Studious_Hustler
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This is the continuation of The First Idea, but I think it's entirely understandable and enjoyable on its own. Potentially I will take this plot line even further, although I'm also interested in suggestions for different sorts of stories.
April Fools
Not far from the sandy shores of Willowgrove lies a suburb of mansions, home to the wealthiest businessmen and businesswomen, politicians and entertainers. You might call the local all-girls college where these crème of society send their beautiful daughters a mere fantasy. For Christina White it was no fantasy, but instead the somewhat dull totality of her experience.
Here the students split into five cliques. There were the popular preps, the ambitious geeks, and the artsy weirdos. There were the frighteningly tan beach kids, drug-addled rebels all. Last and most important were the jocks. Humble Christy White, captain of the nationally ranked soccer team, was queen of the jocks. And today, the first of April, Christy rode even higher than usual.
Though never quite officially condoned, it was traditional this day for young men to visit campus in cross-dress. As the joke ran, this would trick the authorities into giving them free reign at a women’s school. The fun climaxed with a huge soccer match, of which Christy was likely to once again prove the star. She would wow a crowd of hundreds of guys, and every one would want to buy her a drink that night.
“April Fools!” boomed a voice behind Christy. Massive hands snaked around her waist and lifted her from the chair where she’d been doing homework. She turned to find her current boyfriend, muscular George Driver, clad in a yellow one-piece lady’s bathing suit. “What do you think?”
Absently Christy kissed the boy, who was almost twice her size. “You look sexy dear, I can hardly wait to rip that… thing… off you…” She was happy to see him, but distracted by something happening at the far end of a hallway. Was it a yoga convention for agoraphobes? A pagan burial reenactment society?
George promised to meet her just before the game, and disappeared as quickly as he’d come. Christy set down her homework and moved toward the mysterious gathering. She spotted Ms. LaBoeuf the art teacher, and began to comprehend what it was. A painting class was in session, but instead of using normal upright canvases, they were painting on the undersides of tables. Half a dozen such tables had been arranged in the hall to form a single surface a few feet off the ground. All the girls in the class were crowded into this makeshift cave. Apparently Ms. LaBoeuf’s idea of an April Fool’s joke was having her students relive Michelangelo’s experience painting the Sistine ceiling.
Legs were the only thing visible of any of the girls under the tables, but Christy’s attention immediately fastened on a particular pair. Their flip-flops had been kicked off, and she recognized the bare feet. Petite, with perfect toes painted that signature shade of pink. Creamy white soles, glowing with life and incredibly soft-looking. Christy had seen those feet a hundred times before, propped up on desks and peeking out between books on library shelves. She had watched them for an entire hour every day last fall, when Amanda Lauren Lowman had sat in front of her during PoliSci and wiggled them back and forth under her chair. Christy had wondered how Amanda Lauren nabbed the foot modeling deal that had made her so eager to show them off. Christy’s feet were small and cute and pink too, and she took good care of them. Why didn’t she have a contract?
Suddenly Christy realized that someone else was staring at Amanda Lauren’s exposed soles. A red-haired, alien-looking woman stood halfway down the hall, dressed all in black. Scarlet platform flip-flops elevated her to at least a foot taller than Christy. Who was she? She seemed familiar.
The powerful stranger was stepping forward, heading straight for Amanda Lauren’s feet, and Christy began to feel unsettled. She looked around for Ms. LaBoeuf, who was nowhere to be seen. Her stomach lurched oddly at the knowledge that she alone was witnessing this.
The woman swooped like an enormous bird. Pale hands emerged from her black sleeves, tipped with long, crimson talons. Not even reaching, for she was now on top of the oblivious Amanda Lauren, she attacked both feet simultaneously.
Christy gasped involuntarily. The red-haired woman’s head swiveled at the noise, and her eyes locked with Christy’s. They recognized each other.
Amanda Lauren screamed. It was panic and inevitability and laughter. It rang out like the first note from a prima donna soprano, filling the empty air. “Ahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrraahahahahahhahhahhahahahahahahaaaaaaaa—!”
Christy was burning and she did not know why. Marion Dominique, spidering all ten fingernails across Amanda Lauren’s feet, whispered to Christy. “Help me.”
Amanda Lauren was spasming under the table, trying to kick her legs away from the tickling hands. Her laughter was in gasping bursts now, but getting louder and wilder. The classmates to her left and right were shifting out from under the tables to see what was happening. “Ahahahahahahahahh, ahhahahaha!” cried Amanda Lauren. Christy slumped next to Marion Dominique. This was not the usual Marion, that awkward, antisocial girl, always a flop with guys. This Marion was new. “What are you doing?” breathed Christy.
“She’s ticklish,” said Marion.
Christy had seen other girls tickled on their ribs and under their arms, and once she had seen a girl playfully tickled on her feet while hanging upside-down from a tree. But she had never seen anything like this. The noises coming from Amanda Lauren’s body were unbelievable.
