The party ventures deeper into the old manor, but not all within its depths may be exactly as it seems...
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A Haunt of a Jaunt
Contains: */M+, M/M, and *M/M tickling and a lot of sexual foreplay and other naughty things. NSFW.
Word count for this chapter: 4,974
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PART 2: BUILDUP
The Dining Room
Despite its abandonment for who knew how many years, decades, or possibly centuries, most of the mansion’s interior was still in surprisingly good condition. Fanindra wasn’t sure how this was possible, seeing as the idea of the air being too dry for any decomposition to occur could be ruled out due to the rain that could still be heard faintly pattering upon the roof a few floors above. Considering the presence of ghostly hands carrying feather dusters drifting around and doing their work as though it were routine, though, he hazarded a guess that something a little less natural may have had something to do with it.
Despite being a resident here, however, the little person now hosting evening tea with him in the ornate, Kusugurai-themed dining room had had nothing to do with the manor’s current state. It turned out that said host, who had introduced himself as Pinkerton the Chortling Kuroi, had been serving the master of the manor for several years now; said master was currently preoccupied with other matters and couldn’t meet him in person, he’d said. Fanindra had suspected that Pinkerton was dodging the question a little, but he wasn’t a hundred-percent sure.
“So remind me again,” the dwarf asked, seated in a kneeling position before the tea table with his toes pointed backwards and a porcelain cup in his hands. “You’re a halfling, am I right?”
“Correct, and specifically a zashiki-warashi, the halfling ethnicity native to the eastern archipelago of Kusugurai,” Pinkerton replied before taking a sip from his own cup. “The Kuroi cast have been weaving tales of our people for centuries, and our numbers have grown a lot from that day to this.”
Fanindra nodded in understanding. As everyone knows, halfings reproduce via tall tales — namely, telling outlandish stories about nonexistent relatives and their feats and adventures is a tradition among halfling communities, or casts, the world over, and if a given fictional halfling is spoken of for long enough, the cast that made them up will begin receiving correspondence from elsewhere sent by that exact halfling, and start planning to welcome them home. Of course, the lurid feats and powers described in a halfling’s story of origin may not be true to life, but they often possess more mundane talents of a similar nature. So could this Pinkerton fellow have come from a story about Kusugurai high society and the intrigue that came with it? Fanindra could certainly believe that.
“As for what I’m doing here of all places, well… I’ve been around quite a bit, suffice it to say,” Pinkerton added.
Fanindra tilted his head curiously. “What led you here in the first place, though? It hasn’t been inhabited for years. There are a lot of people who planned to raid this mansion for whatever antiques they could find, but they’ve all gone missing.”
Pinkerton shrugged. “I’m honestly not sure if I can answer to the missing people, but I do know that I was first brought here as a guest myself. It seemed cozy enough to stay permanently, especially once I got to know the residents here. They’re quite nice, don’t you agree?”
Fanindra caught a movement from the corner of his eye, of one of the ghostly hands holding a duster specifically. “I wouldn’t say that. A bunch of floating hands like that one got a hold of my friend Morp while he was stuck in that damn rug mimic! I don’t know what happened to him, but—”
“Oh, him? He’ll be fine. Even tickle mimics need to rest every so often, and I’ve already arranged for him to be released from the one in the entrance hall. The staff have already notified me that he’s alright, and he’ll be with us soon enough.”
“And Turindal?” Fanindra sipped his tea again, trying to look casual, not noticing the hand with the duster coming closer and closer.
Pinkerton looked a little confused. “Come again?”
Fanindra blushed hard, his stony cheeks glowing faintly slightly with golden inner magic. He hoped Pinkerton wouldn’t notice as he continued. “The ‘leader’ of our party. Or at least he thinks that way. Honestly, though, I… uh… I feel like he’s just a self-righteous jerk who thinks he’s more important than he is! Yeah! I… I just keep him around since he knows his healing magic and because his feet are so tantalizingly massive, and nothing else more. I haven’t seen him since he ran off, but knowing him, he can’t have gotten far…”
Fanindra nodded in tentative approval. This halfling wasn’t malicious as far as he could sense, at least, though there was still something a bit off about him that he couldn’t quite pin down yet. He was about to take his next swig of tea when he let out a high-pitched squeal, feeling some light, feathery strokes against the sensitive glowing runes on the balls of his feet and the pads of his toes. “EEEEEP! Wh-what is that thing dohohoing?!”
