And here it is, the grand finale of this spooky scary commission! I had so much fun with writing the worldbuilding, the character chemistry, and the various creative and oftentimes lewd scenarios throughout this entire story, and I hope you've all enjoyed reading it as well. Once you've finished with this final part, I have a little game for you to play should you consider a second reading - specifically, see if you can identify all of the references to folklore, fiction, and even Internet and meme culture throughout all five chapters, from names to dialogue to narrative details. Some are of course more obvious than others, but the old mantra of "if you know, you know" applies for every single one of them. I certainly hope this story is enjoyable enough whether or not you get most if not all of the in-jokes, though!
By the way, I hope you don't mind me casually spoiling the ending to some extent: it was agreed from the very start between myself and the commissioner that it would be an unambiguously happy one for all four leading cast members. I know I pulled a lot from various works of horror and dark fantasy as inspiration for this story's overall feel, but we ended up getting so invested in the core cast that having them be subjected to the "downer ending" common to a lot of horror media was unthinkable to us, especially after I got so carried away with the character arcs you've seen throughout the previous four chapters. If you wanted at least one named character to meet a horrible fate, though, don't worry - I did write exactly that, too, but as you'll see once you reach the very end of this story (think of it as a post-or mid-credits scene or something), it was my plan all along to reserve said fate exclusively for the one who deserved it the most. ;)
Happy Halloween, everyone!
________________________________________
A Haunt of a Jaunt
by Skaea
Contains: */M+, M/M, and *M/M tickling and a lot of sexual foreplay and other naughty things. NSFW.
Word count for this chapter: 9,376
________________________________________
PART 5: EPILOGUE
The Finale
With a cacophony of cackling and a gale of giggling, the tickler wraiths descended upon the four boys from all sides, gleefully beginning their torment by grabbing their wrists and ankles and pulling all four of them up and off the floor. Morp’s muscles were useless against the ghosts, but his great weight made it difficult for them to carry him, so they’d settled for holding his arms straightly over his head and spread to either side like branches from a tree trunk, forcing him to stand on the balls of his feet with his heels raised off the ground. Fanindra’s wrists, still desperately hanging onto the spellbook he’d recovered after Turindal had kicked it down into the ballroom — the same one he’d brought from the library after Pinkerton had rescued him — were held directly over his head, with his waist bent at a right angle so his feet were pointing towards the ceiling, his bottom pointing downwards and his pants pulled down to his ankles. Turindal was flipped and turned so he was floating face-down with his limbs spread-eagle and the soles of his incredibly long feet turned skyward. And as for the elastic, distorted Pinkerton, he was quite literally tied up, his wrists and ankles knotted like rope behind his back as several spirits held him aloft like a woven basket, his body stretched out so his shirt and coat rode up to expose his smooth stomach.
“It’s starting…” the bogeyman gulped. “Whatever you have at the ready, use it NOW! Before it’s too late!”
Fanindra nodded. “I-I’ll do my best…”
The spirits began by skittering their clawed fingers into every bit of exposed flesh they could reach, their digits bending at unnatural angles to reach into every armpit, probe every navel, dance across every plantar arch, and weave in between every toe. Needless to say, all four boys exploded into fits of helpless laughter within a matter of seconds. It wasn’t long, however, before they started getting creative.
“WAAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHH! HEHEHEHEHELP! CAN’T STAHAHAHAND IHIHIT!” Morp howled, his sensitive, smooth pits being assaulted by ten claws each, some forming blunt, soft drills that whirred against the skin while others took on a shape like long, thin feathers. For all his struggling and squirming, the wraiths on either side matched his every movement as they teased the tender hollows with wild abandon. He tried to kick wildly about as another ghost went for the backs of his knees, but a pair of ghost hands phasing through the floor grabbed onto his ankles, keeping his legs pointed downward. His toes against the floor, he was powerless to stop another phantom wiggling all ten of its fingers against the arches of his huge size 20s. “OH NOHOHOHOHOHO, NOT THAHAHAHAT!”
Fanindra had opened the book he was holding up to the page he had in mind, but his concentration was broken almost constantly by the tickles delivered all over his body. In a cruel twist of irony, the animated sculpture was being assaulted by all manner of phantasmic brushes, dusting his sides, his underarms, the backs of his knees, the balls of his feet and the pads of his toes; every one of these spots sported an arcane glyph that glowed and flickered like wildfire as he was subjected to a thorough, ticklish dusting, as though he were a statue in an art museum. “WAAHAHAHAHAHAHAH STOP IHIHIT! I’M ALREADY CLEHEHEHEEEAN!!” he cried, before he started trying to read the spell incantation again. “?◇●\$&£¤☆*%^ — PFFFT— ?◇●\$&£—HHHHEEHEHEHEE — ?◇●\$& — OHOHOHOHOHO SHIHIHITTTT WAHAHAHA!!”
Turindal’s screams, yowls, and cackles could practically be heard for miles. Still shirtless with only his pants on, he was powerless to defend his chest and underarms as a spirit straddled his waist, wiggling ten long fuzzy tentacles for fingers into all the nooks and crannies upon his upper body. Another spirit was floating right in front of his face, leaning in to nibble upon his long furry ears and flick its long tongue upon them, its long talons toying with the sides of his neck and under his chin. Below him, one more small, serpentine wraith was scuttling up and down his chest and stomach with multiple pairs of arms like a ghostly centipede. But it was his enormous feet that were getting the worst of it. All ten of his toes were spread out and bent backwards, restrained by translucent tentacles, his long, wide soles taut and completely vulnerable. A host of smaller spirits were dancing upon his arches and the balls of his feet, gliding and skating with the tips of their toes stroking the sensitive skin in elegant loops and spirals. Another, larger spirit floated in front of his feet, fluttering its feather-like digits against the pads and stems of his toes and extending multiple tongues that slithered into the spaces between. The assault from all sides left him incapable of forming any words whatsoever — all he could do was take it and laugh.