Christy caught Amanda Lauren’s ankles as they tried to wriggle further into the darkness under the tables. A pretty thing like Amanda Lauren was putty in her strong hands. “Hold them down,” murmured Marion, and dug deeper into the immobile feet. Her red nails raked the tops of the toes and the balls of the feet, traced paths up and down the arches, and skittered around the heels. Amanda Lauren’s heels jerked violently, but Christy held fast. Marion tickled the soles without leaving a mark on the perfect pinkish-white canvas.
“Get her!” cheered someone. Some of Ms. LaBoeuf’s students had climbed out from under their work, and reacted enthusiastically to the action. “Tickle her!” squealed a girl. “Hhhahahaaaaahaheeeeeee!” squealed Amanda Lauren.
For Christy this feeling was dribbling the ball beyond any defender’s reach, looking into the eyes of the goalie. The goalie knowing she had to stop the goal, but knowing that nothing could stop Christy. “Let me do it,” she said to Marion.
“No,” replied the taller girl, “this is my moment.”
“I want to!” insisted Christy, grip tightening on Amanda Lauren’s feet as Marion stroked the soft bottoms of her toes. Amanda Lauren’s laughter was intensifying into the hottest thing Christy had ever heard. “Marion, let me help you!”
The tables were now deserted except for Amanda Lauren. The whole class had gathered in a semi-circle to watch. Some laughed along at the poor victim. Most were silent, unable to comprehend the goddess Amanda Lauren Lowman put through such humiliating torment. Why had they never thought to do this to her themselves? “Eeeeeeahahahahahahahhhhha! Ha!” she shrieked.
“I’m going to let go in three!” Christy hissed. “You get her ankles and I’ll do her feet! Ready!”
“No!” yelled Marion. “I can do this on my own.” She titillated the tops of Amanda Lauren’s feet, dragged her fingers to the toes and into the depths of the arches and the heels. “This isn’t for you.”
Christy didn’t know what Marion meant, but she couldn’t leave her to it. She couldn’t pry her desire away from Amanda Lauren’s feet, no more than Amanda Lauren could pry her feet away from the tickling. A crowd had gathered in the hallway to gawp at Amanda Lauren’s torture. However long she laughed and yearned to escape, her feet would not stop being ticklish, and Marion would not stop tickling. What was going to give?
“Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaahaahaaahaaaaaaaaa!”
Marion Dominique tickled Amanda Lauren Lowman’s feet.
“HAAAHAAAHAAAHAAAHAAAHAAAHEEEHAAAHEEE!”
Christy held Amanda Lauren’s feet in place and wished…
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!”
Something gave. Ms. LaBoeuf had returned to her class and found disorder. “Stop,” she ordered. “Let her go.”
Marion kept tickling. Amanda Lauren’s ticklish feet were rippling, almost beyond Christy’s ability to hold them. “Stop it,” said Ms. LaBoeuf. People were clearing away, back to their business.
Marion straightened up. She turned away deliberately, accomplished. Christy’s hands fell limp. Amanda Lauren was still laughing and coughing. Her pathetic, perfect feet were deliciously pink. She was drenched in sweat.
Christy stood and ran after Marion Dominique. She caught up, not knowing what to say.
“Thank you for your help,” Marion told her. Christy was hot. “Let’s do it again,” she sputtered.
“That was enough,” Marion said. “They got the message.”
The message? “Let’s get somebody else,” Christy continued, “another girl. One of Amanda Lauren’s friends, she has lots.” Marion said nothing.
“One of the girls on my team,” Christy offered. “Some of them have great feet, I’ll hold them feet down and you tickle them.”
Marion was not listening anymore. Christy was losing this opportunity and somehow it was the only thing she wanted, not soccer, not glory, not boys or partying or anything. Her face fell, and she saw her own shiny blue athletic shoes.
She bent and ripped them off, then her socks. She felt cool air on her feet.
Christy stopped in Marion’s path, almost touching her now. “Tickle my feet,” she said. “Tickle my feet.”
The smaller girl saw herself reflected in Marion’s dark eyes, the same eyes that had shyly watched her flirt with older guys at parties. White-blonde hair, baby blues. A face that charmed any man, screwed up in longing and expectation. A shapely body, full assets, muscular. Bare feet, about the same size as Amanda Lauren’s, almost as pretty, toenails painted the color of the clear sky.
Marion looked at Christy. Christy was in her power. “Have a good game,” Marion said, and walked around her, away. Christy stood there in her bare feet.
“Hey, Christy,” called someone. Christy bent and picked up her socks and shoes. “Check out what Amanda Lauren left under the table,” said a girl in a green t-shirt. Christy took the object that was presented to her. It was a fine-tipped paintbrush, and it had not even been used yet.
