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"A Ticklish Matriculation" (Hannah Davis 2), all F

Capt. Spalding

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*The following all F ticklefest is copyright 2001 by the author.
*This story is intended only for readers 18 years and older, as it contains some sexual content (Talk about your red flags!). If you are younger than 18, please go elsewhere. (You’ll probably find much steamier fare on cable TV, for example.) All of the characters herein are 18 years and older, as well, even if not one of them acts like it.
*Hisses and kisses should be directed to [email protected]
*Please don’t e-mail to tell me that one doesn’t serve vintage Bordeaux with moussaka. I’m a
soy milk and herbal tea person. What do I know?
*While I enjoy spinning prose fantasies, I do not encourage the actual merciless tickling of teachers. Nor do I recommend that teachers resort to tickling when dealing with colleagues or students. Nonetheless, I sure wish that I’d tickled Ms. W. when I’d had the chance, and vice versa. Ah, regrets…
the curse of advancing age…
*While someone in this story is tickled to “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik,” I myself would use Ravel’s “Bolero” instead. To be tickled to that slowly building masterpiece would be maddening. Heh-heh-heh…












A TICKLISH MATRICULATION

a sequel to SABBATICKLE
featuring the return of Professor Hannah Davis
and introducing the Vellication Irregulars

by Tee Hee Lawrence

Set on a card table, amidst brushes, feathers, electric toothbrush, cordless shoe polisher, and a special pair of silk gloves, the Japanese lamp, a little white tower of rice paper and wire, provided the only light in the basement. Seated nearby in a recliner set before a padded pillar, Hannah twirled a little red feather between the thumb and forefinger of one hand. In the dim surroundings, her comrades were whispering and giggling in anticipation of the evening’s fun. All were waiting for the signs from upstairs that their special guests had arrived.

With her craved retribution imminent, Hannah’s tummy was serving as a racetrack for a hundred
butterflies. To divert herself from their fluttering, the lanky Professor thought back over the weeks of
her recent short sabbatical, to the day she met Clarice and Nikki, whose visit in turn prompted her to
return to the fold of her comrades in laughter, the Vellication Irregulars …

Hannah Davis was an associate Professor of American History who had recently enjoyed a fall
sabbatical from teaching at a prestigious college in a storied New England town. She was a respected
scholar and a popular instructor whose reserve her students vainly tried to compromise with laughter.
Hannah—tall, trim, taut, “unattached” in her mid-thirties, with long, lush auburn hair, a pleasing visage with a strong nose, high cheekbones, a wide, sensual mouth with an alluring slight overbite, and
compelling smoky eyes behind wide, dark-framed eyeglasses—had suffused her fall days with research and writing in virtual solitude.

One November afternoon, however, her regimen was interrupted by the appearance of two young
women: blond Clarice and dark Nikki, who appeared to have lost their way. They claimed to be aspiring
students, who sold designer shoes door-to-door, and they beguiled Hannah into trying on their stock in her living room. Before long, bound barefoot to her recliner, Hannah was at length mercilessly tickled by the mischievous pair, whose stated sole aim was to video record their reputedly reserved victim’s helpless hysterical laughter and thus win a bet.

In the weeks after their calamitous intrusion, Hannah struggled to remain focussed on her work,
which included plans for a new course on the women’s rights movement. However, the urge for vengeance
against her tickling tormentors—an urge instilled before they were out the door—grew, and ornate revenge
fantasies began to overwhelm her academic discipline. She’d be plotting a timeline for passage of the
19th Amendment to the Constitution, when thoughts of what she would do to a helplessly bound Clarice and Nikki stampeded over her work like a gaggle of school kids upon the wet cement of a new sidewalk.

In one particularly persistent scenario, she would be seated in her office at her desk, over which
the prankish pair were bound, suspended from the ceiling, so that their feet hovered within easy reach
at eye level. While Hannah proceeded through her office hours, answering correspondences, downloading
articles, even meeting with her students, she would periodically stroke Clarice’s plump bare feet and
Nikki’s sleek, nylon-covered tootsies--heedless of their laughter-choked entreaties for her to stop.
Occasionally, a helpful colleague or fawning student would offer her a feather duster or hairbrush to
vary the casually administered, protracted torment. Clarice’s round, apple-cheeked face was red and tear-streaked as she screamed with utterly helpless, high-pitched laughter. Nikki had squeezed her eyes shut and
was shaking her head “no” repeatedly as her open mouth, stretched in a pearly grin, emitted breathy bursts
of nigh silent hysteria. Of course, this was even before Hannah brought the electric toothbrush out of her desk drawer…

Hannah realized that she wouldn’t finish the work necessary for the course—which debuted shortly in the winter term--unless she acted on her fantasies for payback against the prankish pair. As the year-end holidays approached, she decided to seek help from a group of simpatico friends she’d ignored for too long. Yes, this was a job for… the Vellication Irregulars!

******

Who would have guessed that the serious, scholarly Hannah Davis was a founding member, and indeed a driving force in its early stages, of the Vellication Irregulars? The group loved to talk, fantasize, and engage each other in unbridled, playful tickling—an exercise combining the high intellectual aspirations, combustible erotic tensions, and low comedy that only a small college town atmosphere could
engender. The Professor Davis who so frustrated undergrads trying to get her giggling at their jokes and horseplay was the same Hannah who had delighted in exploiting her fellow Irregulars’ ticklishness. The sober scholar quoted Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Sojourner Truth and cited explicit details of a midwife’s routine in, say, 1880 Charleston by day. Amidst the Irregulars, however, her laughter, a bubbling, Southern contralto, flowed like the Mississippi in springtime. Some of the most celebrated schemes and pranks of the group’s early years (e.g., turning-the-tables on a notorious toe-teasing pedicurist in a nearby burg—a tale best told on another occasion) had been cleverly hatched by none other than the “serious” Professor Davis.

The previous spring, however, Hannah gradually drifted away from the Irregulars. Perhaps it was a consequence of the irrevocable departure overseas of her last lover, often a willing partner in wild Irregular play. The resultant void Hannah filled with increased, almost overwhelming responsibilities in the History Department and a nigh-punitive regimen of research and writing. Her monkish devotion to her articles and papers reached an apotheosis during her sabbatical following the summer term. She had then stopped being an Irregular altogether, rarely even answering phone calls and correspondences from her ticklesome comrades. Their ever more passionate entreaties to her, trumpeting their craving of her laughter and tickling facility, did not move her to join them.

So, it was feeling a bit the Prodigal that Hannah called Rachel Klamour, asking to come before a meeting of the Irregulars’ Girrlzz Squad. (While the Irregulars as a whole were a predominantly male
group, what the men jokingly called the Sapphic Squad was a committee of the most active women members. Hannah had been an avid Squad member before she had drifted away from Irregular doings.) Rachel was unabashedly delighted to hear from Hannah, and encouraged her to come to the Squad’s next meeting, which would be in her basement (as it was Rachel’s turn as Chair) one evening between the holidays. Hannah agreed, and found she worked more efficiently knowing the die was cast.