“STOHOHOHOP! I AM YOUR MASTER! DESIHIHIST! YAAAHHH NOT THEHEHEH — HHH — NONONONOOOOOHOHOHOHO!” Pinkerton screeched, shuddering and writhing helplessly. The hapless bogeyman was now being reminded that despite his status as the master of all the ghosts in this manor, he hadn’t reached the top without a lot of suffering. The instant the phantoms had sensed his emotional weakness, they were all too willing to capitalize on it, and in his case they were deploying phantasmic silverware to dine on the stretched expanses of ticklish flesh now utterly at their mercy. A fleet of forks dragged their tines lightly against his chest and stomach. A squadron of spoons were tapping up and down his sides, as though attempting to commit a horribly slow murder with weapons that weren’t nearly as inefficient as they looked. And needless to say, his huge furry feet were getting all the attention the ghosts felt they deserved, with at least three of them employing a pair of chopsticks each to poke, prod, stroke, and scribble upon his tender arches, wiggling toes, and the plush balls — even the surprisingly sensitive roots of the hairs upon the tops of his feet were teased and tousled on occasion. “HEED MY COMMAHAHANAND! EEEEYAAAHAHAHAH MAKE IT STOP, MAKE IT STAHAHAHAHAAPPP!”
A sound like falling rain sent a flicker of fear through the whole group. The ghosts didn’t let up the tickling, but only cackled madly as they gestured towards the door to the gallery. As everyone watched — the victims in horror, their tormenters in anticipation — an entire swarm of bone-hand spiders came pouring into the room, seething and rattling as they closed in on the first living thing in contact with the floor.
Morp screamed so loudly that a few wraiths actually covered their ears. The spiders were blanketing his feet, crawling up his stretched arches and raised heels, even scuttling up the tops of his toes and insteps. Then they started getting under his clothes as they ascended his legs, then onto his waist, his sides and stomach, his pits… As Morp continued shrieking and struggling and squealing, it seemed like he was covered almost completely in the damn things, the swarm acting like one solid entity as it tickled every inch of his body from the neck and wrists downward.
“MOHOHORP!” Fanindra screamed. “HAHAHANG IN THEHEHERE! ?◇●\$&£¤☆*%^ ×>;=<—EEEEHHEHAHAHAH! WAIT, NOOOO! GET THEM AWAY FROM MEEHEHEHEEE!”
Three of the ghosts had collected some of the spiders in their arms, and they were now moving towards the other boys who were struggling harder than ever. The victims could only scream before the new ticklers were dumped unceremoniously onto them. Fanindra’s stomach was now a playground for the nightmarish bugs, and Pinkerton’s back was subjected to an unwanted, tickly massage by too many pointed legs. But Turindal’s giant feet were getting the worst of it, the spiders coating the taut soles from the heels all the way to the bases of the toes, tickling all the way.
A terrible cacophony came from the doorway as more ghosts floated in, playing some musical instruments that would have been rather familiar to a certain boyish dwarf had he been stuck in the ballroom stage right-side-up. The instruments glowed faintly once again, and as they surrounded the boys, they began emitting magical musical notes that floated towards their helpless, thrashing bodies. Each time a note came into contact with a ticklish spot, the youth it belonged to jolted and cried out in laughter, the hysterics almost in time with the terrible tune.
As the song continued, with Fanindra trying and failing to recite the spell, the picture of the graveyard at the end of the portrait hall seemed to take on a life of its own. The moon in the background developed a faint glow that seemed all the brighter as the lights dimmed simultaneously, and the trees and plants began rippling and rustling as a cool breeze emanated from the painting.
Suddenly, the glowing crystals began to dim and flicker, and the air got several degrees colder. Was it just him, or did Fanindra notice most of the ghosts’ expressions briefly turn fearful?
“OH NOOOO!” Pinkerton yelled. “HEHEHEHEHE GET OUT OF HEHEHERE, EVERYONE! RUN!! THEY’RE COMING!!”
Blinking tears from his eyes, Turindal looked round in utmost horror, just in time to see the door to the mausoleum inside the painting start to swing open to reveal pitch-black darkness within. But dozens of glowing red eyes could be seen peering out from the void inside, and now several of the ghosts were looking at the painting with worried expressions…
The torment only got worse for the boys as another pair of ghosts carried in a massive washtub, full of soapsuds and absolutely seething with brush-slugs. Some of the ghosts tickling Fanindra plucked a few of the slugs out of the tub as it passed them by, before placing them over the dwarf’s sensitive nipples, making him scream and nearly drop the book in his hands. The tub, meanwhile, was placed below a struggling Turindal, and as the elf felt the spiders crawling up and into his pants, the ghosts holding him turned him upright.
“NOOOOOO! OH NO NO NOHOHOHO NO! AHHHHHHHHH!!!” he screamed, moments before his feet were lowered into the tub and the scrubbing, squirming slugs rendered him incoherent once again.
A fluttering sound like turning pages came from the hall now. Floating books soared in, spiraling through the air as they prepared to descend upon the group. Pinkerton could only scream in horror as they revealed all manner of tickle tools, and then swooped in, closing in on his exposed, striped stomach and tied-up limbs.
“GET OUT! GET OHOHOHOUT!!!” Pinkerton wailed through his laughter. “THEHEHEY’RE TRYING TO DRAG US IHIHIHIN! NONONONO NOT THE TUMMEEHEHEHEHEEE!!”
“I CAHAHAHAHAN’T!” Fanindra shrieked, the books opening right under his ass cheeks as sketched tentacles emerged to grope the sculpted globes and prod at his perineum. “?◇●\$&£¤☆*%^ — AAAAHHHHH! I CAN’T STAHAHAHAND IT!”
The painting’s arcane energy flared up, a haunting chorus of cackling echoing from the depths of the mock mausoleum. As the lights around the room turned a terrifying blood-red, a new volley of skeletal floating wraiths, looking like living oil paintings with glowing scarlet orbs in their eye sockets, poured out of the doorway and then the painting itself, scattering the screaming, panicking mansion spirits as they descended on a very tied-up Pinkerton.
The others could only watch, powerless, as the spirits from the painting swarmed the mansion’s master. The books, the spiders, and the silverware fled in uncharacteristic terror as the flying painted skeletons swooped in and began tormenting every inch of his body, at the same time drawing him closer and closer towards the astral portal. It was almost as though his laughter could be heard from outside the manor.
