Hello everybody. Just dropping down a new story of mine for your enjoyment. I know how redundant tickle therapy stories are getting, but I wrote one anyway. Please feel free to comment on it, good or bad. Thanks.
When I awoke I’d found that a Good Samaritan had kindly taken the liberty of contacting the proper authorities. A medical staff hovers over me as I lie motionless in a gurney. Upon further examination of my body they found minimal scuffs and scratches and aside from a torn lip I was unscathed. It wasn’t until they took a vaginal swab that things got really interesting. According to authorities and based on the exam the bastard who subdued me also raped me while I was knocked out. He didn’t care that I was only 5’4. He didn’t care about my golden blonde hair. He didn’t even look into my emerald green eyes when they popped out of my skull in terror. He just wanted one thing… a place to stick his penis.
Two Months later…
Waiting rooms are the worst. I especially hate having to wait alone, but that’s the price one pays when they agree to take a job out of state. There are dozens of people waiting to be seen and examined. Some have less noticeable issues such as fevers and colds. Others have more obvious problems like wounded arms or a fractured foot. Me? Well my issue isn’t quite noticeable yet. I’ll have to give it about another five months. I Susan Whitman am pregnant, courtesy of that alley mugger I mentioned earlier.
“SUSAN WHITMAN?!” A young stocky nurse screams my name.
I stand and leave behind the magazine I was glancing at. I feel as though every pair of eyes in the waiting room is looking at me in anger as if I’m some lucky lottery winner. It feels good to finally be called out, although I must admit I wish I didn’t have to be here in the first place.
I approach the nurse and she greets me with a smile, “Right this way Miss Whitman.” She guides me to a scale where she takes my weight and height.
I disregard the reading of 140 lbs. since after all I am carrying a baby inside of me now. I’m only two months in so my once slender figure has now got a soft round bump. I know all too well what happens to women’s figures after they become pregnant. It’s a dreadful thought, but I manage to push it to the back of my mind when I consider the fact that even at nine weeks I won’t look half as hefty as the nurse in front of me. I’m not trying to be rude, simply observational. I’ve always found it amusing when a nurse her size talks to me about healthy living because from this angle she is hardly setting a good example.
“This way Miss Whitman.” The nurse ushers me into the doctor’s office.
I take a seat on a brown leather examination table. It’s so tall my legs dangle considerably above the marble white floor. Near the table there’s an ultrasound machine that will later be used to check on my fetus. After the nurse takes my blood pressure, temperature and all the other pokes and prods that come with a routine visit she excuses herself, “the doctor will see you momentarily.” She says.
To my surprise it isn’t long before my physician walks briskly through the door. . His salt and pepper hair indicate there are a few more miles on his odometer than mine, but his tall and slender physique accompanied by baby blue eyes more than makes up for it. He comes over to shake my hand, “Hello Miss Whitman. I’m Dr. Warren. I’ll be administering an ultrasound test to see how your baby’s coming. How have you been feeling as of late?” his hands nearly cover mine entirely.
I hang my head and shrug my shoulders, “I’ve been better. This was so unexpected you know. I’m just trying to roll with the punches I guess.” I explain in a low tone.
He smiles at me, “Well you and you’re husband should be happy regardless. Where is he anyway? They usually like to be here for these moments.” He asks unknowingly.
I feel my heart sink. I want to burst into tears. I know it’s not the doctor’s fault; after all he doesn’t know the truth behind all this. Do I dare tell him? What’s it to him anyway? I think about lying, but by the look on his face he’s already garnered that this was no predetermined conception.
“The truth is doctor… there is no husband… I… I was…” My lip trembles.
Dr. Warren surprises me with the most comforting gesture I’ve felt in a while; he hugs me. I embrace him with a tear stricken face and outstretched arms.
“Oh you poor thing.” He says softly, “I’m so sorry Miss Whitman. You’re going to be alright.” He whispers.
I wipe the tears from my eyes which are now bloodshot, “Thanks.” Is all I can manage.
His thick but gentle fingers find their way to the injury on my lip, “what happened here?” he inquires.
I lock eyes with him, “Oh, that’s where the bastard smacked me. The doctor’s say it will never fully heal. They say I should expect a scar.” I answer.
Dr. Warren pats me on the back, “It won’t be so bad. I truly am sorry Miss Whitman…”
“Susan. You can call me Susan.” I interject.
Dr. Warren flashes me a smile, “Okay, Susan If you’ll please lie back, I’m going to examine your womb and we’ll see what we’ll see.”
I lie back and he lifts my t-shirt unveiling my milky white belly. He gently applies a good amount of ultrasound gel onto my skin. It’s cold stuff and I feel all the hairs on my body stand up at the touch. I watch the main screen with halfhearted anticipation. It isn’t long before a bean shaped figure comes into view.
Dr. Warren’s eyes light up, “there it is.” He says with delight.
I feel bad that I cannot share in his enthusiasm, but I flash him an obligatory smile none the less, “so, like what is it Dr.?” I ask.
He presses harder on my belly, “Weeeell It’s too soon to tell right now, but as far as everything else goes this appears to be one healthy baby.” He eases up on the pressure and removes the transducer probe wiping the image from the screen. “I can get you a copy of that if you’d like Susan.” He wipes my tummy of excess gel.
I shake my head, “No, I don’t want one. Thank you though.” I pull down my shirt.
There’s a look of sympathy on Dr. Warren’s face as he stands up from his chair, “I’m sorry about what happened to you Susan. I truly am. The truth is though, your negativity and the stress you’re feeling from this ordeal could lead to serious issues down the road.” He explains.
I cross my arms, “suuuch as?” I ask slightly concerned.
“Well the baby may not come out at the ideal weight, you may birth this baby prematurely, and even greater still is the possibility of faulty brain development.” There is a sound of concern in his low tone.
I shrug my shoulders again, “I’m sorry Dr. Warren, but I didn’t ask for this. I’m supposed to be furthering my career right now, not… not,” I stutter.
“Not sitting in a doctor’s office?” Warren’s eyes widen.
I lower my head. I never stop to think about others, “I’m sorry Dr. Warren.”
“Paul. You can call me Paul, and I know I’m slightly breaching my code of ethics, but you are one very beautiful woman.” He crosses his arms.
I’m taken aback by his comment of me and although I found him to be rather physically attractive there’s a slight apprehension in me, “Thanks.” I say in a dry tone.
Paul helps me to my feet, “you know, I’ve been doing a side study on depression and stress. It’s not been clinically approved yet, but maybe you’d like to try it out?” I can hear desperation in his voice.
I feel so happy that he’s thinking of me. I feel that I should seek help and that Paul is about the closest thing I have to that. I look up at him and we lock eyes, “tell me more.” I say.
“Well, you might think this is strange…” he rolls his eyes, “…but laughter is a good way to help manage depression and stress similar to what you’re experiencing.” He explains.
“No, no I have heard that somewhere. What do you want to do, tell me some jokes?” I tease.
Paul cracks a small smile, “well that’s the strange part, it doesn’t involve jokes. As a matter of fact, it’s a bit more hands on.” He continues to enlighten me.
Now I’m confused, I raise my eye brow, “hands on?” I ask.
His reply is one word, “tickling.” He says. He remains silent and looks at me, probably waiting for me to point, laugh and walk out on him.
I almost do, but something inside me, maybe even my fetus tells me to stay, “tickling?” I ask.
“Uh-hu.” He nods.
“I don’t understand. If you want to make me laugh, why not try nitrous oxide? I mean doesn’t that induce laughter?” I place my hands on my hips.
He nods quickly, “oh yes of course, but now that you’re pregnant it would be unwise to use such methods, and since I’m not a comedian…” he puts his hands up.
I tap my toe, “Tickling?” I ask again.
He just nods. I see no desire in his eyes to do anything harmful. I feel that I can trust him. His eyes are now glued to me as I pace back and forth considering this option.
“The sessions are free of charge. It’s totally consensual. I promise you’ll have a good time.” He reassures.
“Hmm… How many people have you treated using this method?” I’m curious now.
He scratches his head, “just over half a dozen. It’s in the experimental stage, but it’s a lot cheaper than Zoloft.” he states.
I remember as a child being tickled by my mother on a regular basis. She’d use it to get her way with me or to get away with not answering certain questions I had that she knew not the answers. I remember slightly looking forward to those times, “When and where?” I commit.