Came that chilly evening, with the taste of snow in the air, Hannah, feeling a tad shy, knocked upon Rachel’s front door, which bore in a corner of its tiny window a small octagonal yellow sticker stating, “Warning: Poetry Under Construction.” Rachel, a modestly built fifty-three-year-old with lively violet eyes and short sandy hair with silver highlights, was smiling broadly as she welcomed her in. She led her downstairs to join five vibrant women sitting in a warm, neatly finished basement lit by a number of akagi lamps. This den was complete with plush carpeting, a motley collection of worn, comfortable furniture, a ping pong table, a VCR, a large screen TV, a stereo deck, myriad examples of Rachel’s painting and sculpture—most “in progress” and who knew how many books on shelves lining the walls.

Accepting their effusions of pleasure at her return, Hannah initially discussed articles she’d written and the shape of the course she was preparing. However, she could tell from their polite silence that these women had not gathered for shoptalk. They seemed to know a matter most relevant to the Squad’s mission motivated her appearance. Thus, she took a measured breath and plunged into a detailed, animated account of the tickle torment that Clarice and Nikki had visited upon her. Concluding, she then offered the meeting a modest proposal . . .

“…Needless to say, I would like to identify those young ladies, catch them unaware…”

“—And give as good as you got. MMM! A delicious prospect,” purred recent Muscovite Alexandra “Sacha” Petrovna, a pert Mathematics adjunct in her mid-20s, with long, peroxide blond bangs and wide, dark eyes, “even if I can only imagine what you went through.” She giggled. “Really, Hannah, how did they—What is the word… English is so delightful…bamboozle--I only learned that one yesterday—bamboozle you so?”

“Believe me, Sacha,” assured Hannah, “these kids ran a thoughtful, disciplined operation, from their pretending to be lost, to their working-our-way-through-college shtick, to their extremely skillful
tickling.” As she said the last word, Hannah reached over to the ottoman where the Russian had carelessly crossed her ankles, and played her fingertips down the mathematician’s nylon-clad soles.

“Hey, no fair!” yelped Sacha, as she yanked her feet back and sat upon them. “This is supposed to be discussion.” She stuck out her tongue at Hannah, who chuckled softly, saying in fond, Southern tones, “Forgive me, darlin,’ but it’s been so long . . .”

Responding, Rachel, in her husky smoker’s voice, attempted the gravity of a Madeline Albright. “Now, Hannah, if you want us to help you, and not fall upon you”—her eyebrows wagging—“ in a gleeful reenactment of the crime, you’ll recall and honor the rules of discussion and corral your frisky fingers.” Rachel, the elder of the group, was a veteran of the school’s English Department, with the title of Senior Poet, which she often joked should be printed on a sash that she could wear around campus. “I must admit, my dear, that the thought of you being reduced by those two charlatans to an overflowing giggle fountain gives me pause. Penetrating the dignified Davis façade takes some doing.”

“I’m sure when we find the two ladies, they’ll be happy to offer us their expertise with Hannah’s most sensitive spots,” chortled Shaundra Manley, the Business Administration instructor twirling one of her beaded brown ‘locks as a melodramatic villain does his mustache. The full-figured, brown-eyed, 29-year-old, at 6’1” the tallest present, stared at the three long toes visible through Hannah’s worn woolen socks. “She’s been away so long that I’m no longer certain just where they are,” she mused, with a Jamaican lilt in her voice, “though I’m open to rediscovery.”

“Putting aside my motivation,” Hannah riposted, ignoring Shaundra’s salacious stare, “I would hope that the Vellication Irregulars would seek to discipline rogue ticklers blithely threatening the group’s hegemony in our chosen perversion.”
“Hah!” Dr. Valeria Gotteborg, the fortyish, roly-poly Norwegian psychologist snorted, her pale blue eyes dancing merrily beneath her short curly pale red hair. “Perversion! You sound, Hannah, as if you were ‘born again’ during your absence. Perversion: a term loaded with such self-loathing that I shudder. I prefer shuddering with laughter to shuddering with self-loathing, thank you.” She stretched, pointedly exposing her midriff and pink-hosed soles, all spectacularly sensitive.

“Careful, VeeGee,” cautioned Gelsomina Orrechio, her dark, almond-shaped eyes flashing and her right forefinger wiggling in the universal gesture of a tickle threatened. “One should always be very careful what one wishes.” The 27-year-old olive-skinned, ebon-pigtailed botanist, her 5’8” built like the solid triathalonist she was at the University of Turin, then suggested, “Wouldn’t our pursuit of these youthful interlopers be in violation of our pledge to leave undergraduates untickled in the name of academic ethics?”

“Yeah, right! You’re a fine one to lecture, Geli!” mocked Shaundra. “Weren’t you the one who
boasted of finding a new use for specimens gathered with one of your field trip cuties last spring?”

“Why, I…,” protested Geli, unable to hide her sexy, gap-toothed smile.

“’Nothing, girls, but-a nothing tickles botanical interns like a fiddlehead fern!’” clowned Sacha, her Russian accent colliding with her intent to mimic Geli’s Italian one. Sacha’s hands shot out to parry
Geli’s attempt to reply via the blonde’s underarms.

“Order, ladies, order!” Rachel waved the feather duster that served as gavel this evening.

“Then there was the classified ad we placed in the Weekly Gazette for ‘volunteer test subjects, modest stipend offered’,” Lucia Sierra Montanez, the compact, ruddy-skinned, 37-year-old political science research fellow, with a bowl-cut of thick, straight copper hair, reminded all with a rueful smile. “ Virtually everyone Osvaldo and I interviewed was an undergraduate,” referring to her husband, a demographer and fellow Irregular.

“Oh, that disaster!” moaned Rachel. “We never should have entertained ‘Chiro when he cooked up that scheme.” The chair was referring to another Irregular--Junchiro Yamaguchi (“Chiro Kootchy” to his friends here), away on an archaeological dig in Asia Minor—who concocted a scheme to tickle hapless “test subjects” as part of an alleged government study. The interviews to find a few amply ticklish volunteers were lengthy and tedious, the tickling in almost every case brief and blasé, and they had to pay these people! And it all came with the risk of exposure for the Irregulars! (But, that, as well, is an Irregular tale for another day. . .)

“In the matter at hand, though, I think these two terrorists have demanded our attention by
tricking our dear Hannah,” pronounced Valeria.

“Yes, and they’re obviously tickle enthusiasts as well as foot connoisseurs—a wicked combination,” chimed in Shaundra, admiring her bare brown right foot and wiggling her long toes, their toes painted a luscious mango.

“It does seem clear that they coolly targeted you, Hannah,” Rachel mused. “How did they
ever learn where you were so ticklish? Could they have stumbled upon your role in the Irregulars?”

“I think our group’s secret is safe,” assured Hannah. “I’m certain they would have gloated about their knowledge of the Irregulars while they had me helpless—if they indeed had known.” Left unsaid by the historian was a dawning suspicion that one of these Vellication Irregulars could have set her up for her giggling ordeal. The Girrlzz Squad was a staunch sisterhood—but one of her “sisters,” she thought, must have steered those two hellions to her door!, The cunning little vixen had been provided knowledge not only of the professor’s vulnerability to tickling but her predilection for tickling as well. That would explain the flaunting of Nikki’s stocking feet (which helped to disarm Hannah) and Clarice’s taunting of their captive’s yearning to tickle those feet. How could they have known, unless…

“Which one?” wondered Hannah. “Which of my ‘sisters’ wanted me so mercilessly tickled, and why?”

