Capt. Spalding
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- Joined
- Apr 20, 2001
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*This revised FF>F tale is (giggle) copyright 2001 by the author.
*For readers 18 and older, please. Kids: Stick to computer hacking. There’s more money in it.
*Forgiveness begged from George S. Kaufman, Harry Ruby, Bert Kalmar, and Groucho Marx for Clarice’s homage to the African Explorer, Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!
*Dedicated to all the terrific teachers in my life.
SABBATICKLE
By Tee Hee Lawrence
“All in all, it has been a most productive sabbatical,” thought Hannah Davis. “I’m redolent with
research, the writing is being realized readily, and I’ve even found time to radically revise my lecture notes.
I must confess that I’m quite pleased with myself.”
Hannah, her workaholism notwithstanding, was enjoying a few moments away from her study and its tireless computer. She was resting in the recliner that her last lover had given her before their recent indefinite separation. She chuckled as she thought, “Actually, I’m ‘lounging’,” giving the last word the campy, theatrically drawled, Southern-diva pronunciation her lover always did. The chair was to remind Hannah, as the gift card stated in stylish cursive sweeps, “on occasion, to kick off your shoes and recline wa-ay back, gazing through your toes at the campus far beyond your bay window.” From the snug living room in her modest cottage on the Hill—well away from her neighbors—she, her eyes misting in her sad, sweet nostalgia, gazed upon the panoramic view of the winding road leading to the stately college town below.
Hannah was quite tall, almost wiry but sturdy, with thick auburn hair falling to her shoulder
blades. Her dark-rimmed eyeglasses reinforced the serious set of her face, with its cool, gray eyes, sharp
nose, high cheekbones, and a hint of olive in her complexion. She was a stubbornly “unattached”
bohemian academic in her mid-thirties with a visage very striking, markedly so when she smiled—which was rare—and especially so when she laughed broadly—rarer still, her amusement giving her sober features an irresistible radiance. Her work, as an associate professor in History, American Studies, at the venerable college in this quaint New England town, consumed her, even during the fleeting weeks of her sabbatical. Since her lover, a fellow instructor at the college, had left her—and for that matter, the country—last year, she had few real distractions. She become even more dour and driven, more sober and solitary since the separation.
On campus, her students, seduced by her striking appearance, daring intellect, challenging teaching, and sharp, cooly deployed wit, were most intrigued by her poker face. They strove mightily to upend her serious demeanor. It was considered quite a coup, indeed, to get her to smile at a remark; further, provoking Prof. Davis to laugh out loud was of blue moon frequency, earning the provoker envied bragging rights. Oh, the fantasies inspired in her charges by the affectionate desire to induce radiant smiles and musical Dixie-belle laughter in Hannah Davis, to lighten this sad, serious beauty up.
The object of said fantasies “lounged”—clad in an old school sweatshirt and blue jeans--in the chair, only slightly reclined (the extreme position being quite a challenge to emerge from), idly dangling the scruffy Birkenstock sandal from the toes of her powder-blue ankle-socked right foot. Even alone in the house, she was hearing the siren call of work, when—
After laboring up the rough, snaking road, an orange VW Beetle settled in front of the cottage. Hannah watched as two young women, probably the age of most of her students, if not a bit younger, tumbled out. Each dragged a small, wheeled travel case to the door, and one, the blonde, also shouldered a small lavender knapsack. The blonde was maybe five feet tall, with a solidly Rubenesque figure, a page bob over her cherubic features and cerulean (indeed!) lipstick and fingernails; she wore a smoky turtleneck sweater over navy corduroys and work boots. Her partner, a head taller, now preparing with tongue pressed to cheek to pound away the brass open-book-styled door knocker, was rail thin and slightly dark—perhaps Mediterranean or North African—with an oiled, jet black pony tail, and was clad entirely noir: sweatshirt, mid-thigh leather skirt, nylons, and—surprising for a brisk fall day—abbreviated leather sandals.
Hannah sighed. She wouldn’t really mind a diversion from the self-pity that rose in her when her nose was off the grindstone. After all, it had been several days since she’d even seen anyone. She feared, though, that they were selling something, and she was, well, rather susceptible to students selling to pay for their studies. They really could do with her as they wished…
She finally answered the door after a dozen or so ferocious knocks, nearly pulling the taller young woman, still gripping the knocker, into the foyer.
“Whoa!” yelped the pony-tailed one.
“Sorry,” apologized Hannah, successfully, as usual, suppressing a smile at this near slapstick. “Are you two lost? ”
“Gosh, I hope not!” beamed the smaller one. “Aren’t you Mrs. Higgenson?”
“No, alas not. Higgenson? Higgenson? I can’t say that I know any neighbor by that name.”
“Damn!” blurted tall-and-dark, as she slumped to sit on her case.
“Easy, Nikki!” remonstrated the blonde. Turning to Hannah, she smiled brightly and said,
“Hi! I’m Clarice, and this dejected specimen is Nikki.”
“’Lo,” pouted Nikki.
“Pleased to meet you both.”
“Likewise,” returned Clarice. “Only we’d be more pleased if you were Mrs. Higgenson, and we
could show your our wares. We drove all the way up…” (She looked ruefully downhill behind her.) “…and these sample cases are sooo heavy. I can’t understand how we screwed up.”
“Well, it is a very winding road, with many hidden turn-offs. You could easily miss a particular
house on your first try.”
“Sa-ay,” ventured Clarice, her cherubic features alight, “You wouldn’t be interested in seeing our really marvelous selection, would you?”
“Here it comes,” thought Hannah. “Selection of what?” she volleyed.
“Why, European designer shoes,” Clarice declaimed with the skill of a carnival barker. “The likes of which you’ll not find otherwise in a podunk like this.”
“Hmm . . .” Hannah mused, looking down at her worn sandals and wiggling her toes. “I’m really
a Birkenstock type of gal.” Her second toe on her left foot popped through a hole in her sock. “And not exactly a creature of fashion.”
“Oooo, how cute,” crooned Nikki, staring raptly at Hannah’s escaped toe, long and smooth with a
neat, clear-polished nail.
Quickly covering her partner’s reverie, Clarice offered, “C’mon, you couldn’t wear those to a wedding or a first dinner date. Do you work at the College?”
“Why, yes. How did you know?”
Clarice quickly observed, “If you don’t mind my saying so, you seem like the very dignified professorial type, prone to department teas and commencements.” Hannah couldn’t help her sad smile as, her glasses sliding to the tip of her nose, she thoughtfully shook her head yes. The glowing blonde pressed, “So, whaddaya say?”