“Gives you any ideas?” chuckled the girl leadingly. As a matter of fact, it did.
April Fools
Not far from the sandy shores of Willowgrove lies a suburb of mansions, home to the wealthiest businessmen and businesswomen, politicians and entertainers. You might call the local all-girls college where these crème of society send their beautiful daughters a mere fantasy. For Christina White it was no fantasy, but instead the somewhat dull totality of her experience.
Here the students split into five cliques. There were the popular preps, the ambitious geeks, and the artsy weirdos. There were the frighteningly tan beach kids, drug-addled rebels all. Last and most important were the jocks. Humble Christy White, captain of the nationally ranked soccer team, was queen of the jocks. And today, the first of April, Christy rode even higher than usual.
Though never quite officially condoned, it was traditional this day for young men to visit campus in cross-dress. As the joke ran, this would trick the authorities into giving them free reign at a women’s school. The fun climaxed with a huge soccer match, of which Christy was likely to once again prove the star. She would wow a crowd of hundreds of guys, and every one would want to buy her a drink that night.
“April Fools!” boomed a voice behind Christy. Massive hands snaked around her waist and lifted her from the chair where she’d been doing homework. She turned to find her current boyfriend, muscular George Driver, clad in a yellow one-piece lady’s bathing suit. “What do you think?”
Absently Christy kissed the boy, who was almost twice her size. “You look sexy dear, I can hardly wait to rip that… thing… off you…” She was happy to see him, but distracted by something happening at the far end of a hallway. Was it a yoga convention for agoraphobes? A pagan burial reenactment society?
George promised to meet her just before the game, and disappeared as quickly as he’d come. Christy set down her homework and moved toward the mysterious gathering. She spotted Ms. LaBoeuf the art teacher, and began to comprehend what it was. A painting class was in session, but instead of using normal upright canvases, they were painting on the undersides of tables. Half a dozen such tables had been arranged in the hall to form a single surface a few feet off the ground. All the girls in the class were crowded into this makeshift cave. Apparently Ms. LaBoeuf’s idea of an April Fool’s joke was having her students relive Michelangelo’s experience painting the Sistine ceiling.
Legs were the only thing visible of any of the girls under the tables, but Christy’s attention immediately fastened on a particular pair. Their flip-flops had been kicked off, and she recognized the bare feet. Petite, with perfect toes painted that signature shade of pink. Creamy white soles, glowing with life and incredibly soft-looking. Christy had seen those feet a hundred times before, propped up on desks and peeking out between books on library shelves. She had watched them for an entire hour every day last fall, when Amanda Lauren Lowman had sat in front of her during PoliSci and wiggled them back and forth under her chair. Christy had wondered how Amanda Lauren nabbed the foot modeling deal that had made her so eager to show them off. Christy’s feet were small and cute and pink too, and she took good care of them. Why didn’t she have a contract?
Suddenly Christy realized that someone else was staring at Amanda Lauren’s exposed soles. A red-haired, alien-looking woman stood halfway down the hall, dressed all in black. Scarlet platform flip-flops elevated her to at least a foot taller than Christy. Who was she? She seemed familiar.
The powerful stranger was stepping forward, heading straight for Amanda Lauren’s feet, and Christy began to feel unsettled. She looked around for Ms. LaBoeuf, who was nowhere to be seen. Her stomach lurched oddly at the knowledge that she alone was witnessing this.
The woman swooped like an enormous bird. Pale hands emerged from her black sleeves, tipped with long, crimson talons. Not even reaching, for she was now on top of the oblivious Amanda Lauren, she attacked both feet simultaneously.
Christy gasped involuntarily. The red-haired woman’s head swiveled at the noise, and her eyes locked with Christy’s. They recognized each other.
Amanda Lauren screamed. It was panic and inevitability and laughter. It rang out like the first note from a prima donna soprano, filling the empty air. “Ahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrraahahahahahhahhahhahahahahahahaaaaaaaa—!”
Christy was burning and she did not know why. Marion Dominique, spidering all ten fingernails across Amanda Lauren’s feet, whispered to Christy. “Help me.”
Amanda Lauren was spasming under the table, trying to kick her legs away from the tickling hands. Her laughter was in gasping bursts now, but getting louder and wilder. The classmates to her left and right were shifting out from under the tables to see what was happening. “Ahahahahahahahahh, ahhahahaha!” cried Amanda Lauren. Christy slumped next to Marion Dominique. This was not the usual Marion, that awkward, antisocial girl, always a flop with guys. This Marion was new. “What are you doing?” breathed Christy.
“She’s ticklish,” said Marion.
Christy had seen other girls tickled on their ribs and under their arms, and once she had seen a girl playfully tickled on her feet while hanging upside-down from a tree. But she had never seen anything like this. The noises coming from Amanda Lauren’s body were unbelievable.