“The other day in the lounge at the Student Union,” offered Lucia, who wore silver-framed bifocals, which were always sliding down and sailing off her wide nose, to land, held by a lanyard, bouncing upon her ample chest. “ I did come upon some students closely gathered around a TV on with the sound real low. When I asked what was so interesting, they stopped the tape they were playing and fumbled out an explanation that it was a ‘stupid party video’. Definitely conspiratorial behavior.”

“Was it Luci?” considered Hannah. She remembered dropping by Luci and Osvaldo’s a few terms
ago to pick up some chart design software, only to find the Chicana sweetly dozing in a mesh hammock
gently swaying between two venerable oaks in the backyard. Her left leg had slipped through the mesh and was, from the knee down, below the hammock. How could anyone, especially an Irregular, resist the temptation provided by that bare foot with its espadrille dangling precariously from its toes? A few light strokes upon the sole from a passing historian’s forefinger, and the toes twitched off the shoe. Unprotected now, the bare bronze foot was helpless before Hannah’s five-fingered fiesta, and Luci’s giggling eruption from siesta saw her minutes later comically upended from the wildly swinging hammock. “Just you wait!” Lucia had vowed through a mouthful of acorns, as Hannah fled with the disk Osvaldo had already given her. She’d been wary around Lucia after that, expecting a specific retaliation that never came…

Pushing her eyeglasses to the top of her nose, Lucia concluded, “You know, I would swear now
that I heard crazed laughter coming from that TV.”

“Oh-ho!” chortled Sacha, raising her arms and baring her midriff with its tattoo of pi. “The percentiles shout that the ‘party video’ starred Ha-Ha-Hannah!”

“Good God! If the campus bootleggers get hold of that tape, they’ll be copies everywhere,” wailed Hannah. “I’ll have to lecture wearing steel-reinforced boots! Every one of my students will come to class
with a feather,” She then wondered to herself if Sacha recalled a year ago, when the group was painting Rachel’s basement, then a work-in-progress. At one point, the mathematician had fully extended both arms, guiding a roller across the ceiling. Hannah immediately daubed Sacha’s exposed navel, just below pi, with a brush. The blonde squealed, tumbled from her precarious perch on a teetering chair onto a drop clothed couch, where she lay mumbling in Russian with a coat of cream white across her puss. The ensuing chaos saw her richly painted and totally gang-tickled, for which she sarcastically thanked Hannah over the post-paint spring rolls and Chardonnay.

“Well, your students will have to wait their turn,” sang Valeria. “After all, we saw you first!”

Now Hannah was reminded of how merciless she was sixteen months earlier when a mead-tipsy
Dr. Gooteborg allowed herself to be bound in the stocks at the campus Renaissance Fair. Oh, the oaths the
redhead had uttered—amidst her howls of hilarity—as the herself-buzzed historian serenely maneuvered a goose quill between the Valerian toes! It must have been a good twenty minutes before VeeGee’s husband, Lars--a chain-smoking drama coach who bemusedly indulged his wife’s Irregular inclinations—stepped in to rescue her. The publicly undone psychologist had never caught the historian with her shoes off to return
the favor in kind.

“Oooo, Hannah,” crooned Shaundra, “I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes—and especially not out of them—if that tape reaches the Dean’s office. You know what a closeted Puritan fetishist she is! And then,” she cackled, “there’s the Internet! Randall”—her lover (a campus technician)—“is always telling me
how quickly and pervasively any media file can be disseminated.”

“Lovely,” mumbled Hannah. She thought back many months to the time she electrified Shaundra, whose arms were full of financial journals clear up to her nose, as the economist fumbled with her keys in the otherwise empty corridor outside her office—a simply irresistible situation! —with a quick and skillful
ten-fingered ribs-tickle. The last thing Hannah heard before she escaped into a conveniently waiting elevator was the half-buried Shaundra’s hollered “You can run, but you can’t hide!” Were Clarice and Nikki the long-awaited instruments of Shaundra’s revenge?

“Who knows?” giggled Shaundra. “After seeing the tape, we may even want to apprentice the two girls as Irregulars! Catching Hannah unaware impresses me!

“Take them on as Irregulars? Is that wise, considering their youth?” cautioned Gelsomina, as she
removed the gold-rimmed granny glasses she wore for effect (as her vision was flawless). She used one earpiece to scratch under her arm.

“Is my nemesis formidable Geli?” pondered Hannah. There was that picnic the Irregulars enjoyed two summers ago, when Geli, showing off her athleticism, had clambered hand-over-hand way out on a thick branch overhanging the lake. Rachel warned her that the water would be chilly, but Geli assured her that she could hang out there longer than all of them put together. Just then, Hannah, who had sneakily positioned herself upon a limb slightly below and behind the botanist’s, avidly dug her fingertips into
Geli’s armpits. The Italian laughed a desperate “No-no-no!” before plunking fully clothed into the cold water. She emerged amuck with one sneaker gone, but she never cornered the prankish but elusive historian that day . . .

“Oh, Geli,” chided Valeria, “we know you prefer them young!” She, then, had to tuck her stocking feet under her seat when the botanist growled and made a swipe at them.

“I think I know a way to flush out your tormentors, Hannah,” suggested Rachel. “Maybe they’re
willing to sell that tape to an anonymous faculty member making an irresistible offer. Perhaps they’re even
greedy enough to accept an invitation to effect the sale at the isolated home of said faculty member. Naturally, they’d be invited downstairs to the discreet, well-appointed basement to view the tape on a very
big screen, whereupon they would find themselves subjects of a new production, directed by Professor
Hannah Davis.”

Hannah found Rachel’s idea exciting, and said so, but she was nagged by memories of a tickle
video night at VeeGee’s last winter. The group was sprawled in a semi-circle around a screen showing “A Tickling Habit,” with a Mother Superior stroking the bare tummy of an unconvincingly hysterical novitiate. Rachel yawned theatrically as she sat against the sofa at Hannah’s feet, announcing, “Y’know, if, in an ecumenical spirit, they’d have cast a nice Jewish girl she’d really laugh.” Hannah slipped down and grabbed the poet’s arms tightly from behind, shouting, “Let’s see, ladies, how a nice Jewish girl laughs!” Irregulars rolled towards Rachel, seeking out her tender spots, not forgetting, at Hannah’s insistence, the poet’s hypersensitive knees. “My kingdom for a camcorder,” drawled the historian, as she choreographed
the prolonged attack. When granted mercy, red-faced Rachel suggested that she’d really like a Hannah Davis video someday . . .

“It could be any one of them,” admitted Hannah to herself. “I’ve tickled plenty of motivation into each.”

“We’re agreed, then,” Rachel offered, “on the general plan for recovering Hannah’s…ah, honor, as soon as possible, say, by the start of term.”