Paul claps his hands excitedly, “We have a special soundproof room down the hall just for these types of sessions. I built it out of my own pocket. If you’re free tonight, after hours we can get underway.” He says.
“No funny business?” I point at him with a stern look on my face.
“Oh, no mam. Strictly professional.” He extends his hand to seal the deal which I reluctantly accept.
“We’ll see how good you are Dr.” I snicker.
“Ah, is that a challenge?” he smiles, “I’ll see you later on tonight around seven?” he lets go of my hand.
“Tonight.” I confirm.
“Yes. Wear something comfortable.’’ He waves at my attire.
I spend the rest of the day loafing around my apartment snacking on various chips and candies. I figure that with pregnancy upon me I can’t help getting fat. It’s going to happen, so why not indulge a little anyway. I generally like to keep a clean apartment, but after that horrid incident I’d found myself getting comfortable with the mess around me. My bras lay draped over every chair and it’s been a long time since the carpet’s seen any attention. Time slips by ever so slowly, and I drift into a snooze while watching some stupid soap opera.
When I come to again the clock on my phone reads 5:50 pm. I drag myself off the couch leaving behind a round indent where my butt had been. I remember him asking me to wear something comfortable so I slip into some black leggings and a loosely fitted black and grey striped shirt. I put on my sneakers and am about to exit my apartment when a light bulb comes on in my head, “this guy’s kinda cute…” I remind myself. I glance in a nearby mirror at my reflection and it’s abundantly clear I need a touch up. I rush to the bathroom where I keep my makeup. I flip on the light and begin to do work. I comb my hair until all the knots in it are straightened out. While my eyes are green, they lack a certain “pop” so I apply a small amount of shadow around them so that the emerald really stands out. I rose up my cheeks with pink blush and finally I color my lips with a shimmering wet pink lip gloss. There’s nothing I can do to cover up the hideousness of that tear on my lip. It’s a scar waiting to happen. I didn’t fret long because I remember Paul seeing it during my visit and he wasn’t at all bothered by it. After I’ve done about all I can I exit the bathroom and leave for Paul’s clinic.
I walk into the same waiting room I’d been in earlier only at this time there are considerably less people. I can see Paul through the glass of the receptionist desk and I lightly tap on the glass to get his attention. His face lights up the moment he sees me and he drops what he’s doing to grant me passage into the back of the clinic.
“Susan! Welcome back. I’m so glad you could make it.” He sounds enthused. He extends his hand which I accept.
“Thank you for having me Paul. Are you going to do the whole height and weight thing again?” I point to the scale.
He waves it off, “oh, no. That’s for a routine appointment. And as we both know, this is not routine.” He chuckles.
I crack a faint smile trying hard to establish some sort of connection with him, “So, care to walk me to your SPECIAL office?” I squint my eyes.
“Right this way!” he wraps his arm around my shoulder and while I barely know the guy I don’t pull away. Instead I get closer so that my head is resting right under his arm.
It’s a brisk walk to the back. There’s a narrow corridor that I’d seen earlier that day, but it was as if it was off limits because no patients or even other physicians ever went back there. There’s a door at the end of the hall with the words “private” written on a black plaque. Paul reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a bundle of keys. It’s almost scary how quickly he finds the right one. The minute we walk into the room I notice immediately that the temperature is kept higher than the rest of the clinic.
As if he’d read my mind Paul chirps up, “I know, it’s a little warmer in here, but that’s simply to allow your blood to flow more freely.” He explains.
The walls in the room are littered with priceless paintings from every classical artist that ever existed. Each and every one of them is brightly displayed so as to show off their vibrant colors. In the dead center of the room stands a chair unlike any I’d ever seen in my life. It’s upholstery is a crimson red and each limb is equipped with black Velcro straps. There is even one at the base of the chair where the backing meets the seat. To the side of that was an E.K.G machine with a giant L.C.D display. A tingling sensation crawls down my spine as I take in the grandeur of what is before me.
“Whoa, wait a minute. You intend to strap me up in that thing?” I ask hesitantly.
Paul chuckles, “Oh, those straps are intended for those incapable of controlling themselves during these sessions. I don’t think YOU’LL need it, right Susan?” I see his eyes grow.
“I, I hope not.” My voice is soft.
Paul gives me a reassuring pat on the back, “I’m sure you’ll do just fine. It’s just that I’ve had some patients who try to kick or punch back, and well… I can’t have that.” he nods his head, why don’t you have a seat?” he pushes me towards the chair.
“Okie dokie.” I seat myself onto the threshold, where at one point or another other women in my predicament had once sat. The chair is quite comfortable and I use the extension to prop my legs atop of it so that they’re flush and not hanging off at the sides.
“Before we begin I’d like to ask you a short series of questions Okay Susan?” Paul pulls out a clipboard.
“Sure.” I say plainly.
“Susan, how long would you say you’ve been struggling with depression?” he asks.
I close my eyes. The shadow of my attacker looms in the crevasses of my memory, “Since the night it happened. You know… my rape.” I shudder.
Paul throws a small smile my way, “are you aware of doctor patient confidentiality and that what occurs here will not leave this room?” he taps his pen on the pad.
I shrug my shoulders in a confused manor, “I understand.”
Then comes the question that surrounds this whole idea of me being here, “Are you ticklish?” he at last addresses the elephant in the room.
I crack a small smile, “It’s been years since I’ve been tickled, so I’m not really sure.” I’m sincere.
Paul jots down some notes, “Hmm… Well on that note I suppose it’s time to get started.”
I give a simple nod, not giving away the anticipation that’s boiling up underneath my skin. For the first time in a long time I feel like a child waiting their turn to get on the Ferris wheel. I watch as Paul gently unties the knots on my shoelaces. I feel my shoes expand as the tightness of my laces becomes undone. He pulls on the tongue of the shoe until they are completely flaccid. With one swift motion he slips them off my feet leaving only my dingy white socks as protection from his fingertips. I cover my mouth slightly embarrassed at the amount of dust and dirt that has gathered under the soles of my socks.
“I’m terribly sorry about my socks. I know they’re a bit dirty, but…” I fumble around my words.
He waves me off, “It’s alright. They won’t be staying on for long.” He takes in my size 5 feet then looks up at me, “you ready?”
I clench my jaw, “only time will tell.” I invitingly bend my toes towards his big strong hands.
He takes that as a sign to commence. Even through the thickness of my socks his fingers send tingles up my arches and I can only imagine how much worse it will become when he finally removes them to embrace my bare soles.
His fingers streak up and down my arches in a calm manor, “How’s that?” he asks.
The sensations make my feet twitch involuntarily and it’s only natural that my legs want to pull away, “HE-HE-T-THAT TICKLES-SE-EH-HE-HE!” I giggle profusely.
His fingers continue to explore every inch of my socked feet from the heels to the toes. It feels like an itch that I want to scratch, but cannot, must not, lest he have me strapped to this chair.
His fingers dance gracefully like ice skaters at the Olympic winter games, “that’s good Susan, let it out.” He instructs playfully.
I resist the urge to jerk my foot away, but cannot suppress the desire, “AH, HA-EH-HE-HE-HE WHOO…” insane jargon comes babbling out of my mouth uncontrollably.
Paul’s grip tightens around my ankles almost to the point of pain, “No, no. Hold still now Miss Susan.” His finger nails slip down to my heels and scratch making circular motions with such haste its mind blowing.
I scissor my feet back and forth using one to protect the other, which of course fails miserably, “HAW-HEE-HEE-TEE-WHEE-EH-EH-HE-HE *cough* IT’S IMPOSSIBLE!” I screech.
I feel his fingers crawl towards my ankles and peel off my socks. My bare feet are flushed with redness from being incased in cotton. I use the brief pause in the action to flex my toes. I’m not out of breath, but I can feel my heart rate climbing gradually.
His fingers pinch at my toes, “Oh, Susan you have such pretty feet! Did you paint these toesies pink for me?” he takes a comedic tone.
I shake my head, “no, but they are cute aren’t they?” I decide to play along; after all I do kinda like the guy.
He runs a single fingernail down my arch, “ready for more?” he asks, “this is the part where it might get a little tough to hold still.” He says.
“Tough?” I think to myself. I was having trouble containing myself throughout the SOCKED tickling! Of course that’s not what I say, “We’re ready!” I say in a cartoonish voice and I wiggle my toes invitingly.
