Here's my first attempt at a story. Hope you all enjoy. It is written in 1st person perspective, and is gender neutral for the reader.
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You sit quietly in detention. Again. You seem to find your way here often, though this time you aren't exactly sure what you did to land your butt in this chair. Your name was read aloud over the intercom just before the conclusion of your last class of the day, instructing you to proceed to room 213 for detention. You could hide detention from your parents, but not the suspension that comes when you ditch. You had no choice but to report. Oh, how you long for graduation. You hate being beholden to these institutional regulations, especially now that you have recently celebrated your 18th birthday. College, you assume, will be so much more chill.
Looking around the room, you find it curious that no other students have arrived. There are usually at least 3 or 4 more aside from you. As the bell rings to indicate 4 o'clock p.m., your detention steward struts in, stilletto heels clicking sharply on the hallway tile, and falling silent as she steps into the classroom. Miss Rook. Lynette... 5 feet and 6 inches tall. She's at least 5'10" with those shoes. Her toes peak out the open toes of those shoes, just enough to give you a glimpse of her perfect, deep red nail polish. You are well-familiar with her pretty, perfect toes. You've been sneaking snapshots of them for years, and posting them to a candid feet-pics sight called 'feetography'. You gaze, subtly, up her bare legs, strong and shapely. Her black pencil-skirt is maybe just an inch or two short for administration dress code, but no one ever reprimands her. Her white blouse drapes comfortably around her ample breasts, and as-yet-unseen tummy. She holds a stack of books, notebooks, papers, and grade-books in front of her as she marches in. Her manner gives you the faintest impression of her elevated level of intensity. Her face, expressionless behind her black rimmed glasses, gives you no hint of mood or attitude. She drops her burden on the table at the front of the room, and returns quickly to the classroom door. She closes it and locks it, returning to the front table as she pulls the chopstick from her bun, releasing her gentle, voluptuous black curls to cascade down her back, to her waist. She sits on the edge of the table, licking her teeth behind pillowy red lips. Her foot bounces nervously, no... angrily, as her piercing green eyes bore into you, seemingly drilling for your very soul.
"Do you... have any idea... why you are here?"
Her question shocks you awake. You have no answer. You can guess. There are a few reasons, but none you would disclose. You shake your head and part your lips as a mousy "No, Ma'am." crackles out like a squeaking door hinge. Miss Rook stares, now plainly agitated.
"No Ma'am." she reapeats flatly, not quite mockingly. She continues. "Do you remember, when you were a freshman, being given a library computer lab login, and e-mail address?" The question turns your stomach. You do remember. Very well. Miss Rook recognises your realization, and continues. "Are you familiar with a website called 'feetography'?" You need not answer. Miss Rook knows by your shrinking posture and blushing face that the answer is yes. You can see it in her face, as she smiles wickedly. "For the last... 4 years, sssssomeone, has been sneaking photographs of my feet. In sandals. In high heels. In nylons. Bare. That same someone, has been posting them to 'feetography' all this time. According to the I.T. supervisor at 'feetography', the account is always logged in at an i.p. address that has been traced to the school computer lab. Cross referencing student logins, tells us that the student logged into those computers, every single time, is you." Silence hangs heavy. You are so, so busted. You never thought for a minute you would be caught.
"It wasn't me! I can explain!" You squeal, the words scraping up your dry thoat. You don't know HOW you will explain, but at this point, you are desperate. You will be expelled for sure. Everyone will know you are some kind of weird foot-perv. Miss Rook looks down, disappointed, clicking her tongue.
"Sweetheart. Save it. Library surveillance footage confirms it was you. Principal Dallas was going to expell you. I spoke with her and convinced her not to." Your mind races with relief, and confusion.
"Wh... why? Why would you... defend me... after..." You are humbled. You owe Miss Rook, big time. You also, suddenly, feel very guilty for what you have done. Shameful, all those photos of her fantastic feet, taken without her knowledge or permission.
"I convinced her instead, to allow me to decide your punishment. Something appropriate. An effective deterrent. You are not the most gifted of my students, but surely you have a bright future. It would be a shame to ruin your chances of going to college with an expulsion and criminal charges." The words echo in your mind. You never realised what you were doing was illegal, but when you hear Miss Rook say it, you know it is true, and understand the gravity of your situation. Your expression fades from fear, into resignation, and relief, gratitude.
"I'm so, so sorry! I never meant to... for anyone to... I... I" you really don't know what to say.
"Forget that, what's done is done. You can't take it back. You understand how angry I am? You understand why I am angry? You understand that what you did was wrong, and why?" You nod enthusiastically.