“The devil’s in the details, though,” warned Shaundra.

Thus, the seven Irregulars moved into a tight huddle to hammer out those devilish details…

******

Ten days later, Professor Hannah Davis seemed to have her class in the palm of her hand.
She was wrapping up her opening lecture in The Women’s Suffrage Movement: 1865-1920, the course she’d long planned, and had readied during her sabbatical. She had been able to make the final course preparations only because her sister Irregulars had insisted that she leave the plans for Clarice and Nikki entirely to them. Now, she stood, clad in a brown tweed jacket over a maize blouse, a long brown woolen skirt, maize knee-his, and leather half-boots, leaning back against the front of her desk, preparing to throw the floor open for questions before dismissal.

Perhaps it was just her imagination that, when she slipped her right foot out of her new boot—a Christmas present worn for the first time with the morning’s light snow—and flexed her stocking toes,
her students’ eyes, formerly fixed on two assigned memoirs she was holding, were in unanimity drawn to her wiggling digits. Did her smoky, bespectacled eyes catch a glimpse of a long feather being brandished by someone seated in a shadowy back row? And was that a stage-whispered “Kitchey-kitchey-koo…”, followed by ill-stifled giggles from a group to her right?

“Oh-no!” Hannah thought. “As I feared, my students have been…compromised by that tape those
two little fiends circulated. Oooo! I can hardly wait for this evening, when I’ll meet that pair again, with my
sisters around me.”

With the class dismissed after an awkward, but blessedly brief Q&A, Hannah, relieved that no one had sneaked a feather onto her desk in the exodus, gathered up her materials and hastened to her office for
a late afternoon meeting with a thesis student. The meeting ran long, and she was shocked to see that her
watch showed nearly 7 PM. That shock was nothing compared to that which froze her as she was locking her office door. A generous arc of feathers crowned her nameplate fixed to the door. Hurling her scarf around her neck, she smiled ruefully as she contemplated the fate she had in store for dear Clarice and Nikki—and set off for what promised to be a very interesting meeting of the Girrlzz Squad of the Vellication Irregulars.


(continued below)
 
"ATicklish Matriculation" continues...

And, thus, Hannah found herself, as the clock neared eight, holding a red feather in one hand, and a gold slingback shoe in the other, seated in a recliner in Rachel’s dimly-lit basement. Five Irregulars could
barely contain their anticipation as they huddled in the shadows around her. And Hannah couldn’t
quite quell her butterflies…

She had to admit that her sisters had followed through on the plan splendidly. Lucia had discreetly acquired—through the student who had been jealously guarding the tape that day in the Union—a phone number for a certain Clarice Witciewicz, a 19-year-old salesclerk who frequented the campus. Clarice
received a call from Rachel, who introduced herself as “a poet from the College, who gave readings and led workshops at the high school”—perhaps Clarice, a recent graduate, remembered her. Rachel said she’d heard through one of her students—How virulent is the scuttlebutt on campus!—about a particular video which displayed a faculty rival getting her cootchy-coo comeuppance, which she wanted for tactical political purposes. (“Oh, blackmail,” Rachel reported Clarice as interjecting.) The poet offered to buy the tape for an outrageous sum, and, further, gushed that she would love to meet such a clever young woman and the lovely, thin, exotic companion Clarice was seen with on campus. (Rachel’s source in the high school office revealed that Nikki was the Algerian born, Dominique Harad, almost 19, who, nearly two years earlier, had been exiled by her parents in France to live with relatives in America, apparently to foil an indiscreet romance. She and wild neighbor Clarice had bonded very tightly, said the source.) And so, the very day before, Sacha had called Hannah to confirm that the two unsuspecting teens would be dropping in at Rachel’s this night to deal their stolen laughter.

It wasn’t really until a few minutes ago, seated in the dim light apart from the whisperers anticipating “justifiable ticklecide” (as Shaundra coined it), that Hannah’s own expectations were being
crowded by a tickling uneasiness in her mind. Her gratefulness after the initial planning session--where they had encouraged her to concentrate on her new course while they set everything up—had buried her
suspicions that an Irregular had betrayed her to her young torturers. Now, though, she saw her exclusion as evidence that they still considered her a lapsed Irregular. She had been amused when Luci, Valeria, and their husbands had pulled up in an SUV the day before, insisting they had to transport her recliner to Rachel’s basement. Sitting in it now, though, in the extreme upright position, with her feet high on the
footrest—at their insistence—awaiting her erstwhile tormentors--with the feather and the slingback at hand and a few unopened pairs of nylons beneath her feet--all of her past, unanswered tickle attacks against her
sisters seem to loom in her imagination. Why would the shrewdly scheming Clarice and Nikki risk exposure to a faculty member who might just be entrapping them for the police?

Hannah’s racing ruminations ceased with the sounds of footsteps and voices upstairs, culminating
in Rachel’s loud assurance that her guests “must join me in my newly-finished basement to enjoy your wicked tape on my enormous TV screen.” As the basement door opened, five Irregulars shushed each other and scurry under the stairs. A chatty Rachel led Clarice (her short full figure sporting a Navy sweat suit with white piping, white socks, and baby blue Nikes, while her blonde bangs now boasted strawberry streaks) and Nikki (her thin frame noir from ponytail to oversize sweatshirt to denim skirt to nylons to Doc Martens) clomping down the stairs. When the trio reached bottom, Rachel stepped aside, flicked a wall switch, and made a sweeping arm flourish toward the spotlit Hannah. The poet casually said, “I think you know Professor Davis.”

Hannah, twirling in her hand the red feather--the one left behind with the slingback by the pair on the day they’d tickled her silly, crossed her feet on the footrest and, with unctuous Southern politeness, said, “Well, Clarice and Nikki, what goes around, comes around. Won’t you join us? And take your shoes off?”

“An excellent suggestion,” trilled Geli, as the six standing Irregulars placed themselves between
the two guests and the stairs. A slowly retreating Nikki almost stumbled into them.

Clarice, to her credit, after a beat, smiled sweetly and coolly chirped, “Hi, Prof.! That position bring back any memories?” She waved the unmarked cassette she was holding in her hand.

Hannah’s smile tightened a bit, and her smoky eyes glared at them as she said, “Honey, I would remind you that she who laughs last laughs best.”

“I give up, Prof.,” Clarice teased. “Which grand Southern belle said that? Scarlett O’Hara? Dolly Parton?”

Nikki, bleating as the Irregulars gently moved her and Clarice ever closer to the recliner, said, “Ah, P-Professor? You-you wouldn’t be thinking…no, you can’t….”

“Uh-huh,” Hannah said with undisguised glee. She was about to rise from the recliner when Shaundra placed her long hand on Hannah’s shoulder and gently restrained her. The tall sister quickly
said, “Wait a minute, Hannah dear. Before we can deal with these two properly, why don’t you show us
again how they trapped you? I can’t believe you couldn’t get loose.”

“Oh, uh, sure, Shauny,” Hannah said, the prickling at the back of her neck mitigated by what she figured was the immediate realization of her payback. She leaned as far back as she could in the recliner,
leaving her booted feet dangling over the edge of the footrest raised to its maximum. “See, I was set all the way back. It’s impossible to get up and reach your feet when they’re tied just right.”