Paul chuckles, “Good!” He wastes no time reconnecting his fingers to my tender bottoms sending pulsating sensations up my body.
I find very quickly that his fingers are indeed more effective on bare soles and I already miss my dingy white socks that now lie somewhere on the floor, no longer protecting my feet, “HA-HA-HA WHEE-TEE-OOOH-HA-HA-HA-JEEE-JEE-HA-HA-HA-OH GAWD OH GAWD!” I cackle. My knees jerk up spastically trying to break his grip, but he’s a strong individual and the pressure he’s applying on my ankles is too much for me to overcome.
His fingers fly quickly up and down my arches. They are lightly grazing my skin, but it’s enough to make me lose it, “Worse?” he asks, knowing full well by my reactions that it most defiantly is, “my, my you’re a strong one!” he says.
Perhaps I am, because I can it in his face that he’s starting to perspire. I clasp my hand over my mouth slightly embarrassed at how ugly my laugh is, “HA-HA-HA-WHOO-HEE-HE-HE-HE-TEEE-JEE-JEE-JEE-OH GAWD!” Even my hand can’t quite muffle the sound’s erupting from the pit of my stomach.
Paul stops for a second, “aww, don’t cover up that beautiful smile!” he gently removes my hand from my mouth, “now I don’t want to have to restrain you.” He gives me a stern look.
I know exactly what he’s talking about. With my arms in the straps there’d be no way for me to cover my mouth, so I decide it best to try and keep them at my sides, “No, please don’t do that. Please.” I beg.
“Oh, alright.” He says and his focus goes back to my feet.
His fingers wiggle their way to the tips of my toes which sends my butt in the air, “HAY-HA-HA-HA-HEE-HEE-WHEE-NOT THE TOOOOES!” I scream.
He giggles along with me, “easy there young lady. I don’t want you falling off the chair!” he teases.
He devotes special attention to each and every one of them digging his nails up and down and around them, “HA-HA-HA-P-PLEASE-NOT THERE-OH GAWD NOOOO! NO TO TOOOOES!” I beg. Try as I might I simply cannot contain my urge to pull away from his grasp and with one strong tug… I do.
My free leg flails in the air nearly kicking the doctor in the head, “alright that’s enough of that!” he says displeased.
I giggle shyly, “I couldn’t help it.” I mumble innocently with my finger in my mouth.
Paul stands up from his seated position and I fear the worst, “I’m afraid you leave me no choice, I’m going to have to restrain you Susan.” He folds his arms. I remember my father doing the exact same pose countless times after I’d disobeyed him.
I shake my head franticly, “no, no you, you don’t have to do that! I’m sorry. I’ll be a good patient. I can control myself.” I plead.
My words get me nowhere as I see no change in Dr. Paul’s facial expression, “Nope, you had your chance. Now for your safety and for mine, please allow me to restrain you.” He speaks in a low tone.
A part of me wonders whether or not I should trust him. It’s the same part of me that wonders if it wasn’t part of his plan to restrain me in the first place. He must have known there was no way I’d be able to contain myself. I mean if he’s done this to other women, he must know. Then there’s the part of me that says, “He’s a doctor. And I want to feel better.” This is probably my stupid side because it’s the one I go with and I indicate so by placing my ankles and wrist in position to be strapped.
He smiles brightly at me, “good choice Miss Susan.” He quickly secures my arms and legs and wraps additional Velcro straps around my waist tightly enough to make my pregnant tummy protrude from under it. He pats my tummy, “it’s okay baby. Mommy’s going to feel much better after this is all over.”
I’m at his mercy now. I test the straps to see just how strong they are…unbreakable, “umm… these are on pretty good hu?” I say squeamishly.
He chuckles eyeing his handy work, “Oh yes. I’ve had women in there much bigger than you, even had one weight lifter, don’t worry… you won’t break them.”
My heart skips a beat as I know for sure that I am neither big nor a weight lifter and if they can’t tear through these straps I won’t be able to either. I look at him. His nice demeanor, the one I met earlier in the ultrasound is now hidden under a devilish smile and wide eyes that are looking at my feet like they’re a pot of gold.
He kneels down and gently caresses my bare soles agitating them ever so slightly, “Now I can begin the more SERIOUS work.” He winks.
I bite down on my tongue hoping my self-induced pain will somehow be greater than what I’m about to be subject to down below, “Mmm…” is all I say.
His fingers strike my arches without mercy exploring every inch of skin, “tickle tickle!!” he says.
My clenched jaw opens wide for a burst of giggles, “HA-HE-HE-HE-TEE-HEE-WHOO-OOO-LEAVE MY-MY-MY HE-HE-HE!” I cry. I tug my legs. My brain desperately begging me to pull away and end this madness, but I can’t.
Paul stops and rubs out any remaining tingling sensations from my feet, “So, Susan what do you do for a living, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“…I…I’m an El…Elementary school t-teacher.” I pant.
Paul looks up at me, “Oh, what grade?” he questions.
“I…I teach first graders.” My breathing is slowly returning to normal.
Paul strokes my foot, “Oh, so what do you teach them?”
I cringe at the tingling sensation his fingernail is causing, “Ooo, you know, counting…reading.” I ping my head side to side.
Paul grabs hold of my toes, “Oh, so do you teach them to count with…THESE?!” He drills his fingers in between my toes.
My face lights up at the intense sensations coming up from my feet, “HA-HA-HA-GOOO-OH-HOO-HOO-WHOO-HA-HA-HA OH-OH!” I scream.
Paul begins to count each toe, “one little piggy, two little piggy, three little piggy…” his nails scrape. It’s funny how from such a small space like the bottom of a toe can erupt the biggest sensations.
I whip my head side to side is spastic fashion, “P-PLEASE ST-ST-AH-HA-HA-HA-P-P! I-I-HA-HA-WHEEE-I CAN COUNT!” I declare.
The same fingers that create havoc on my toes bring about sweet relief as Dr. Paul rubs away the remaining itches, “Alright. And how do you feel so far Miss Susan?” he cocks his head to lock eyes with mine.
My chest is expanding and contracting faster than any physical exercise has ever made it do before, “W-well…I’m…*cough*laughing.” I reply through gasps of air.
Paul stands up and glides his hands to my knees, “Good, that means it’s working!!” with no warning at all he squeezes my knobs.
My butt bounces up as much as my restrains allow, “HA-HA-HA-HA-WH-WHAT? I-DIDN’TA-TA-HA-HA-KNOW MY KNEES WERE-HE-HE-HEE-TICKLISH-H-HE-HE-HE!” My body convulses knocking my knees together in a useless effort to get his pinching hands off me.
Paul laughs along with me, “Well I guess it’s true, you DO learn something new every day.” He compresses my knees so they no longer give him trouble. Then he does something unexpected… he straddles my legs.
“*cough* W-what are…y-you doin’ Doc?” I enquire.
He pats my thighs, “Oh, just getting in a better position.”
I don’t have a chance to rebuttal because before I even get a chance think together a sentence his clutches are all over my inner thighs, “WH-WH-WH-HA-HA-HA-HA-W-WAITE-TE-TE-TEEE-HE-HE-HE-HA-HA!” I crack up.
His thumbs squeeze deep into my tender flesh pressing though the tissue and the muscle right up to the bone where they inflict the most torment. My legs are now completely immobile thanks to his mass keeping me in place.
I throw my head back, “HA-HA-HA-WHOOO-OOO-OOO HEE-HEE-HEE-I DIND’T AGREE-HE-HE-T-TO THIS!” I protest.
Dr. Paul’s hands inch closer towards my vaginal area, “Oh, but don’t you want to get better from depression?” He shrugs his shoulders while he continues to go to town on me.
I tug at the straps, “HA-HA-HA Y-YES-ESS-ESS-HE-HE-HE-HA-HA-BUT-BUT…”
“But what?” Dr. Paul asks.
“I-I CAN’T TAKE IT!” I admit.
He unclamps his hands and rubs my legs. The leggings I decided to wear only amplify the sensitivity, “Aww, there, there Miss Susan, you’re doing splendidly.” It’s almost as if he’s on a predetermined monologue. As if whatever I say he’ll respond with a sly remark.
My chest pounds and my feet are starting to grow numb from having Dr. Paul pressed down on my legs, “Ooo, ooo, p-please Dr. Paul I’m, I’m feeling much better. I really am!” I plead with him, hoping he’ll come to the conclusion that he’s done enough.