Glancing sideways, Hannah saw doe-eyed Nikki rubbing her shoulder wearily and found sales resistance weakening. “You two are students?”
“Well, we’re expecting to be,” piped Clarice, “after we produce some sales and can get a leg up on the tuition.”
That did it! “C’mon, you’ve got your foot in the door. You can show me the shoes—for a few minutes anyway.” Finally closing the front door, Hannah led them into the living room, all the while oblivious to the expression resembling “Gotcha!” that was exchanged between the two younger women. They very quickly—before she could change her mind, hustled their cases into the living room.
Clarice pronounced, “This recliner looks real comfortable. We’ll set up here where you can relax.” They began to lay out their stock as Hannah bemusedly watched. Clarice, eyeing the recliner knowingly with an anticipatory smile, placed the lavender knapsack unopened beside it.
Hannah heard her stomach growl and, blushing, said, “Hmm! When did I eat last?” Moving to the kitchen, she said over her shoulder, “Can I get you two anything? A sandwich? Coke? English or herbal tea?”
The two, perhaps thinking they’d better accept Hannah’s hospitality now because she would be in
no shape to offer it later, chirped, “Yeah, whatever. I’d love a peppermint tea!” and “Thank you, yes,
Twining’s for me!”
When Hannah returned with tea and cookies (“Wow, right out of Goodbye, Mr. Chips!” thought Clarice.), the eager ones, as she affectionately observed, had put many single and paired shoes on either side of themselves as they knelt together in front of the lounger. They entreated her to sit and place her feet on the slightly elevated footrest. She was disarmed of whatever skepticism she might have felt by their spunk and by their youthful prettiness (and the alluring loveliness of Nikki’s nylon covered feet when the quieter one doffed her sandals). Clarice applied what she hoped was the clincher, saying, “And, for letting us disrupt your quiet afternoon by showing our selection, please accept from us a complimentary foot massage and our own, patented ‘Tootsie Tattoos’.”
Hannah, blithely unaware at how easily she was slipping into their trap, did smile at that. “Oh, my!” she purred in her Southern contralto. “I do believe you ladies are tryin’ to seduce me. What are ‘Tootsie Tattoos’?”
“Uh-uh-uhhh!” Clarice said in mock remonstration. “No dessert ‘til you eat your vegetables. Now, shall we start our sales pitch?”
“My feet, as you might say, are in your hands.”
Barely able to conceal their excitement, the two guests each took one of Hannah’s feet and— imagining striptease melodies—pulled off her sandals and slowly peeled off her ankle socks. They silently sighed at the long, lean loveliness of her bare feet. Hannah had indulged in a long soak in a hot tub (where she sometimes retreated when a well-rooted stump needed dynamiting in her writing) that morning, and the sweet scent of vanilla bath oil rose off of the soft pink flesh of her warm, moist soles, teasing their nostrils and setting their fingers twitching in eagerness.
Moving out of her reverie with some effort, Clarice did most of the talking, with Nikki sometimes echoing an expansive adjective in the spiel, as the two aggressively adorned her feet and affixed
her attention with a rapid succession of heels, straps, slides, sandals, and slippers. Early on, while Nikki tried a few sequined slides on Hannah’s left foot, Clarice reached for the knapsack, opened it, slipped her hand into it, and, making sure that Hannah was intent on Nikki, removed a very compact camcorder, setting it on the floor next to the recliner.
As she then proffered a stiletto heel for Hannah to consider, Clarice thought back to the late summer and a class that she and Nikki, just out of high school, were auditing at the behest of a college recruiter seeking uncommitted “townies.” The class concerned 19th Century U.S. History, the topic was “Women’s Activism in the Reconstruction South,” and the lecturer was Hannah Davis. The topic would normally have driven them outdoors, but the teacher herself was magnetic. She was very attractive but oh-so-serious, with a seductive slight Southern accent. She was neatly attired in a long-sleeved white blouse, with a burgundy sweater over her shoulders, and a long pleated beige skirt ending just above her Birkenstock clogs. At one point in the class, she sat on the front of her desk and dangled her clogs.
Occasionally, her shoes would drop to the floor, revealing—her sole concession to the summer heat—
her tanned, slender bare feet. Even from the back row of the hall, their eyes were transfixed by her long, flexing feet and tapered wiggling toes.
Nudging the equally mesmerized Nikki, Clarice whispered, “Nik’, you don’t suppose the Prof there might be the slightest bit . . . ticklish, d’ya? ” Her tall pal giggled and added, “ It would be fun to tease those toes.”
After the class, the pair mingled in the lounge outside the lecture hall, managing to make the instructor the topic of discussion. They learned of her famed serious demeanor, and the hunger of her students to induce her laughter. After pumping for known details of Hannah’s life and habits—and her upcoming sabbatical—Clarice and Nikki came away from a knot of smugly skeptical students with a wager that, before her return in the winter quarter, these two tyros would provide irrefutable proof of Hannah Davis laughing long and loudly, without restraint.
Hatching the cunning “working-our-way-to-college” scheme--with selling shoes the way to Hannah’s tantalizing tootsies--the peppery blonde and the shy, lanky one engaged in weeks of cunning preparation. When their own stylish collections didn’t suffice, they “borrowed” their “stock” from their mothers and sisters. The contents of the mysterious lavender knapsack were chosen meticulously as well, with quiet Nikki being especially creative.
“And here we are, at last,” thought Clarice, “hoping Prof. Davis will do her part to win us
that bet. Holiday shopping days are almost upon us.”
Throughout the pretense of trying shoes on Hannah’s peds, the devious duo had been testing her ticklishness. An “inadvertent” stroke under her toes here, an “accidental” scampering of fingertips across her soles there. After one such test, Hannah had jerked noticeably, and Clarice asked, “Whoops! Sorry! Sensitive?”
“Yes, just a little bit,” confided the teacher, although her raised eyebrow and embarrassed giggle emphasizing the word little was a tacit admission that there was nothing “little” about it. At that point Clarice and Nikki exchanged quick smiles, figuratively smacking palms over their heads. Catching Hannah stifling a yawn (and dreaming of the article notes calling from her desk), Clarice decided to proceed with the fun part of the operation.
Dropping the last shoe, she announced, “O.K., you’ve been a lovely audience, but now it’s time for your prize.”
“Oh, you needn’t bother,” Hannah said, all set to rise from the recliner, help them pack, and send
them on their way. “I would like a pair of those ruby slippers.” She didn’t want them to depart without a sale.
Clarice thought that to be shown the door now, with Hannah’s feet in their grasp, almost at their mercy, would be beyond endurance. She and an equally desperate Nikki leapt up to push their host gently back into the lounger.
