Strelnikov
4th Level Red Feather
- Joined
- May 7, 2001
- Messages
- 1,820
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by Strelnikov
Copyright 2004 by the author
Natalie Lasko unlocked her dorm room and slammed the door behind her. She kicked off her flip-flops and slung her portfolio onto her bed. Art class! Why do I need it? I’m gonna be an electrical engineer, fer chrissakes!
Natalie was a 19 yr old Freshman at Commonwealth University. Her dad sometimes called them Pittsburgh Polacks – the family name had been “Laskowski” a century ago, before being truncated by an Ellis Island Immigration official who couldn’t be troubled to spell the whole name. She was a petite girl, dressed in khaki shorts and green t-shirt, with shoulder-length fiery red hair over bright blue eyes and freckled fair skin. A soccer player in high school, she had a cute figure, fit and athletic-looking without being muscular. She was normally cheerful, with an even temper and a ready smile. But this art class… Natalie had an engineer’s mind, logical and well-ordered – and it showed.
“No soul. A draftsman could do as well.” That’s what the professor’s note had said about her latest effort, a still life flower arrangement. It’s gonna drag my grade point down, she thought – and for a course I’m only taking to satisfy a University requirement for “breadth”, whatever the hell that means.
The room next door was joined to hers through a common bathroom. Natalie and her roommate were on good terms with the girls who lived in the other room. Unless someone was using bathroom, normally the doors stayed open.
“Natalie! Mind if I come in?” her friend and neighbor Lindsey Eckard called from the open door.
Lindsey was a home-schooled preacher’s kid from Northeast Arizona – the University had been an eye-opener for her. She was a little taller than medium height, slender and graceful, with fair skin and brown hair that fell to her shoulder blades. She had high cheekbones with a dusting of freckles, a straight nose, a mouth a little too wide for conventional beauty. Her eyes were that indeterminate shade that took their color from their surroundings. Today they were sky blue, like her shorts and tank top.
At age 19, Lindsey was a work in progress – a cute girl, no great beauty, with a sunny, open disposition. In a few more years, she would be absolutely stunning. The signs – classic supermodel features and bone structure – were there for anyone who cared to look.
“Come on in, Lindsey,” Natalie said. “I could use some company.”
Lindsey smiled. “Thanks. Now what’s bothering you? Can I help?” The smile transformed her – she was radiant.
“It’s this fuc– ” Natalie caught herself. “This art course I’m taking. Look at this stuff – tell me what you think of it.”
Lindsey flopped on the bed, on her tummy, and opened the portfolio. She idly kicked her bare feet in the air as she looked through the material. Her feelings and emotions were completely transparent – they showed clearly on her face.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Natalie asked. “What the professor said.”
“I’m afraid it is,” Lindsey said gently. “But you’re a fine draftsman.”
“Yah, but we do that on a computer, with AutoCad. Maybe I should have done Theater – performance art.”
Lindsey said nothing – she didn’t have to.
“I haven’t got the personality for it,” Natalie said. She sighed. “The hell with it. Maybe I can…”
The hallway door to Lindsey’s room opened. Shelly, Natalie’s roommate, and Alicia, Lindsey’s roommate, entered the room, arguing good-naturedly over something.
Michelle Haviland – Shelly to family and friends – was the youngest of three sisters from a small town in northwest Maine, hard up against the border of Canada’s Québéc Province. Small and trim like her québécois forbears, with a fit and shapely body, she had shoulder-length blonde hair and hazel eyes. Her personality could best be described as “effervescent”. Shelly was a legacy – both parents had graduated from CU. Her two two older sisters – a Junior and a first-year Grad student – shared an apartment off campus.
Alicia Jemison was an Air Force brat who had lived on USAF bases all over the world. She was a small girl, trim and fit-looking, with brown eyes and long, straight, glossy dark brown hair. She looked Mediterranean but wasn’t – her family name was the tipoff. Her ancestor Mary Jemison, captured by raiders in 1758, was just one of many “White Indians” adopted into the Seneca Nation. Alicia was a Seneca Indian – her European facial features were just the expression of that part of her bloodline. She moved with the tigerish grace and economy of motion of a dancer.
As it happened, Shelly and Alicia were exactly the same size, right down to their shoes. That happy accident had effectively doubled both of their wardrobes, which by now were inextricably intermixed. But it was also the cause of the current dispute – both had Friday night dates, and both wanted to wear the same slinky black dress.
“Oh, hi,” said Shelly as she came through the connecting door. “Glad you’re here – we need a referee.” She wore off-white overall-shorts over a pink t-shirt. She dropped her books and portfolio, and kicked off her sandals.
“Why not flip a coin?” Lindsey asked, even though she knew the answer.
Shelly grinned. “Hey, where’s the fun in that? Besides, I’ve been practicing on Natalie. I think I can beat her.”
“In your dreams!” Alicia called from the next room.
Natalie grinned back at her roomie. “Might be more even than you think – she’s very good. She’s been practicing on me too.”
“Traitor!” Shelly said, not really upset – Natalie was just being Natalie.
“Hey – what can I say?” Natalie said, shrugging. “You know what I’m like.”
Freshman year is always a time of self-discovery, but Natalie had found out something unusual about herself. She had known all her life that her feet were insanely ticklish. Her high school soccer teammates had taken full advantage but, mindful of payback, they had limited it to a few minutes at a time. That was fortunate, because she hated it.
That had changed last September. Shelly had instigated a tickle fight with Danielle and Tara, two dorm neighbors, and drawn Natalie into it. The others had taken their revenge a few days later, and they had really known their business. Natalie’s feet were unbearably ticklish all over – there wasn’t any sweet spot, though they had done their best to find one. It was horrible – it drove her wild – the worst tickling she had ever gotten. But… after a while, she had zoned out and let the ticklish sensation overcome her. Afterward, she found it exhilirating – the laughter had unleashed a flood of endorphins.
Now, Natalie loved to be tickled. Danielle and Tara had always been happy to oblige, to Natalie’s ticklish delight. That had started the tickling games, drawing in Shelly, then Alicia and Lindsey before it spread to the rest of the floor.
Danielle and Tara had finally gone too far – they lived off campus now, booted out of the dorm. But their spirit lived on. Lindsey, the most ticklish of them all, had evolved a style all her own in self defense – the former innocent had become a fiendish and inventive tickler.
“I’ve been practicing too!” Lindsey said. “I’ll take on the winner, just for laughs and giggles.”
Alicia padded into the room barefoot, in denim shorts and a red-and-white striped pullover. “That’s what you’ll get, roomie, and plenty of ‘em,” she said. “C’mon, Shelly, we’ll do it in my room, on the rug. This linoleum floor is too hard on the keister.”
Natalie whistled the theme music from Clint Eastwood’s Spaghetti Westerns as the girls trooped across.
Alicia and Lindsey had a cheap Chinese knockoff of a Navajo rug, a present from Alicia’s clueless former boyfriend, who had thought it an appropriate gift for an Indian girl. Still, it hadn’t cost them anything, and it had knocked the winter chill off the tiles. It had other uses too.