“I still don’t see it,” said Shaundra, standing by Hannah’s right shoulder.

“Yeah,” added Geli, standing by her left shoulder, “if your hands weren’t tied, why couldn’t you
stop them?”

Luci knelt by Hannah’s left foot and offered, “Maybe if we tied your feet as they did, Hannah,
we can see how it works before we try it on these two.”

“Well, uh…sure, but…” Hannah blurted.

Luci interrupted, saying, “Good. We’ll have to get these boots off.” She then grabbed Hannah’s left ankle and had quickly slipped off her low boot. She nodded to Valeria, who knelt by Hannah’s right foot and removed the other boot. VeeGee then reached up Hannah’s skirt, along her leg (The historian emitted a startled “Ooo!”) and began to peel off her knee-hi, as she added, “And your feet were bare that day, right?”

“Ah, yes, but…” Hannah said ineffectually, as the two women at her feet swiftly stripped off her stockings, soon leaving her bare toes wiggling atop the footrest.

Nikki, being hemmed in near the recliner by Rachel, moaned, “Aw, the tattoo’s gone,” as she
observed that the smiley face that she had mischievously drawn on Hannah’s left big toe on that tickling day weeks before had faded. “Hey, mine, too,” giggled Clarice, thinking of her similar graffito on Hannah’s right big toe. Feeling Sacha crowd her, she added, “’Bet that took a lot of scrubbing, eh, Prof.?”

“They weren’t so temporary, no,” Hannah growled, her irritation at the blonde keeping her from
protesting while Luci and Valeria, having opened the packages of nylons, wrapped each ankle tightly with one end of a stocking and secured the other end to a bar under the footrest.

“How’s that knot?” beamed Luci. Hannah’s bare feet were hanging just beyond the footrest, bound
to it several inches apart.

“That can’t be all they did,” mused Shaundra. “She can still move her feet sideways some. And what’s to keep her from lowering the footrest?”

“Well, they wrapped another stocking around my ankles, holding them tightly together,” Hannah
said helpfully, as she was impatient to end this bondage primer and get her hands on Clarice and Nikki. Luci proceeded to restrain the ankles just as she directed. She then yet another stocking from bound ankles
to footrest, making for a very firm restraint.

“And I think this solves the other problem,” said Rachel, as she set an unfolded wooden tray table under the footrest to keep it from being lowered.

“See, my feet are helpless,” Hannah said to break the satisfied silence that ensued. “And I’m reclining too far back to reach forward.” She was raising her arms theatrically to demonstrate her futile reach, when Shaundra and Geli grabbed and swiftly raised them behind her head. Sacha produced a pair
of linked leather cuffs, which the Russian quickly strapped onto Hannah’s wrists. The cuffs’ chain was padlocked to an o-ring welded high on the padded pillar behind the chair.

Hannah shouted, “Hey! What are you…”

Shaundra loomed over her, intoning, “Now I believe you can’t wriggle free.”

“Wow, you guys are as slick as we are,” chuckled Clarice.

“And while your feet are a fertile field of study,” VeeGee said, as she unbuttoned and opened wide Hannah’s blouse. “We’d like to explore some other promising areas.”

Hannah was sputtering, feeling like a stereotypical Southern Reconstruction widow who’s just
realized that a sweet-talkin’, high-hatted carpetbagger has ridden away with the deed to her plantation and
all her keepsake jewelry. She shouted, “Snookered! By my own sister Irregulars!” She futilely tugged at her bonds as she continued with, “All of you were working with these two little terrors all along, weren’t you? It was a vellication conspiracy!”

“Who do you think happened to meet these two young ladies outside your classroom one day last August?” pointed out Luci as she playfully tweaked a few of Hannah’s long, soft toes. “I quickly realized that we could incorporate their desire to profit from your laughter with our need to return you to our ranks. They were most receptive to our tutelage on the subject of the ticklish Hannah Davis.”

Geli chimed in with, “I provided them with directions to and photo references of your place. I made them study your living room, emphasizing this very comfortable chair.”

“I taught them a new use for their old nylon stockings,” giggled Shaundra, buffing her fingernails proudly on her wool-covered breast.

Sacha bubbled with, “We all gave them new tickling tools and pointers how to best use them!”

“Not to mention lots of the best shoes from our wardrobes,” VeeGee added. “Good thing three
of us wear a size nine, like you.”

“Damn!” Hannah cried, shaking her head. “I should have realized something was fishy when every shoe they tried on fit perfectly!”

“Hannah, dear,” cooed Rachel, “you might have seen our collusion sooner, but you allowed your
pining for your departed love and your compulsive work to overcome you. You needlessly punished yourself by avoiding your Irregular pals, those who know the real, ticklesome you!” She took the cassette from Clarice and slipped it into the nearby VCR. In an instant, the enormous screen was filled with a close-up of a completely hilarious Hannah, whose laughter echoed in the room.

“For months, you wouldn’t come to us,” purred Geli, tapping some fingertips lightly upon the left underarm of Hannah, who yelped and jerked. “So, with the eager assistance of Clarice and Nikki, we came to you.”

“Providing laughter…” Sacha giggled, giving Hannah a quick poke to the tummy.

“…and an urgent motivation to return to us,” continued Luci, who indulged in a slow and solitary forefinger’s stroke along Hannah’s quivering right instep.

“After all,” said Shaundra with a playfully raised eyebrow, “we each felt obligated”—here her fingers grazed one side of Hannah’s ribcage—“ to remind you how therapeutic being tickled….”

“…or tickling another can be when one has the blues,” VeeGee concluded, walking one spidery
hand along Hannah’s tender left sole.

Hannah had shut her eyes, determined not to laugh, when the Irregulars around her stepped away. She opened her eyes to see Rachel, with her arms around the shoulders of Clarice and Nikki, approach
the chair.

“Clarice, Nikki,” Rachel said, beaming at the two teens by her sides, “We of the Girrlzz Squad of the Vellication Irregulars welcome new blood. However, you are very young, so while the first stage of your initiation went well”—nodding to the screen—“we’d like a closer look at your managing of
a ticklish situation.”

“Ah, ha-ha, wait-wait a minute!” a desperate Hannah offered, her eyes darting from one gleeful
Irregular’s face to the next. “I’ll-I’ll admit that I’ve been a mite distracted lately. But I-I always intended
to come back…”

Clarice, with a wicked smile, nudged Nikki, and asked, “Right or left?” The dark, thin one knelt
beside Hannah’s right side, her partner beside Hannah’s left.

Her quickening breaths sprinkled with nervous giggles, Hannah pleaded, “Now-now, really! Not
these two again! It’s-it’s not fair! It’s…”

Her words collapsed into a flood of giggles and guffaws as the two teens began to dance their fingers under Hannah’s arms, down her sides, and across her wiggling belly.

“AIEEE! HELP! Ah-ha-ah-ha-hahahaHAHAHAAAH! NO-NO! Oh-ho-hehhehheh-EEK!”