The blonde blurted, “Good choice! Thanks! But we really must insist now on presenting you the complimentary treats you’ve earned.”
“Thank you back, but I really must return to work.” Hannah drawled, gentle exasperation edging
her honeyed voice as she attempted to rise again from the chair. “A foot massage would probably lead to a nap and then where would I be?”
“Uh, O.K., the massage is out,” Clarice vamping deftly, “but you must, you simply must accept some Tootsie Tattoos. If you don’t like ‘em, why, they’re temporary, of course.” She held her breath with a last gambit. “Plus Nikki is so proud of her tattoo artistry.”
“Oh, yes, please let me tattoo a cute design on a toe or two. Please?” Nikki wiggled her own toes in the air as she pleaded, and Hannah’s resistance vanished with the siren scritching sound of toes rubbing nylon.
“Well . . . as long as they’re not permanent, not too extreme, and don’t require a Sistine
Chapel time frame to apply,” she surrendered, leaning back.
“Don’t worry,” assured Clarice, and in barely disguised triumph added, ”We’re certain you’ll be so tickled by our work.”
The devilish duo had Hannah settle as far back as possible in the recliner and asked her to prop her feet so they dangled over the quite elevated footrest, under which they slid the sample cases—the better to fix the chair at its extreme position. Clarice quickly reached into the knapsack and removed two handfuls, one of which she passed to Nikki, saying to Hannah, “Now, to keep your feet very, very still for the detailed work, we’ll need to bind them.”
“Huh? Oh, I can keep still without you going to all that trouble.”
“No trouble. And you said yourself that your feet were a bit… sensitive.” Clarice reasoned. She pinched one of Hannah’s toes for emphasis (The professor could not suppress her gasp.) and added, “Toes tend to be terribly tender. If you keep pulling away, it will take much longer.”
Clarice’s appeal to Hannah’s logic disarmed the teacher, and each trickster proceeded to hurriedly, securely wrap one end of a nylon stocking around one of Hannah’s ankles and the other end to the underside of the footrest. “Nylon: the miracle of the age,” quipped Clarice, ostensibly taking Hannah’s hands in hers to mollify the prof’s obvious consternation at their pains but really blocking her view as, with lightning speed, Nikki wrapped another stocking around Hannah’s ankles, binding them tightly together.
“Hey, is that really necessary?” Hannah tried to rise from the lounger, but the binding and her
extreme reclined position made that impossible.
“Why, Dr. Davis, how you do carry on!” clowned the blonde in a mockery of Hannah’s Southern tones. Nikki giggled, and added, in an impersonation more Algerian than Alabaman, “Yes, one would think
you don’t trust us with your lovely feet and your tender toes.” Clarice drawled theatrically, “Your now wholly helpless, endearin’ly exposed, supremely sensitive soles and toes are our playthings,” as she, with florid deliberation, reached below, raised the lavender knapsack, and placed it between herself and Nikki below Hannah’s feet.
“Now, ladies, a joke’s a joke. I’ve work to do. Release me, please.” Hannah could not
keep a fair bit of pleading out of her voice. Her eyes darted to a wireless phone, its display glowing faintly, resting against the spines of some books on the adjacent bookcase.
The clever conspirators were now removing, with slow, ritualized delight, an assortment of objects from the knapsack and arraying them on the footrest on either side of Hannah’s feet. When Hannah realized what they were—a multitude of feathers of varying lengths and textures, numerous paintbrushes, shaving brushes, hairbrushes, cosmetic brushes, and what looked like an electric toothbrush(!) —she truly began frantic struggle. She found, however, that the stockings very effectively held her ankles together and firmly to the footrest. Also, the chair’s extremely reclined position, fixed by the sample cases, left her body tilted back, sunken deeply in its plush cushions, and her straining hands were unable to reach and release her bare feet, dangling more than a yard above the floor. She was truly at the mercy of these two, unless…
Pointing suddenly to the window and looking beyond, she shouted, “Look! Someone’s coming!”
The two kneelers bolted upright, whipping their heads around. Nikki whimpered, “Oh, no!” as
the pair jumped to the sides of the picture window, hiding themselves while desperately peering out. Hannah snatched the phone off of the bookcase and placed it in her lap. Nikki whimpered, “I-I see nothing… no one!” Hannah tried to furtively summon help by phone (not expediting matters by punching 411 rather than 911 after dithering precious seconds over whether this truly was an emergency) before a disgusted Clarice sneered, “Jeez! That old gag! And we fell for it!” and turned back.
She beheld Hannah clumsily punching the pad and whispering doubtful hellos into the phone, and the cherubic blonde nudged her tall, dark friend. They exchanged knowing nods before, giggling and tsking and muttering “Oh, no, you don’t!”, they jumped back besides Hannah’s tied feet. Shrieking “Kitchey-kitchey-koo!”, each promptly ran ten teasing fingertips with abandon upon the helpless soles. Hannah yelped and jerked, the phone bouncing out of her hands and landing on the floor well beyond her reach.
Struggling to contain her welling giggles as their fingers danced on, Hannah blurted, “Wuh-wuh-
wah-why-why are you-you-hoo-hoo doing this?”
While Nikki’s fingers continued their light torturous tracings of both soles, Clarice picked up the felled phone and, switching it off, placed it well beyond Hannah’s reach. She chuckled at the professor, whose face was reddening as her lips labored to withhold her laughter. “A convenient wireless phone is such a comfort, wouldn’t you agree?” the blonde teased as she knelt back beside Nikki, whom she nudged to stop her delighted, delicate tickling.
Striking a contemplative pose with chin in hand, the blonde inquired of their rapidly respiring hostess, “Now, why would such nice young…entrepreneurs want to”—here she fluttered her fingers near Hannah’s toes, which flinched— “tickle without mercy a perfectly serious but presently helpless college professor? Nikki?”
Her partner, itching to tickle again, offered, “To hear—to hear her laugh truly—madly—
deeply?”
“Well, yes, naturally, but…” Clarice offered, as she picked up the camcorder. She peered through the viewfinder at Hannah as she continued with, “We made a little wager and need a little proof to win.”
She moved to one end of a shelf hanging from the wall next to the bookcase and, resting the camcorder upon it, focussed it until she had a tight head-and-shoulders shot of Hannah from her left side. “We just need you to relax, ma’am, and laugh like crazy,” Clarice concluded, as she pressed the record button.
Settling back next to the impatient Nikki, Clarice asked, “Now, ma’am, for the record, will you please identify yourself?”
Still straining to loosen her bonds, Hannah announced, “Record? Now, this is outrageous! Stop that camera!”, trying to sound more courageous than she felt.