Alicia and Shelly sat close on the rug, facing each other. They extended their right legs, drew up their left with the bottoms of their left feet flat against their right thighs. Each girl got a firm grip on her opponent’s right foot with her left hand. They had done this before – they knew the drill.
“You’ve got it all wrong, Natalie,” Lindsey said. “It’s not a shootout – it’s a Viking holmgang. Two go to the island, only one returns.”
“You’re both full of shit,” Alicia said. “Who’s gonna be the ref?”
“Me,” Natalie said, and sat next to Lindsey on her bed. “Ready– wait for it– one, two, three, GO!”
Both girls flicked the nails of their right hands on the bottom of her opponent’s trapped foot, fast as they could. Both burst into ticklish laughter, howling with forced mirth, and may the best girl win!
It was a straightforward contest of endurance. They were evenly matched – they both knew every ticklish spot, and tickled them all. Neither tried for anything fancy – their tickling fingernails flicked and scratched, each covering the other’s foot with fiendish and well-techniqued tickling. Both laughed like mad, red faced, tears of laughter streaming down their faces.
Shelly concentrated on the soft skin under Alicia’s toes, Alicia on the exact center of Shelly’s sole. Their toes twitched and curled as they laughed and laughed – it was an added challenge that prolonged the contest. They both laughed like madwomen, tickling as fast as they could, as time expanded and the tickling filled their consciousness.
But Shelly was the youngest of three girls – she had endured her share of tickling. She had given it back too, and could more than hold her own. The ticklish games over the past year had honed and polished the lessons her sisters had taught. Experience won out – Alicia was a relative newcomer as a tickler, nor did she have Shelly’s hard-earned stamina. She lost it and collapsed onto her back, laughing at the top of her lungs. Her strength was gone, tickled away.
Shelly giggled as the tickling sensation faded, then picked up the pace as fine motor control returned. She shifted her grip, holding Alicia’s toes back. Her nails danced under Alicia’s toes, tickling the sweet spot mercilessly, bringing forth wave after wave of ticklish laughter.
“Easy, Shelly!” Natalie called out. “You’ve won! Give her a break!”
“Party pooper!” Shelly replied. She eased off a little, flicking and scratching from sole to heel, producing a steady stream of giggles.
“Haha! Sta– hahaha! –ap! Shellee– hehe! You– hehe-haha! win! Haha-hehe-hahaha!” Alicia begged and giggled.
“I count coup!” Shelly said triumphantly, and attacked the sweet spot again. Alicia laughed her head off at the top of her lungs. Shelly’s fingernails flicked and scratched, tickling horribly. It was more than Alicia could bear – she laughed herself breathless.
Shelly released Alicia’s foot. “You’re a worthy opponent, girlfriend,” she said. “I thought I was gonna lose it – you almost had me.”
Alicia drew her knees up and laid there gasping. “That… really… tickled,” she said. She shuffled her feet on the rug to get the tickle off, then sat up. “Somehow, you made the other foot tickle too. You win – this time. Rematch?”
“Any time, any where.”
Lindsey took a rain check on her contest with Shelly – the dining hall, fondly known as The Trough, was about to open for supper. They had learned the hard way that it was best to eat early, before the food had spent too long gasping on the beach.
Alicia skipped supper and left for her job. Air Force families are an eclectic lot –Alicia had learned belly dancing from a friend’s Lebanese mother when she was 14, and had kept at it ever since. Shelly’s sister Stacy was majoring in Hospitality Management – she worked at the local Persian restaurant, waiting tables and learning the business. Shelly had hooked her friend up with the owner. Alicia’s physical appearance had been a bonus – in costume, she looked Middle Eastern. She worked two 20-minute sets, twice a week. Like the wait staff, she got a free meal and minimum wage. She made ten times as much from tips.
Shelly and Natalie were in the same art class. They compared results over their meal, which was not, unfortunately, anywhere near as good as Alicia’s. Shelly was really very good – she made crisp pen-and-ink drawings and dramatic charcoal sketches, painted delicate water colors and bold oil paintings. But her latest grade was no better. “Too traditional. Unimaginitive choice of media.” And the spring semester was almost over – they didn’t have long to pull their grades up.
Back in the dorm after supper, Lindsey renewed her challenge to Shelly. Shelly wasn’t in the mood for another tickle fight. She agreed, but only on condition that the loser had to pay a forfeit, hoping that would discourage Lindsey.
But it hadn’t. Lindsey had become a first-rate tickler, and she was eager to test her skill. Natalie refereed again, and saw how close their contest was. Lindsey tickled Shelly right to the edge – almost had her. But Shelly hung on somehow, and Lindsey’s horrible ticklishness betrayed her. Shelly tickled Lindsey into submission, but it had been a very near thing.
Now Lindsey was about to pay her forfeit. She sat in one of the room’s open-back straight chairs, hands tied behind her back. A strap across her thighs bound her to the chair seat. Her ankles were tied together, feet through the back of a facing chair, tied off to the underside of the wide upper back rest. Her big toes were tied together with a strip of narrow red ribbon.
Natalie sat on Lindsey’s bed and settled in to watch and learn. Maybe one of them would tickle her afterward – she hoped so, anyway.
Shelly kneeled facing Lindsey’s bare soles and sat back on her heels. “Ready, girlfriend?” she asked.
“Do your worst!” Lindsey said, wiggling her toes.
Lindsey’s feet were off-the-scale ticklish all over – like Natalie, she didn’t have a sweet spot. She laughed her head off as Shelly tickled her soles two-handed, watching the toes twitch and curl. Shelly held Lindsey’s toes back and tickled the stretched out soles, then side to side under all ten toes. She released her friend’s toes and tickled two-handed down both arches, lingered on the ticklish heels – Lindsey laughed like mad. Then back up to the soles–
That’s it!
“Shelly, quit! Give her a break,” Natalie said. “I just had an idea, and I don’t want to lose it. Leave her tied up – you can finish tickling her later.”
“I was just getting warmed up,” Shelly complained. “This better be good.”
“I think I’ve solved our problem with the art course. Tell me again what the prof said about your still life.”
***
“I dunno about this idea of yours,” Lindsey said, a little later. “D’you think he’ll buy it?”
“I’ve seen his work,” Shelly said. “He thinks he’s Jackson Pollock, but less representational.”
“The guy’s an asshole and a fraud,” Natalie said. “We’re gonna turn his comments right back on him.”
“I wish you luck,” Lindsey said. “Shelly, are you gonna tickle me some more, or turn me loose?”
“Don’t be silly – I need the practice,” Shelly said, and kneeled again at Lindsey’s feet. She spread out an array of multicolored felt tip and ball point pens on the floor beside her – “foot notes” were a staple of their tickling games.
“Oh NOOO!” Lindsey begged. “That tickles so much!”
“Hush. You knew this was coming,” Shelly said. She uncapped a felt tip pen and drew a curving line across both of Lindsey’s arches, just behind her soles. Lindsey giggled, then burst into all-out laughter.
Shelly drew another line, then selected another felt tip. Lindsey laughed like mad as the tip scratched her sensitive sole, tears of laughter rolling down her face. Shelly held back Lindsey’s toes and switched to short strokes, fast and close together. Lindsey laughed at the top of her lungs.