“Ah, swee-ut music!” cheered Shaundra. “Go, girls! Play those ribs!”

Clarice was indeed eagerly digging into Hannah’s right side with one hand, while she was delicately spidering her other fingers upon the tied teacher’s exposed underarm. Nikki’s tongue slipped
between her lips as she assiduously kneaded Hannah’s hips, thus causing a violent eruption of hilarity.

“YAH-HA-GOD! AHHA! Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-HAAAH! <shriek> Ah-ha-ah-ha-ahhahahahaaaaaa-AHHAHAHAHAAAAA…”

The six Irregulars, awash in Hannah’s laughter flowing live and on tape, could restrain themselves
no longer. They eagerly selected tickley implements from the card table. Then, jockeying for position, they, too, fell upon their bound sister like starving women ushered into a Thanksgiving feast.

“Oh-ho-hee-hee-oh! I’ll-HA!-I’ll-heh-get-heh-get-heh-AHHAHAHAAAA! ‘Get you all back! AHHAHAHAHAAAAH…”

“Yes, yes, in your dreams,” crooned VeeGee, as she pulled back the toes of Hannah’s left foot and
applied a little coarse paintbrush under the tender digits, which twitched like mad. Shaundra was moving a rubber-tipped hairbrush up-and-down upon the sole of the ineffectually waggling right foot. Sacha was waiting, with rapidly crumbling patience, to apply the rotating brush of the small portable shoe buffer
to Hannah’s inviting soles. Seizing an opening, she slipped the buffer between Hannah’s feet and, with a soft whir, brushed along their inner edges.

“YOU-hoohoohoo-ahhaha-hehheh-J-JUST-ahhaha-W-WAIT!<shriek>STOP! AHHAHAHAA…”

Geli, meanwhile, had bumped Clarice out of the way, saying, “OK, rookie. Watch an expert.” She began to deliver minute, maddening pinches to Hannah’s underarms, provoking plenty of paroxysms in the historian.

“GAAH! Eh-heh-hee-hee! ST-ST-STAAHHP! Nono-ohho-heh-hehhehheh-EEEK! Heeheehee…”

Rachel had donned a pair of silken gloves, fiendishly augmented from fingertips to wrists with
a layer of tiny brushes. Shouting, “Gangway!” she plunged over Nikki and grasped at Hannah’s sides, with
occasional swirling detours over her hips.

“AIIIE! NO! Ah-ha-hahahahHAHAAH! Oooh! YOU-ha-YOU-hoohoo-OLD-hahahahaaaaa…”

“Yeeeeees?” clowned Rachel, as she slid her merciless mitts across her ribs and under the bound academic’s arms, seeking elusive sweet spots. “Do I hear an ageist slur from an historian?” Hannah’s frenzied yelps indicated that Rachel’s fingers and tongue had hit their mark!

Lucia had plucked a long, wide feather from a Cherokee headdress (Rachel’s souvenir—inspiring vellication verses within her the moment she saw it--from a recent poet’s conference in northeast Georgia)
crowning one of the bookshelves. She settled herself on her heels facing Hannah’s temporarily relieved
feet. Resting her chin in her cupped right hand, and propping her right elbow on her right knee, with her
left hand she teased the top of the historian’s feet with the tip of the feather, from the toes to the ankles to the back of the heels. Then, her serene smile of contentment becoming a grin, she swept the trapped, flexing soles with broad flourishes of the feather blade across the outer edges and the heels. After a few
delirious freestyle minutes, she snagged Hannah’s heel and probed carefully between the long toes with the feather tip. Catching Hannah’s frenzied eyes and enjoying her peals of unrestrained laughter, Luci found
herself laughing robustly, “Heh-heh-hmm-hehhehheh-AHHAHAHAHA….” as she tickled.

“Look, guys!” Valeria crowed, pointing to the hilarious Lucia. “Tickle transference!”

Geli, who was taking a breather by the electronic entertainers, was muting “Hannah’s Ha-Ha-Hits”
to begin playing a CD of “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik,” as she observed, “Surely, VeeGee, you’ve had ample
experience observing that with undergraduates during office hours.”

“Why, yes, Gelsomina,” Valeria volleyed, her eyebrows knitting, “you simply must come over and try my couch, complete with restraints, on for size.” She tiptoed behind the botanist--who was intent
again on the CD player--and slipped her fingers briskly into the Italian’s armpits. It was fortunate, then, for
the whooping, leaping Geli that the basement finishes included padded overhead pipes.

When Luci’s feather flagged, quiet, unassuming Nikki slipped in beside her and began rapidly
fluttering the pads of her fingertips, with delicious delicacy, upon Hannah’s left sole. She began with the tender pads of the teacher’s toes, which scrunched desperately, merely forcing the ceaselessly fluttering
fingers to light instead on the wrinkled upper sole, then to hydroplane along the arch, to bottom out teasing Hannah’s fleshy heel, before beginning the slow, torturous return march upward. Throughout this
display of fingertips as hummingbird’s wings, Nikki’s dark eyes were alight with intense pleasure, and her
lips formed a sly, lemon-twist smile. Hannah’s latest height of hilarity didn’t keep the historian from
acknowledging this latest torment with a frenzied look at the dark one.

“Wha-ha-ha-ah-ha-ha-AHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA! STOPPIT!You-ha-you little-heh-b-bi-ih-hehhehheh <shriek>…”

“The kid’s pre-eet-ty good,” conceded Shaundra, as she knelt to Nikki’s left. “Lord, Hannah, I’m
sure glad that your puppies are her field of dreams and not mine!” The economist’s ensuing shriek was
caused by a sneaky Sacha buffing her bare pink soles, upturned behind her, with the polisher.

“Hey!” protested Shaundra, giggling, leaping. “We’re trying to concentrate here!”

“Sorry,” mocked Sacha, “but your ‘puppies’ needed polishing.”

Throughout all this breathtakingly varied tickle torture, Hannah, despite her virtually continuous
laughter, wrestled with conflicting emotions. She was infused, initially, with self-righteous anger at being
so manipulated by her sisters and their new allies. This was matched by her disgust at herself for not following her misgivings and deducing from now obvious clues what the set-up had been. However, these
feelings were eclipsed by a building affection for her sisters, who were going to such pains to restore her
good spirits and to draw her back among them. Each loving stroke and mischievous poke seemed to elicit more warmth towards her sisters within her.

Sisterly affection wasn’t the only warmth infusing her as the teasing proceeded. Her laughter was accompanied by sounds indicating plainly that each touch was further stimulating her pleasure centers as
well. Her increasing gasps and moans reflected the ripples of excitement expanding outward from her
redolently moist sexual triangle. She could feel her juices flowing and a delicious tension slowly, steadily
building…

Rachel had clearly noticed the steamy signs as well, for she reached for Hannah’s bra and undid its
central clasp. Revealed as the cups fell away were the captive’s firming olive-touched nipples amidst the pale splendor of her breasts. The poet snickered, “Uh-huh. OK, folks! I believe it’s time for Hannah’s scintillating sprint to glory.” The tickling stopped.