“What thing?” Pinkerton sipped his tea again, looking unconcerned.
“The hand with the duster! It’s tickliIHIHIHING MEHEHEHEHEEE!”
“Oh, that. The staff does tend to get a little curious when in the company of strangers. I hope you don’t mind their getting a bit handsy.”
Fanindra glared in outraged disbelief at him for a moment, unable to believe that such a terrible joke could’ve come from such an elegant, stately person… even if he was just three feet tall.
He was halfway through another sip of tea when the feather duster struck again. “PFFFBBBHHFFT! W-WAHAHAHAIT! AT LEAST LET ME DRINK THE REST OF IHIHIHIT!!”
“Hmm, alright, if it makes you feel better.” Pinkerton glanced at the multitude of ghostly hands giving an unsuspecting Fanindra their covert attention. “Now now, everyone, be still. We don’t want to annoy our visitor too much — he needs to be comfortable during his stay here. Perhaps giving him some space would be nice, yes?”
The hands retreated, gesturing as though in disappointment that they couldn’t reach him now. Fanindra didn’t suspect a thing.
“Speaking of being comfortable, is there a library anywhere in the manor?” the dwarf asked after finishing the dregs of his tea. “I was wondering if I could check it out if there was one and see if it had anything useful.”
Pinkerton rubbed his chin, and finally nodded as he stood up, motioning for Fanindra to do the same. “As a matter of fact, we do. I can even take you there right now if you wish! Right this way, please.”
After Fanindra slipped his shoes back on with a polite thank-you, the two of them left the room, not noticing several pairs of the ghostly hands tenting their fingers behind them, as though plotting for something fiendish…
**********
The Armory
Morp couldn’t tell how long it had been since he’d fallen unconscious. All he knew was that at some point, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of tickling delivered by the rug mimic that had wrapped around him as well as the ghostly hands trapped in its clutches along with him, he’d been ticklishly tormented so badly and laughed so hard that he’d passed out from lack of air. But now he was awake again, sprawled on the stairway leading down to the basement with the Snuggarug lying on the floor below once more, waiting for prey to step on it.
Morp sat bolt upright as the realization hit him. He’d had some bad experiences with tickle mimics before, and he knew that they don’t let go of their prey once they’ve caught it — unless someone else rescues them. But as usual, Kitty Bro had run off on his own without so much as a thank you, and Rock Bro, despite wanting to help, could do nothing either except make his way up the other flight of stairs a few seconds later.
Which meant someone else was here. But whom?
And did those weird, echoing words he swore up and down that someone had whispered into his ear before he’d passed out have something to do with it?
As he stood up, preparing to ascend the stairway, an odd feeling came over him. Something was wrong, but he didn’t know what. His shoes were gone, yes, but it was as though he was bereft of something else, too…
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Morp’s keen hearing noted the way his footsteps bounced off the walls, telling him that there were two hallways in opposite directions, one to the left and one to the right. After playing a quick game of roshambo with himself — and losing — he decided to go down the left hall.
There was a door at the end of the hall, and entering that led him into a large, dungeon-like room with many suits of armor up against the walls. Various weapons and tickle tools hung on display above them, and in the middle of the hallway were various restraining devices mounted on stands or seats, almost waiting to be used… or to capture someone for their own use.
“Duuuudes, if only bros see this,” he said to himself. “If only Morp could…”
As he moved deeper into the armory, he wasn’t aware of the helmet of one of the suits of armor floating into the air just a little and turning in his direction.
Morp soon found himself standing before a wooden framework with a padded horizontal bar at the top. It took a little inspection all around with his fingers to get a feel of its dimensions, but it did remind him of similar devices back home that were used for building arm strength. The padded bar was a little high up, but he could just barely reach it.