“Try a ball point,” Natalie said. “Tickles a lot worse.”
“Oh ghod…” Lindsey gasped in the pause that followed.
“Are you cursing, or praying?” Shelly asked.
Lindsey blinked away tears. “Both. Get on with it.”
The ball points really did work better, Natalie thought. Poor Lindsey! She laughed helplessly, tears leaking from her closed eyes. The fine-point tips helped – multiple passes would fit in the same space as a single felt tip line. Each stroke forced another burst of wild ticklish laughter.
Shelly had a flash of inspiration – every time she paused, she used her left hand to cover Lindsey’s soles with fast nail flicks. That improved the tickle torture – Lindsey’s helpless laughter was continuous now. Shelly covered Lindsey’s ticklish feet with rapid pen strokes until she thought she would go crazy. Lindsey faded into ticklish delirium, sweaty and red faced, laughing at the top of her lungs.
Shelly tried different techniques, tickling fiendishly, holding Lindsey in the zone while she laughed and laughed. She played Lindsey like an instrument, filling the room with musical ticklish laughter. She finished with a flourish of fast strokes, and Lindsey’s laughter went off the scale. Shelly dropped the pen and tickled Lindsey two-handed, fingernails flying, covering both feet with unbearable tickling. Lindsey laughed herself breathless.
“Well, what do you think?” Shelly asked Natalie.
Natalie inspected the ink-covered soles. “The felt tips just didn’t get it,” she replied. “They don’t tickle enough. Should have known they’d be a waste of time.”
“But the ballpoints worked great – right, Lindsey?” Shelly said, grinning.
Lindsey didn’t answer – she sat there, head bowed, breathing hard, tears of laughter running down her cheeks. Natalie got up and went into the bathroom, came back a minute later. Lindsey had her breath back by then.
Lindsey wiggled her toes and giggled. “It’ll take me a week to scrub off all that ink,” she said.
“Don’t worry about the ink,” Natalie said. She had a cup of soapy water in one hand, an electric tooth brush in the other. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Oh NOOOOO!” Lindsey wailed. “Not that! Hehe! HAHAHA-HAHAHA-HAHAHAHAHA!” she laughed as Natalie got to work, brushing her inky soles. It was really just an exercise – the soap wouldn’t take the ink off. But the soapy water provided lubrication, and made the brush tickle much worse – as Natalie well knew.
Natalie and Lindsey switched places after a while. Lindsey and Shelly kept Natalie laughing her head off at the top of her lungs for well over an hour. Alicia took over when she got back from work, and tickled Natalie for thirty minutes more. Natalie got a real ticklish workout – fingernails, electric tooth brush, a hair brush on her soles, paint brushes in her arches, pulling string between her toes. By the time they finished, Natalie was limp and tickled out – and she wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
***
The art professor was a prime example of the evils of the tenure system. He affected a shaved head, beard, peasant shirts, paint-splattered jeans, clogs without socks in all weather. His name was Geoffrey Sachs, and that was an affectation too – his mother had named him Jeffrey. Those who saw through his bullshit – most everyone outside the Art Faculty and the artsy crowd in New York – called him No Sachs.
Natalie and Shelly had planned to approach him at the end of the next class, amid a crowd of his student sycophants and suck-ups. But they spotted him the day before, walking across the quad, deep in conversation with Professor Hannah Davis, the Acting Dean of Students. Judging from their body language, he was trying to sell some notion, and she wasn’t buying it. It was an unbelievable stroke of good fortune – if they had the wit to exploit it.
Professor Davis was a stubbornly single, casually bohemian academic in her mid-thirties. She was quite tall, lean but sturdy, with thick auburn hair falling to her shoulder blades. Her dark-rimmed eyeglasses reinforced the serious set of her face, with its cool, gray eyes, sharp nose, high cheekbones, and a hint of olive in her complexion.
The University had offered her the vacant position on a permanent basis. She had agreed to fill it only until a suitable replacement could be found. In truth, she didn’t have the temperament for management – she was scrupulously fair, did not suffer fools gladly, and could not abide a bully. The girls had already come to her attention once, before spring break, but had escaped unscathed.
The girls ducked behind a building and ran around it flat out. They re-emerged on the other side, ahead of their quarry, and set an intercepting course. L’audace! Tojours l’audace!
“Good morning, Professor Davis – Professor Sachs,” the girls said.
He would have brushed past, but she halted him with a touch on his forearm. The Dean had grown up in rural Georgia, and good manners still count for something in the South. She was unfailingly polite, even (perhaps especially) to those beneath her like the two lowly Freshman girls.
“Good morning,” the Dean replied. “Miss Haviland and Miss Lasko – I trust that you’re both prepared for your examinations next week.”
“Yes ma’am,” Natalie said. “But Professor Sachs doesen’t give examinations – we’d like a word with him while we’re here, with your permission.”
“See me during office hours,” he said brusquely.
“I think we can spare a moment, Geoffrey,” the Dean said. “I’ll not stand between a pair of earnest young scholars and their professor.”
Natalie risked a quick glance. The Dean had just put him in his place – subtly, to be sure, but it was a rebuke just the same. She pressed on, refreshed his memory of the notes he had used to grade their latest work. “Professor, we’ve thought it over, and you’re right,” she concluded.
“I’m glad you both see it that way,” he replied. He looked pleased with himself – it’s not true that you can’t bullshit a bullshitter. “I try to lead my students to unleash their imagination, to see beyond the conventional. That’s why I’m here, after all.”
“We think we’ve come up with a way to do what you want,” Shelly said. “If we do, will you give us both an “A” for the course?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Performance art, Professor,” Natalie replied. “Multimedia.”
“Their request seems reasonable to me, Geoffrey,” Professor Davis interjected.
He thought it over, briefly, and fell neatly into their trap. How could he do otherwise? “Of course I will,” he said magnanimously. “But it should be what you want. Your art should flow from your lives.”
“Oh, it does,” said Natalie – and the girls shared a secret smile.
***
Shelly’s oldest sister Ashley had suffered through this same course her own Freshman year. As a Grad student, she had quasi-faculty status – she called in a marker and got advance access to the art classroom-studio. Ashley and Stacy had a downstairs neighbor, a Senior guy named Eric Vita, who had majored in Marketing and had taken Media Production courses. He and his two roommates rounded up the equipment. They set up a videocam and a projection TV on the stage normally used by nude models, and a second videocam with a long lens on a tripod in the back of the room. Success is largely a matter of who you know, Natalie reflected.
Stacy and Ashley joined them. Ashley had dark blonde hair and gray eyes, Stacy curly brown hair and brown eyes, but there was a strong family resemblance. They chatted with Shelly and Natalie, trying to calm their last minute jitters.
A murmur ran through the class as the Dean entered. She acknowledged the greetings and took a seat near the back of the room. Ashley had come through again – through a circuitous route, she had passed the word that something out of the ordinary was about to occur.
Shelly and Natalie took seats near the stage, at the front of the classroom – bent-cane straight chairs, the 1930’s version of the inexpensive utility chair. They wore short summer dresses with vibrant floral prints – vaguely Chinese-looking, sleeveless, with Mandarin collars. Shelly wore a backpack-purse as well. Both slipped off their sandals and slid them back under their chairs.