Broadly stifling a feigned yawn, Clarice carefully selected a small white feather from the footrest and began, after pulling back the toes of Hannah’s right foot, to insinuate the feather’s tip between the
helpless, twitching toes. Hannah bucked, and guffaws of protest soon forced their way past her reserve.
Clarice again requested, “Your name, please,” in a singsong as she fluttered the feather along Hannah’s right instep and across her heel before returning to brush quite teasingly under the toes.
“Ha-ha-NO!-heh-heh-STOP!-ha-ha-Hannah-ahhahaha-Hannah!-ahhahahahaha. . .”
“Please, Ma’am, your full name. And your occupation.” said Nikki, joining in, as she pulled back
the toes of the tied teacher’s left foot and began to “paint” meticulously between them with a tiny brush. Hearing Hannah’s heightened hilarity caused the pony-tailed one to smile with undisguised glee.
“<shriek!> Nuh-no-oh-ho-ho-noyoucan’t-hehheh-youcan’tmakeme-heehee-AHHAHAHAHA!-
Allright!-hehheh-Hannah-hahaha-Hannah Da-ohhoho-Davis!-hehhehhehheh-I-hahah-I-heh-I teach-hee-hee-teach at the-hehheh-co-ahha-college!-AHHAHAHAHAHHH! Ple-hee-heese st-ahha-sstop!-ahhaha…”
Clarice ceased tickling and nudged Nikki, who desisted as well.
Nigh breathless, Hannah giggle-panted, “Stop! Oh, please, please stop! You’re being so…so cruel!”
“But, Ma’am,” Clarice offered, again in a mockery of Hannah’s Dixie accent, “Your sweet laughter is so divine. Do you really want us to stop tickling your absolutely, irresistibly helpless tootsies?”
“Yes, please! I really can’t stand it. If you only knew how ticklish I am . . . .” Hannah’s entreaty trailed off when she realized with horror the ghastly error of her admission. “Uh-oh . . . N-now, now wait,
p-please!”
Clarice and Nikki exchanged wicked looks, timed a beat, and, with a shout of “Kitchey-kitchey-koo!” fell upon her feet with giggling abandon. As they resumed the fiendish tickling, Hannah surrendered to hysterical laughter, barely able to articulate the occasional futile plea for relief or threat of undefined
consequences.
“HA-HA-HA-HA-STUH-AH-AH-AH-HA-ST-STAHPP!-AHHAHAHA-YOU-ahha-WAIT-heehee-I-ahha-I’LL-hehheh-AHHAHAHAHAAA . . .”
Nikki, after a few minutes of twirling a shaving brush across Hannah’s upper sole, began working a blush applicator intently between her toes. She studiously, silently tickled, her tongue on occasion poking out of the corner of her mouth as she stroked each toe in turn.
“OHMIGOD!-WHA-HA-HA-HA-AH-HA-HA!-Plee-hee-hee-plee-hee-heeese-STAHHPTHAT!-OHHAHAHAHAHAAA . . .”
Clarice, by contrast, was a tickling chatterbox. “Tickle-tickle-tickle, dear teacher.” She was running her plump fingertips, with their short sky-blue nails, on Hannah’s right foot from toes to heel and back. “My heavens! Can this be the reputedly serious Professor Davis, who never smiles, and never laughs? I had been under the impression it was tough to make you laugh!”
Adopting a Julia Child voice impression, she announced, “When I come upon a tough foot, I tenderize it by utilizing a French technique of kneading right under the toes.” Her relentless fingertips stroked there, and Hannah howled anew. “At last, one produces the tastiest tenderfoot.” Whereupon, Clarice gave the right sole a long lick, raising Hannah’s yelps to a higher pitch.
“<shriek>HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE-NUH-NUH-NAHT-THAHAT!-hahaha-S-sstop!-Stahahahaha-Sssstopitpleeheeheese!-AHHAHAHAAAA . . .”
Pulling back and nodding to Nikki, Clarice shouted, “Take it away, partner!” The dark-haired teen set her giggling face close to Hannah’s soles and proceeded to kiss and flick her tongue all over the creamy insteps, the soft balls like cherries, the shapely twitching toes, and the fleshy heels tapping the air. With subtle, complementary sadism, Clarice was content meanwhile to lightly brush the tops of the trapped toes with a fluffy blue feather she had purloined from her grandmother’s Sunday hat.
The instructor, utterly bereft of will, emitted a cascade of laughter with varying shrieks, gasps,
chortles, moans, and sputters. Her eyes were often squeezed shut, though copious tears streamed from them, and her face was a crimson beacon. Her hands seemed to gesture through the air as if she were a madly moved marionette.
“<snort> OH-HA-HA-HA-HEE-NO-NO-HO-HO-HA-HA-HEE <gasp>AHHAHAHAAAA . . ..”
Clarice was now taunting Hannah with the revelation that she had noticed the teacher had earlier been stealing glances at Nikki’s feet. “Maybe you were dreamin’, Prof, of kitchey-kitchey-cooing this dark cutie yourself.” The blonde was scratching Hannah’s right sole with a small hairbrush, while her pal pulled the toes of the left foot back and daubed there with a wide paintbrush.
“HA-HA-AH-HA-HA <gulp> OH-HO-OH-HO-NO-NO <snort> AH-HA-HA-HAHAHAAA . . ..”
Brushing up-and-down, Clarice taunted, “Oh yes! You, a respected faculty member of this august college in this upstanding community, were plotting to tickle-tickle-tickle poor, shy Nikki.” The shy one was laughing herself now as if she were being tickled, and not herself “touching up” Hannah’s toes, which she deftly parted as she worked. Clarice continued, “The feather, dear, is on the other foot now, eh?” while she did, indeed, take up a long, stiff white feather, and began to briskly trace the wrinkles of Hannah’s long, reddened right sole.
“AH-HA-HEE-HEE-Ohmercy!-HA-HA-NO-NO<gasp>TEE-HEE-HEE-STUH-HA-HA-HAAP!-<shriek> Nahahaha-n’more-ohho-OHOHOHOHO-HAHAHA-Plee-heehee-HEHHEHHEHHEH . . .”
Hannah flailed in her web of laughter, her disciplined mind wondering in spite of her hilarity how long they had been tickling her and how long they would go on tickling her. She simply couldn’t take much more. She was afraid she’d not only lose control of her bladder, but her libido as well, which, even in her
laughter, she was loath to do in front of two women of undergraduate age.
“AH-HA-HA-HA-HEE-HEE-EEE-NUFF-PLEEHEE-HEE-NUFF-AHHAHAHAHAAAAA . . ..”