“Sah-weet,” he said in admiration. “This perfect for training!” Then he paused, turning his head around, trying to pick up outside noises. “Catch somewhere, though… right?”
Silence greeted him for a few more minutes. Then he smiled. “Hmm. Morp take that as nope!”
Of course, he had to jump up a little to grab the bar fully. But as soon as he did so, he gasped in shock, realizing that his palms and fingers were feeling horribly sticky — and that he couldn’t let go of the bar. There was no scent of glue, but some kind of enchantment was holding him fast!
A clanking sound behind him made him begin to panic, and he struggled in place as it drew ever closer, attempting in vain to escape. Finally, it stopped, but he remained perfectly still, breathing heavily, sensing something directly behind him.
“AHHHH!” Morp shrieked as he felt cold, hard fingertips digging into the hollows of his pits. The suit of armor behind him was tough enough that he didn’t dare try and kick it away lest he hurt himself, but there was no way he could twist out of its reach! “NOOHOHOHOHO! EEHEHE PLEEHEHEHEASE, DUUUDE! STOHOHOHOHAHAHAP!”
But the armor didn’t relent. Every so often, it moved down towards his ribs, before skittering its digits across his abs and upward again to tweak his nipples. Despite his desperate thrashing, it seemed to move along with his body! He couldn’t keep his legs still anymore and tried to knock its legs out from under it with his heel, but missed wildly.
Out of nowhere, floating armored gloves grabbed his ankles and the hem of his shorts, and with a yelp of fright, he felt his pants being pulled down and his feet being pulled forward and upward until his thighs were almost to his sides, his buttocks spread out and his vent exposed. As more iron hands began to tickle his long arches and the wide balls of his feet, a levitating gauntlet drifted in front of him, index finger pointing forward and thumb raised with the rest of its fingers curled. Before he could react, it took aim and then thrust forward with terrible force!
“YEEOOOUCH!” he howled through his laughter, feeling his asshole stretching out as the metal finger plunged deep inside! Next thing he knew, it had started wiggling against his prostate, sending a thrill of ecstasy surging through him. As if that wasn’t enough, the gauntlet started vibrating slightly, making a gentle hum like a tuning fork, the tremors rippling through his flesh and sending his libido into overdrive.
“GWAAAHAHAHAHAAAAHHHHHHHH!” With a yell of pure arousal, he threw his head back and let fly, feeling some sort of release — but to his confusion, there was no sound of anything splattering anywhere, just the armor and phantom hands still tickling him to near insanity. His sensitivity seemed to increase to new heights nonetheless, and as the tickles continued, he kept struggling and laughing until, once again, he fainted on the spot.
The next time he woke up, he was still horny. At least his grip on the padded chin-up bar had finally relented, leaving him sprawled on his side under the wooden frame, both arms and a leg twisted behind his back. He didn’t stay that way for long though, sitting up and gasping deeply before taking multiple ragged breaths. At least the armor and the floaty gauntlets had left him alone, though.
That feeling of wanting, of craving sexual satisfaction just wouldn’t go away, however. Common sense dictated that he would have to keep moving, and likely vacate the armory as soon as he could. But first things first, there was the task of pleasing himself with the aid of something, anything… and if nothing else, his palm would have to do.
With that, he reached down towards his crotch, groped around a bit — and finally screamed in abject horror as he realized what was missing.
His magnificent cock and balls were gone!
********
The Courtyard
In a blind panic, Turindal had run through the central corridor without even considering what could go wrong. There had been only one thing on his mind: escape. That terrible rug mimic had already gotten a taste of his hyper-ticklish arches and, as such, he knew he had to get as far away from it as possible even if it meant venturing deeper into the house. Unfortunately, this had led to him being hopelessly lost, as well as being forced to admit that for all his skill as a druid, what little he had anyway, he was next to useless inside any house at all, let alone one as big and complex as this.