Curiously, though, Morp had been left untouched save for the spiders still crawling all over him, though they were noticeably more frantic now, as though trying to escape. But the scent of the soap seemed to calm his mind despite the tickles, causing him to stop resisting. He began to let the laughter flow freely, regulating his breathing, seemingly heedless of yet another sound echoing throughout the room. He turned his head towards the painting, noting how the breeze drawing in the boys — along with some of the tickle monsters standing just a bit too close — seemed to be flowing towards the inside the mausoleum door…
Clank. Clank. Clank.
The sound of armored boots hitting the floor gave the group only a moment to panic. Pinkerton yelled a warning as two suits of living armor strode in, closing in on a still-struggling Morp. The ghosts whispered something into his ear, and before he could react, there was a pair of POPS as his arms fell right off, sending bone-spiders flying as he dropped right into the arms of the living armor! The two metal suits struggled to carry him, but their cold metal fingers tickled his sides and thighs and knees as they started laboriously hauling him towards the graveyard painting. And yet he didn’t resist. Little did anyone know that at that moment, he knew what to do.
“MOHOHORP! DON’T GO IN THEHEHEHEHEHERE!!”
But Morp smiled serenely, still chortling from the tickles being administered upon him. “Morp know what do… hhh… All down to you nohohow!”
Turindal yelled in horror as well as laughter, the realization hitting him. “MORP! NOOOOOHOHOHOHOHOHO!”
Morp simply laughed. “Make bros prohohoud! Once Morp in The Zone, nohohothing stops hihihim!”
As the boys watched, one of the red-eyed wraiths whispered something into Morp’s ear, before grabbing his cock with a bony hand. With one swift yank, it pulled his meat and potatoes clean off with another POP, and flew off with its prize. But Morp was still collected as ever even when the suits of armor gave one mighty heave and threw his armless, balls-less body at the painting, which distorted and rippled like water as he was thrown inside.
His severed arms and cock were picked up by the painted skeletons, seemingly taking on a life of their own as they descended upon Fanindra and Turindal. The hands began tousling his hair and poking and prodding at the dwarf’s ears and neck, and his cock began rubbing against the elf’s furry tail. Inside the painting, a facsimile of their orc friend, still animate, doubled over laughing and moaning as his missing weenie was ticklishly tortured.
And yet, even as more skeletal hands burst out of the ground to assault his legs and feet, Morp picked up the will to hurl himself to the side, moving diagonally against the breeze, and scoot on his belly towards the door with one singular goal in mind.
In the portrait hall, one final noise made everyone’s heads turn as one more set of ghosts and floating gauntlets came in. Turindal’s tearful eyes went wide as he realized what they were carrying.
“NOOOO! NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NONONONONONONO NOOOHOHOHOHO!” he howled, but he was powerless as he was lifted into the air, slugs still cleaning his tortured arches. As the ghosts set the Snuggarug from the entrance hall and allowed it to unroll below him and Fanindra, all he could do was scream.
And then, the desperate dwarf blurted out something completely unexpected:
“I LOVE YOU, TURINDAL! I ALWAYS HAVE!!”
All the ghosts paused their tickles to gawk at him, and even Pinkerton and Turindal himself looked stunned.
“W-what?!” Turindal cried out.
The flustered dwarf was still giggling as the spiders and books were teasing his tender spots. “I-I know I’ve been rough on you, b-buhuhut it’s because I cahahare! I don’t want someone in my life who’s mehehean to everyone, I want someone who loves and cares and protects those he’s close tohoho! I know you’re capable of better than what you were, and I’ve tried to fix you because you’re so amazingly gorgeous, and a good person! EEEP, NOT THE BUTT! P-plehehease, please listen… You have loyal friends, people willing to sacrifice themselves for yohohou, everything a man could want! Isn’t that enough for yohohou?!”
Turindal felt his heart leap. “W-why didn’t you just TEHEHELL me?! Was it because I was just that obsessed with getting Ravaxidor’s approval?!”
Fanindra squeezed his eyes shut, crying from more than just laughter. “YES!! I— I knew as long as you supported him, you’d think of nothing else but that…”
Turindal started sobbing himself now. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry! I treated you like shihihit for so long, and now we’re all going to die laughing in this manor because of mehehehee… W-what have I DONE?!”
“I know you’re better than you think of yourself, though!” Fanindra smiled, before whimpering at another poke at his ass crack. “I want you to be the good person we know you can be, because I want to be with you as long as we lihihive!”
Turindal’s eyes widened. He hadn’t considered the true reason Pinkerton kept harping on him — he’d always thought he was self-righteously critical of the elf’s behavior. But with his life in shambles thanks to being abandoned by Ravaxidor, he should by all means have been alone even in others’ company. Unless…
His heart leapt as the realization hit him. Glancing around, he could see Morp pressing the backs of his shoulders against the ground, pushing the door of the mausoleum as hard as he could with his toes, heedless of the skeletal hands tickling every inch of his sweating, straining body. He looked at the helplessly laughing Pinkerton, still at the mercy of almost all the tickles they’d suffered through thus far. He looked around at all the other trapped boys in the gallery, and how pitiful their state was for who knew how long. And then he looked back at his dwarven friend, pleading with his expression alone.
He smiled softly, lovingly, even while giggling uncontrollably. “W-we neheheheed to combine our mahahagic!”
“W-WHAHAHAT?!”
“Y-you’ve had difficulty with that spehehehell! I could tell it’s important, but rituals need a fohohocus! Use mehehehe! You’re the key, I’ll be the lohohock! I’ll bottom, you’ll tohohop!”
Fanindra gaped at him, wincing as a wraith licked at his ear. Then he smiled broadly. “YES! Lehehet’s DOHOHO IT!”
Neither of them would notice that their talking had been freely done without their interference until much later, but once they remembered that, they would also remember how, after they had recovered from the shock of Fanindra’s confession, the ghosts carrying them were suddenly very interested in their heartfelt conversation — as well as how they were slowly bringing them closer together…
Before the two of them could say anything further, they were both dropped onto the Snuggarug.