Paul gets off my legs. At long last, It appears as though the torment is over, but then he speaks, “Well I’m glad to hear that Susan, but just to be sure…” Dr. Paul rolls my shirt up exposing my midriff, “I’m going to keep going, you know for reassurance.” He strikes a single finger across my midsection which ripples in anticipation.
“No, no, please! I’ve been cured. I swear!” I object, but his fingers continue to titillate my skin, “Dr. Paul, I’d like for you to STOP this instant!” I reinforce my tone of voice, “If you don’t stop I’ll…”
His fingers thrust right into my abdominals, “you’ll what? Call my MOMMY?!” he chuckles.
The reprimand in my voice melts into bountiful burst of laughter, “HA-HA-HA-WHOOO-NOOO-TE-TE-TE-HEE-HEE-HEE-WH-WHAT-P-PLEASE-HA-HA-HA-OKAY-OKAY-HA-HA-HA-HEE-JE-JE-YOUR FINGERS SUCK!” I bellow.
His fingers massage deep into my stomach making it shake like a glob of gelatin dessert, “Oh, you don’t mean that Miss Susan…” he maneuvers his fingers lower down towards my hips, “I apologize for the slight discomfort little one…” he jabs at where my fetus should be, “…but I’m helping MOMMY be happy!” He inserts his index finger into my navel, “Ooo, you have an innie! That’ll change in a few months.” He teases.
I can feel his fingers shaking me to the core and I gyrate my hips in a hopeless attempt to dodge his attack. I know it’s not going to happen, but it’s just the body’s instinctive nature to squirm, “OOO-OOO-HA-HA-HA-P-PLEASEEE-SE-JE-JE-JE-TE-TE-TE-EH-HA-OOO I HATE THIS!” I blurt.
Dr. Paul shakes his head, “Oh, you can’t possibly mean that. If you hate it so much why you keep laughing?” he jokes, knowing full well why.
A stream of laughter escapes my mouth as his thumbs press against my hipbones, “HA-HA-HA-HEEE-I-I-WHEE-I-CAN’T HELP IT-TE-TE-TE-P-LEASE-OH GAWD!” I try and scoot my hips away from his thumbs only to be met by the backing of the chair which keeps me in place, “THIS IS TORTURE!” I belt out.
There’s a fiendish look on his face as my words ring in his ears, “That’s it Miss Susan, let it out.” He must find my predicament amusing because he’s chuckling along with me, “ha-ha you’re doing great Miss Susan, this right here…” he pinches my hips, “is a good tickle spot.” He unclutches my hips.
I’m still laughing even after his hands break contact with my body, “HE-HE-HE-HA-HA-OOO,” after I regain my bearings I take a stern tone with Dr. Paul, “OH, YOU JUST WAIT TILL I GET OUT OF HERE! I’LL HAVE YOU STRIPPED OF YOUR LICENCE!” Confined to a chair this may come off as an empty threat, but I have to try something to get him to stop. Whatever sentiment I had for him is out the window and all I can think about is how in the hell am I going to get out of this.
Paul frowns, “Aww, you don’t really mean that do you Miss Susan? This is for your own good! Now be a good girl and just laugh your little head off!” I watch helplessly as his hands lunge for my ribs.
He massages his giant thumbs up and down my rib cage, “OOO-OOH-GAWD-OH-GAWDA-HA-HA-HA-JE-JE-JE-HEEE-TE-TE-TOO MUCH!” I squeal, “THAT’S ENOUGHA-HA-HA-HA-P-PLEASE DR. PAUL!” I insist.
“So, Susan, how long have you been a teacher?” he continues talking to me as if though this is just a normal conversation mixed in with loads of involuntary laughter, “Susan… I’m waiting.”
His fingers ease up on their assault enough for me to respond, “F-five *cough* OOO-five years!” I really have no choice, but to play along.
His eyes light up, “Oh, you’re just about a seasoned professional!” he says as his fingers still exploring my ribs.
I’m still twitching, but less psychotic as his attack has become a little more bearable, “OOO-HA-HA-I guess-S-S-HE-HE I guess you’re right!” I sputter.
“So Susan, what do you like to do for fun?” he asks awkwardly. I guess this isn’t exactly the best setting for getting to know somebody, but my good feelings towards him are beginning to resurface, so kudos to him for that.
“I-HE-HE-OOO- I DON’T LIKE GETTING TICKLES!” I proclaim. It’s a recent discovery of mine and one worth mentioning.
Dr. Paul chuckles, “Oh really? I never would have guessed.” He teases the tender flesh that makes up my armpits evoking me to flap my arms.
“HA-HA-OOO-NOT THERE-NOTA-TA-TA-HA-HA-HA THERE!” Laugher explodes from inside of me. His fingers feel like insects crawling circles in and around my hollows penetrating through supple tissue and making my breast bounce around in my bra. I can feel beads of perspiration roll down my lower back into my butt crack, a sign that the temperature in this room is getting to me.
Dr. Paul’s relentless attack has had me more physically active than ever, and he takes notice by gently wiping some sweat off my brow, “My oh my Miss Susan, it appears you’re getting a two in one today. A depression treatment and some exercise.” He laughs.
His fingers ease away from my pits, “OOO-HOO-*cough*WORK OUT? THIS IS WORSE THAN P90X!” I throw in my own humor.
Paul backs off of me, “I’ll take that as a complement. Now here’s one for you…” he locks eyes with me.
“Uh-hu?” I say still astounded by his onslaught.
“Since the moment we met earlier today, I’ve been attracted to you.” He searches my eyes for some sort of connection or an understanding.
At the understanding of those words, all the torture, all the suffering and all of the humiliation he’s put me through at this point fades away away. Those words overshadow everything leading up to them. I look at him with upmost compassion. If my arms weren’t restrained I’d envelop them into his deep chest. “Oh Dr. Paul… I… I’m flattered, I truly am.” I say. I don’t let on about my feelings towards him because I am curious to see how this plays out. If I let on that I’ve liked him from the start, he’ll be on easy street.
Dr. Paul reaches for my arms and I flinch in anticipation of another attack. Instead he surprises me with a most welcome gesture; he unstraps my wrist, ‘Be free!” he sings.
My arms collapse to my sides. It’s as though the straps were the only things keeping them up. My arms feel drained. Whatever little muscle they have, is buried under tender flesh, unresponsive, “Ooo, that feels good!” I declare.
Dr. Paul unstraps my waist and then my ankles. I slouch into the seat. My body is a broken vessel at this point. Every last inch of me feels like it’s in a state of paralysis. Even unbound, I’m confined by my bodies’ limitations, “Don’t worry Miss Susan. Your body will soon return to its full potential. You’ve just been subject to such torture your body is simply trying to catch up is all.” He thoroughly explains, “How do you feel Miss Susan?”
I stretch my arms and legs, “I feel exhausted, but accomplished at the same time. Almost as though I stared my fears, my depression right in the face and literally laughed at it all.”
Dr. Paul pats me on the back, “that’s terrific. No hard feelings I hope? You did say some nasty things.” He asks.
I shake my head, “Oh, well you know, those were just in the moment comments. We’re cool now.” I intertwine my fingers into the ones that a moment ago had me sprawling, “we’re very cool.”
Dr. Paul pulls me close, “now, there is a follow up session if you’re inter-“
“NO!” I interject, “I think one session’s enough thank you!”
We both laugh. Dr. Paul picks me up in his arms and plants his lips squarely onto mine. His facial scruff prickles my delicate skin, but I don’t care. I succumb to his clutches; restrained again by my own volition.
Dr. Paul pulls back and takes a deep breath, “Miss Susan, when this baby comes…” he rubs my belly, “…I want to be there.”
“Well of course you’ll be there, you’ll be delivering it.” I respond slightly dumbfounded.
“No, Susan. I want to be there by your side, holding your hand. I want to be the one telling you that you can do it, not as a doctor, but as a…”
I clasp my hand to my mouth. It quickly dawns on me that he intends to be there as my steady, as my man. I shower his face with kisses. Kisses he happily returns to me, “would you have me by your side Susan?” he asks.
I already know the answer. He already knows the answer. A resounding, “YES!” escapes my lips and we continue to embrace passionately into the night.
