. Candy was about to get tickled silly.
Yup – there they go again! Candy burst into wild ticklish laughter. The two brothers each had hold of a wrist, and lobster-clawed the girl’s sides with their free hands. The sister had Candy’s ankles in an arm lock, enthusiastically tickling her feet with the other hand.
One minute – two – three – The little blonde bucked and squirmed, laughing her head off. Her laughter went off the scale as the older brother tickled onto her tummy.
That was just about enough of a good thing. Bob ground out his cigarette and walked toward them.
“OK, that’s enough. Turn her loose,” Bob said. “Are you OK, Candy?”
“I’m fine,” she replied, a little out of breath. “Good one, you guys!”
“Take it somewhere a little less public,” Bob said. “We warned y’all last year.”
Emily came in with Mike, carrying a bag of takeout food. “Candy! Bob, what the hell is going on?”
“These young folks just gave your friend a ticklish initiation,” he replied. “I was… discussing… it with them.”
“You get this one free,” Emily said in a cold voice. “Try it again, and I’ll kick your asses into the middle of next week!”
“Hey, chill, everybody!” Candice said. “It was a good joke. No harm, no foul.”
“I think y’all had better go somewhere else for a while,” Bob told the siblings.
Yeah, yeah,” the younger brother said. As they left, he pretended to sneeze: “Ahhs- hole!”
The hospitality suite started filling up about then, so Bob went back behind the bar. Friday wasn’t a big night for room parties. Tonight, this was where the action was.
Signy said she couldn’t abide the boink-a-doink techno “music” at the dance, so she and Candy spent a good bit of time in the hospitality suite that night. Candy was just what she appeared to be, Bob thought – a young woman still exploring herself. Signy was different. He had met her a year and a half ago, still on crutches, hair still growing out, the surgical scars raw and red. The surgeons had known their business – the scars were almost imperceptible now. The hair had grown out into a glorious fiery red mane, and she moved like a young girl again. No… like a mature woman with the vitality of a young girl.
Bob was 60, and felt every day of it; Signy looked younger than her friend. Age difference was no bar to friendship at a con. But with Signy, Bob sometimes had the impression of a woman his own age. Well, he reflected, she had plenty of time to think things through after her accident.
The three sibs drifted in and out a few times too. They were on their best behavior. Problem solved.
***
Candice slept late on Saturday. They had made the rounds of the few room parties the night before, then spent time in the hospitality suite. Afterward, they had joined Mike in a sing-along on the mezzanine – guitars, a dulcimer, a mandolin, a fiddle, doumbek and bhodran drums. Her soprano and Emily’s contralto had harmonized beautifully.
The orange juice, ice and vodka concoction at the Nashville Sci-Fi club’s room party – “swill”, they called it – had packed a deceptive wallop, especially on top of the beer she had had earlier. The bottle of Irish whiskey making the rounds at the sing-along had nearly done her in. Candice was a little hung over when Emily woke her just before noon. A shower, two aspirins and some very bad instant coffee made with hot water from the tap cured that.
The two girls visited the art room, which held a few excellent pieces and many dreadful renderings of dragons, unicorns and fantasy characters. The dealer room had books new and used, comics, gaming materials, videos, junk jewelry, swords and daggers that wouldn’t cut butter. They took in a “Meet the Authors” event and a panel discussion about military-themed science fiction.
Twice that afternoon, they heard bursts of ticklish female laughter. Apparently, the Mississippi sibs were at it again. When their paths crossed, Anne had smiled sweetly, and her brothers had grinned like cat-eating canaries. Candice had no hard feelings – it had been a good joke they had played on her – but Emily scowled.
Late Saturday afternoon, Candice and Emily sat through “Plan 9 From Outer Space” in the video room, a movie so bad that it had achieved a cult following. Meanwhile, Anne laughed like mad at the top of her lungs. Jim had her wrists pinned to the hotel bed, tickling her sides and tummy. Josh sat on the bed with her ankles in a leg lock, tickling both feet, paying special attention to her very ticklish heels. They tickled her until she was sweaty and breathless – practicing their art, they said, for the redhead. They hadn’t figured yet how they were going to manage it, but that they would tickle her silly, they had no doubt.