(Continued below...)
*For readers 18 and older, please. Kids: Stick to computer hacking. There’s more money in it.
*Forgiveness begged from George S. Kaufman, Harry Ruby, Bert Kalmar, and Groucho Marx for Clarice’s homage to the African Explorer, Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!
*Dedicated to all the terrific teachers in my life.
SABBATICKLE
By Tee Hee Lawrence
“All in all, it has been a most productive sabbatical,” thought Hannah Davis. “I’m redolent with
research, the writing is being realized readily, and I’ve even found time to radically revise my lecture notes.
I must confess that I’m quite pleased with myself.”
Hannah, her workaholism notwithstanding, was enjoying a few moments away from her study and its tireless computer. She was resting in the recliner that her last lover had given her before their recent indefinite separation. She chuckled as she thought, “Actually, I’m ‘lounging’,” giving the last word the campy, theatrically drawled, Southern-diva pronunciation her lover always did. The chair was to remind Hannah, as the gift card stated in stylish cursive sweeps, “on occasion, to kick off your shoes and recline wa-ay back, gazing through your toes at the campus far beyond your bay window.” From the snug living room in her modest cottage on the Hill—well away from her neighbors—she, her eyes misting in her sad, sweet nostalgia, gazed upon the panoramic view of the winding road leading to the stately college town below.
Hannah was quite tall, almost wiry but sturdy, with thick auburn hair falling to her shoulder
blades. Her dark-rimmed eyeglasses reinforced the serious set of her face, with its cool, gray eyes, sharp
nose, high cheekbones, and a hint of olive in her complexion. She was a stubbornly “unattached”
bohemian academic in her mid-thirties with a visage very striking, markedly so when she smiled—which was rare—and especially so when she laughed broadly—rarer still, her amusement giving her sober features an irresistible radiance. Her work, as an associate professor in History, American Studies, at the venerable college in this quaint New England town, consumed her, even during the fleeting weeks of her sabbatical. Since her lover, a fellow instructor at the college, had left her—and for that matter, the country—last year, she had few real distractions. She become even more dour and driven, more sober and solitary since the separation.
On campus, her students, seduced by her striking appearance, daring intellect, challenging teaching, and sharp, cooly deployed wit, were most intrigued by her poker face. They strove mightily to upend her serious demeanor. It was considered quite a coup, indeed, to get her to smile at a remark; further, provoking Prof. Davis to laugh out loud was of blue moon frequency, earning the provoker envied bragging rights. Oh, the fantasies inspired in her charges by the affectionate desire to induce radiant smiles and musical Dixie-belle laughter in Hannah Davis, to lighten this sad, serious beauty up.
The object of said fantasies “lounged”—clad in an old school sweatshirt and blue jeans--in the chair, only slightly reclined (the extreme position being quite a challenge to emerge from), idly dangling the scruffy Birkenstock sandal from the toes of her powder-blue ankle-socked right foot. Even alone in the house, she was hearing the siren call of work, when—
After laboring up the rough, snaking road, an orange VW Beetle settled in front of the cottage. Hannah watched as two young women, probably the age of most of her students, if not a bit younger, tumbled out. Each dragged a small, wheeled travel case to the door, and one, the blonde, also shouldered a small lavender knapsack. The blonde was maybe five feet tall, with a solidly Rubenesque figure, a page bob over her cherubic features and cerulean (indeed!) lipstick and fingernails; she wore a smoky turtleneck sweater over navy corduroys and work boots. Her partner, a head taller, now preparing with tongue pressed to cheek to pound away the brass open-book-styled door knocker, was rail thin and slightly dark—perhaps Mediterranean or North African—with an oiled, jet black pony tail, and was clad entirely noir: sweatshirt, mid-thigh leather skirt, nylons, and—surprising for a brisk fall day—abbreviated leather sandals.
Hannah sighed. She wouldn’t really mind a diversion from the self-pity that rose in her when her nose was off the grindstone. After all, it had been several days since she’d even seen anyone. She feared, though, that they were selling something, and she was, well, rather susceptible to students selling to pay for their studies. They really could do with her as they wished…
She finally answered the door after a dozen or so ferocious knocks, nearly pulling the taller young woman, still gripping the knocker, into the foyer.
“Whoa!” yelped the pony-tailed one.
“Sorry,” apologized Hannah, successfully, as usual, suppressing a smile at this near slapstick. “Are you two lost? ”
“Gosh, I hope not!” beamed the smaller one. “Aren’t you Mrs. Higgenson?”
“No, alas not. Higgenson? Higgenson? I can’t say that I know any neighbor by that name.”
“Damn!” blurted tall-and-dark, as she slumped to sit on her case.
“Easy, Nikki!” remonstrated the blonde. Turning to Hannah, she smiled brightly and said,
“Hi! I’m Clarice, and this dejected specimen is Nikki.”
“’Lo,” pouted Nikki.
“Pleased to meet you both.”
“Likewise,” returned Clarice. “Only we’d be more pleased if you were Mrs. Higgenson, and we
could show your our wares. We drove all the way up…” (She looked ruefully downhill behind her.) “…and these sample cases are sooo heavy. I can’t understand how we screwed up.”
“Well, it is a very winding road, with many hidden turn-offs. You could easily miss a particular
house on your first try.”
“Sa-ay,” ventured Clarice, her cherubic features alight, “You wouldn’t be interested in seeing our really marvelous selection, would you?”
“Here it comes,” thought Hannah. “Selection of what?” she volleyed.
“Why, European designer shoes,” Clarice declaimed with the skill of a carnival barker. “The likes of which you’ll not find otherwise in a podunk like this.”
“Hmm . . .” Hannah mused, looking down at her worn sandals and wiggling her toes. “I’m really
a Birkenstock type of gal.” Her second toe on her left foot popped through a hole in her sock. “And not exactly a creature of fashion.”
“Oooo, how cute,” crooned Nikki, staring raptly at Hannah’s escaped toe, long and smooth with a
neat, clear-polished nail.
Quickly covering her partner’s reverie, Clarice offered, “C’mon, you couldn’t wear those to a wedding or a first dinner date. Do you work at the College?”
“Why, yes. How did you know?”
Clarice quickly observed, “If you don’t mind my saying so, you seem like the very dignified professorial type, prone to department teas and commencements.” Hannah couldn’t help her sad smile as, her glasses sliding to the tip of her nose, she thoughtfully shook her head yes. The glowing blonde pressed, “So, whaddaya say?”
Glancing sideways, Hannah saw doe-eyed Nikki rubbing her shoulder wearily and found sales resistance weakening. “You two are students?”