“Rebirth”
It all happened so fast. I was walking back to my apartment after a long day at the firm when out of the darkest alley in the city a big tall man reached out and grabbed me. I struggled to break loose of his grip, but his strength was too much to overcome. In what felt like seconds he had me pinned to the ground. With his free hand he proceeded to smother my mouth with a damp cloth that smelled of a sickening sweet aroma. That was the last thing I remembered before I fell unconscious, a victim of the drug. When I awoke I’d found that a Good Samaritan had kindly taken the liberty of contacting the proper authorities. A medical staff hovers over me as I lie motionless in a gurney. Upon further examination of my body they found minimal scuffs and scratches and aside from a torn lip I was unscathed. It wasn’t until they took a vaginal swab that things got really interesting. According to authorities and based on the exam the bastard who subdued me also raped me while I was knocked out. He didn’t care that I was only 5’4. He didn’t care about my golden blonde hair. He didn’t even look into my emerald green eyes when they popped out of my skull in terror. He just wanted one thing… a place to stick his penis.
Two Months later…
Waiting rooms are the worst. I especially hate having to wait alone, but that’s the price one pays when they agree to take a job out of state. There are dozens of people waiting to be seen and examined. Some have less noticeable issues such as fevers and colds. Others have more obvious problems like wounded arms or a fractured foot. Me? Well my issue isn’t quite noticeable yet. I’ll have to give it about another five months. I Susan Whitman am pregnant, courtesy of that alley mugger I mentioned earlier.
“SUSAN WHITMAN?!” A young stocky nurse screams my name.
I stand and leave behind the magazine I was glancing at. I feel as though every pair of eyes in the waiting room is looking at me in anger as if I’m some lucky lottery winner. It feels good to finally be called out, although I must admit I wish I didn’t have to be here in the first place.
I approach the nurse and she greets me with a smile, “Right this way Miss Whitman.” She guides me to a scale where she takes my weight and height.
I disregard the reading of 140 lbs. since after all I am carrying a baby inside of me now. I’m only two months in so my once slender figure has now got a soft round bump. I know all too well what happens to women’s figures after they become pregnant. It’s a dreadful thought, but I manage to push it to the back of my mind when I consider the fact that even at nine weeks I won’t look half as hefty as the nurse in front of me. I’m not trying to be rude, simply observational. I’ve always found it amusing when a nurse her size talks to me about healthy living because from this angle she is hardly setting a good example.
“This way Miss Whitman.” The nurse ushers me into the doctor’s office.
I take a seat on a brown leather examination table. It’s so tall my legs dangle considerably above the marble white floor. Near the table there’s an ultrasound machine that will later be used to check on my fetus. After the nurse takes my blood pressure, temperature and all the other pokes and prods that come with a routine visit she excuses herself, “the doctor will see you momentarily.” She says.
To my surprise it isn’t long before my physician walks briskly through the door. . His salt and pepper hair indicate there are a few more miles on his odometer than mine, but his tall and slender physique accompanied by baby blue eyes more than makes up for it. He comes over to shake my hand, “Hello Miss Whitman. I’m Dr. Warren. I’ll be administering an ultrasound test to see how your baby’s coming. How have you been feeling as of late?” his hands nearly cover mine entirely.
I hang my head and shrug my shoulders, “I’ve been better. This was so unexpected you know. I’m just trying to roll with the punches I guess.” I explain in a low tone.
He smiles at me, “Well you and you’re husband should be happy regardless. Where is he anyway? They usually like to be here for these moments.” He asks unknowingly.
I feel my heart sink. I want to burst into tears. I know it’s not the doctor’s fault; after all he doesn’t know the truth behind all this. Do I dare tell him? What’s it to him anyway? I think about lying, but by the look on his face he’s already garnered that this was no predetermined conception.
“The truth is doctor… there is no husband… I… I was…” My lip trembles.
Dr. Warren surprises me with the most comforting gesture I’ve felt in a while; he hugs me. I embrace him with a tear stricken face and outstretched arms.
“Oh you poor thing.” He says softly, “I’m so sorry Miss Whitman. You’re going to be alright.” He whispers.
I wipe the tears from my eyes which are now bloodshot, “Thanks.” Is all I can manage.
His thick but gentle fingers find their way to the injury on my lip, “what happened here?” he inquires.
I lock eyes with him, “Oh, that’s where the bastard smacked me. The doctor’s say it will never fully heal. They say I should expect a scar.” I answer.
Dr. Warren pats me on the back, “It won’t be so bad. I truly am sorry Miss Whitman…”
“Susan. You can call me Susan.” I interject.
Dr. Warren flashes me a smile, “Okay, Susan If you’ll please lie back, I’m going to examine your womb and we’ll see what we’ll see.”
I lie back and he lifts my t-shirt unveiling my milky white belly. He gently applies a good amount of ultrasound gel onto my skin. It’s cold stuff and I feel all the hairs on my body stand up at the touch. I watch the main screen with halfhearted anticipation. It isn’t long before a bean shaped figure comes into view.
Dr. Warren’s eyes light up, “there it is.” He says with delight.
I feel bad that I cannot share in his enthusiasm, but I flash him an obligatory smile none the less, “so, like what is it Dr.?” I ask.
He presses harder on my belly, “Weeeell It’s too soon to tell right now, but as far as everything else goes this appears to be one healthy baby.” He eases up on the pressure and removes the transducer probe wiping the image from the screen. “I can get you a copy of that if you’d like Susan.” He wipes my tummy of excess gel.
I shake my head, “No, I don’t want one. Thank you though.” I pull down my shirt.
There’s a look of sympathy on Dr. Warren’s face as he stands up from his chair, “I’m sorry about what happened to you Susan. I truly am. The truth is though, your negativity and the stress you’re feeling from this ordeal could lead to serious issues down the road.” He explains.
I cross my arms, “suuuch as?” I ask slightly concerned.
“Well the baby may not come out at the ideal weight, you may birth this baby prematurely, and even greater still is the possibility of faulty brain development.” There is a sound of concern in his low tone.
I shrug my shoulders again, “I’m sorry Dr. Warren, but I didn’t ask for this. I’m supposed to be furthering my career right now, not… not,” I stutter.
“Not sitting in a doctor’s office?” Warren’s eyes widen.
I lower my head. I never stop to think about others, “I’m sorry Dr. Warren.”
“Paul. You can call me Paul, and I know I’m slightly breaching my code of ethics, but you are one very beautiful woman.” He crosses his arms.
I’m taken aback by his comment of me and although I found him to be rather physically attractive there’s a slight apprehension in me, “Thanks.” I say in a dry tone.
Paul helps me to my feet, “you know, I’ve been doing a side study on depression and stress. It’s not been clinically approved yet, but maybe you’d like to try it out?” I can hear desperation in his voice.
I feel so happy that he’s thinking of me. I feel that I should seek help and that Paul is about the closest thing I have to that. I look up at him and we lock eyes, “tell me more.” I say.
“Well, you might think this is strange…” he rolls his eyes, “…but laughter is a good way to help manage depression and stress similar to what you’re experiencing.” He explains.
“No, no I have heard that somewhere. What do you want to do, tell me some jokes?” I tease.
Paul cracks a small smile, “well that’s the strange part, it doesn’t involve jokes. As a matter of fact, it’s a bit more hands on.” He continues to enlighten me.
Now I’m confused, I raise my eye brow, “hands on?” I ask.
His reply is one word, “tickling.” He says. He remains silent and looks at me, probably waiting for me to point, laugh and walk out on him.
I almost do, but something inside me, maybe even my fetus tells me to stay, “tickling?” I ask.
“Uh-hu.” He nods.
“I don’t understand. If you want to make me laugh, why not try nitrous oxide? I mean doesn’t that induce laughter?” I place my hands on my hips.
He nods quickly, “oh yes of course, but now that you’re pregnant it would be unwise to use such methods, and since I’m not a comedian…” he puts his hands up.
I tap my toe, “Tickling?” I ask again.
He just nods. I see no desire in his eyes to do anything harmful. I feel that I can trust him. His eyes are now glued to me as I pace back and forth considering this option.
“The sessions are free of charge. It’s totally consensual. I promise you’ll have a good time.” He reassures.
“Hmm… How many people have you treated using this method?” I’m curious now.
He scratches his head, “just over half a dozen. It’s in the experimental stage, but it’s a lot cheaper than Zoloft.” he states.