Turindal landed flat on his face onto the soft carpet mimic, immediately getting on his hands and knees with his tail raised. Fanindra didn’t hesitate, and within seconds, he’d mounted him with the book placed on the elf’s back. The many fuzzy hands upon the rug reached out and groped madly at all the exposed ticklish flesh and stone they could reach, teasing Fanindra’s toes and Turindal’s arches, clawing at their thighs and calves. The crystal ball, which Fanindra had dropped when they were scooped up, started glowing again, floating in the air, as the dwarf began thrusting repeatedly, the elf’s eyes rolling back in his head with a moan of pleasure interspersed between his fits of laughter.
“HURRY!” Pinkerton yelled, the painted wraiths pushing the struggling bogeyman steadily closer towards the painting as they continued tickling him silly. He was just feet away from the painting now. “PLEHEHEHEHEEEEEASE! THERE ISN’T MUCH TIHIHIME!!”
Inside the painting, Morp continued pushing at the door, inching forward steadily. The door was being pushed further and further, the spirits now more frantic as they tried to escape the darkness inside. His laughter made his whole body shake, but he didn’t mind. This was an amazing ab workout, and he swore he was getting stronger with each push!
Turindal’s heartbeat resonated throughout Fanindra’s whole body, the inner magic making it glow like the crystals on the chandeliers. His eyes lit up like embers as the crystal ball started floating before him, and in between his giggles, he started chanting, his voice echoing as his own erection deep inside his partner throbbed more and more.
“?◇●\$&£¤☆*%^ ×>;=< #^$\£□~¥! ÷*^&$(•♡{♡●♡~¥ ×(=*”[•¡|♡÷*=...”
One, two, three thrusts later, as the fuzzy hands of the Snuggarug polished the head of his own member, Turindal let out a mighty yowl and let loose, his seed going airborne as his magical energy seemed to flow through his hole and into Fanindra’s body while the dwarf unleashed a surge of concentrated magic into his partner himself. There was a faint magical golden glow in the pale fluid, and as if by some bizarre miracle, the droplets began hardening into teardrop-shaped pearlescent gems, floating into the air and flying around the two like birds!
Turindal continued channeling his magic, Morp continued pushing, Pinkerton continued struggling, and Fanindra continued chanting and discharging his own essence. The crystal ball glowed brighter than ever as the smaller gems of solidified elfin seed drew closer and closer to it, eventually orbiting it like the moons and rings of a distant planet.
“\£¤¡~◇●♤ ~¥●¡¤♡#?:[÷*$… @¡♧◇♡♤!!!”
The oil-painted spirits let out unholy screams like the underworld itself, rushing forward to grab the two boys at the peak of their climax. But at that moment, the orb unleashed a massive, spherical blast of golden energy, radiating outward in all directions. The ghosts from the manor were blown every which way, along with all the other tickling implements and creatures, while the ones from the painting were instantly disintegrated. There was a BOOM as the mausoleum door inside the painting slammed shut, and the world of all three men went white…
Once everything faded back into view, in the middle of the room lay a boy sculpted from blue marble spooning a lynx-eared elf on the wooden floor, both stark naked and surrounded by little white gems and one big, light blue crystal orb, as though they’d just taken part in a very erotic ritual (which was very much true). A sharp-dressed halfling lay sprawled nearby, as did a very exhausted orc whose body was whole once more.
But they were not the only men in the room. Many, many others lay unconscious on the floor, the paintings hanging overhead completely empty of any captive ticklees. The various ghosts that had tormented them, the armor suits and bugs and slugs and other things, were all milling about throughout it all, but remained passive.
Tellingly, the largest painting, where the mausoleum had once been, was now completely blank.
As everyone came to, still in a daze, it became clear precisely what had happened.
“Th… That spell…” Turindal said with a look of wide-eyed shock. “What was it?!”
Fanindra picked the book up again with a smile. “A cleanser of occult restraints. When I saw all those paintings, I… I knew I had to use it…”
The other people sat up, stood up, milling about as they realized what had happened. Even the ghosts looked confused. But then, all eyes turned to Turindal and Fanindra with great anticipation.
“You… You did it!” Turindal gasped in ecstatic shock. “You freed everyone! YOU DID IT!”
“No, Turry-Purry.” Fanindra held a hand under the elf’s chin and gently turned his head around to gaze into his amber eyes. “We did it. Together.”
With that, they locked lips, and the crowd went wild. The two of them were now receiving a standing ovation, with everyone else — even the ghosts and tickle monsters — cheering and congratulating them for liberating them from the confines of their wrongful punishment.
Morp was now standing over them, and with tenderness and compassion, he helped them to their feet. “Now, that’s how bros do it, cha!” he beamed.
“Couldn’t have done it without you, Morp,” Turindal replied, clapping his friend on one of his muscular shoulders.
There was the sound of someone clearing their throat. Everyone looked around to see a sad-looking halfling, the two suits of living armor standing at guard to either side of him.
“I owe you all an apology,” Pinkerton said with his head bowed. “It was my fault that all of you were trapped. I was so angry and scared, and I lashed out at everyone because of the pain of Ravaxidor’s betrayal. A pain that never went away until these brave men came in…”
The others murmured among each other for a moment. Then the bandaged man spoke up.
“And we’re sorry, too. We all were scared of Ravaxidor’s anger, so we obeyed when he asked each of us to raid your manor…”
“But we’ve since realized that in the grand scheme of things, he has no power over us,” said the nymph. “We were listening to the mansion’s voices the whole time, and we heard how you were hurting. Rest assured that you aren’t alone in how you felt — none of us had anything nice to say about how Ravaxidor was abusing his power, either.”
“Aye, gave us somethin’ to focus on even while tickled absolutely silly,” the mimic added. “That an’ talkin’ to each other, even though it didn’t look like it. Ye ain’t the monster everyone said ye were. Ye tried t’ do the right thing, too, even if he didn’t take it well.”
“Forgiven,” the young orc agreed. “Small master said sorry. We accept!”
“So basically, Ravaxidor was trying to get rid of anyone who could threaten him, right?” asked Fanindra. “Yeah… That rescue mission he gave us? Not worth the reward. Not even close.”
“Well, we all know one thing we want now that we’re free again,” said the bandaged man. “There’s still a few hours before dawn, so does anyone else want to give the manor’s master a little payback~?”