Professor Sachs arrived five minutes late, as usual. He took in the scene and frowned – he was just beginning to realize that the girls had pulled a fast one on him. He looked questioningly at the Dean. Professor Davis looked back expressionlessly – he was on his own.
The other students turned in their work. One of them, a buxom blue-eyed Slavic beauty with long platinum-blonde hair, gave the girls an odd look as she walked back to her seat.
Alex Budanov – Aleksandra Budanova – was a Russian immigrant whose family had settled in New York City’s Brighton Beach neighborhood. She was a quiet girl who kept to herself – she lived down the hall from Natalie and her friends, but wasn’t a part of their circle. Natalie winked at her, and got a shy smile in return.
“Normally, I would dismiss you all at this point,” Professor Sachs said, “but Shelly and Natalie have asked to present their work to the entire class.” He was a bully, and couldn’t resist taking one last shot. “I trust that they’ll show more creativity than they have thus far.”
“Thank you, Professor,” Natalie said. “We will.” The girls stood, picked up their chairs and stepped up onto the stage.
Shelly dropped her pack on a chair seat. Natalie crossed her wrists behind her back – Shelly strapped them together with a red nylon dog collar. Natalie sat, facing the class – Shelly belted her to the chair seat with a red cargo strap. Natalie’s ankles came next, another dog collar, then her feet through the open back of the facing chair, ankles tied off to the top arch of the chair canes. Finally her big toes, tied together with Lindsey’s red ribbon. They had practiced this part in their dorm room – it came off without a hitch.
Eric, dressed in black like a concert roadie, had slipped forward. He fired up the electronics and shifted the videocam as Shelly kneeled and sat back on her heels. The bottoms of Natalie’s bare feet, many times life size, appeared on the TV screen. Shelly removed the last items from her purse – red, green and black ball points. Eric took the purse with him when he left.
Another murmur ran through the class. The Professor scowled. Alex looked horrified. The Dean looked on blandly, but with a twinkle in her eye. The sisters and their neighbors grinned and gave a thumbs-up.
Shelly picked up a pen and drew a curved line across both of Natalie’s arches, just behind her soles. Natalie threw back her head and laughed at the top of her lungs.
Painter Qi Baishi died in 1957. He lived and worked in China – his work is virtually unknown outside that country. Shelly cribbed shamelessly from his “Plum and Magpies”. It was one of her favorites – a framed print hung over her bed. It had strong vertical elements. Its spare style was readily adaptable to pen-and-ink, using just three colors. Best of all, the tickling session with Lindsey – and another with Alicia, the following day – had shown that the overall shape of the image fit neatly on the bottoms of two feet.
Shelly sketched the image with deft pen strokes – each stroke produced a stream of ticklish laughter. She kept Natalie laughing with nail flicks at every pause. Through a haze of ticklish delight, Natalie saw Alex, horrified but unable to look away. But Shelly picked up the pace, and the tickling filled Natalie’s universe, crowding out all coherent thought. Natalie’s fair skin, lightly filmed with sweat, turned pink as she laughed and laughed.
Natalie laughed helplessly, loving every second of the tickle torture. She was never sure afterward whether the joy she felt came from the tickling, or from the way they had outsmarted Professor No Sachs. Shelly’s pen tips scratched, covering both feet with unbearably fiendish tickling. Natalie howled with forced mirth as the image took shape on her ticklish feet.
Shelly finished the green plum twigs first, and Natalie nearly lost it – the larger branch first, curving horizontal strokes across both arches, just behind the soles. Then the hanging twigs – long, branching, mostly vertical strokes down Natalie’s arches to her heels. Natalie laughed her head off as Shelly shaded the twigs with black, then filled in the two blackbirds on her soles. Then the plum flowers, finely detailed, with delicate red petals – four on the soft skin under her toes and onto her soles, thirty more in her arches and down to her ticklish heels. Natalie laughed like a madwoman, tears of laughter streaming down her cheeks, her face nearly as red as the flowers.
Almost finished – Shelly used the black pen to detail the center of each flower, and Natalie’s laughter went off the scale. Shelly held Natalie in the zone, laughing at the top of her lungs, the black pen tip flicking and scratching. Then the finale – Shelly dropped the pen and dug in, fingernails flying on ticklish flesh, and reduced Natalie to gasping, red-faced silent laughter.
Shelly rose to her feet, walked around and stood beside Natalie, a hand on her friend’s shoulder. Beside them was the TV screen, with its image of Natalie’s bird-and-blossom covered feet. The classroom was silent–
–then erupted with applause, whistles, feet stomping the floor. Natalie blinked away tears and took long, deep breaths. Her throat was dry, her ribs and abs ached from laughing – but she felt great, still riding the tickle high.
Shelly removed Natalie’s bonds. Natalie stood, wobbled, steadied herself on the chair back. The tickling had been especially intense – she was a little shaky. She ignored the residual tingling on her feet and stepped off the stage with Shelly. They padded barefoot over to the scowling No Sachs.
“We’ve done our part, Professor,” Shelly said. “I think you’ll agree that feet are non-traditional media. We should get full marks for imagination too, for thinking this up.”
“Plenty of sole too,” Natalie said, displaying one of her inky soles.
Professor Davis looked acutely uncomfortable – was she stifling a belly laugh?
He was furious – they were mocking him, and he knew it. But he gave them both an “A” before he dismissed the class. He had no other choice – to do otherwise would expose him as the four-flusher he really was.
The Dean winked at them as she passed by on her way out of the room.
Eric’s two roommates set to work breaking the equipment down. Ashley and Stacy invited the younger girls to their apartment – pizza first, play later. They agreed with happy anticipation.
Eric had two videotapes – one from each camera. “These are yours,” he said. “But if you want, I’ll combine them on a split screen and burn you a DVD. Fine art should be preserved.”
Natalie laughed, and winced – her ribs and abs were pretty sore. “Fine art, my foot! You want to sell copies on the internet, don’t you?”
He grinned sheepishly and shrugged. Busted!
The girls shared a look and came to silent agreement. “OK,” Shelly said – she had a pretty good idea what the traffic would bear. “Expenses come off the top. Then Natalie and I split 50% – you get the rest.”
“Deal. Get her sandals, somebody!” Eric called out, and scooped Natalie up in a carry position. “We don’t want to damage the art work.”
“The performance was the art,” Natalie told him. “And we’re not quite finished.” She grinned. “D’you have an electric toothbrush?”
***THE END***
Afterword…
Hannah Davis first appeared in “Sabbatickle” by Capt. Spalding, aka Tee Hee Lawrence, posted elsewhere on this forum. The description is his, more or less verbatim. She is used with his kind permission.
Natalie’s opinion of the art scene is my own. The painting “Plum and Magpies” and painter Qi Baishi are both real, but you won’t find either with a web search.
Mary Jemison was a real person too. Visit the Seneca Nation of Indians website ( www.sni.org ) and scroll down to the bottom of the home page. Note the webmaster’s name – he’s one of her descendants.
Hope you enjoyed the story. As always, constructive criticism is encouraged and welcome.