I remember as a child being tickled by my mother on a regular basis. She’d use it to get her way with me or to get away with not answering certain questions I had that she knew not the answers. I remember slightly looking forward to those times, “When and where?” I commit.
Paul claps his hands excitedly, “We have a special soundproof room down the hall just for these types of sessions. I built it out of my own pocket. If you’re free tonight, after hours we can get underway.” He says.
“No funny business?” I point at him with a stern look on my face.
“Oh, no mam. Strictly professional.” He extends his hand to seal the deal which I reluctantly accept.
“We’ll see how good you are Dr.” I snicker.
“Ah, is that a challenge?” he smiles, “I’ll see you later on tonight around seven?” he lets go of my hand.
“Tonight.” I confirm.
“Yes. Wear something comfortable.’’ He waves at my attire.
I spend the rest of the day loafing around my apartment snacking on various chips and candies. I figure that with pregnancy upon me I can’t help getting fat. It’s going to happen, so why not indulge a little anyway. I generally like to keep a clean apartment, but after that horrid incident I’d found myself getting comfortable with the mess around me. My bras lay draped over every chair and it’s been a long time since the carpet’s seen any attention. Time slips by ever so slowly, and I drift into a snooze while watching some stupid soap opera.
When I come to again the clock on my phone reads 5:50 pm. I drag myself off the couch leaving behind a round indent where my butt had been. I remember him asking me to wear something comfortable so I slip into some black leggings and a loosely fitted black and grey striped shirt. I put on my sneakers and am about to exit my apartment when a light bulb comes on in my head, “this guy’s kinda cute…” I remind myself. I glance in a nearby mirror at my reflection and it’s abundantly clear I need a touch up. I rush to the bathroom where I keep my makeup. I flip on the light and begin to do work. I comb my hair until all the knots in it are straightened out. While my eyes are green, they lack a certain “pop” so I apply a small amount of shadow around them so that the emerald really stands out. I rose up my cheeks with pink blush and finally I color my lips with a shimmering wet pink lip gloss. There’s nothing I can do to cover up the hideousness of that tear on my lip. It’s a scar waiting to happen. I didn’t fret long because I remember Paul seeing it during my visit and he wasn’t at all bothered by it. After I’ve done about all I can I exit the bathroom and leave for Paul’s clinic.
I walk into the same waiting room I’d been in earlier only at this time there are considerably less people. I can see Paul through the glass of the receptionist desk and I lightly tap on the glass to get his attention. His face lights up the moment he sees me and he drops what he’s doing to grant me passage into the back of the clinic.
“Susan! Welcome back. I’m so glad you could make it.” He sounds enthused. He extends his hand which I accept.
“Thank you for having me Paul. Are you going to do the whole height and weight thing again?” I point to the scale.
He waves it off, “oh, no. That’s for a routine appointment. And as we both know, this is not routine.” He chuckles.
I crack a faint smile trying hard to establish some sort of connection with him, “So, care to walk me to your SPECIAL office?” I squint my eyes.
“Right this way!” he wraps his arm around my shoulder and while I barely know the guy I don’t pull away. Instead I get closer so that my head is resting right under his arm.
It’s a brisk walk to the back. There’s a narrow corridor that I’d seen earlier that day, but it was as if it was off limits because no patients or even other physicians ever went back there. There’s a door at the end of the hall with the words “private” written on a black plaque. Paul reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a bundle of keys. It’s almost scary how quickly he finds the right one. The minute we walk into the room I notice immediately that the temperature is kept higher than the rest of the clinic.
As if he’d read my mind Paul chirps up, “I know, it’s a little warmer in here, but that’s simply to allow your blood to flow more freely.” He explains.
The walls in the room are littered with priceless paintings from every classical artist that ever existed. Each and every one of them is brightly displayed so as to show off their vibrant colors. In the dead center of the room stands a chair unlike any I’d ever seen in my life. It’s upholstery is a crimson red and each limb is equipped with black Velcro straps. There is even one at the base of the chair where the backing meets the seat. To the side of that was an E.K.G machine with a giant L.C.D display. A tingling sensation crawls down my spine as I take in the grandeur of what is before me.
“Whoa, wait a minute. You intend to strap me up in that thing?” I ask hesitantly.
Paul chuckles, “Oh, those straps are intended for those incapable of controlling themselves during these sessions. I don’t think YOU’LL need it, right Susan?” I see his eyes grow.
“I, I hope not.” My voice is soft.
Paul gives me a reassuring pat on the back, “I’m sure you’ll do just fine. It’s just that I’ve had some patients who try to kick or punch back, and well… I can’t have that.” he nods his head, why don’t you have a seat?” he pushes me towards the chair.
“Okie dokie.” I seat myself onto the threshold, where at one point or another other women in my predicament had once sat. The chair is quite comfortable and I use the extension to prop my legs atop of it so that they’re flush and not hanging off at the sides.
“Before we begin I’d like to ask you a short series of questions Okay Susan?” Paul pulls out a clipboard.
“Sure.” I say plainly.
“Susan, how long would you say you’ve been struggling with depression?” he asks.
I close my eyes. The shadow of my attacker looms in the crevasses of my memory, “Since the night it happened. You know… my rape.” I shudder.
Paul throws a small smile my way, “are you aware of doctor patient confidentiality and that what occurs here will not leave this room?” he taps his pen on the pad.
I shrug my shoulders in a confused manor, “I understand.”
Then comes the question that surrounds this whole idea of me being here, “Are you ticklish?” he at last addresses the elephant in the room.
I crack a small smile, “It’s been years since I’ve been tickled, so I’m not really sure.” I’m sincere.
Paul jots down some notes, “Hmm… Well on that note I suppose it’s time to get started.”
I give a simple nod, not giving away the anticipation that’s boiling up underneath my skin. For the first time in a long time I feel like a child waiting their turn to get on the Ferris wheel. I watch as Paul gently unties the knots on my shoelaces. I feel my shoes expand as the tightness of my laces becomes undone. He pulls on the tongue of the shoe until they are completely flaccid. With one swift motion he slips them off my feet leaving only my dingy white socks as protection from his fingertips. I cover my mouth slightly embarrassed at the amount of dust and dirt that has gathered under the soles of my socks.
“I’m terribly sorry about my socks. I know they’re a bit dirty, but…” I fumble around my words.
He waves me off, “It’s alright. They won’t be staying on for long.” He takes in my size 5 feet then looks up at me, “you ready?”
I clench my jaw, “only time will tell.” I invitingly bend my toes towards his big strong hands.
He takes that as a sign to commence. Even through the thickness of my socks his fingers send tingles up my arches and I can only imagine how much worse it will become when he finally removes them to embrace my bare soles.
His fingers streak up and down my arches in a calm manor, “How’s that?” he asks.
The sensations make my feet twitch involuntarily and it’s only natural that my legs want to pull away, “HE-HE-T-THAT TICKLES-SE-EH-HE-HE!” I giggle profusely.
His fingers continue to explore every inch of my socked feet from the heels to the toes. It feels like an itch that I want to scratch, but cannot, must not, lest he have me strapped to this chair.
His fingers dance gracefully like ice skaters at the Olympic winter games, “that’s good Susan, let it out.” He instructs playfully.
I resist the urge to jerk my foot away, but cannot suppress the desire, “AH, HA-EH-HE-HE-HE WHOO…” insane jargon comes babbling out of my mouth uncontrollably.
Paul’s grip tightens around my ankles almost to the point of pain, “No, no. Hold still now Miss Susan.” His finger nails slip down to my heels and scratch making circular motions with such haste its mind blowing.
I scissor my feet back and forth using one to protect the other, which of course fails miserably, “HAW-HEE-HEE-TEE-WHEE-EH-EH-HE-HE *cough* IT’S IMPOSSIBLE!” I screech.
I feel his fingers crawl towards my ankles and peel off my socks. My bare feet are flushed with redness from being incased in cotton. I use the brief pause in the action to flex my toes. I’m not out of breath, but I can feel my heart rate climbing gradually.
His fingers pinch at my toes, “Oh, Susan you have such pretty feet! Did you paint these toesies pink for me?” he takes a comedic tone.
I shake my head, “no, but they are cute aren’t they?” I decide to play along; after all I do kinda like the guy.
He runs a single fingernail down my arch, “ready for more?” he asks, “this is the part where it might get a little tough to hold still.” He says.
