Late Penalty (F/m)

[Sablesword]

I've posted various stories of mine elsewhere, but I thought I put some up here as well. This is one of my older ones; the first of my "centaur tickling" series.

LATE PENALTY
by Sablesword

"Your pass tokens expired yesterday."

Zorian the merchant sighed in resignation. "I was hoping you'd
overlook that." He had to look up at the border guard. Timon,
the guard, was slightly taller than average for a centaur.
Zorian, on the other hand, was a human - a "flatfooter" - and of
only average human height.

"You're a good man, Zorian, and if it were something with the
export tallies I would overlook it. But not this. Not something
touching on the Prophesy."

"Truth be told, I wouldn't either if I were in…if I were in your
position." Zorian grinned wryly. "Forget I asked. When the gods
send a prophesy…" He made a sign to ward off ill fortune, and
Timon followed suit. "Can I first pay off my porters?"

"Aye, you can do that."

The porters (all centaurs) were stacking bails of hides and kegs
of dried meat in an enclosure just outside the centaurs' Land's
borders, where human teamsters could load them without entering
the Land. They gathered around as Zorian paid silver from his
purse and Timon watched over Zorian's shoulder.

"Stop snickering, Cora." he told a young female as he handed her
her silver.

"I am not snickering. Well, some." she snickered. "You were
always so careful in counting out the days, like a miser
counting out his silver. And now you're caught, a day late. But
look at the bright side." she said in answer to Zorian's rueful
shrug. "Now you'll have time to come visit Naranos."

"If I'd planned this ahead of time, I would. But I've already
made other arrangements, and I have to see this cargo off. Maybe
next season."

The silver paid, the centaur porters scattered to finish their
work. At this point, a young fool might have dashed off in an
attempt to escape. Zorian didn't even consider it. Timon, behind
him, could not only run much faster than any human, but also had
uncanny skill with the bola at his side. Zorian wouldn't have
made ten steps before Timon brought him down. Besides, Zorian
had put a lot of time into developing good relations with the
centaurs. He had already made a small fortune trading with them,
and looked to make a larger one in the future. And on top of it
all, Zorian liked the centaurs. He wouldn't care to be the one
who fulfilled the Prophesy and brought ruin on them.

"Well, now. 'You know the drill.'" Timon said. "I believe that's
the expression you flatfooters use."

"It's a soldier's expression, and I was never a soldier. But
yes, I know the drill." Zorian pulled off his boots, dropped his
belt knife beside them, and stood with his bare feet cringing in
the grass. "'I surrender myself to the law and custom of the
Kentaros.'" he said formally. He let Timon tie him, hand and
foot, and carry him off to the stocks.

Zorian had been in the centaur's stocks many times before, most
recently a month ago when his pass tokens had been up for
renewal. Of course they were not built to hold centaurs, but
rather to hold foreigners - "flatfooters" - humans such as
himself. The stocks currently holding Zorian were made of the
usual polished wood and designed to hold a single captive. They
had a short bench with a post behind it (with Zorian's hands
bound behind the post) and a hinged board with two ankle-holes,
held together by a simple but effective pin lock.

From where he sat Zorian could see three or four other stocks of
different designs, and he knew, from experience, that yet other
designs existed elsewhere in the centaurs' Land. Some, like his,
were designed for a single captive. Others could hold two,
three, or even four prisoners. A few were designed to hold
captives in a kneeling or prone position. Some had posts behind
which the prisoners' hands could be tied - much as Zorian was
currently bound. Others held wrists in the same stock-board as
held the ankles. Yet others held neck and wrists in a yoke, or
in a device Zorian had heard called a "Harridan's Fiddle" or
held the wrists in separate stocks that were part of the bench
itself. But all were designed to hold the captive's soles naked,
vulnerable, and accessible.

In addition to the stocks, Zorian could also see a sundial and
the large sign on which was written the Prophesy. *Alja Kentaros
mor kental velator velex bartaros mel Uru, nor Kentaros yonvel
morkap i patalos.* it said in the curlicue script that the
centaurs used: "If the Kentaros should ever fail to visit
merciless torment on foreigners who enter the Land, then will
the Kentaros suffer betrayal and ruination."

And now here came his tormentress. Gods and goddesses! It was
Idalia. She knew him. Worse, she knew his weaknesses. Why
couldn't it be someone new and less experienced? But then
(Zorian was honest with himself) if it had been a new young
filly out to prove herself, he would have been wishing for
someone familiar, like Idalia. Well, there was nothing to do but
endure.

"Why, Zorian! I thought you were going to leave without seeing
me again."