“Well, we’re expecting to be,” piped Clarice, “after we produce some sales and can get a leg up on the tuition.”
That did it! “C’mon, you’ve got your foot in the door. You can show me the shoes—for a few minutes anyway.” Finally closing the front door, Hannah led them into the living room, all the while oblivious to the expression resembling “Gotcha!” that was exchanged between the two younger women. They very quickly—before she could change her mind, hustled their cases into the living room.
Clarice pronounced, “This recliner looks real comfortable. We’ll set up here where you can relax.” They began to lay out their stock as Hannah bemusedly watched. Clarice, eyeing the recliner knowingly with an anticipatory smile, placed the lavender knapsack unopened beside it.
Hannah heard her stomach growl and, blushing, said, “Hmm! When did I eat last?” Moving to the kitchen, she said over her shoulder, “Can I get you two anything? A sandwich? Coke? English or herbal tea?”
The two, perhaps thinking they’d better accept Hannah’s hospitality now because she would be in
no shape to offer it later, chirped, “Yeah, whatever. I’d love a peppermint tea!” and “Thank you, yes,
Twining’s for me!”
When Hannah returned with tea and cookies (“Wow, right out of Goodbye, Mr. Chips!” thought Clarice.), the eager ones, as she affectionately observed, had put many single and paired shoes on either side of themselves as they knelt together in front of the lounger. They entreated her to sit and place her feet on the slightly elevated footrest. She was disarmed of whatever skepticism she might have felt by their spunk and by their youthful prettiness (and the alluring loveliness of Nikki’s nylon covered feet when the quieter one doffed her sandals). Clarice applied what she hoped was the clincher, saying, “And, for letting us disrupt your quiet afternoon by showing our selection, please accept from us a complimentary foot massage and our own, patented ‘Tootsie Tattoos’.”
Hannah, blithely unaware at how easily she was slipping into their trap, did smile at that. “Oh, my!” she purred in her Southern contralto. “I do believe you ladies are tryin’ to seduce me. What are ‘Tootsie Tattoos’?”
“Uh-uh-uhhh!” Clarice said in mock remonstration. “No dessert ‘til you eat your vegetables. Now, shall we start our sales pitch?”
“My feet, as you might say, are in your hands.”
Barely able to conceal their excitement, the two guests each took one of Hannah’s feet and— imagining striptease melodies—pulled off her sandals and slowly peeled off her ankle socks. They silently sighed at the long, lean loveliness of her bare feet. Hannah had indulged in a long soak in a hot tub (where she sometimes retreated when a well-rooted stump needed dynamiting in her writing) that morning, and the sweet scent of vanilla bath oil rose off of the soft pink flesh of her warm, moist soles, teasing their nostrils and setting their fingers twitching in eagerness.
Moving out of her reverie with some effort, Clarice did most of the talking, with Nikki sometimes echoing an expansive adjective in the spiel, as the two aggressively adorned her feet and affixed
her attention with a rapid succession of heels, straps, slides, sandals, and slippers. Early on, while Nikki tried a few sequined slides on Hannah’s left foot, Clarice reached for the knapsack, opened it, slipped her hand into it, and, making sure that Hannah was intent on Nikki, removed a very compact camcorder, setting it on the floor next to the recliner.
As she then proffered a stiletto heel for Hannah to consider, Clarice thought back to the late summer and a class that she and Nikki, just out of high school, were auditing at the behest of a college recruiter seeking uncommitted “townies.” The class concerned 19th Century U.S. History, the topic was “Women’s Activism in the Reconstruction South,” and the lecturer was Hannah Davis. The topic would normally have driven them outdoors, but the teacher herself was magnetic. She was very attractive but oh-so-serious, with a seductive slight Southern accent. She was neatly attired in a long-sleeved white blouse, with a burgundy sweater over her shoulders, and a long pleated beige skirt ending just above her Birkenstock clogs. At one point in the class, she sat on the front of her desk and dangled her clogs.
Occasionally, her shoes would drop to the floor, revealing—her sole concession to the summer heat—
her tanned, slender bare feet. Even from the back row of the hall, their eyes were transfixed by her long, flexing feet and tapered wiggling toes.
Nudging the equally mesmerized Nikki, Clarice whispered, “Nik’, you don’t suppose the Prof there might be the slightest bit . . . ticklish, d’ya? ” Her tall pal giggled and added, “ It would be fun to tease those toes.”
After the class, the pair mingled in the lounge outside the lecture hall, managing to make the instructor the topic of discussion. They learned of her famed serious demeanor, and the hunger of her students to induce her laughter. After pumping for known details of Hannah’s life and habits—and her upcoming sabbatical—Clarice and Nikki came away from a knot of smugly skeptical students with a wager that, before her return in the winter quarter, these two tyros would provide irrefutable proof of Hannah Davis laughing long and loudly, without restraint.
Hatching the cunning “working-our-way-to-college” scheme--with selling shoes the way to Hannah’s tantalizing tootsies--the peppery blonde and the shy, lanky one engaged in weeks of cunning preparation. When their own stylish collections didn’t suffice, they “borrowed” their “stock” from their mothers and sisters. The contents of the mysterious lavender knapsack were chosen meticulously as well, with quiet Nikki being especially creative.
“And here we are, at last,” thought Clarice, “hoping Prof. Davis will do her part to win us
that bet. Holiday shopping days are almost upon us.”
Throughout the pretense of trying shoes on Hannah’s peds, the devious duo had been testing her ticklishness. An “inadvertent” stroke under her toes here, an “accidental” scampering of fingertips across her soles there. After one such test, Hannah had jerked noticeably, and Clarice asked, “Whoops! Sorry! Sensitive?”
“Yes, just a little bit,” confided the teacher, although her raised eyebrow and embarrassed giggle emphasizing the word little was a tacit admission that there was nothing “little” about it. At that point Clarice and Nikki exchanged quick smiles, figuratively smacking palms over their heads. Catching Hannah stifling a yawn (and dreaming of the article notes calling from her desk), Clarice decided to proceed with the fun part of the operation.
Dropping the last shoe, she announced, “O.K., you’ve been a lovely audience, but now it’s time for your prize.”
“Oh, you needn’t bother,” Hannah said, all set to rise from the recliner, help them pack, and send
them on their way. “I would like a pair of those ruby slippers.” She didn’t want them to depart without a sale.
Clarice thought that to be shown the door now, with Hannah’s feet in their grasp, almost at their mercy, would be beyond endurance. She and an equally desperate Nikki leapt up to push their host gently back into the lounger.