Nor did Anne. She was looking forward to it.
***
Bob had once remarked that hall costumes were one’s everyday clothes in some alternate universe. Emily wasn’t sure about that, but they were a con tradition, one she enjoyed.
In their room after supper, Emily opened a small travel case. “OK, Candice,” she said. “I’m gonna introduce you to hall costuming. First, we paint our nails. Toenails too, we’ll be barefoot. Let’s see… Use this one.”
When they finished, Candice’s nails were a pearly white, Emily’s forest green with gold glitter.
“Now for your costume,” Emily said. “Strip to the buff.”
It didn’t take long to put the costume together. “Take a look at yourself,” Emily said when she finished with Candice.
“Wow!” said Candice as regarded herself in the full length mirror. Her costume was three white scallop shells attached with theatrical adhesive, a tiara of sand-dollar shells, and a few wisps of filmy blue material that exactly matched the color of her eyes. “I can’t wear this in public!”
“Sure you can,” Emily replied. “Help me with mine.”
Emily’s costume was a few strategically draped artificial ivy vines that enhanced rather than concealed, and a wreath of the same in her hair. The combination of fair skin, green vines, bright green eyes, and fiery red hair was stunning.
“You’re… beautiful,” Candice said.
“And you are too. Let’s go.”
The art auction had started by the time they got back downstairs. Emily thought the auctions were about as interesting as watching haircuts, so the girls just circulated while they waited for the room parties to start. They met up with Mike in the hospitality suite. Emily liked him, but… She wasn’t in the mood tonight. She performed a skillful handoff, and suddenly Mike discovered that he wasn’t with Emily any more, but with Candice.
They were photographed by the “official” photographer, a skinny middle aged guy from Nashville. He posed Candice in front of the big aquarium built into the wall of the lobby, and Emily on the salad bar of the closed restaurant. He talked them into entering their sea sprite and forest sprite costumes in the costume contest. Candice gave the idea a twist, sent Mike out for two vending-machine soft drinks, and they did their act as a beverage commercial (“I’m a sea sprite.” “I’m a forest sprite.” “How do we quench our thirst? We drink SPRITE!”) They got an Honorable Mention, not bad for an unrehearsed last-minute walk-on.
They made a round of the room parties – almost a dozen of them, the place was really jumping. At one of them, Josh Kincaid and his sibs worked the levitation trick on another newbie. They were pretty drunk. Time to leave, Emily thought, and drew Candice and Mike after her.
They stopped in to say hello to Bob in the hospitality suite on their way to the dance. The dance, in the hotel ballroom, was much better tonight – oldies mostly, with some later music thrown in. The chandeliers were turned down to the lowest dimmer setting – most of the illumination came from the light show and the open doors. The place was packed, with no lack of dance partners, and the music deafeningly loud.
Emily took a break after three fast dances in a row; she had no particular desire to slow-dance with anyone here. She found a place to sit off to one side, behind the speakers, and propped her feet up on another chair. The music wasn’t nearly so loud there, and the light show was pointed away from her, onto the dance floor. She watched Candice slow-dancing with Mike. They had been together all night. Looks like she’ll get lucky tonight, Emily thought. She lifted her hair off the back of her neck, then stretched, her arms over her head, and…
***
Strel made another round of the parties. It was almost 3 AM. There were only three still going, and it looked like those would close down soon.
He took the stairs back down to the mezzanine. There was still activity in the hospitality suite, but that was pretty sedate too. Bob had closed the bar at 2:30. A few die-hards had filled ice buckets and the like with beer, but pretty soon they would finish it and stagger off too. Time to check the dance. Another hour, and I can crash, he thought. I’m getting too old for this shit.
Surprisingly, the dance was still going strong. He saw Mike slow-dancing with Candy. Looks like he’s gonna get lucky tonight – right after this dance, unless I miss my guess.
The music stopped. Suddenly Candy ran off the dance floor to the left, leaving Mike standing there flat-footed. What the hell?
A commotion in the corner of the room – shouts – laughter? Oh shit, he thought as he ran after her. Here we go!