“Oh, God…oh!” croaked a sweat-drenched Hannah, her stimulated toes convulsing, her knees knocking, her hair a snaky disaster, her hands clenched.

The climax of Hannah’s reintroduction to the Vellication Irregulars saw a grinning Clarice seated
facing the bound beauty’s feet; Nikki, with tongue stretching dark cheek, hovered over the historian’s heaving chest; and Rachel, as host, Chair, and Senior Poet leaning over her colleague’s middle with
the feather from the Cherokee headdress. Sacha excitedly held a whistle to her mouth as she reset a Bulova
stopwatch. The four other Irregulars bounced nearby on itchy feet awaiting the endgame. Someone
had silenced the Mozart.

After an interminably silent few seconds, Sacha blew the whistle. An Irregular cheer went up.

Clarice, like a pianist enacting a frenzied closing to a final movement, danced her ten fingers
with athletic abandon across Hannah’s glowing, gyrating peds. She pressed closer to dig her fingers
under and between the struggling toes. She allowed her blonde bangs to trail teasingly as well on the tops of the teacher’s trapped toes. She crooned, “Kitchey-kitchey-coo, Prof. I’m never gonna stop. ‘ Love these toes! Kitchey-coo!”

“AIEEE! OH! OH, GOD! <gasp> HA-HAHAHA-AHHAHAHAHA!<snort>NO-OHHOHOHOHO…”

Meanwhile, Nikki, applying the delicately fluttering fingertips that proved so effective upon Hannah’s bare foot, set them upon the historian’s quivering breasts. Her rapidly waving digits barely grazed the professor’s erect nipples and their tremulous environs. Every so often, she made a quick insinuation into Hannah’s armpits as well. “Tickle, tickle,” she whispered. “Tickle, tickle.”

“YI! YI! YI! HA-HA-AH-HA-HA<pant> Nomore-ple-hee-heese! No-heh-heh-hehhehheh-
m-more <gasp> HA-AHHAHAHAHAAA! <shriek>”

Rachel, between the two young ticklers, calmly lifted the waistbands of Hannah’s skirt and underwear (which fit loosely thanks to weight loss from overwork). “’Bet no one’s tickled you here in a while!” she teased. She then, almost humming with practiced assurance, danced the feather upon the short reddish curls upon Hannah’s mound. With a microsurgeon’s skill, she teased her colleague’s passionate lower lips until they were swollen to bursting. Then, she allowed the feather tip to delicately venture within, as Hannah’s laughter grew heavy with passionate breathing. “Who’s a ticklish girl then?” she
crowed repeatedly in her best East Endglish

“She’s nearly there!” shouted Sacha. Others cried, “C’mon, Clarice, you’re supposed to be
a virtuoso!” and “Oooo, Nikki’s an evil one!” and “The plume’s a poet’s mightiest weapon!”

Holding each quaking foot, Clarice began planting soft, gentle kisses on each toe in turn. She then lasciviously licked up-and-down the middle of Hannah’s salty soles. Finally, the cherubic strawberry blonde pried back the long, lovely toes to take innumerable tiny, teasing tastes between them

Hannah was twitching like a divinely inspired Holy Roller. Had she ever been so deliberately drawn to the edge of satisfaction, only to precariously sway there for long seconds?

Nikki was drumming with expert lightness along Hannah’s ribcage and across her belly, causing
the professor to gyrate her middle as if to a demon’s bazouki. The quiet one withdrew for a moment,
only to catch the tip of each nipple between thumb and forefinger, which rubbed ever so gently…

It seemed to Hannah as if each giggle and gasp echoed throughout her body. The spring of her passion coiled so tightly, so tightly…

Rachel’s feather tip twirled upon just the right fraction of Hannah’s tender button…

“AHHAHAHAHHAH! <gasp> Heehee-Tha-that’s <gasp> That’s I-it! <gasp>”

As she felt Hannah grasp her feather in that second of silence, Rachel whispered, “Oh, yeah…”
Sacha activated the stopwatch with a flourish.

Hannah practically levitated the chair. Only the ascending percussive pulses pounding through her pubis exceeded the exercised beating of her heart. Clarice and Nikki could barely keep their tickling fingers on Hannah’s thrashing body as the professor’s rhythmic sounds of passion echoed for long minutes. Then, silence…save for Hannah’s loud, giggle-strewn breathing…

The Irregulars whooped as one. Sacha waved the stopped watch, saying, “A new record!” Valeria smirked, “It’s not how long you make it, but….”

“Well?” Shaundra asked as she loomed over Hannah’s flushed face.

“Don’t ask,” Hannah exhaled.

“Don’t tell,” Lucia suggested.


(Concluded below...)
 
"A Ticklish Matriculation" concludes...

An Irregular gathering at Rachel’s meant good and ample food and drink, and this unusually lively meeting was no exception. The seven Irregulars, plus their two new apprentices (When Rachel used
the term, Clarice rolled her eyes.), dined on moussaka and a tremendous salad, with Sacha offering a
plate of blinis and Geli her celebrated waffle cookies. Shaundra, the practicing oeneophile, had brought
a vintage Bordeaux, complementing Rachel’s solid Australian house wine. Despite the late hour and the
classes looming the following day (Already most of the instructors had composed their “sudden sickness”
phone calls.), all ate and drank heartily.

Special care was taken to see that the fledgling Irregulars were eating and (with a breezy wave to the law) drinking to their fullest. With an eye on their rising and falling wineglasses, Rachel was notching her napkin discreetly with her fork. She watched with concern as the two at one point weaved their way to the bathroom together. Then, she nodded to Geli, who spiced their wineglasses before they returned,
laughing together and poking each other.

Hannah, her face positively aglow, on her lips an omnipresent smile the likes of which her students could only dream about, rose to make a toast.

“To all of you, dear Irregulars, who welcomed me back and brought me to my senses when I
became too wrapped up with work, solitude, and my damned self-pity.”

“Hear, hear!”

“That’s a toast?”

“Shut up!”

“Shhh!”

Clarice, more than a little tipsy, battling sleepiness (surprising because she usually held her drink quite well, thank you) emptied her just refilled glass and rose, unsteadily, to offer, with just the glass, “Prof., me and Nik’ just want you to know what a blast it was to make you laugh. It…was…awesome!”
She fell back into her chair, fast asleep.

Nikki’s eyelids fluttered closed as her head settled upon her arms folded upon her plate. She immediately was snoring sweetly.

“Well, the pleasure was all mine,” blushed Hannah, “and, to my shame, it may not be over yet.”


“That was a good wine, Shaundra,” Lucia said.

The economist mumbled, “Yeah, ‘shame to tamper with theirs.”

Geli countered with, “C’mon, I just added a touch of ‘nighty-‘night powder to their glasses. They won’t be out very long.”

“Long enough, I trust,” the poet-Chair pronounced, “for us to bring this party to a fitting close.”

******

Hannah’s recliner in Rachel’s basement was soon jam packed with apprentice Irregulars. Clarice and Nikki sat squeezed, side-by-side, therein, their upper bodies restrained by a comical amount of packing tape and twine to the armrests and back. They were extremely reclined, their ankles bound together by nylon stockings and secured by more stockings, so that their feet hung over the edge of the footrest. (Shaundra noted, with pride, “I’m the best at what I do!”)