The blonde blurted, “Good choice! Thanks! But we really must insist now on presenting you the complimentary treats you’ve earned.”
“Thank you back, but I really must return to work.” Hannah drawled, gentle exasperation edging
her honeyed voice as she attempted to rise again from the chair. “A foot massage would probably lead to a nap and then where would I be?”
“Uh, O.K., the massage is out,” Clarice vamping deftly, “but you must, you simply must accept some Tootsie Tattoos. If you don’t like ‘em, why, they’re temporary, of course.” She held her breath with a last gambit. “Plus Nikki is so proud of her tattoo artistry.”
“Oh, yes, please let me tattoo a cute design on a toe or two. Please?” Nikki wiggled her own toes in the air as she pleaded, and Hannah’s resistance vanished with the siren scritching sound of toes rubbing nylon.
“Well . . . as long as they’re not permanent, not too extreme, and don’t require a Sistine
Chapel time frame to apply,” she surrendered, leaning back.
“Don’t worry,” assured Clarice, and in barely disguised triumph added, ”We’re certain you’ll be so tickled by our work.”
The devilish duo had Hannah settle as far back as possible in the recliner and asked her to prop her feet so they dangled over the quite elevated footrest, under which they slid the sample cases—the better to fix the chair at its extreme position. Clarice quickly reached into the knapsack and removed two handfuls, one of which she passed to Nikki, saying to Hannah, “Now, to keep your feet very, very still for the detailed work, we’ll need to bind them.”
“Huh? Oh, I can keep still without you going to all that trouble.”
“No trouble. And you said yourself that your feet were a bit… sensitive.” Clarice reasoned. She pinched one of Hannah’s toes for emphasis (The professor could not suppress her gasp.) and added, “Toes tend to be terribly tender. If you keep pulling away, it will take much longer.”
Clarice’s appeal to Hannah’s logic disarmed the teacher, and each trickster proceeded to hurriedly, securely wrap one end of a nylon stocking around one of Hannah’s ankles and the other end to the underside of the footrest. “Nylon: the miracle of the age,” quipped Clarice, ostensibly taking Hannah’s hands in hers to mollify the prof’s obvious consternation at their pains but really blocking her view as, with lightning speed, Nikki wrapped another stocking around Hannah’s ankles, binding them tightly together.
“Hey, is that really necessary?” Hannah tried to rise from the lounger, but the binding and her
extreme reclined position made that impossible.
“Why, Dr. Davis, how you do carry on!” clowned the blonde in a mockery of Hannah’s Southern tones. Nikki giggled, and added, in an impersonation more Algerian than Alabaman, “Yes, one would think
you don’t trust us with your lovely feet and your tender toes.” Clarice drawled theatrically, “Your now wholly helpless, endearin’ly exposed, supremely sensitive soles and toes are our playthings,” as she, with florid deliberation, reached below, raised the lavender knapsack, and placed it between herself and Nikki below Hannah’s feet.
“Now, ladies, a joke’s a joke. I’ve work to do. Release me, please.” Hannah could not
keep a fair bit of pleading out of her voice. Her eyes darted to a wireless phone, its display glowing faintly, resting against the spines of some books on the adjacent bookcase.
The clever conspirators were now removing, with slow, ritualized delight, an assortment of objects from the knapsack and arraying them on the footrest on either side of Hannah’s feet. When Hannah realized what they were—a multitude of feathers of varying lengths and textures, numerous paintbrushes, shaving brushes, hairbrushes, cosmetic brushes, and what looked like an electric toothbrush(!) —she truly began frantic struggle. She found, however, that the stockings very effectively held her ankles together and firmly to the footrest. Also, the chair’s extremely reclined position, fixed by the sample cases, left her body tilted back, sunken deeply in its plush cushions, and her straining hands were unable to reach and release her bare feet, dangling more than a yard above the floor. She was truly at the mercy of these two, unless…
Pointing suddenly to the window and looking beyond, she shouted, “Look! Someone’s coming!”
The two kneelers bolted upright, whipping their heads around. Nikki whimpered, “Oh, no!” as
the pair jumped to the sides of the picture window, hiding themselves while desperately peering out. Hannah snatched the phone off of the bookcase and placed it in her lap. Nikki whimpered, “I-I see nothing… no one!” Hannah tried to furtively summon help by phone (not expediting matters by punching 411 rather than 911 after dithering precious seconds over whether this truly was an emergency) before a disgusted Clarice sneered, “Jeez! That old gag! And we fell for it!” and turned back.
She beheld Hannah clumsily punching the pad and whispering doubtful hellos into the phone, and the cherubic blonde nudged her tall, dark friend. They exchanged knowing nods before, giggling and tsking and muttering “Oh, no, you don’t!”, they jumped back besides Hannah’s tied feet. Shrieking “Kitchey-kitchey-koo!”, each promptly ran ten teasing fingertips with abandon upon the helpless soles. Hannah yelped and jerked, the phone bouncing out of her hands and landing on the floor well beyond her reach.
Struggling to contain her welling giggles as their fingers danced on, Hannah blurted, “Wuh-wuh-
wah-why-why are you-you-hoo-hoo doing this?”
While Nikki’s fingers continued their light torturous tracings of both soles, Clarice picked up the felled phone and, switching it off, placed it well beyond Hannah’s reach. She chuckled at the professor, whose face was reddening as her lips labored to withhold her laughter. “A convenient wireless phone is such a comfort, wouldn’t you agree?” the blonde teased as she knelt back beside Nikki, whom she nudged to stop her delighted, delicate tickling.
Striking a contemplative pose with chin in hand, the blonde inquired of their rapidly respiring hostess, “Now, why would such nice young…entrepreneurs want to”—here she fluttered her fingers near Hannah’s toes, which flinched— “tickle without mercy a perfectly serious but presently helpless college professor? Nikki?”
Her partner, itching to tickle again, offered, “To hear—to hear her laugh truly—madly—
deeply?”
“Well, yes, naturally, but…” Clarice offered, as she picked up the camcorder. She peered through the viewfinder at Hannah as she continued with, “We made a little wager and need a little proof to win.”
She moved to one end of a shelf hanging from the wall next to the bookcase and, resting the camcorder upon it, focussed it until she had a tight head-and-shoulders shot of Hannah from her left side. “We just need you to relax, ma’am, and laugh like crazy,” Clarice concluded, as she pressed the record button.
Settling back next to the impatient Nikki, Clarice asked, “Now, ma’am, for the record, will you please identify yourself?”
Still straining to loosen her bonds, Hannah announced, “Record? Now, this is outrageous! Stop that camera!”, trying to sound more courageous than she felt.