Pinkerton gulped, but didn’t argue. “I’ve locked some of you in here for decades. I… I-I guess it’s only fair… th-that you return the favor…” Shakily, he nodded towards the living armor suits, who promptly picked him up, holding his back up with one hand each, and grasping his ankles with the other so his big bare feet were propped forward.
“About time!” the mimic smirked, the humanoid upper body growing from inside the treasure chest cracking his knuckles. “Let’s GET ‘IM!”
As the former prisoners closed in on the trapped halfling, the latest visitors to the manor chose to watch with affectionate smiles. They had the time to wait their turn, and either way, the sight of their former tormentor finally getting what he deserved was more than worth it.
“P-please, at least keep it to one at a tIIIIEEEEEEEEHEHEHEEEE! HEHEHEHELP MEHEHEHEHEEE!” Pinkerton shrieked; the nymph, who was closest to him, had swiftly dug the tips of his elegant fingers into the plush balls of his feet. Even as he descended into helpless laughter once more, though, he felt happier and more relieved than he had in years now that he’d received some much-needed closure. It was going to be a long wait for the coming dawn, but he was going to enjoy every ticklish second until then.
**********
The Departure
The light of the great solar disc in the morning sky only barely illuminated the canopy of the perpetual autumn woods, a light breeze making the leaves rustle slightly. The sound seemed eerily like whispering, like a thousand faded souls drifting through the treetops of the darkened forest below. There were few birds singing in the dawn, the creaking and rustling of the trees being quiet enough that the noise of anyone making their way through this foreboding weald would be difficult to miss. Few were the folks who were willing — or brave — enough to call this place home, and whatever signs of civilization were here in this land before, many were surely lost to history. Towns and cities had risen and fallen within this nation as a whole many times before in the past, but nowadays, only ruins and ghosts remained of those long-forsaken empires, with smaller towns and villages taking their place.
The manor of House Inclementia, however, seemed just a little bit brighter now.
The men who had been trapped in the manor for years were filing out now, all clothed and cleaned, and a certain dwarf with an orb worth pondering had volunteered to conjure portals to their respective homelands so they didn't have to trek through the dangerous woods to leave. His companions were at his side, bidding the others farewell, and accepting the thanks of every single one of them for their help.
The last one to leave was the orc boy, clad in not but a loincloth, a travel bag, and a single sandal, but he chose not to use any portal. When asked why, it was Morp whom he addressed.
“You from Adder’s-Fork horde, right?” he asked.
“Hmm? How dude know?” Morp raised an eyebrow.
“Me from Adder’s-Fork, too!” the smaller orc replied, showing his right arm for Morp to feel. The serpent tattoo on his skin felt slightly colder than the rest, which was how Morp was able to detect it.
“OH! How long, bro?” Morp asked in astonishment.
“A week. Needed shelter, found spooky house… Maybe not best idea after all,” he added with a snort of both regret and amusement.
“So, I’m guessing these belong to you?” Fanindra asked, offering the sandals he’d found the previous night.
“YES! Smell like me! Thanks!” The smaller orc gladly took them and started putting them onto his bare foot.
Morp laughed a bit, but then he sighed sadly. “Morp still not feel so good… Morp lost junk in there. Fell apart, really! Maybe Morp not strong after all… Maybe Morp need work out more—”
The younger orc held his hand, smiling warmly. “Morp, worry not. Shouldering burdens of others is greatest workout of all! Morp fall apart lots, but Morp kind, gentle, caring. That be strength of its own!”
Before the athlete could respond, the smaller orc had hugged him. “Thank you so much! Won’t forget help… Adder’s-Fork horde would be proud!”
Morp looked astounded, but couldn’t help but hug back, with the other two joining a few moments later. “Stay safe, bro.”
“Will do! Come visit soon!” With that, as the party waved farewell, the undead youth headed off into the woods for an adventure of his own.
That left just one more person to address. The party strode into the house, passing by the now empty space where the Snuggarug had lay earlier, to find Pinkerton sitting on the steps, his face in his hands.
“Uh… you doing okay?” Turindal asked. “I still feel bad about last night, so I was hoping to ask if, well…”
“If you wanted to ask if I could come with you, I can’t.” Pinkerton sniffled a bit. “The spell you did yesterday didn’t work on me, turns out.”
“W-what?!” Morp gaped at him. “Why?!”
“What did you think? I’m the master of the manor. If I left, it’d cease to exist entirely. All I can do is continue maintaining this place, though hopefully it’ll treat any future guests better. Not to mention the ghosts already inside, since they’ve told me they’re staying — nowhere else to go, after all.” He wiped his brow, already feeling exhaustion — and not just from the ticklish revenge he’d received earlier. “Whew, I’ll definitely need to practice my cloning spell to keep it in tip-top condition…”
Fanindra let out a shocked gasp, and then he smiled.
“Hm? What is it?” asked Pinkerton.
“You said the ghosts are staying in the manor, right? The one with the duster was already eager to clean everything, including me.” The dwarf shivered a bit at the memory. “I think you said they help keep the mansion tidy, so you technically already have cleaning staff, right?”
“Oh, yes I did say that! Why?”
Fanindra smiled wider, holding up his crystal ball once again. “I hope they don’t mind covering for you from now on. I’ve got an idea…”
It was another half-hour before the four of them finally left the manor. Though he originally winced at the brightness of the morning light, the rays of the sun on Pinkerton’s face felt so good after so long. He sighed dreamily, before turning to the others. “That other spell you found… That was it, right?”
“The one that could make a spell which normally worked only temporarily into a permanent one, but with weaker power, yes,” Fanindra replied. “I figured your cloning spell was the former, so while you won’t be able to have as many clones out at once, there’ll still be one active at all times. The main you will still have to stay in the manor, but nobody said anything about your clones getting out, right?”
Pinkerton blinked in surprise. “Huh, I never thought of that. What about my original body, though? It’s asleep in the master bedroom, but will it be safe?”
“Knowing those ghosts? I know it will,” Turindal chuckled. “Though don’t be surprised if they give you a few sleep tickles every once in a while~”
“Eh, I’ll live. Fanindra said that with the weaker spell, my consciousness will transfer back to my original body when this duplicate sleeps, and vice versa. So even though I’ll technically still be trapped in the house forever… I can still see the world.” The halfling wiped a tear from his eye, before hugging Fanindra’s leg. “With all my heart, I thank you.”