Most of the Irregulars were seated, in folding chairs and on beanbag pillows, around the recliner.
Geli was across the room focussing a camcorder--perched on a tripod—upon the pair bound in the recliner; Hannah was seated cross-legged, with her head resting on her hands, and was dreamily watching the prankish pair slowly awaken over the tops of their bound feet.

The two’s realization of their new perspectives was not long in coming. “Hey!” “Oh, no!” “What th--?” “We thought we were part of the gang!”

“I’m certain you shall be,” offered Rachel, poorly restraining her smile. “But we thought Professor Davis would be only too happy to help us discover something vital in any prospective member.”

Shaundra said, “You clearly can ‘dish it out,’ but can you take it?”

“I hope you’re as videogenic as Hannah was,” Geli added, peering through the viewfinder.

Hannah, trying not to betray her impatience, deliberately removed Clarice’s Nikes. Then she tugged at the teen’s white socks, which had been bunched beneath her ankles, until they slid off as well. The little Rubenesque blonde waggled her soft, pink bare feet, pouting, “Y-you’re wasting your time. You can forget it. I’m-I’m not at all ticklish. I’m tough. You’ll see.” Hannah blew on the fingers of her left hand and, asking, “Can I crack this safe?” gently raked Clarice’s soles with the tips of her fingernails. The “tough” one’s feet jerked, while she all too obviously bit her lower lip.

“Methinks the young lady doth protest too much,” crooned Rachel.

“’Methinks’, huh?” giggled Sacha. “I’ll have to remember that one!”

No longer bothering to hide her enjoyment, Hannah slowly untied and slipped off Nikki’s Doc Martens, careful, as she had Clarice’s Nikes, to place them to one side of the tray table propping up the footrest. Indeed, she was noticeably humming “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik” as she ran one finger along the
flexing tops of Nikki’s sleek, sheer, nylon-sheathed toes. Nikki shuddered, and unsuccessfully suppressed a giggle.

“My goodness, Hannah,” Luci marveled, “one would think you had a grudge against these young ladies!”

“Professor Davis, please!” pleaded Nikki. “You-you can’t do this! It’s-it’s unethical for tenured faculty to take advantage of young people like this.”

“Look who’s talking about ‘taking advantage’,” sneered Rachel. “The quiet one who tickles like she works for the Islamic Jihad.

“How do you expect to graduate to full Irregular status,” asked VeeGee, as she flicked a Cherokee
feather upon the pair’s evasive noses, “if you won’t sit still in class?”

Clarice shouted, “I’ll pee!” “So will I!” cried Nikki.

“That’s why you’re sweating on a vinyl seat cover, you two,” Rachel intoned. “This is a fully equipped Vellication Irregular facility.

“OK, the camcorder’s ready,” announced Geli. “Are you, Hannah?

Hannah slipped on Rachel’s wicked gloves and intoned, “And how!” Then, having second thoughts, she removed the gloves and rubbed her bare hands together. Fanning her long fingers, she smiled
and said, “This calls, as Gelsomina would say, for ‘mani a piedi, a capella’.”

“Brava!” shouted Geli. “Action!”

As Hannah’s gleeful fingers romped upon Clarice’s plump bare feet and Nikki’s sleek, stocking tootsies, all of the amused Irregulars could agree that the erstwhile tickling terrorists were laughing last. However, even after many minutes, consensus could not immediately be reached on which of the young women was laughing best. Naturally, then, Sacha tapped Hannah on the shoulder and offered her the electric toothbrush…

Welcome, Clarice and Nikki, to the Vellication Irregulars!

Meeting Adjourned. (OK, everyone help out and let’s pick up all these damned feathers….)
 
Last edited:
Kudos

Hi Captain! Just noticed this - work has been interfering with my online time lol! Good story - how about making it a trilogy? IMHO, Clarice and Nikki didn't get anywhere near the tickling they deserved.

Strelnikov
 
The little fiends'll get theirs in time...

Thanks for the thumbs up, Strel. It's always satisfying to please a known connoisseur...
As for why Clarice and Nikki's torment seemed so abbreviated, well,
I guess the story's structure betrayed that I was trying primarily to
surprise readers who were as intent on a simple turnabout as Hannah
was. Maybe I'm also revealing my age and predilections, but as the story was in progress, I was simply much more intent on having Hannah
(who was inspired by an extremely alluring and formidable college instructor of mine)hilarious again than I was in her trumping her much younger tormentors (who I simply saw as rather callow instruments).
But, fear not, Strel, I hope to do a series of stories with the Vellication Irregulars, in different combinations, and Clarice and Nikki will certainly find themselves victimized at greater length
before long.
'Course you may be right. It would be perfectly in character for the
two young ladies to decide they owe Hannah yet another merciless
tickling. And equally in character for them to underestimate her yet again.
(sigh) Yeah, a third tale--with more balanced action--is percolating
already with your suggestion in mind...
 
Chiro Kootchy

Is it possible that he found the fabled Ming Vellication Vase (see Kujman's discussion post "Palace Theme Events") on his latest dig? Does he plan to bring it back to the University? Do you think Hannah could trick Clarice and Nikki into being jugged? How could they retaliate? Inquiring minds want to know!

Strelnikov
 
I can't seem to get to first vase with her...

The Vase is a lovely notion, Strel. (If only Myrna Loy had encountered it in THE MASK OF FU MANCHU! That movie had every other torture you could think of in it...)Still, remember Junchiro's dig
was in Asia Minor. Unless Marco Polo or Genghis Khan had butterfingers en route west, I don't know if he would find a Ming
vase. Now Nebuchadrezzar's Tickling Trellis, found in the ruins of the Hanging Gardens of Babylonia, that's a different story...
OK, I'm pulling your chain. I, too, love exotic tickling devices, and
Clarice and Nik certainly deserve a personal demonstration of one.
Ooo, you do make it hard for a lad supposedly beset with writer's block to continue making that excuse...
 
Chiro Koochy Revisited

Oops! Missed the "minor." Still, all is not lost. See Original Art forum, "Mandell Tribute #1", proof positive that Vikings were into Vellication. We know that many of them traveled down the Russian rivers to the Black Sea and on to Constantinople, where some signed on with the Byzantine Emperor's Varangian Guards. Viking lasses were notoriously feisty, so the vellication opportunities had to be better in Byzantium - so much, that an early commander commissioned the fabled Varangian Vellication Vessel (reproduced by Kujman) for their barracks. It disappeared during the sack of Constantinople by Crusaders in 1204.

Chiro found it by accident. He traveled from his dig to a nearby village to buy groceries and found the Vessel being used by an old woman to make sauerkraut. This art (?) had been passed down thru the generations from the old woman's umpty-great-grandmother, a Crusader camp follower from Poland who deserted and settled along the way.

I've got a story idea to go along with this. It's open ended, and will allow many sequels if desired (hint: Hannah gets hers again!) If you're interested, shoot me an email at [email protected].

Strelnikov
 
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