He was now beholding a massive central courtyard, its cobblestone pathways winding and twisting in ways invoking the many routes through the dark forest which the party had traversed over the past few days. There were patches of dead, dry grass and beds of wilted vegetation wherever there wasn’t worn stone, some of the latter situated on terraces and ledges of carved rock that had eroded over the years. The centerpiece of the courtyard was a massive tree, dead and leafless with branches that looked as though they were groping around in the air like a cluster of thin, knobby clawed fingers; a few smaller ones were also present at each of the four corners of the room, and were similarly lifeless. High above the room was a dome of glass and metal, the faded windows cracked and broken, sending rain pouring down onto some of the plants beneath as though the sky was hoping the water would revive them. There were also several stone plinths here and there, some of which sported statues worn so much that they now looked unrecognizable, while others were bare at the top, as though their own displays had fallen off completely.
Turindal couldn’t help but feel a shiver running down his spine at the state of the courtyard. Even though it had been abandoned ages ago, who knew what lurked around every corner, behind every trunk, and within every patch of wilted foliage?
By the time that thought crossed his mind, he’d just gotten up on the nearest plinth to gather his thoughts, kneeling again with his toes bent forward. His heart pounding in his chest, he was becoming more and more aware now of what he’d gotten himself into. Even though he knew the gods and nature spirits couldn’t hear him from deep within the mansion, and even though the shriveled vegetation would probably be useless as a channel between him and them, he whispered a quiet prayer regardless, that somehow he’d be able to get to the bottom of all this and bring High Lord Ravaxidor back safely.
“EEYYAAAHHHH!”
The feeling of a soft brush suddenly dusting his arches made him jump four feet in the air. He landed on his feet in front of the pedestal, panting hard, before whirling to face whomever had caught him by surprise. “DO YOU MIND?!”
A small figure stepped out from behind the pedestal, coming out into the dim light illuminating the room. His proportions appeared to be what the people of Kusugurai called “super-deformed”, as Turindal had learned once — an oversized head and eyes, a small body, and short, skinny limbs. Dark-haired, sharp-dressed, and looking for all the world like a majordomo from some hip and modern high-class Kusugurai estate, the halfling bowed politely, a wooden excavation brush with soft, almost fluffy bristles still in his hand.
“Good evening, Traveler. I am Pinkerton, the Chortling Kuroi. Forgive my intrusion, but I thought you were a new statue, a fresh addition to this manor’s collection—”
“Wwwwwhaaaaat.” Turindal gave him a disgusted look. “I am not some kind of exhibit! I’m just passing through. I’ll just be looking for someone I believe is here in this manor, and then I’ll be out of here in no time.”
Pinkerton tilted his head quizzically. “Are you sure you’re here for just that, Mister…?”
“Turindal. Turindal Deeparch. I’m formerly from the Hallplatsens, but my current guild is stationed in the floating realm of Tittillandum.”
“Ah.” Pinkerton looked a little disappointed. “So… Does that mean you’re another one of them?”
Turindal raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
The halfling climbed up onto the plinth to sit on it, his furry size seventeens wiggling as he struggled briefly to push himself onto the rock ledge. “You’d be surprised to know this, but this manor has gotten quite a few visitors over the years. I lost count after around a dozen, but they always say the elven courts of Titillandum sent them.”
Turindal looked baffled. Why would the high council send that many people to this specific mansion? Something here just didn’t add up all of a sudden.
His expression became as measured as could be when he responded next. “Is there a problem with that?”
“Unfortunately,” Pinkerton replied with a shrug of clear displeasure. “House Inclementia has had a… history with elves, sorry to say.”
Turindal blinked in surprise. “A history? I don’t recall myself or any other elf I know doing anything to anybody.”
“But other elves have in the past. The Kuroi cast has had to take in refugees from a number of elven campaigns across the far east. Some had good intentions that they lost sight of, but others simply oppressed non-elfin races because they could, subjecting their prisoners to all manner of tickly tortures as lewd as they were maddening.”
“What the fuck?!” Turindal scoffed in disbelief and outrage. “Elves are a proud and noble race! We are not lewd!”