Broadly stifling a feigned yawn, Clarice carefully selected a small white feather from the footrest and began, after pulling back the toes of Hannah’s right foot, to insinuate the feather’s tip between the
helpless, twitching toes. Hannah bucked, and guffaws of protest soon forced their way past her reserve.
Clarice again requested, “Your name, please,” in a singsong as she fluttered the feather along Hannah’s right instep and across her heel before returning to brush quite teasingly under the toes.
“Ha-ha-NO!-heh-heh-STOP!-ha-ha-Hannah-ahhahaha-Hannah!-ahhahahahaha. . .”
“Please, Ma’am, your full name. And your occupation.” said Nikki, joining in, as she pulled back
the toes of the tied teacher’s left foot and began to “paint” meticulously between them with a tiny brush. Hearing Hannah’s heightened hilarity caused the pony-tailed one to smile with undisguised glee.
“<shriek!> Nuh-no-oh-ho-ho-noyoucan’t-hehheh-youcan’tmakeme-heehee-AHHAHAHAHA!-
Allright!-hehheh-Hannah-hahaha-Hannah Da-ohhoho-Davis!-hehhehhehheh-I-hahah-I-heh-I teach-hee-hee-teach at the-hehheh-co-ahha-college!-AHHAHAHAHAHHH! Ple-hee-heese st-ahha-sstop!-ahhaha…”
Clarice ceased tickling and nudged Nikki, who desisted as well.
Nigh breathless, Hannah giggle-panted, “Stop! Oh, please, please stop! You’re being so…so cruel!”
“But, Ma’am,” Clarice offered, again in a mockery of Hannah’s Dixie accent, “Your sweet laughter is so divine. Do you really want us to stop tickling your absolutely, irresistibly helpless tootsies?”
“Yes, please! I really can’t stand it. If you only knew how ticklish I am . . . .” Hannah’s entreaty trailed off when she realized with horror the ghastly error of her admission. “Uh-oh . . . N-now, now wait,
p-please!”
Clarice and Nikki exchanged wicked looks, timed a beat, and, with a shout of “Kitchey-kitchey-koo!” fell upon her feet with giggling abandon. As they resumed the fiendish tickling, Hannah surrendered to hysterical laughter, barely able to articulate the occasional futile plea for relief or threat of undefined
consequences.
“HA-HA-HA-HA-STUH-AH-AH-AH-HA-ST-STAHPP!-AHHAHAHA-YOU-ahha-WAIT-heehee-I-ahha-I’LL-hehheh-AHHAHAHAHAAA . . .”
Nikki, after a few minutes of twirling a shaving brush across Hannah’s upper sole, began working a blush applicator intently between her toes. She studiously, silently tickled, her tongue on occasion poking out of the corner of her mouth as she stroked each toe in turn.
“OHMIGOD!-WHA-HA-HA-HA-AH-HA-HA!-Plee-hee-hee-plee-hee-heeese-STAHHPTHAT!-OHHAHAHAHAHAAA . . .”
Clarice, by contrast, was a tickling chatterbox. “Tickle-tickle-tickle, dear teacher.” She was running her plump fingertips, with their short sky-blue nails, on Hannah’s right foot from toes to heel and back. “My heavens! Can this be the reputedly serious Professor Davis, who never smiles, and never laughs? I had been under the impression it was tough to make you laugh!”
Adopting a Julia Child voice impression, she announced, “When I come upon a tough foot, I tenderize it by utilizing a French technique of kneading right under the toes.” Her relentless fingertips stroked there, and Hannah howled anew. “At last, one produces the tastiest tenderfoot.” Whereupon, Clarice gave the right sole a long lick, raising Hannah’s yelps to a higher pitch.
“<shriek>HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE-NUH-NUH-NAHT-THAHAT!-hahaha-S-sstop!-Stahahahaha-Sssstopitpleeheeheese!-AHHAHAHAAAA . . .”
Pulling back and nodding to Nikki, Clarice shouted, “Take it away, partner!” The dark-haired teen set her giggling face close to Hannah’s soles and proceeded to kiss and flick her tongue all over the creamy insteps, the soft balls like cherries, the shapely twitching toes, and the fleshy heels tapping the air. With subtle, complementary sadism, Clarice was content meanwhile to lightly brush the tops of the trapped toes with a fluffy blue feather she had purloined from her grandmother’s Sunday hat.
The instructor, utterly bereft of will, emitted a cascade of laughter with varying shrieks, gasps,
chortles, moans, and sputters. Her eyes were often squeezed shut, though copious tears streamed from them, and her face was a crimson beacon. Her hands seemed to gesture through the air as if she were a madly moved marionette.
“<snort> OH-HA-HA-HA-HEE-NO-NO-HO-HO-HA-HA-HEE <gasp>AHHAHAHAAAA . . ..”
Clarice was now taunting Hannah with the revelation that she had noticed the teacher had earlier been stealing glances at Nikki’s feet. “Maybe you were dreamin’, Prof, of kitchey-kitchey-cooing this dark cutie yourself.” The blonde was scratching Hannah’s right sole with a small hairbrush, while her pal pulled the toes of the left foot back and daubed there with a wide paintbrush.
“HA-HA-AH-HA-HA <gulp> OH-HO-OH-HO-NO-NO <snort> AH-HA-HA-HAHAHAAA . . ..”
Brushing up-and-down, Clarice taunted, “Oh yes! You, a respected faculty member of this august college in this upstanding community, were plotting to tickle-tickle-tickle poor, shy Nikki.” The shy one was laughing herself now as if she were being tickled, and not herself “touching up” Hannah’s toes, which she deftly parted as she worked. Clarice continued, “The feather, dear, is on the other foot now, eh?” while she did, indeed, take up a long, stiff white feather, and began to briskly trace the wrinkles of Hannah’s long, reddened right sole.
“AH-HA-HEE-HEE-Ohmercy!-HA-HA-NO-NO<gasp>TEE-HEE-HEE-STUH-HA-HA-HAAP!-<shriek> Nahahaha-n’more-ohho-OHOHOHOHO-HAHAHA-Plee-heehee-HEHHEHHEHHEH . . .”
Hannah flailed in her web of laughter, her disciplined mind wondering in spite of her hilarity how long they had been tickling her and how long they would go on tickling her. She simply couldn’t take much more. She was afraid she’d not only lose control of her bladder, but her libido as well, which, even in her
laughter, she was loath to do in front of two women of undergraduate age.
“AH-HA-HA-HA-HEE-HEE-EEE-NUFF-PLEEHEE-HEE-NUFF-AHHAHAHAHAAAAA . . ..”
(Continued below...)
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