Strelnikov
27 July 09 - typos corrected, I hope.
Copyright 2004 by the author
Natalie Lasko unlocked her dorm room and slammed the door behind her. She kicked off her flip-flops and slung her portfolio onto her bed. Art class! Why do I need it? I’m gonna be an electrical engineer, fer chrissakes!
Natalie was a 19 yr old Freshman at Commonwealth University. Her dad sometimes called them Pittsburgh Polacks – the family name had been “Laskowski” a century ago, before being truncated by an Ellis Island Immigration official who couldn’t be troubled to spell the whole name. She was a petite girl, dressed in khaki shorts and green t-shirt, with shoulder-length fiery red hair over bright blue eyes and freckled fair skin. A soccer player in high school, she had a cute figure, fit and athletic-looking without being muscular. She was normally cheerful, with an even temper and a ready smile. But this art class… Natalie had an engineer’s mind, logical and well-ordered – and it showed.
“No soul. A draftsman could do as well.” That’s what the professor’s note had said about her latest effort, a still life flower arrangement. It’s gonna drag my grade point down, she thought – and for a course I’m only taking to satisfy a University requirement for “breadth”, whatever the hell that means.
The room next door was joined to hers through a common bathroom. Natalie and her roommate were on good terms with the girls who lived in the other room. Unless someone was using bathroom, normally the doors stayed open.
“Natalie! Mind if I come in?” her friend and neighbor Lindsey Eckard called from the open door.
Lindsey was a home-schooled preacher’s kid from Northeast Arizona – the University had been an eye-opener for her. She was a little taller than medium height, slender and graceful, with fair skin and brown hair that fell to her shoulder blades. She had high cheekbones with a dusting of freckles, a straight nose, a mouth a little too wide for conventional beauty. Her eyes were that indeterminate shade that took their color from their surroundings. Today they were sky blue, like her shorts and tank top.
At age 19, Lindsey was a work in progress – a cute girl, no great beauty, with a sunny, open disposition. In a few more years, she would be absolutely stunning. The signs – classic supermodel features and bone structure – were there for anyone who cared to look.
“Come on in, Lindsey,” Natalie said. “I could use some company.”
Lindsey smiled. “Thanks. Now what’s bothering you? Can I help?” The smile transformed her – she was radiant.
“It’s this fuc– ” Natalie caught herself. “This art course I’m taking. Look at this stuff – tell me what you think of it.”
Lindsey flopped on the bed, on her tummy, and opened the portfolio. She idly kicked her bare feet in the air as she looked through the material. Her feelings and emotions were completely transparent – they showed clearly on her face.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Natalie asked. “What the professor said.”
“I’m afraid it is,” Lindsey said gently. “But you’re a fine draftsman.”
“Yah, but we do that on a computer, with AutoCad. Maybe I should have done Theater – performance art.”
Lindsey said nothing – she didn’t have to.
“I haven’t got the personality for it,” Natalie said. She sighed. “The hell with it. Maybe I can…”
The hallway door to Lindsey’s room opened. Shelly, Natalie’s roommate, and Alicia, Lindsey’s roommate, entered the room, arguing good-naturedly over something.
Michelle Haviland – Shelly to family and friends – was the youngest of three sisters from a small town in northwest Maine, hard up against the border of Canada’s Québéc Province. Small and trim like her québécois forbears, with a fit and shapely body, she had shoulder-length blonde hair and hazel eyes. Her personality could best be described as “effervescent”. Shelly was a legacy – both parents had graduated from CU. Her two two older sisters – a Junior and a first-year Grad student – shared an apartment off campus.
Alicia Jemison was an Air Force brat who had lived on USAF bases all over the world. She was a small girl, trim and fit-looking, with brown eyes and long, straight, glossy dark brown hair. She looked Mediterranean but wasn’t – her family name was the tipoff. Her ancestor Mary Jemison, captured by raiders in 1758, was just one of many “White Indians” adopted into the Seneca Nation. Alicia was a Seneca Indian – her European facial features were just the expression of that part of her bloodline. She moved with the tigerish grace and economy of motion of a dancer.
As it happened, Shelly and Alicia were exactly the same size, right down to their shoes. That happy accident had effectively doubled both of their wardrobes, which by now were inextricably intermixed. But it was also the cause of the current dispute – both had Friday night dates, and both wanted to wear the same slinky black dress.
“Oh, hi,” said Shelly as she came through the connecting door. “Glad you’re here – we need a referee.” She wore off-white overall-shorts over a pink t-shirt. She dropped her books and portfolio, and kicked off her sandals.
“Why not flip a coin?” Lindsey asked, even though she knew the answer.
Shelly grinned. “Hey, where’s the fun in that? Besides, I’ve been practicing on Natalie. I think I can beat her.”
“In your dreams!” Alicia called from the next room.
Natalie grinned back at her roomie. “Might be more even than you think – she’s very good. She’s been practicing on me too.”
“Traitor!” Shelly said, not really upset – Natalie was just being Natalie.
“Hey – what can I say?” Natalie said, shrugging. “You know what I’m like.”
Freshman year is always a time of self-discovery, but Natalie had found out something unusual about herself. She had known all her life that her feet were insanely ticklish. Her high school soccer teammates had taken full advantage but, mindful of payback, they had limited it to a few minutes at a time. That was fortunate, because she hated it.
That had changed last September. Shelly had instigated a tickle fight with Danielle and Tara, two dorm neighbors, and drawn Natalie into it. The others had taken their revenge a few days later, and they had really known their business. Natalie’s feet were unbearably ticklish all over – there wasn’t any sweet spot, though they had done their best to find one. It was horrible – it drove her wild – the worst tickling she had ever gotten. But… after a while, she had zoned out and let the ticklish sensation overcome her. Afterward, she found it exhilirating – the laughter had unleashed a flood of endorphins.
Now, Natalie loved to be tickled. Danielle and Tara had always been happy to oblige, to Natalie’s ticklish delight. That had started the tickling games, drawing in Shelly, then Alicia and Lindsey before it spread to the rest of the floor.
Danielle and Tara had finally gone too far – they lived off campus now, booted out of the dorm. But their spirit lived on. Lindsey, the most ticklish of them all, had evolved a style all her own in self defense – the former innocent had become a fiendish and inventive tickler.
“I’ve been practicing too!” Lindsey said. “I’ll take on the winner, just for laughs and giggles.”
Alicia padded into the room barefoot, in denim shorts and a red-and-white striped pullover. “That’s what you’ll get, roomie, and plenty of ‘em,” she said. “C’mon, Shelly, we’ll do it in my room, on the rug. This linoleum floor is too hard on the keister.”
Natalie whistled the theme music from Clint Eastwood’s Spaghetti Westerns as the girls trooped across.
Alicia and Lindsey had a cheap Chinese knockoff of a Navajo rug, a present from Alicia’s clueless former boyfriend, who had thought it an appropriate gift for an Indian girl. Still, it hadn’t cost them anything, and it had knocked the winter chill off the tiles. It had other uses too.
Alicia and Shelly sat close on the rug, facing each other. They extended their right legs, drew up their left with the bottoms of their left feet flat against their right thighs. Each girl got a firm grip on her opponent’s right foot with her left hand. They had done this before – they knew the drill.