Pinkerton gave him a look of annoyed skepticism. “Denial doesn’t help your case. I’m sure there has to be some other reason for your being here, but that may warrant a little further investigation…”
“Look, Pinkerton…” Turindal paused, taking a deep breath before he proceeded. “Whatever you may think of my people, I swear up and down that I’m not up to anything aside from looking for someone who I believe is here. So step aside and let me do my job, and we can part ways peacefully. Got it?”
Pinkerton gave him a half-lidded look of supreme world-weariness. “It’s been much too long since I met someone so non-patronizing, but whatever. At least be kind enough to let me be of assistance, though, if you need it.”
“Tch, I don’t need help from anyone—” Turindal exclaimed, turning his back on the halfling, but then he abruptly stopped. There was something caught in one of the higher branches of the gigantic tree at the center of the courtyard.
“Is… is that what I think it is?” he asked, pointing up at the tree.
“I wouldn’t know. Someone must’ve left it there, maybe. I’d get it down myself, but I’m not good at climbing. Are you?”
Turindal glared at him, holding up a hand before curling his fingers — the nails extending with a quiet snkt into five razor-sharp hook-like claws. “Pfft, please. My pre-elven life was as a lynx, and I’m training to be a druid. Of course I can climb!”
Pinkerton leaned back a little, his dour expression unchanged. “You’re welcome to try. But I’d be careful — you’re not the only life form on the prowl tonight.”
Turindal purposely ignored him as he sauntered towards the tree. Pausing only to stretch his arms and extend the rest of his claws, he jumped up and planted every finger and toe onto the trunk, before starting to scale the tree with the skill of a leopard. As he made his way up towards the bough where the object that had caught his eye had been caught, however, he wasn’t aware of a hollow on the other side of the tree, and he certainly didn’t notice something small and pale crawling out of it and up the tree after him.
He’d made it to the base of the branch jutting off of the trunk that was nearest to the cluster of twigs the object was entangled in. He retracted his claws as he stood up once again, taking a deep breath. Now came the more dangerous task of traversing the distance towards the item, and even though Turindal was quite convinced that his sense of balance was perfect for the job, he still had to be careful. A fall from this height could be dangerous, and experience had taught him that trying to balance while standing on a tree branch, or a horizontal cable or pole, left the most ticklish spots of his body completely exposed and vulnerable.
Placing one foot in front of the other as gingerly as he could, Turindal had to reach upwards and forwards to grasp any branch within reach so he wouldn’t lose his balance. It was a slow process, but as an expert hunter, he’d had a lot of practice, and he was a patient man.
It took three long minutes for him to arrive at the furthest point he could go upon the branch, for it had narrowed out enough that if he went any further, it’d break under his weight. The item was caught in the twigs above his spot, and his arm wasn’t quite long enough to get to it, but if he could just stretch up a little more on his tiptoes, grab the clue with the very tip of a claw, and pull it closer…
Then he heard it. The sound of a hundred scuttling legs upon the branch behind him, like falling rain without any wet splashes. His heart skipped a beat, and without hesitation, he grabbed onto a nearby branch and reached for the item — but to his chagrin, it was just a hair’s breadth out of reach. He stretched a little further, the long arches of his huge, wide feet as tight as could be.
“Allllmoooost… theeeere…”
The scuttling grew louder and louder. Beads of sweat began sliding down his forehead as his claw tip came into contact with the leathery surface of the item, only to slide off. He was about to reach for it a second time when—
“YAAAAHHHHH! NO NO NONONONOOOOHOHOHOAHAHAHAHHAHAHAH!”
There were dozens of little bodies, like tiny clawed hands, now clambering up his bare feet — not just the stretched soles but the tops and sides as well. He desperately tried to pull his left foot out of the way, but wobbled dangerously on the branch, and exposed a little more of the padded, cushy ball of his foot to the unknown ticklers! He looked down to see what was tickling him, and let out a sound like a cross between a scream, a laugh, and the yowl of a scared cat.