“No problem! Though that being said… I do have to beg for forgiveness myself.” Fanindra rubbed the back of his head with an abashed look. “I haven’t exactly been an angel to you guys, either. I thought I was the only smart one around here because the rest of you kept getting us in trouble—”
“Heyyy! Well, okay, you got me there,” Turindal laughed, lightly elbowing his boyfriend’s shoulder.
“Still… I kept putting you down because I didn’t think you’d be able to get anywhere without my help. Never in my life have I been so glad to have been proven wrong, and I can’t apologize enough. Turindal, I know I said you need to be nicer to everyone, but I guess I have to practice what I preach…”
“Dude, don’t worry about it! Rock Bro did great!” Morp gave the dwarf an affectionate noogie. “Apology totally accepted, cha!”
“And you’ve got a point in that we could use your guidance, as I sadly demonstrated last night,” Turindal added, smiling ruefully. “Guess we all have a lot to learn.”
“Oh, that reminds me!” Pinkerton said suddenly, before pulling a large, stuffed-looking envelope out of thin air. “I found this in the entrance hall this morning. It’s apparently from the Druid King.”
“Huh? A package? From the Druid King himself?!” Turindal asked in astonishment. “It’s not addressed to me, is it—”
“Well, fancy that, it actually is,” Fanindra replied with equal surprise as he received the package from the halfling. “Turry-Purry, do you want to open it?”
Blushing a bit at the nickname, Turindal took the package from the dwarf’s stony fingers and gently tore it open, only for a large stack of papers to fall out of it. “Oh no no, those shouldn’t get dirty!” he started, dropping down onto his knees, toes bent forward once again, to retrieve the papers from the slightly damp ground and check them for stains and wet spots.
Then he froze in place, and started reading. The more and more he read from the notes and documents, the more distraught he looked.
“Uh… Bro? You good?” asked Morp, seemingly aware of the utter silence coming from his usually mouthy companion.
“He… Ravaxidor…” Turindal’s mouth worked for a moment. “He… He’s been removed from his seat at the Titillandum High Council, and his entire guild disbanded.”
“Wait, you mean he wasn’t sooner?” Pinkerton asked, tilting his head in curiosity. “I must confess that even though I know he was indeed captured by the manor this past week, I genuinely don’t know where he went after that. He really could have abandoned you three for all I know or care.”
“No shit,” Fanindra replied, without a hint of surprise. “The guy was a dickhead anyway.”
Turindal stared at the papers for a moment, his head spinning a little. “He was my idol. The beacon of light and goodness I looked up to for the longest time. But it looks like I was right to believe what you guys said about him last night, because look at this shit!” He threw the papers up into the air, forcing Fanindra to use a levitation spell to keep them from falling and collate them again. “Illicit dealings, halfling trafficking, dissolution of dwarf labor unions, covert ordering of multiple high-profile assassinations… And he also tried to propose laws to expel all goblin- and nymph-kin from Titillandum as illegitimate immigrants!” He shuddered, glancing at a now-grimacing Morp and a disgusted Pinkerton. “He never told me any of this. But now, after tonight, I can believe he was capable of it all.” he finished, his voice cracking, his world seeming to crumble before his eyes. “I guess that means we’ve been fired too just because we associated with him, huh. Some adventurers we are…”
“Hrm.” Morp stooped a bit to pat his friend on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about big boss anymore. Not worth it. High council better without him.”
The remorseful elf glanced up at Morp, still reeling from the news, but not sad about it at all. “Damn right. The thing is, though… I was so eager to have a seat among the council eventually, after he told me I could have it after he retired. But now… well, we’re basically jobless now that the guild’s out the window, so that goal’s shot to shit, too. I’m so sorry, guys. I should’ve listened to you. Especially you, Fanindra. Can you find it in your hearts to forgive me?”
A day ago, Fanindra would have gloated over how right he was. But now, all he could feel was sympathy. His teammates may have been flawed in all sorts of ways, sure, but they had motivations of their own, just like him, and despite thinking that he had been in control of the whole situation, he had in fact been played as much as the others. He said nothing, but the small smile and nod he gave his lover spoke volumes.
“Turindal…” Pinkerton patted Turindal’s other shoulder with a soft smile. “You and your friends did me and House Inclementia a favor. You saved me from myself, and found a way for both me and everyone we captured to be free again. I’m sure there’s more greatness ahead for you. So even if your old dream is dead, what’s wrong with having a new one?”
“Cha!” Morp added with a smile. “Good thing Morp know local freelance guild. They have gymnasium! Apply there and sign up for next quest, right, bros?”
Turindal smiled. “Well, whatever it takes to net me the credit needed to sign up for my professional trial. I’m in!”
“And we’ll be right there with you,” Fanindra added, magically slipping the papers into his bag. “Though needless to say, it may be better for me to take the lead from now on, if only because I’m the only one who’s any good with directions!”
“Oh, no you don’t!” Turindal teased as he inspected the ground on the path ahead. “I may not be in line for the council anymore, but I’ve still got an ego to protect. Besides, I think I’ve got a trail leading to the next town over. Follow my — H-HEY, WAIT!”
Morp had pressed a hand down on one of Turindal’s shoulders and Pinkerton did the same with the other (with both of his hands). Behind him, Fanindra summoned a volley of magical feathers which, once again, immediately started attacking the hyper-ticklish hollows of the elf’s deep, stretched arches.
“AAAEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIII!” Turindal cried out, though despite his playful begging, he wasn’t exactly averse to the tickles. “N-NONONONO WAIIIIIEHHEHEHEHEE! YAHAHAHAHAAAAHHHH! OKAY, OKAHAHAHAY, I GIHIHIHIHIHIIIIIIVE!! MEHEHEHERCEEHEHEHEEEEEE!!!”
The other three started chortling themselves as they stopped restraining and tickling him, and helped the elf to his feet. “And at the very least, Turry-Purry, I’ve found the perfect way to keep you in line,” Fanindra added cheekily, before giving his crush a chaste kiss on the cheek while at the same time dispelling the feathers with a wave of his hand.
