"Get him!" Laura shouts, jabbing her finger at you. You stumble over your own feet trying to avoid the glove racing at you and go down. As you're reaching up to fumble at the door latch, you feel something snug around your ankles, cinching tight. Looking back over your shoulder, you see the glove's used its trailing end to bind you up and is now 'walking' its fingers back toward your bed, dragging you with it. You try clawing the floor to hold your ground, but your own digits aren't up to the task.
"Lemme go!" you yell, making a grab for Laura as you're dragged past her. She laughs and jumps out of reach, and the glove arrives at your bed. It shoots forward and coils around a foot on the bed frame, further binding your own feet up in looped lengths of silk. Is the glove getting longer? It has to be, to tie you up in itself this way. You try yanking and kicking loose, but Laura jumps onto your bed to hold it steady. After wearing yourself out with this useless maneuver, you lay on your belly and catch your breath. It's not long before you feel silk fingers undoing your shoelaces, the casual precision aimed to titillate - on which count it succeeds, making you glad you're on your stomach. You don't need Laura to see the tent you'd otherwise be pitching.
Craning your head around, you see Laura's on your bed, mirroring your position with her feet kicked up behind her. You'd been expecting plenty of teasing over your predicament, but she seems entranced with the methodically erotic baring of your feet. You don't think she's a closet foot fetishist, so maybe she's getting some sort of kinky echo back from the glove. What does that feel like? If only you'd gotten the words right on the spell!
Soon enough, you feel cool air and silk fingertips tracing along your feet. It tickles a little, but you know that's incidental; the glove's just probing for sensitivity. You don't want to let Laura know it's getting to you, but you can't help squirming around, trying to look annoyed rather than stirred up.
Except once the glove starts tickling, you let out a stupid yodel that no one with a brain could accept as a reaction of pure ticklishness. You hear Laura laugh a little at this, but it sounds breathy and distracted. She's tickled you plenty of times before, with magic and with her own hands, but she's never sounded like that. Where's the contempt of her rivalry gone?
This thread of thought is lucky to slip unscorched through the overheated loom of your head. It's bad enough to deal with the standard sensations of being tickled, but the added tension of becoming progressively more turned on with each touch of the glove's silk fingers makes you feel like snapping. Add in the distant awareness of Laura knowing exactly what's happening and getting worked up about it herself . . . it's too much input.
"Oooh, stop, stop!!" Laura commands her glove. Fortunately, it listens to her and gives you a break - both of you, by the looks of Laura. You catch your breath and enjoy her conspicuous discomposure. She's well aware of what's going on, but clearly hadn't expected this much fallout from rapport with her libidinal proxy. Despite being in no position for it, you can't help having a good chuckle at her expense.
"Oh, you shut up!" Laura snaps at you, getting off your bed and pacing around you, looking as though she's not sure how to proceed. "Leave off with his feet, I've had enough of that. Try for his belly instead."
Your feet are suddenly free, but Laura plops down on the small of your back, straddling you and preventing any attempt at slithering away. You groan for form's sake, but it's nicer than you would have expected to have Laura sitting on you. She seems more ambivalent about it, but fascination's winning out over aversion.
Meanwhile, Laura's glove has decided the easiest route bellyward, given your position, is straight up your right pantleg. The feel of silk running up your leg in one determined pulse marks the limit of your endurance, and that's that.
"Hrrcch!" you comment, quite involuntarily, despite your attempt to stifle the embarrassing grunt. Your buck your hips (just as involuntarily), which Laura mistakes as an escape attempt.
"Hrrcch!," she says back in mockery. "I'll 'hrrcch' you if you try making another break for it . . . Herkimer. I think that's your new name. Sit still and take your medi . . . what the . . . omigod!!"
You're feeling a little drained, but it's still hilarious. Laura jumps off of you at once, and then starts trying to wipe away the phantasmal feel of whatever's on her hand onto your shirt.
"THAT'S REVOLTING!!!" she shouts down at you, seeing you're trying to hold back a laugh. She's still trying to clean off her perfectly clean hand when you feel the glove becoming insubstantial. Maybe Laura was so grossed out that it terminated the spell? You suggest as much, which puts the brakes on her freaking out.
"Yeah, I guess," she says, still looking at her hand. "Eww, it was all hot and . . . ick." She stands there looking at you with her face twisted up, trying to cram the ordeal into the appropriate mental slot. "Nasty. And what do I get out of it, Herkimer?!"
It's a fair question, and you feel a sudden kick of gallantry.
"I could try the spell again. I think I can get it right this time, and then . . . "
"No, you'd just ruin it," Laura says, cutting off your eager plan of action. "You ruin everything. I'll manage on my own." Giving you a complex look of consideration and resentment, she moves for the door, stepping out and slamming it behind her.
Only to just as quickly open it back up, poking her head in and scowling at you.
"You're so gross," she says conversationally, getting one last look.
"OK, I'll owe you one, how's that?" you ask. But she's still got that complicated look on her face and won't be cajoled.
"Freak. Freak, freak, freak, freak. Freak forever, Herkimer, no redemption."
Having had the final word, she slams the door again and stays gone.
You repair to the bathroom to address the aftermath, wondering when you'll next have the courage to try that spell. What would have happened if you'd gotten it right?
Still thinking of how things might have been, there's a knock on your door.
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