It was like dozens of tiny disembodied hands made of bone, with wiggling clawed fingertips, were assaulting every inch of the skin of his feet. Upon closer inspection, he could see two pairs of small red dots on the back of each “hand”, and it was then that he realized to his horror that the ticklers were a very strange type of spider-like creature. This tickle monster had a white, hard exoskeleton that resembled bone, and only five legs, each resembling a skeletal finger, four facing from the front and one jutting from the underside of the abdomen like a reverse-pointing thumb. Unlike the two-clawed feet on the ends of a spider’s legs, these creatures had straight, blunt points like a crab’s legs, perfect for tickling whatever they crawled and clambered upon.
Turindal screamed at the top of his lungs as the swarming continued. “EEEEEHEHEHEHEHE P-PINKERTOHOHOHOHONNNN! HEHEHEHEHELP MEHEHEHEHEEEE!”
Below, Pinkerton had stood up, and was now calling from a safe distance away. “Drop everything and play dead! They won’t attack someone who’s passed out!”
“I CAHAHAHAHHAHAN’T! WAAHAHAH I CAN’T! I CAN’T! I CAHAHAHAN’T!!!”
More and more of the damn things were now winding their way up Turindal’s entire body. He screamed and swayed as they skittered up into his pants and explored his calves and the backs of his knees. He yowled and howled as they ascended his thighs and his slender waist, a few even traversing his crotch with their legs teasing his private parts. And then they were now getting inside his shirt, and scaling his stomach, sides, ribs…
With one final thrust of his legs, he jumped up a little and managed to bat the object out of the tree, sending it falling, just in time for the spider-hand-things to reach the pit below his raised arm. In the process, he lost his balance, screaming in terror as the little fiends were thrown in all directions. Twisting and whirling in mid-air, he fully expected to break most of his bones on the floor below…
…and then with surprising grace, he landed on his hands and the balls of his feet with his back arched, his tail sticking straight up, his ears folded backward, and his face contorted into a silent scream of hysterics.
Gasping and panting for a few long moments, he watched as the spider-hands thrown off of him hurried back up the tree and into the hollow. Shakily, he stood up, relieved that he hadn’t splattered on the ground, and looked up at where he’d been moments ago. The object was now gone, a few of the twigs that had trapped it snapped off. He looked around to see it lying some distance away, thanking the gods for his last-second act of quick thinking.
“Well?” Pinkerton asked as he appeared next to Turindal, making him jump a bit. The elf glowered at him, wanting to yell at him for refusing to help, but then he saw those large furry feet of his and realized that perhaps there was a reason the little guy had kept his distance after all.
“You saw nothing. Tell nobody about this,” the elf replied testily. With that, he went to retrieve the item he’d dislodged from the tree. Upon further inspection, he saw that it was a discarded leather glove, and one that looked oddly familiar given the dragon-shaped insignia emblazoned upon it.
His heart leapt in that moment. “Yes, a lead! Finally!”
Pinkerton also looked at the glove, but then his visible eye widened and he let out a small gasp of shocked recognition. Turindal turned to look at him, a little suspicious. For one brief second, it looked as though the halfling had seen a ghost.
“This look familiar to you?” the elf asked, raising an eyebrow.
Pinkerton cleared his throat, his expression suddenly neutral and apathetic and calm. Almost too calm. “It actually does. Its owner visited the manor a few days back. He dropped that glove on the way out, but I don’t think I’m in the right state to return it…”
Turindal was about to specify who the glove had belonged to, but then he noticed the halfling’s expression. Once again, something seemed amiss. For once, he wisely decided to speak more carefully.
“So Pinkerton, where did the owner go after he left this here, exactly?”
Silently, Pinkerton pointed towards a flight of steps exiting the courtyard towards the second floor of the manor.
“And where, pray tell, do those steps lead?”
“The portrait gallery,” Pinkerton replied, looking slightly more apprehensive now. “But I wouldn’t recommend going there without—”
“Do not tell me what to do!” Turindal shot back fiercely. “I’m getting my old man out of this manor, whether anyone wants it or not.”
Pinkerton remained as calm and aloof as ever, and a little mopey besides, as he followed the elf up the steps. But Turindal would never know the five words that went through the halfling’s brain at that moment which perfectly summed up all of his thoughts about the whole situation:
This will not end well.
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