Turindal dusted himself off with a playful pout, though he was still smiling and blushing out of love, affection, appreciation, and just a little bit of flusterment. “Tch, I suppose you have.”
The party shared one last hearty laugh, followed by a heartfelt group hug. And with that, with the mansion at their backs, they settled into small talk as they set off into the woods once again, the rising sun feeling as warm and welcoming as ever despite only barely peeking through the canopy above them. Now that their past mission was for naught, the future ahead of these brave travelers was uncertain, but it was clear that the high council of Titillandum would hold power upon them no longer. With the former high lord’s influence undone, who knew what wonders, what perils, what ticklish thrills and torments awaited the group on their next adventure? The four of them could hardly wait to find out.
**********
The End…?
By this point, one may wonder what had really happened to the missing elven lord that the party had been tasked to find in the first place. What not one of our heroes knew was that he was, in fact, in a different location entirely. Just a few dozen miles away, in the forested realm of Silva Insanire, within the dread glade of the Forest of Nightmares that straddled the border with the Forgotten Foothills, the culprit was currently paying a most terrible price for his cruel folly.
Theodemar Ravaxidor had thought it a good idea to fake his mysterious disappearance, station himself in the abandoned mansion as a false hostage, and essentially send Turindal and his annoying so-called friends to their untimely demise before returning to society a hero, without anyone suspecting a thing. Taking Turindal under his wing after his graduation to elfin status had apparently been a mistake after all; Theodemar was unable to comprehend that anyone so utterly useless to society could ever win so many people over. It should have been him who was admired by the citizens of Titillandum, not that furry upstart! The sociopathic high lord had assigned him a role as an adventurer on the grounds that the job carried so much risk, but it hadn’t been enough — Turindal was learning fast, and sooner or later, he’d start getting suspicious.
The time when Turindal had confessed that he wanted to occupy Theodemar’s seat among the high council once the latter retired had been the final straw. If there was one thing the latter couldn’t stand, it was having to give the power he had fought so hard to acquire to absolutely anyone else. The only way to get rid of him now was to do what he had done with the last two-dozen subordinates who had incurred his displeasure, one way or another: engineer a situation where Turindal and his party were forced to “rescue” his beloved high lord only to be given to the supposed danger as sacrifices and scapegoats, thereby getting rid of them without attracting suspicion. And so, he had set off to set up his fiendish plot two weeks earlier, making sure to officially bill it as an out-of-country diplomacy meeting while also having the mission statement sent to Turindal only after the estimated time of arrival within the next five days or so.
Suffice it to say for the seven-foot-tall, redheaded dragon-born of statuesque stature and brilliant green eyes like a viper, things had not gone to plan this time around. How was he to know that the mansion would not entertain his insidious scheme and instead subject him to the whims of its inhabitants for three days and nights? How was he to know that the strangers who’d rescued him were in fact the national emissaries of Silva Insanire and the Forgotten Foothills, both of whom had been informed of the plot against Turindal ahead of time by multiple informants (i.e. other student druids who had been protecting their own — and practicing for their own professional trials, no less) and promptly braved the mansion’s depths to retrieve him? And most of all… How was he to know that the Druid King was more than willing to bring his full power and wrath to bear against anyone who would dare to undercut his favorite student?
Suspended from the boughs of an old grimwood tree, Theodemar was completely wrapped from the neck down in spider silk harder than iron, his arms over his head and his legs spread and bent so his feet were behind his ears, with more wrappings encasing his mouth, the gag lashed to the rest of the wrapping to keep his head from moving. There were multiple places the silk didn’t cover, but dozens of small bone-hand spiders were swarming all over them. Holes in the silk exposed his underarms, his stomach, his chest, his backside and crotch, even the backs of his knees. His colossal size seventies had every single taloned toe bent back and tied to the wrappings so that their incredibly long arches, smooth and soft as silk, were stretched as tightly as the skin of a drum. His clawed fingers were all restrained similarly, leaving his palms exposed to the outside. Even his tail, long and scaly and reptilian, was tied by its tip to a tree root, pulled taut at all times so it couldn’t thrash about and injure anyone who got too close.
His shoulder-length auburn-colored hair, normally kept glossy and immaculate, was now frazzled and frayed, and the little arachnids were skittering all over his long pointed ears, crawling along his cheeks with their scattering of brick-red scales, investigating the straight, stubby, bony horns growing from above the brows of his otherwise humanoid head, and making their ticklish way up and down the length of his neck. Many more were exploring the meadows of soft hair marking his underarms and just above his crotch, nibbling with little fangs and teasing the sensitive roots with their countless little claws. Others were wreaking havoc on the valleys behind his knees, dancing across the furrows between his washboard abs and taking turns diving into his navel, prospecting his palms and in between his helpless digits, and fording his exposed pecs and ascending the peaks of his nipples. And as for his massive feet, they were absolutely covered in swarming creepy-crawlies, not a square inch of skin upon the taut arches or the pads and stems of his toes uncovered and not an iota of mercy given — even the tops of his feet, his ankles, and his heels were blanketed in them.
There were even spiders navigating inside his bindings, for a little gap had been left betwixt silk and skin for them to slip into. Not even his ribs, his back, or his thighs were safe.
But it was his most intimate anatomy that was in the greatest peril. The spiders had left that area untouched for the most part, but there were other chitinous creatures tormenting it in their place. Several glittering centipedes resembling pearl-string necklaces were winding their way around his fourteen-inch, rock-hard cock, their many, many legs tickling along its entire length. Fluffy, stingless honeybees buzzed around a ballsack containing testes bigger than a man’s fist, their wings fluttering against the sides and back of his scrotum, some of them nuzzling the skin mid-flight and others landing upon the top of the sack to inspect it with their furry legs and long, thin tongues. An army of little crimson fuzzy-legged ants, having crawled out of the soil and along the soft underside of his tail, was marching in a torturous path upon his widely spread buttocks, a winding ticklish loop that conspicuously left his puckered asshole untouched but covered every other inch of soft skin. Swarms of inch-long mosquitoes with wings like moths and feathery tips to their legs were jabbing painlessly at the head and slit of his weeping cock and the rim of his asshole, the rash their countless bites left in their wake producing a most unbearable itching, tingling, tickling feeling in its own right — some of them even drove their probosci into both orifices as deeply as they could go, setting the inner linings alight with the maddening sensation.