“You’ve got it all wrong, Natalie,” Lindsey said. “It’s not a shootout – it’s a Viking holmgang. Two go to the island, only one returns.”
“You’re both full of shit,” Alicia said. “Who’s gonna be the ref?”
“Me,” Natalie said, and sat next to Lindsey on her bed. “Ready– wait for it– one, two, three, GO!”
Both girls flicked the nails of their right hands on the bottom of her opponent’s trapped foot, fast as they could. Both burst into ticklish laughter, howling with forced mirth, and may the best girl win!
It was a straightforward contest of endurance. They were evenly matched – they both knew every ticklish spot, and tickled them all. Neither tried for anything fancy – their tickling fingernails flicked and scratched, each covering the other’s foot with fiendish and well-techniqued tickling. Both laughed like mad, red faced, tears of laughter streaming down their faces.
Shelly concentrated on the soft skin under Alicia’s toes, Alicia on the exact center of Shelly’s sole. Their toes twitched and curled as they laughed and laughed – it was an added challenge that prolonged the contest. They both laughed like madwomen, tickling as fast as they could, as time expanded and the tickling filled their consciousness.
But Shelly was the youngest of three girls – she had endured her share of tickling. She had given it back too, and could more than hold her own. The ticklish games over the past year had honed and polished the lessons her sisters had taught. Experience won out – Alicia was a relative newcomer as a tickler, nor did she have Shelly’s hard-earned stamina. She lost it and collapsed onto her back, laughing at the top of her lungs. Her strength was gone, tickled away.
Shelly giggled as the tickling sensation faded, then picked up the pace as fine motor control returned. She shifted her grip, holding Alicia’s toes back. Her nails danced under Alicia’s toes, tickling the sweet spot mercilessly, bringing forth wave after wave of ticklish laughter.
“Easy, Shelly!” Natalie called out. “You’ve won! Give her a break!”
“Party pooper!” Shelly replied. She eased off a little, flicking and scratching from sole to heel, producing a steady stream of giggles.
“Haha! Sta– hahaha! –ap! Shellee– hehe! You– hehe-haha! win! Haha-hehe-hahaha!” Alicia begged and giggled.
“I count coup!” Shelly said triumphantly, and attacked the sweet spot again. Alicia laughed her head off at the top of her lungs. Shelly’s fingernails flicked and scratched, tickling horribly. It was more than Alicia could bear – she laughed herself breathless.
Shelly released Alicia’s foot. “You’re a worthy opponent, girlfriend,” she said. “I thought I was gonna lose it – you almost had me.”
Alicia drew her knees up and laid there gasping. “That… really… tickled,” she said. She shuffled her feet on the rug to get the tickle off, then sat up. “Somehow, you made the other foot tickle too. You win – this time. Rematch?”
“Any time, any where.”
Lindsey took a rain check on her contest with Shelly – the dining hall, fondly known as The Trough, was about to open for supper. They had learned the hard way that it was best to eat early, before the food had spent too long gasping on the beach.
Alicia skipped supper and left for her job. Air Force families are an eclectic lot –Alicia had learned belly dancing from a friend’s Lebanese mother when she was 14, and had kept at it ever since. Shelly’s sister Stacy was majoring in Hospitality Management – she worked at the local Persian restaurant, waiting tables and learning the business. Shelly had hooked her friend up with the owner. Alicia’s physical appearance had been a bonus – in costume, she looked Middle Eastern. She worked two 20-minute sets, twice a week. Like the wait staff, she got a free meal and minimum wage. She made ten times as much from tips.
Shelly and Natalie were in the same art class. They compared results over their meal, which was not, unfortunately, anywhere near as good as Alicia’s. Shelly was really very good – she made crisp pen-and-ink drawings and dramatic charcoal sketches, painted delicate water colors and bold oil paintings. But her latest grade was no better. “Too traditional. Unimaginitive choice of media.” And the spring semester was almost over – they didn’t have long to pull their grades up.
Back in the dorm after supper, Lindsey renewed her challenge to Shelly. Shelly wasn’t in the mood for another tickle fight. She agreed, but only on condition that the loser had to pay a forfeit, hoping that would discourage Lindsey.
But it hadn’t. Lindsey had become a first-rate tickler, and she was eager to test her skill. Natalie refereed again, and saw how close their contest was. Lindsey tickled Shelly right to the edge – almost had her. But Shelly hung on somehow, and Lindsey’s horrible ticklishness betrayed her. Shelly tickled Lindsey into submission, but it had been a very near thing.
Now Lindsey was about to pay her forfeit. She sat in one of the room’s open-back straight chairs, hands tied behind her back. A strap across her thighs bound her to the chair seat. Her ankles were tied together, feet through the back of a facing chair, tied off to the underside of the wide upper back rest. Her big toes were tied together with a strip of narrow red ribbon.
Natalie sat on Lindsey’s bed and settled in to watch and learn. Maybe one of them would tickle her afterward – she hoped so, anyway.
Shelly kneeled facing Lindsey’s bare soles and sat back on her heels. “Ready, girlfriend?” she asked.
“Do your worst!” Lindsey said, wiggling her toes.
Lindsey’s feet were off-the-scale ticklish all over – like Natalie, she didn’t have a sweet spot. She laughed her head off as Shelly tickled her soles two-handed, watching the toes twitch and curl. Shelly held Lindsey’s toes back and tickled the stretched out soles, then side to side under all ten toes. She released her friend’s toes and tickled two-handed down both arches, lingered on the ticklish heels – Lindsey laughed like mad. Then back up to the soles–
That’s it!
“Shelly, quit! Give her a break,” Natalie said. “I just had an idea, and I don’t want to lose it. Leave her tied up – you can finish tickling her later.”
“I was just getting warmed up,” Shelly complained. “This better be good.”
“I think I’ve solved our problem with the art course. Tell me again what the prof said about your still life.”
***
“I dunno about this idea of yours,” Lindsey said, a little later. “D’you think he’ll buy it?”
“I’ve seen his work,” Shelly said. “He thinks he’s Jackson Pollock, but less representational.”
“The guy’s an asshole and a fraud,” Natalie said. “We’re gonna turn his comments right back on him.”
“I wish you luck,” Lindsey said. “Shelly, are you gonna tickle me some more, or turn me loose?”
“Don’t be silly – I need the practice,” Shelly said, and kneeled again at Lindsey’s feet. She spread out an array of multicolored felt tip and ball point pens on the floor beside her – “foot notes” were a staple of their tickling games.
“Oh NOOO!” Lindsey begged. “That tickles so much!”
“Hush. You knew this was coming,” Shelly said. She uncapped a felt tip pen and drew a curving line across both of Lindsey’s arches, just behind her soles. Lindsey giggled, then burst into all-out laughter.
Shelly drew another line, then selected another felt tip. Lindsey laughed like mad as the tip scratched her sensitive sole, tears of laughter rolling down her face. Shelly held back Lindsey’s toes and switched to short strokes, fast and close together. Lindsey laughed at the top of her lungs.
“Try a ball point,” Natalie said. “Tickles a lot worse.”