“Tough?” I think to myself. I was having trouble containing myself throughout the SOCKED tickling! Of course that’s not what I say, “We’re ready!” I say in a cartoonish voice and I wiggle my toes invitingly.
Paul chuckles, “Good!” He wastes no time reconnecting his fingers to my tender bottoms sending pulsating sensations up my body.
I find very quickly that his fingers are indeed more effective on bare soles and I already miss my dingy white socks that now lie somewhere on the floor, no longer protecting my feet, “HA-HA-HA WHEE-TEE-OOOH-HA-HA-HA-JEEE-JEE-HA-HA-HA-OH GAWD OH GAWD!” I cackle. My knees jerk up spastically trying to break his grip, but he’s a strong individual and the pressure he’s applying on my ankles is too much for me to overcome.
His fingers fly quickly up and down my arches. They are lightly grazing my skin, but it’s enough to make me lose it, “Worse?” he asks, knowing full well by my reactions that it most defiantly is, “my, my you’re a strong one!” he says.
Perhaps I am, because I can it in his face that he’s starting to perspire. I clasp my hand over my mouth slightly embarrassed at how ugly my laugh is, “HA-HA-HA-WHOO-HEE-HE-HE-HE-TEEE-JEE-JEE-JEE-OH GAWD!” Even my hand can’t quite muffle the sound’s erupting from the pit of my stomach.
Paul stops for a second, “aww, don’t cover up that beautiful smile!” he gently removes my hand from my mouth, “now I don’t want to have to restrain you.” He gives me a stern look.
I know exactly what he’s talking about. With my arms in the straps there’d be no way for me to cover my mouth, so I decide it best to try and keep them at my sides, “No, please don’t do that. Please.” I beg.
“Oh, alright.” He says and his focus goes back to my feet.
His fingers wiggle their way to the tips of my toes which sends my butt in the air, “HAY-HA-HA-HA-HEE-HEE-WHEE-NOT THE TOOOOES!” I scream.
He giggles along with me, “easy there young lady. I don’t want you falling off the chair!” he teases.
He devotes special attention to each and every one of them digging his nails up and down and around them, “HA-HA-HA-P-PLEASE-NOT THERE-OH GAWD NOOOO! NO TO TOOOOES!” I beg. Try as I might I simply cannot contain my urge to pull away from his grasp and with one strong tug… I do.
My free leg flails in the air nearly kicking the doctor in the head, “alright that’s enough of that!” he says displeased.
I giggle shyly, “I couldn’t help it.” I mumble innocently with my finger in my mouth.
Paul stands up from his seated position and I fear the worst, “I’m afraid you leave me no choice, I’m going to have to restrain you Susan.” He folds his arms. I remember my father doing the exact same pose countless times after I’d disobeyed him.
I shake my head franticly, “no, no you, you don’t have to do that! I’m sorry. I’ll be a good patient. I can control myself.” I plead.
My words get me nowhere as I see no change in Dr. Paul’s facial expression, “Nope, you had your chance. Now for your safety and for mine, please allow me to restrain you.” He speaks in a low tone.
A part of me wonders whether or not I should trust him. It’s the same part of me that wonders if it wasn’t part of his plan to restrain me in the first place. He must have known there was no way I’d be able to contain myself. I mean if he’s done this to other women, he must know. Then there’s the part of me that says, “He’s a doctor. And I want to feel better.” This is probably my stupid side because it’s the one I go with and I indicate so by placing my ankles and wrist in position to be strapped.
He smiles brightly at me, “good choice Miss Susan.” He quickly secures my arms and legs and wraps additional Velcro straps around my waist tightly enough to make my pregnant tummy protrude from under it. He pats my tummy, “it’s okay baby. Mommy’s going to feel much better after this is all over.”
I’m at his mercy now. I test the straps to see just how strong they are…unbreakable, “umm… these are on pretty good hu?” I say squeamishly.
He chuckles eyeing his handy work, “Oh yes. I’ve had women in there much bigger than you, even had one weight lifter, don’t worry… you won’t break them.”
My heart skips a beat as I know for sure that I am neither big nor a weight lifter and if they can’t tear through these straps I won’t be able to either. I look at him. His nice demeanor, the one I met earlier in the ultrasound is now hidden under a devilish smile and wide eyes that are looking at my feet like they’re a pot of gold.
He kneels down and gently caresses my bare soles agitating them ever so slightly, “Now I can begin the more SERIOUS work.” He winks.
I bite down on my tongue hoping my self-induced pain will somehow be greater than what I’m about to be subject to down below, “Mmm…” is all I say.
His fingers strike my arches without mercy exploring every inch of skin, “tickle tickle!!” he says.
My clenched jaw opens wide for a burst of giggles, “HA-HE-HE-HE-TEE-HEE-WHOO-OOO-LEAVE MY-MY-MY HE-HE-HE!” I cry. I tug my legs. My brain desperately begging me to pull away and end this madness, but I can’t.
Paul stops and rubs out any remaining tingling sensations from my feet, “So, Susan what do you do for a living, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“…I…I’m an El…Elementary school t-teacher.” I pant.
Paul looks up at me, “Oh, what grade?” he questions.
“I…I teach first graders.” My breathing is slowly returning to normal.
Paul strokes my foot, “Oh, so what do you teach them?”
I cringe at the tingling sensation his fingernail is causing, “Ooo, you know, counting…reading.” I ping my head side to side.
Paul grabs hold of my toes, “Oh, so do you teach them to count with…THESE?!” He drills his fingers in between my toes.
My face lights up at the intense sensations coming up from my feet, “HA-HA-HA-GOOO-OH-HOO-HOO-WHOO-HA-HA-HA OH-OH!” I scream.
Paul begins to count each toe, “one little piggy, two little piggy, three little piggy…” his nails scrape. It’s funny how from such a small space like the bottom of a toe can erupt the biggest sensations.
I whip my head side to side is spastic fashion, “P-PLEASE ST-ST-AH-HA-HA-HA-P-P! I-I-HA-HA-WHEEE-I CAN COUNT!” I declare.
The same fingers that create havoc on my toes bring about sweet relief as Dr. Paul rubs away the remaining itches, “Alright. And how do you feel so far Miss Susan?” he cocks his head to lock eyes with mine.
My chest is expanding and contracting faster than any physical exercise has ever made it do before, “W-well…I’m…*cough*laughing.” I reply through gasps of air.
Paul stands up and glides his hands to my knees, “Good, that means it’s working!!” with no warning at all he squeezes my knobs.
My butt bounces up as much as my restrains allow, “HA-HA-HA-HA-WH-WHAT? I-DIDN’TA-TA-HA-HA-KNOW MY KNEES WERE-HE-HE-HEE-TICKLISH-H-HE-HE-HE!” My body convulses knocking my knees together in a useless effort to get his pinching hands off me.
Paul laughs along with me, “Well I guess it’s true, you DO learn something new every day.” He compresses my knees so they no longer give him trouble. Then he does something unexpected… he straddles my legs.
“*cough* W-what are…y-you doin’ Doc?” I enquire.
He pats my thighs, “Oh, just getting in a better position.”
I don’t have a chance to rebuttal because before I even get a chance think together a sentence his clutches are all over my inner thighs, “WH-WH-WH-HA-HA-HA-HA-W-WAITE-TE-TE-TEEE-HE-HE-HE-HA-HA!” I crack up.
His thumbs squeeze deep into my tender flesh pressing though the tissue and the muscle right up to the bone where they inflict the most torment. My legs are now completely immobile thanks to his mass keeping me in place.
I throw my head back, “HA-HA-HA-WHOOO-OOO-OOO HEE-HEE-HEE-I DIND’T AGREE-HE-HE-T-TO THIS!” I protest.
Dr. Paul’s hands inch closer towards my vaginal area, “Oh, but don’t you want to get better from depression?” He shrugs his shoulders while he continues to go to town on me.
I tug at the straps, “HA-HA-HA Y-YES-ESS-ESS-HE-HE-HE-HA-HA-BUT-BUT…”
“But what?” Dr. Paul asks.
“I-I CAN’T TAKE IT!” I admit.
He unclamps his hands and rubs my legs. The leggings I decided to wear only amplify the sensitivity, “Aww, there, there Miss Susan, you’re doing splendidly.” It’s almost as if he’s on a predetermined monologue. As if whatever I say he’ll respond with a sly remark.