Signy had been sitting in a chair with her feet propped on another. Now, she was laughing like crazy. Josh Kincaid had grabbed both of her wrists, holding them over her head, while he tickled her sides and tummy with the other hand. Anne had straddled the girl’s ankles, and was tickling both feet, fingers flying. Signy bucked and squirmed, laughing her head off.
Candy had tried to help her friend. Jim Kincaid had gotten her in a bear hug from behind and was tickling her sides cross-draw style. She kicked and struggled, but with both feet off the ground she lacked leverage. She, too, was laughing at the top of her lungs.
The music started again – “Born To Be Wild” blasting out of the speakers. “KNOCK IT OFF!” Strel bellowed. “RIGHT FUCKING NOW!”
Jim dropped Candy. She rounded on him, took a wild swing that missed. Strel pushed them apart.
Anne and Josh had stopped tickling. Signy yelled “Get OFF me, you cracker bitch!”
Strel heard a voice from behind him: “Need some help?” Mike. That evened the odds.
“Outside – all of you!”
A little knot of people gathered in their wake as they left. Joby elbowed her way to the front and headed them off. Good – somebody with sense. “Y’all go back to the dance,” she said. “There’s nothing to see here.”
She turned to the little group outside. “OK, let’s sort this out. What happened? Signy, you first.”
“These three knuckleheads attacked me!” she said, fuming. “Candy too!”
“That’s what I saw too, Joby,” Strel added.
“We warned y’all,” she told the sibs. “Last year, and again yesterday – twice. What the hell were y’all thinking?”
“They weren’t,” said Strel. “I say, let’s pull their badges and blackball them.”
“Hey, come on, Joby,” Anne said. “It was all in fun. We didn’t mean any harm.”
“Y’all know the rules. This crosses way over the line. We’re all here to have a good time. We don’t need trouble like this.” She paused, considering. “Here’s how it’s gonna go. Jim is hammered – I’m surprised he can still stand up. Take him up to your room and let him sleep it off – and stay there. If I see y’all again before morning, don’t bother coming back next year, because y’all are gonna be blackballed.”
Josh looked rebellious, but saw the look he got from Mike and subsided. Mike had realized he wasn’t going to get lucky after all, and was ready to pound somebody.
“You heard the lady,” Strel said. “Beat it!”
***
Jim passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow. Anne and Josh pulled his shoes off, covered him and left him. Josh wasn’t much better off, and went to bed too. But Anne was still restless.
The hotel had a fitness facility on the mezzanine floor – exercise machines, a sauna, a hot tub. Maybe a good hot soak would help her sleep. She hadn’t brought a swim suit. Well then, bra and panties if there was someone else there, nude if there wasn’t. She shucked out of her clothes, put on the fluffy white terry robe the hotel provided, and headed back downstairs.
She heard voices when she went into the room with the hot tub. Oh well – she had more underclothes upstairs. She slipped out of the robe and eased into the tub.
“Well, look who’s here!” Signy said. “Doesen’t listen too well, does she, Candice?”
“Hey, no hard feelings, huh?” Anne said, and stood up. “I’m sorry we pissed you off. I don’t want any more trouble.”
“Should have thought of that earlier,” Candy said.
Anne abandoned her robe and ran for it. She was halfway through the exercise room when Candy caught up with her. Signy piled on, and the two wrestled Anne down to the floor.
“We’re gonna give you-all a taste of your own medicine!” Candy said. Typical Yankee – can’t pronounce “y’all” and doesen’t know that it’s always plural.
Signy had retrieved the robes. She stripped the waist ties out of them, and she and Candy used them to tie Anne up. Anne ended up on her back, feet up in the air. Her wrists were bound together over her head and tied off to a weight machine. Her ankles were tied to the handlebars of the stationary bicycle.
“Hey, come on, let me go,” Anne said. In response, Signy circled a fingernail around the ball of her right foot.
Hehehe! Sta-hahaha-ap! Ple-hehe-ease! Not my f-hehehe-eet!” Anne begged.
“As you wish,” Signy said, and dropped to her knees next to Anne. Candy did the same.