And most devilish of all, his unseen warden had also provided a whole collection of fuzzy, squirmy little worm-like creatures that had gone deeper still — at least a dozen had been slipped into the opening of his member and ticklishly slid all the way through the innermost plumbing to make their way inside his precious testicles, their soft bristles constantly brushing against the millions of nerve-packed sperm-making filaments within, and more of the tiny scavengers still had been given the least savory task of cleaning up the inside of his rectum, lingering in there to tease the internal surfaces with wild abandon.
The silk that had bound Theodemar — so strong that even his razor-sharp teeth, capable of piercing bone, couldn’t bite through it — was enchanted to funnel water, nutrients, and magical energy from the tree he was tied to and transfer it directly into his body, so that no matter how much he cried, sweated, drooled, or came, he would never dehydrate or exhaust himself. The enchantment even took sleep into account, putting him in a state where his brain could rest itself, but the merciless torture would still register in it, plaguing his nightmares no matter how much he silently begged for it to stop.
As it turned out, more than half the “disappearances” among those under Theodemar’s jurisdiction had occurred within the Forest of Nightmares at the border between Silva Insanire and the Forgotten Foothills, and while the people whom he had tried to discreetly dispose of were still hypothetically retrievable, the fact remained that he had been essentially committing humanitarian crimes on foreign soil, with or without possible fatalities. So it was that after a certain tipoff had led to all the documented evidence making their way to the Titillandum Grand Council, the saurian-turned-elf had been drummed out of the Council and extradited in absentia, since he was still listed as missing both before and after all the legal drama had transpired, and it wasn’t until the report had come in that the emissary of Silva Insanire himself had retrieved him that said emissary received word of the final verdict. There was no need to deliver him back to Titillandum, no… Instead, his custodian was essentially given the go-ahead to do with him as he wished, meaning he (as well as his boyfriend, whenever the man wished to visit) would have all the fun he could get out of him… before giving him to whatever lurked in the deepest depths of the woods once he was done, perhaps after a year or two. After that, Theodemar would live out the rest of his days as the enchanted forest’s tickle-toy — the same fate that threats to society had been sentenced to by Silva Insanire’s jurisdiction several times before.
Nearby, a white-haired man of pallid complexion with three pairs of eyes as red as blood, long pointed ears like an elf, and an elegant silken robe as deep blue and purple as the night sky observed a vision playing out upon the still waters of a decorative pond. Notably, in place of two human legs, he sported the hairy, plated body of an enormous spider the size of a small chariot, each of his eight legs ending in a large, human-like foot held in a permanent tiptoe, stirrup socks covering these extremities with his clawed toes exposed. All forty of them.
“Mmmmhehehehe… How peculiar. How queer.” The overseer mused aloud as he watched the sight in the pool of four certain young men continuing their journey. “Not only did they actually make it out, but they also recovered everyone else trapped in the manor, and even helped its master find peace. Fascinating, indeed.”
The white-haired spider-person dispelled the vision into ripples with a touch of a finger upon the surface of the pool, returning his attention to his helpless hostage who could only utter muffled protests that were doomed to be ignored. “Whatever you had planned for Mr. Deeparch, ‘Sir’ Ravaxidor, it’s clear he foiled it without even knowing he was the mark. Hah, some High Lord you were.”
Theodemar could only tremble in place and roar into his gag with a murderous look in his eyes. “MMMMMPH! MM FMMMM GMMMMMM MMM!!!”
“Ah ah ah, no back-talksies, you RACIST FUCKING PRICK!” The man-spider bared his fangs in a sudden shout of absolute loathing, before his voice regained its cunning calmness as he continued. “Remember, it was your mistake to think you could fuck over my favorite pupil without attracting my personal attention. More than that, though, there are multiple records in the history books of how you alienated every single one of Hysterica’s national emissaries, as well as practically everyone in all of Titillandum who wasn’t dependent on your ill-gotten payroll, by parading your abusive, elf-supremacist arrogance as though it was a blessing from the grand goddess Risus herself. You honestly thought the power vested upon you made you soooooo superior to the rest of the world that you could get away with having someone executed for harming a single hair on your head? Well, guess again, shitstain. Treating anyone and everyone who isn’t an elf as nothing else but a means to an end is not welcome here, there, or anywhere. Not on my watch. Who do you think pulled a couple of strings here and there upon finding out what you were planning, hmmm~?”
Ravaxidor’s eyes widened in horrified realization, and for the first time in what seemed like eons, he started crying from despair as well as maniacal laughter.
The national emissary of Silva Insanire blew a kiss in his prisoner’s direction, winking sardonically before, fingers wiggling, he closed in on his struggling prey once more. “Not that I’m denying Mr. Deeparch the credit he’s due, of course — if he really was able to turn things around despite his faults, perhaps there’s hope for his future after all. Which is far more than I can say for your future, anyway.”
“MMMMPH! GMMFFFFPHHMMM!!” Theodemar desperately, wordlessly pleaded for help that would never arrive, the knowledge that his master plan had backfired in the absolute worst way possible leaving him utterly broken.
“Speaking of which, I happen to know a nice little spider nest around this neck of the woods,” the Druid King said with a sly smirk as the very tips of his taloned fingers began gently tousling the elven tyrant lizard’s soft, helpless pit hair. “I also know for a fact that they’d love to have you as a permanent resident once I eventually tire of your sorry existence. Emphasis on permanent.”
“NMMMMMMMMGGHHHMMMMMMMMMMM!!!” Theodemar screamed in terrified hysterics once more into his gag of silk. It was going to be a very, very long and laughter-filled night for the former despot, with countless more to come in the future.
“Feel free to beg me for mercy all you want, my big ol’ tickle toy, but know that it will do you no good,” Aranea Orbweaver replied coldly into his captive’s ear, before he uttered a melodramatic chuckle of vengeful malice. “After all, your life sentence has only just begun. Give it a couple of centuries in the Dark Web, and you’ll be BEGGING THE GODS FOR DEATH!!!”
No comments:
Post a Comment