My chest pounds and my feet are starting to grow numb from having Dr. Paul pressed down on my legs, “Ooo, ooo, p-please Dr. Paul I’m, I’m feeling much better. I really am!” I plead with him, hoping he’ll come to the conclusion that he’s done enough.
Paul gets off my legs. At long last, It appears as though the torment is over, but then he speaks, “Well I’m glad to hear that Susan, but just to be sure…” Dr. Paul rolls my shirt up exposing my midriff, “I’m going to keep going, you know for reassurance.” He strikes a single finger across my midsection which ripples in anticipation.
“No, no, please! I’ve been cured. I swear!” I object, but his fingers continue to titillate my skin, “Dr. Paul, I’d like for you to STOP this instant!” I reinforce my tone of voice, “If you don’t stop I’ll…”
His fingers thrust right into my abdominals, “you’ll what? Call my MOMMY?!” he chuckles.
The reprimand in my voice melts into bountiful burst of laughter, “HA-HA-HA-WHOOO-NOOO-TE-TE-TE-HEE-HEE-HEE-WH-WHAT-P-PLEASE-HA-HA-HA-OKAY-OKAY-HA-HA-HA-HEE-JE-JE-YOUR FINGERS SUCK!” I bellow.
His fingers massage deep into my stomach making it shake like a glob of gelatin dessert, “Oh, you don’t mean that Miss Susan…” he maneuvers his fingers lower down towards my hips, “I apologize for the slight discomfort little one…” he jabs at where my fetus should be, “…but I’m helping MOMMY be happy!” He inserts his index finger into my navel, “Ooo, you have an innie! That’ll change in a few months.” He teases.
I can feel his fingers shaking me to the core and I gyrate my hips in a hopeless attempt to dodge his attack. I know it’s not going to happen, but it’s just the body’s instinctive nature to squirm, “OOO-OOO-HA-HA-HA-P-PLEASEEE-SE-JE-JE-JE-TE-TE-TE-EH-HA-OOO I HATE THIS!” I blurt.
Dr. Paul shakes his head, “Oh, you can’t possibly mean that. If you hate it so much why you keep laughing?” he jokes, knowing full well why.
A stream of laughter escapes my mouth as his thumbs press against my hipbones, “HA-HA-HA-HEEE-I-I-WHEE-I-CAN’T HELP IT-TE-TE-TE-P-LEASE-OH GAWD!” I try and scoot my hips away from his thumbs only to be met by the backing of the chair which keeps me in place, “THIS IS TORTURE!” I belt out.
There’s a fiendish look on his face as my words ring in his ears, “That’s it Miss Susan, let it out.” He must find my predicament amusing because he’s chuckling along with me, “ha-ha you’re doing great Miss Susan, this right here…” he pinches my hips, “is a good tickle spot.” He unclutches my hips.
I’m still laughing even after his hands break contact with my body, “HE-HE-HE-HA-HA-OOO,” after I regain my bearings I take a stern tone with Dr. Paul, “OH, YOU JUST WAIT TILL I GET OUT OF HERE! I’LL HAVE YOU STRIPPED OF YOUR LICENCE!” Confined to a chair this may come off as an empty threat, but I have to try something to get him to stop. Whatever sentiment I had for him is out the window and all I can think about is how in the hell am I going to get out of this.
Paul frowns, “Aww, you don’t really mean that do you Miss Susan? This is for your own good! Now be a good girl and just laugh your little head off!” I watch helplessly as his hands lunge for my ribs.
He massages his giant thumbs up and down my rib cage, “OOO-OOH-GAWD-OH-GAWDA-HA-HA-HA-JE-JE-JE-HEEE-TE-TE-TOO MUCH!” I squeal, “THAT’S ENOUGHA-HA-HA-HA-P-PLEASE DR. PAUL!” I insist.
“So, Susan, how long have you been a teacher?” he continues talking to me as if though this is just a normal conversation mixed in with loads of involuntary laughter, “Susan… I’m waiting.”
His fingers ease up on their assault enough for me to respond, “F-five *cough* OOO-five years!” I really have no choice, but to play along.
His eyes light up, “Oh, you’re just about a seasoned professional!” he says as his fingers still exploring my ribs.
I’m still twitching, but less psychotic as his attack has become a little more bearable, “OOO-HA-HA-I guess-S-S-HE-HE I guess you’re right!” I sputter.
“So Susan, what do you like to do for fun?” he asks awkwardly. I guess this isn’t exactly the best setting for getting to know somebody, but my good feelings towards him are beginning to resurface, so kudos to him for that.
“I-HE-HE-OOO- I DON’T LIKE GETTING TICKLES!” I proclaim. It’s a recent discovery of mine and one worth mentioning.
Dr. Paul chuckles, “Oh really? I never would have guessed.” He teases the tender flesh that makes up my armpits evoking me to flap my arms.
“HA-HA-OOO-NOT THERE-NOTA-TA-TA-HA-HA-HA THERE!” Laugher explodes from inside of me. His fingers feel like insects crawling circles in and around my hollows penetrating through supple tissue and making my breast bounce around in my bra. I can feel beads of perspiration roll down my lower back into my butt crack, a sign that the temperature in this room is getting to me.
Dr. Paul’s relentless attack has had me more physically active than ever, and he takes notice by gently wiping some sweat off my brow, “My oh my Miss Susan, it appears you’re getting a two in one today. A depression treatment and some exercise.” He laughs.
His fingers ease away from my pits, “OOO-HOO-*cough*WORK OUT? THIS IS WORSE THAN P90X!” I throw in my own humor.
Paul backs off of me, “I’ll take that as a complement. Now here’s one for you…” he locks eyes with me.
“Uh-hu?” I say still astounded by his onslaught.
“Since the moment we met earlier today, I’ve been attracted to you.” He searches my eyes for some sort of connection or an understanding.
At the understanding of those words, all the torture, all the suffering and all of the humiliation he’s put me through at this point fades away away. Those words overshadow everything leading up to them. I look at him with upmost compassion. If my arms weren’t restrained I’d envelop them into his deep chest. “Oh Dr. Paul… I… I’m flattered, I truly am.” I say. I don’t let on about my feelings towards him because I am curious to see how this plays out. If I let on that I’ve liked him from the start, he’ll be on easy street.
Dr. Paul reaches for my arms and I flinch in anticipation of another attack. Instead he surprises me with a most welcome gesture; he unstraps my wrist, ‘Be free!” he sings.
My arms collapse to my sides. It’s as though the straps were the only things keeping them up. My arms feel drained. Whatever little muscle they have, is buried under tender flesh, unresponsive, “Ooo, that feels good!” I declare.
Dr. Paul unstraps my waist and then my ankles. I slouch into the seat. My body is a broken vessel at this point. Every last inch of me feels like it’s in a state of paralysis. Even unbound, I’m confined by my bodies’ limitations, “Don’t worry Miss Susan. Your body will soon return to its full potential. You’ve just been subject to such torture your body is simply trying to catch up is all.” He thoroughly explains, “How do you feel Miss Susan?”
I stretch my arms and legs, “I feel exhausted, but accomplished at the same time. Almost as though I stared my fears, my depression right in the face and literally laughed at it all.”
Dr. Paul pats me on the back, “that’s terrific. No hard feelings I hope? You did say some nasty things.” He asks.
I shake my head, “Oh, well you know, those were just in the moment comments. We’re cool now.” I intertwine my fingers into the ones that a moment ago had me sprawling, “we’re very cool.”
Dr. Paul pulls me close, “now, there is a follow up session if you’re inter-“
“NO!” I interject, “I think one session’s enough thank you!”
We both laugh. Dr. Paul picks me up in his arms and plants his lips squarely onto mine. His facial scruff prickles my delicate skin, but I don’t care. I succumb to his clutches; restrained again by my own volition.
Dr. Paul pulls back and takes a deep breath, “Miss Susan, when this baby comes…” he rubs my belly, “…I want to be there.”
“Well of course you’ll be there, you’ll be delivering it.” I respond slightly dumbfounded.
“No, Susan. I want to be there by your side, holding your hand. I want to be the one telling you that you can do it, not as a doctor, but as a…”
I clasp my hand to my mouth. It quickly dawns on me that he intends to be there as my steady, as my man. I shower his face with kisses. Kisses he happily returns to me, “would you have me by your side Susan?” he asks.
I already know the answer. He already knows the answer. A resounding, “YES!” escapes my lips and we continue to embrace passionately into the night.
great job once again