“Oh ghod…” Lindsey gasped in the pause that followed.
“Are you cursing, or praying?” Shelly asked.
Lindsey blinked away tears. “Both. Get on with it.”
The ball points really did work better, Natalie thought. Poor Lindsey! She laughed helplessly, tears leaking from her closed eyes. The fine-point tips helped – multiple passes would fit in the same space as a single felt tip line. Each stroke forced another burst of wild ticklish laughter.
Shelly had a flash of inspiration – every time she paused, she used her left hand to cover Lindsey’s soles with fast nail flicks. That improved the tickle torture – Lindsey’s helpless laughter was continuous now. Shelly covered Lindsey’s ticklish feet with rapid pen strokes until she thought she would go crazy. Lindsey faded into ticklish delirium, sweaty and red faced, laughing at the top of her lungs.
Shelly tried different techniques, tickling fiendishly, holding Lindsey in the zone while she laughed and laughed. She played Lindsey like an instrument, filling the room with musical ticklish laughter. She finished with a flourish of fast strokes, and Lindsey’s laughter went off the scale. Shelly dropped the pen and tickled Lindsey two-handed, fingernails flying, covering both feet with unbearable tickling. Lindsey laughed herself breathless.
“Well, what do you think?” Shelly asked Natalie.
Natalie inspected the ink-covered soles. “The felt tips just didn’t get it,” she replied. “They don’t tickle enough. Should have known they’d be a waste of time.”
“But the ballpoints worked great – right, Lindsey?” Shelly said, grinning.
Lindsey didn’t answer – she sat there, head bowed, breathing hard, tears of laughter running down her cheeks. Natalie got up and went into the bathroom, came back a minute later. Lindsey had her breath back by then.
Lindsey wiggled her toes and giggled. “It’ll take me a week to scrub off all that ink,” she said.
“Don’t worry about the ink,” Natalie said. She had a cup of soapy water in one hand, an electric tooth brush in the other. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Oh NOOOOO!” Lindsey wailed. “Not that! Hehe! HAHAHA-HAHAHA-HAHAHAHAHA!” she laughed as Natalie got to work, brushing her inky soles. It was really just an exercise – the soap wouldn’t take the ink off. But the soapy water provided lubrication, and made the brush tickle much worse – as Natalie well knew.
Natalie and Lindsey switched places after a while. Lindsey and Shelly kept Natalie laughing her head off at the top of her lungs for well over an hour. Alicia took over when she got back from work, and tickled Natalie for thirty minutes more. Natalie got a real ticklish workout – fingernails, electric tooth brush, a hair brush on her soles, paint brushes in her arches, pulling string between her toes. By the time they finished, Natalie was limp and tickled out – and she wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
***
The art professor was a prime example of the evils of the tenure system. He affected a shaved head, beard, peasant shirts, paint-splattered jeans, clogs without socks in all weather. His name was Geoffrey Sachs, and that was an affectation too – his mother had named him Jeffrey. Those who saw through his bullshit – most everyone outside the Art Faculty and the artsy crowd in New York – called him No Sachs.
Natalie and Shelly had planned to approach him at the end of the next class, amid a crowd of his student sycophants and suck-ups. But they spotted him the day before, walking across the quad, deep in conversation with Professor Hannah Davis, the Acting Dean of Students. Judging from their body language, he was trying to sell some notion, and she wasn’t buying it. It was an unbelievable stroke of good fortune – if they had the wit to exploit it.
Professor Davis was a stubbornly single, casually bohemian academic in her mid-thirties. She was quite tall, lean but sturdy, with thick auburn hair falling to her shoulder blades. Her dark-rimmed eyeglasses reinforced the serious set of her face, with its cool, gray eyes, sharp nose, high cheekbones, and a hint of olive in her complexion.
The University had offered her the vacant position on a permanent basis. She had agreed to fill it only until a suitable replacement could be found. In truth, she didn’t have the temperament for management – she was scrupulously fair, did not suffer fools gladly, and could not abide a bully. The girls had already come to her attention once, before spring break, but had escaped unscathed.
The girls ducked behind a building and ran around it flat out. They re-emerged on the other side, ahead of their quarry, and set an intercepting course. L’audace! Tojours l’audace!
“Good morning, Professor Davis – Professor Sachs,” the girls said.
He would have brushed past, but she halted him with a touch on his forearm. The Dean had grown up in rural Georgia, and good manners still count for something in the South. She was unfailingly polite, even (perhaps especially) to those beneath her like the two lowly Freshman girls.
“Good morning,” the Dean replied. “Miss Haviland and Miss Lasko – I trust that you’re both prepared for your examinations next week.”
“Yes ma’am,” Natalie said. “But Professor Sachs doesen’t give examinations – we’d like a word with him while we’re here, with your permission.”
“See me during office hours,” he said brusquely.
“I think we can spare a moment, Geoffrey,” the Dean said. “I’ll not stand between a pair of earnest young scholars and their professor.”
Natalie risked a quick glance. The Dean had just put him in his place – subtly, to be sure, but it was a rebuke just the same. She pressed on, refreshed his memory of the notes he had used to grade their latest work. “Professor, we’ve thought it over, and you’re right,” she concluded.
“I’m glad you both see it that way,” he replied. He looked pleased with himself – it’s not true that you can’t bullshit a bullshitter. “I try to lead my students to unleash their imagination, to see beyond the conventional. That’s why I’m here, after all.”
“We think we’ve come up with a way to do what you want,” Shelly said. “If we do, will you give us both an “A” for the course?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Performance art, Professor,” Natalie replied. “Multimedia.”
“Their request seems reasonable to me, Geoffrey,” Professor Davis interjected.
He thought it over, briefly, and fell neatly into their trap. How could he do otherwise? “Of course I will,” he said magnanimously. “But it should be what you want. Your art should flow from your lives.”
“Oh, it does,” said Natalie – and the girls shared a secret smile.
***
Shelly’s oldest sister Ashley had suffered through this same course her own Freshman year. As a Grad student, she had quasi-faculty status – she called in a marker and got advance access to the art classroom-studio. Ashley and Stacy had a downstairs neighbor, a Senior guy named Eric Vita, who had majored in Marketing and had taken Media Production courses. He and his two roommates rounded up the equipment. They set up a videocam and a projection TV on the stage normally used by nude models, and a second videocam with a long lens on a tripod in the back of the room. Success is largely a matter of who you know, Natalie reflected.
Stacy and Ashley joined them. Ashley had dark blonde hair and gray eyes, Stacy curly brown hair and brown eyes, but there was a strong family resemblance. They chatted with Shelly and Natalie, trying to calm their last minute jitters.
A murmur ran through the class as the Dean entered. She acknowledged the greetings and took a seat near the back of the room. Ashley had come through again – through a circuitous route, she had passed the word that something out of the ordinary was about to occur.
Shelly and Natalie took seats near the stage, at the front of the classroom – bent-cane straight chairs, the 1930’s version of the inexpensive utility chair. They wore short summer dresses with vibrant floral prints – vaguely Chinese-looking, sleeveless, with Mandarin collars. Shelly wore a backpack-purse as well. Both slipped off their sandals and slid them back under their chairs.