Christy caught Amanda Lauren’s ankles as they tried to wriggle further into the darkness under the tables. A pretty thing like Amanda Lauren was putty in her strong hands. “Hold them down,” murmured Marion, and dug deeper into the immobile feet. Her red nails raked the tops of the toes and the balls of the feet, traced paths up and down the arches, and skittered around the heels. Amanda Lauren’s heels jerked violently, but Christy held fast. Marion tickled the soles without leaving a mark on the perfect pinkish-white canvas.
“Get her!” cheered someone. Some of Ms. LaBoeuf’s students had climbed out from under their work, and reacted enthusiastically to the action. “Tickle her!” squealed a girl. “Hhhahahaaaaahaheeeeeee!” squealed Amanda Lauren.
For Christy this feeling was dribbling the ball beyond any defender’s reach, looking into the eyes of the goalie. The goalie knowing she had to stop the goal, but knowing that nothing could stop Christy. “Let me do it,” she said to Marion.
“No,” replied the taller girl, “this is my moment.”
“I want to!” insisted Christy, grip tightening on Amanda Lauren’s feet as Marion stroked the soft bottoms of her toes. Amanda Lauren’s laughter was intensifying into the hottest thing Christy had ever heard. “Marion, let me help you!”
The tables were now deserted except for Amanda Lauren. The whole class had gathered in a semi-circle to watch. Some laughed along at the poor victim. Most were silent, unable to comprehend the goddess Amanda Lauren Lowman put through such humiliating torment. Why had they never thought to do this to her themselves? “Eeeeeeahahahahahahahhhhha! Ha!” she shrieked.
“I’m going to let go in three!” Christy hissed. “You get her ankles and I’ll do her feet! Ready!”
“No!” yelled Marion. “I can do this on my own.” She titillated the tops of Amanda Lauren’s feet, dragged her fingers to the toes and into the depths of the arches and the heels. “This isn’t for you.”
Christy didn’t know what Marion meant, but she couldn’t leave her to it. She couldn’t pry her desire away from Amanda Lauren’s feet, no more than Amanda Lauren could pry her feet away from the tickling. A crowd had gathered in the hallway to gawp at Amanda Lauren’s torture. However long she laughed and yearned to escape, her feet would not stop being ticklish, and Marion would not stop tickling. What was going to give?
“Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaahaahaaahaaaaaaaaa!”
Marion Dominique tickled Amanda Lauren Lowman’s feet.
“HAAAHAAAHAAAHAAAHAAAHAAAHEEEHAAAHEEE!”
Christy held Amanda Lauren’s feet in place and wished…
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!”
Something gave. Ms. LaBoeuf had returned to her class and found disorder. “Stop,” she ordered. “Let her go.”
Marion kept tickling. Amanda Lauren’s ticklish feet were rippling, almost beyond Christy’s ability to hold them. “Stop it,” said Ms. LaBoeuf. People were clearing away, back to their business.
Marion straightened up. She turned away deliberately, accomplished. Christy’s hands fell limp. Amanda Lauren was still laughing and coughing. Her pathetic, perfect feet were deliciously pink. She was drenched in sweat.
Christy stood and ran after Marion Dominique. She caught up, not knowing what to say.
“Thank you for your help,” Marion told her. Christy was hot. “Let’s do it again,” she sputtered.
“That was enough,” Marion said. “They got the message.”
The message? “Let’s get somebody else,” Christy continued, “another girl. One of Amanda Lauren’s friends, she has lots.” Marion said nothing.
“One of the girls on my team,” Christy offered. “Some of them have great feet, I’ll hold them feet down and you tickle them.”
Marion was not listening anymore. Christy was losing this opportunity and somehow it was the only thing she wanted, not soccer, not glory, not boys or partying or anything. Her face fell, and she saw her own shiny blue athletic shoes.
She bent and ripped them off, then her socks. She felt cool air on her feet.
Christy stopped in Marion’s path, almost touching her now. “Tickle my feet,” she said. “Tickle my feet.”
The smaller girl saw herself reflected in Marion’s dark eyes, the same eyes that had shyly watched her flirt with older guys at parties. White-blonde hair, baby blues. A face that charmed any man, screwed up in longing and expectation. A shapely body, full assets, muscular. Bare feet, about the same size as Amanda Lauren’s, almost as pretty, toenails painted the color of the clear sky.
Marion looked at Christy. Christy was in her power. “Have a good game,” Marion said, and walked around her, away. Christy stood there in her bare feet.
“Hey, Christy,” called someone. Christy bent and picked up her socks and shoes. “Check out what Amanda Lauren left under the table,” said a girl in a green t-shirt. Christy took the object that was presented to her. It was a fine-tipped paintbrush, and it had not even been used yet.
“Gives you any ideas?” chuckled the girl leadingly. As a matter of fact, it did.
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