"His pass tokens expired yesterday." Timon put in as he headed
back to his guard-post. "He was leaving today, but first he has
to renew his tokens and pay the late penalty."

"You were late? But you're always so careful counting out the
days, like a miser counting out silver."

"Do you know, Cora told me the same thing."

"Well, you miscounted this time." Idalia adjusted a gnomen on
the sundial. "And a late penalty too. Tsk." She picked up a
bucket and returned to Zorian. "Water?"
Zorian drank from the dipper she offered. She then poured the
rest of the water over his feet, grabbed a brush, and began to
scrub.

Zorian howled. He could not help it; it tickled! Idalia raised
an eyebrow at him. She did not need to ask questions or make any
comment. She knew that he was already suffering, although this
was only a preliminary and not even the start of the tickle-
torment he had to go through.

After a short eternity, the scrubbing ended. Zorian whimpered as
Idalia tied his great toes back with a leather thong. He
promised himself, as he always did at this time, that once this
was over he would leave the centaur's Land and never ever
return. Then the real tickle-torment began.

Idalia began by lightly flicking her fingers over his soles,
testing instep, ball, and heel, searching for the spots that
were the most tender that day. Zorian squirmed on the bench and
screwed his face in a grimace. This was not like the scrub-
brush, where laughter brought relief. No, with this tickling
letting his laughter escape would only double and redouble his
sensitivity, making the torment that much worse. Zorian
whimpered and scrunched his feet as much as he could - which was
not very much. But despite his efforts, giggles began to escape.
Idalia maintained her assault; one hand keeping up a steady
tempo of tickling strokes while the other made sudden surprise
attacks. Soon the giggles bubbled out continuously.

After a time, Idalia switched from fingers to a feather. It was
a wing feather from the vos-falcon, a feather simultaneously
stiff and soft. In expert hands it was the most effective
tickling feather known to man or centaur, and Idalia was an
expert. Zorian's thrashings grew more frantic and his laughter
grew louder as Idalia used the feather to administer a sharper-
edged tickle than was possible for fingers. She brushed its edge
up and down his instep. She held his toes back with one hand and
used the tip to tweak between them. She made sudden reversals
and scribed on his soles with the quill as Zorian began to melt.

A wooden spoon came out to replace the feather. Not a rounded
cooking spoon, but one carved thin of fine hardwood, with an
edge that could scrape, and did. Idalia tapped and scraped
vigorously. First one sole - then the other. Horizontal,
vertical, and diagonal she scraped. Soon she had Zorian's feet
bright red and burning hot, and Zorian himself completely
melted.

Idalia let Zorian rest for a bit, gasping for breath with tears
running down his face. Then after he had caught his breath but
before his feet could cool, she brought out an instrument that
he had never encountered before, a wooden roller studded with
small carved knobs. It was a stupid-looking thing, but it had an
effect out of proportion to its appearance. Zorian thought he
had suffered tickling before, but now he howled as Idalia
applied the roller. Each knob seemed to pick out a separate
nerve and to pluck it like string on a lyre. He began to thrash
again, desperate to escape. But the stocks held him perfectly
helpless.

Now Idalia poured more water and began to slide a river-slicked
pebble over Zorian's wet soles. The water felt icy cold on his
inflamed feet, and the pebble-tickle would have had him
screaming if Idalia had applied it earlier. But Zorian was
tiring. He could only squirm and giggle weakly. Seeing this,
Idalia put the pebble aside for the final measure: A rectangle
of soft, fine silk. This she ran between Zorian's toes. Zorian
squealed. He could no longer thrash, or even squirm. He could
only stiffen and squeak, eyes wide, each time that length of
silk made its caress of the tender spaces between his toes.


Finally, it was over. The shadow on the sundial had reached the
marker-gnomen, and Idalia stopped her tickling. She untied
Zorian's hands and undid the latch on the stocks, releasing his
feet. But Zorian was too weak to stand. He sat on the bench,
legs drawn up, and Idalia waited patiently for him to recover.
After several minutes, Timon came. "I brought your boots," he
said.

Zorian managed to pull his boots on, and then managed to stand,
smiling weakly. Idalia gave him his new pass tokens, and then
hugged him. "Now don't be a stranger, Zorian." she told him.

As Zorian walked shakily toward the border-post, he mused on how
the centaurs held no grudge. And neither did he, really. It
didn't seem so bad, once it was over. It never did.

Many other humans, Zorian knew, would have held a grudge after
such a merciless and humiliating torment. But they wouldn't have
been able to earn such fortunes as he had from trading with the
centaurs. And there were more fortunes yet to be made. Zorian
knew that he would return to the centaur's Land, despite the
threat - or rather the certainty - of facing more tickle torment
when he did.