“NOOOO! HAHAHAHA-HAHAHA-HAHAHA-HAHAHAHAHA!” Anne burst into ticklish laughter as the two girls spider-walked their nails in her armpits. She laughed helplessly as they tickled their way down her ribs, getting on each rib and the sensitive spaces in between. And then they tickled and lobster clawed her sides. Anne bucked violently to escape the tickling, laughing at the top of her lungs.
Candy tickled onto Anne’s tummy, watching the muscles jump and twitch. Signy joined her, and their four hands roamed over Anne’s abs. Anne was past the point of resistance by now, all she could do was lay there and laugh. And they kept her laughing – tummy, sides, tummy again, back to her ticklish sides. Anne laughed with wild abandon, tears streaming down her cheeks.
They kept it up for a long time. Just when she thought she would go crazy with the tickling, they stopped and left her gasping.
“Candice, I’m impressed. You’re a real artist at this,” Signy said.
“We’re at a con. Does that make me a con artist?” Candy asked, grinning.
Signy chuckled. “I suppose so.” She stood up. “This tile floor is killing my knees.”
“OK, let’s tickle her feet for a while,” Candy replied.
“Oh nooo!” Anne gasped. “You said… you wouldn’t… tickle… my feet!”
“I lied,” Signy said, and flicked her nails along the tips of the toes on Anne’s right foot. Candy took the other foot, spread the toes and tickled between them. Anne burst into all-out laughter again.
Candy kept up the toe tickling. Signy held the toes back on the other foot and tickled under them, then onto the stretched out sole. Anne howled with forced mirth, red faced, tears streaming. Her tormentors tickled down her arches, drawing figure-eight’s and other tickling shapes. And then – oh ghod no! – they tickled onto her heels, fingernails flicking and scrabbling. Anne’s laughter went wild as she struggled desperately to pull her feet away.
“The heels! Tickle her heels!” Candy said, and both girls picked up the pace. Anne lapsed into ticklish delirium, laughing her head off. They kept her there while she laughed, and laughed, and laughed some more.
They tickled her breathless, gave her a short breather, then started in on her again. Signy tickled up Anne’s arch to her sole, spread Anne’s toes and scratched lightly between them, causing more loud bursts of helpless laughter. Candy held the toes on the other foot back and tickled under them, side to side. Still holding the toes back, she followed that by tickling the stretched out sole, paying special attention to the crease in the middle. Then both girls released Anne’s toes and tickled with both hands, down the arches to the ticklish heels, and the fiendish and well-techniqued tickling had Anne howling with forced mirth.
Anne’s ribs and abs ached from laughing. The sky was turning rosy in the east outside the window when they finally quit.
“Have you learned your lesson?” Signy asked her.
Anne was a wreck – sweaty, hair a mess, feeling like her tummy had been beaten with a board. “Oh ghod, yes…” she gasped.
They untied her. As she slipped the bonds off Anne’s ankle, Signy grabbed it and gave the foot another minute of tickle torture. Anne laughed like a madwoman, too weak to resist.
They left her lying there. She had to grab the stationary bike to stand up.
Josh was snoring when she got to the room, lying diagonally across the bed. She rolled Jim over on the other bed. As she did, he let fly with an eye-watering blast of flatulence. Ghasp! Ghagg! Rrretch! That room party on the fourth floor – the one with the chili – he must have had three bowls of the stuff!
She made herself a pallet in the corner with the bedspreads Her ribs and tummy still hurt. If she was lucky, she might get four or five hours of sleep before checkout time.
***
Candice and Emily checked out, loaded the car, and then went to the hospitality suite to say goodbye. Strel was there with his family, chatting with Joby – he waved. Both girls gave Bob a big hug and a sloppy kiss. Candice kissed Mike goodbye, and slipped him some tongue. It hadn’t worked out last night, but maybe she would see him again.
They saw Anne and her brothers on the way out. Josh looked pretty rocky. Jim had a five-star hangover – he’d have to start feeling lots better just to be well enough to die. Anne looked exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes.
Candice had had a great time at the con – she would have to talk with Emily about doing another. And she had had great fun tickling Anne. That had been a bonus. Too bad she would never have a chance to tickle her again.
***THE END***
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