Professor Sachs arrived five minutes late, as usual. He took in the scene and frowned – he was just beginning to realize that the girls had pulled a fast one on him. He looked questioningly at the Dean. Professor Davis looked back expressionlessly – he was on his own.
The other students turned in their work. One of them, a buxom blue-eyed Slavic beauty with long platinum-blonde hair, gave the girls an odd look as she walked back to her seat.
Alex Budanov – Aleksandra Budanova – was a Russian immigrant whose family had settled in New York City’s Brighton Beach neighborhood. She was a quiet girl who kept to herself – she lived down the hall from Natalie and her friends, but wasn’t a part of their circle. Natalie winked at her, and got a shy smile in return.
“Normally, I would dismiss you all at this point,” Professor Sachs said, “but Shelly and Natalie have asked to present their work to the entire class.” He was a bully, and couldn’t resist taking one last shot. “I trust that they’ll show more creativity than they have thus far.”
“Thank you, Professor,” Natalie said. “We will.” The girls stood, picked up their chairs and stepped up onto the stage.
Shelly dropped her pack on a chair seat. Natalie crossed her wrists behind her back – Shelly strapped them together with a red nylon dog collar. Natalie sat, facing the class – Shelly belted her to the chair seat with a red cargo strap. Natalie’s ankles came next, another dog collar, then her feet through the open back of the facing chair, ankles tied off to the top arch of the chair canes. Finally her big toes, tied together with Lindsey’s red ribbon. They had practiced this part in their dorm room – it came off without a hitch.
Eric, dressed in black like a concert roadie, had slipped forward. He fired up the electronics and shifted the videocam as Shelly kneeled and sat back on her heels. The bottoms of Natalie’s bare feet, many times life size, appeared on the TV screen. Shelly removed the last items from her purse – red, green and black ball points. Eric took the purse with him when he left.
Another murmur ran through the class. The Professor scowled. Alex looked horrified. The Dean looked on blandly, but with a twinkle in her eye. The sisters and their neighbors grinned and gave a thumbs-up.
Shelly picked up a pen and drew a curved line across both of Natalie’s arches, just behind her soles. Natalie threw back her head and laughed at the top of her lungs.
Painter Qi Baishi died in 1957. He lived and worked in China – his work is virtually unknown outside that country. Shelly cribbed shamelessly from his “Plum and Magpies”. It was one of her favorites – a framed print hung over her bed. It had strong vertical elements. Its spare style was readily adaptable to pen-and-ink, using just three colors. Best of all, the tickling session with Lindsey – and another with Alicia, the following day – had shown that the overall shape of the image fit neatly on the bottoms of two feet.
Shelly sketched the image with deft pen strokes – each stroke produced a stream of ticklish laughter. She kept Natalie laughing with nail flicks at every pause. Through a haze of ticklish delight, Natalie saw Alex, horrified but unable to look away. But Shelly picked up the pace, and the tickling filled Natalie’s universe, crowding out all coherent thought. Natalie’s fair skin, lightly filmed with sweat, turned pink as she laughed and laughed.
Natalie laughed helplessly, loving every second of the tickle torture. She was never sure afterward whether the joy she felt came from the tickling, or from the way they had outsmarted Professor No Sachs. Shelly’s pen tips scratched, covering both feet with unbearably fiendish tickling. Natalie howled with forced mirth as the image took shape on her ticklish feet.
Shelly finished the green plum twigs first, and Natalie nearly lost it – the larger branch first, curving horizontal strokes across both arches, just behind the soles. Then the hanging twigs – long, branching, mostly vertical strokes down Natalie’s arches to her heels. Natalie laughed her head off as Shelly shaded the twigs with black, then filled in the two blackbirds on her soles. Then the plum flowers, finely detailed, with delicate red petals – four on the soft skin under her toes and onto her soles, thirty more in her arches and down to her ticklish heels. Natalie laughed like a madwoman, tears of laughter streaming down her cheeks, her face nearly as red as the flowers.
Almost finished – Shelly used the black pen to detail the center of each flower, and Natalie’s laughter went off the scale. Shelly held Natalie in the zone, laughing at the top of her lungs, the black pen tip flicking and scratching. Then the finale – Shelly dropped the pen and dug in, fingernails flying on ticklish flesh, and reduced Natalie to gasping, red-faced silent laughter.
Shelly rose to her feet, walked around and stood beside Natalie, a hand on her friend’s shoulder. Beside them was the TV screen, with its image of Natalie’s bird-and-blossom covered feet. The classroom was silent–
–then erupted with applause, whistles, feet stomping the floor. Natalie blinked away tears and took long, deep breaths. Her throat was dry, her ribs and abs ached from laughing – but she felt great, still riding the tickle high.
Shelly removed Natalie’s bonds. Natalie stood, wobbled, steadied herself on the chair back. The tickling had been especially intense – she was a little shaky. She ignored the residual tingling on her feet and stepped off the stage with Shelly. They padded barefoot over to the scowling No Sachs.
“We’ve done our part, Professor,” Shelly said. “I think you’ll agree that feet are non-traditional media. We should get full marks for imagination too, for thinking this up.”
“Plenty of sole too,” Natalie said, displaying one of her inky soles.
Professor Davis looked acutely uncomfortable – was she stifling a belly laugh?
He was furious – they were mocking him, and he knew it. But he gave them both an “A” before he dismissed the class. He had no other choice – to do otherwise would expose him as the four-flusher he really was.
The Dean winked at them as she passed by on her way out of the room.
Eric’s two roommates set to work breaking the equipment down. Ashley and Stacy invited the younger girls to their apartment – pizza first, play later. They agreed with happy anticipation.
Eric had two videotapes – one from each camera. “These are yours,” he said. “But if you want, I’ll combine them on a split screen and burn you a DVD. Fine art should be preserved.”
Natalie laughed, and winced – her ribs and abs were pretty sore. “Fine art, my foot! You want to sell copies on the internet, don’t you?”
He grinned sheepishly and shrugged. Busted!
The girls shared a look and came to silent agreement. “OK,” Shelly said – she had a pretty good idea what the traffic would bear. “Expenses come off the top. Then Natalie and I split 50% – you get the rest.”
“Deal. Get her sandals, somebody!” Eric called out, and scooped Natalie up in a carry position. “We don’t want to damage the art work.”
“The performance was the art,” Natalie told him. “And we’re not quite finished.” She grinned. “D’you have an electric toothbrush?”
***THE END***
Afterword…
Hannah Davis first appeared in “Sabbatickle” by Capt. Spalding, aka Tee Hee Lawrence, posted elsewhere on this forum. The description is his, more or less verbatim. She is used with his kind permission.
Natalie’s opinion of the art scene is my own. The painting “Plum and Magpies” and painter Qi Baishi are both real, but you won’t find either with a web search.
Mary Jemison was a real person too. Visit the Seneca Nation of Indians website ( www.sni.org ) and scroll down to the bottom of the home page. Note the webmaster’s name – he’s one of her descendants.
Hope you enjoyed the story. As always, constructive criticism is encouraged and welcome.
Strelnikov
27 July 09 - typos corrected, I hope.
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