"Yes! Yes Ma'am! I know! I know it was wrong! I'll never do it again! Not to you or anyone!" Miss Rook can sense the fear, and sincerity in your admission and plea. She clears the table at the front of the classroom.
"Ok, then. We'll proceed with your punishment. Come here." You freeze, staring at Miss Rook, her hips cocked with a demanding attitude. She repeats. "Come... here..." You reluctantly slide from the desk, and nervously approach. "Lay down on the desk." As you climb onto the desk, you hear a curious rattle. Turning quickly, you see Miss Rook untangling a knot of straps, clips, and cuffs. Two bars, about 18" long. You gasp.
"Wh... what is that stuff? What are you doing? She continues straightening and arranging the gear.
"I'm saving you from expulsion. Now, lay down." You reluctantly lay down, as she pulls your wrists over your head. She cuffs your wrists, and tightens a nylon strap. The cuffs pull on your wrists securely, but not painfully. She walks to the other end of the table, and pushes up the legs of your jeans, repeating the binding process on your ankles. She tightens the nylon strap, and your ankles are stretched securely toward the end of the desktop. You stare at the ceiling, nervous, your heart racing.
"Wh... what are you going to do!?" You beg, fearful of the impending punishment. Miss Rook coos mockingly. Chuckling low.
"Oh, sweetheart. You will just have to grin and bear it now. Detention ends in 45 minutes, so your punishment will last until that time." She stands at the side of the table, that serves as a desk in this classroom. Her wicked, deep-red fingernails grace your forearms, sending shivers up your spine. You gasp, quivering just a bit. Miss Rook giggles, sensually, breathing long, slow. Her prickly, sharp nails glide feather-light, past your elbows, along the underside of your arms.
"Wait! Wait! Nonono! Don't do it!" You squeal desperately. Oh god! She's going to tickle you! Anything but that! You are so, so deathly ticklish! It's your greatest fear! You feel the warmth as you blush heavily. You smile involuntarily as her nails tease the edge of your vulnerable armpits, underneath your loose t-shirt. Giggles bubble up from your choked throat as you squirm and squeal, mortified, and terrified. Your heart races, as Miss Rook's nails scribble lightly all over your tender, helpless armpits. She grins, giggling gleefully at your plight. She teases you verbally, driving home the embarrassment and helplessness.
"Awwww... is that ticklish? Hmmm? You still wanna sneak pictures of my pretty little feet? Hmmm?" You squeal hysterically, wiggling wildly, thrashing and wailing. Her nails scrape just so lightly over your tender armpits. The tickling is excrutiating, and fills you with panic. You can not escape it. No matter how you move, her nails find those tender, soft armpits. She giggles at your plight, clearly enjoying this. You struggle, squealing and drooling, giggling and laughing like a maniac. Miss Rook extracts her hands from your sleeves, only to dig into your ribs. She laughs sadistically as your back arches, and you thrash like a fish out of water.
"Hahaaaaa! Somebody's very ticklish! Awwww, maybe you should have thought about that before you took those pictures, huh? I bet you regret it now, don't you?" You wriggle and scream, laughter choking your words as you plead desperately.
"Please! Please M.... Miss Rook! I'm So.... Sorry! I won't do it again! Ohohohoho god stop! Staaaaaaaawp! Pleaheaheaheahease!" And yet, your pleas are like music to her ears. She giggles gleefully, and continues down, tickling your sides. You pull hard against your restraints, to no avail, as your stomach begins to hurt from laughing so hard. You feel your shirt come untucked as she tugs it sharply. Her nails cascade back and forth over your exposed, tender tummy. She smiles wickedly, her dimples curling adorably, as her green eyes light up with sadistic joy. You feel like you might explode, and just then, she stops. You gasp for breath, huffing and puffing, grateful for the interruption. You close your eyes hard, breathing deep, to end your hyperventilating. Then, you feel Miss Rook teasing at your waistband. Her fingers deftly undo your button-flys, and pull them down, over your hips, leaving them bunched up at your ankles.
"What are you doing! You can't take my pants off! Stop! Stop! No more! Please! I can't take..." but your words are cut short when she digs her thumbs into the hollows of your hips. A new level of hysteria overtakes you as she pokes, prods, and teases your hips, thighs, and butt. You feel so violated, but can do nothing to stop her. Laughter erupts from you profusely! You beg and plead. "NO MOHOHORE! PLEAHEAHEASE! STAAAAAAAAAHP! STOPPIT! OH GOD!" you scream like a banshee, pleading and laughing in raucous guffaws. Miss Rook seems to revel in your desperate reaction. She only continues, goading you.
"Awwww... poor little foot goblin... thinks it's ok to take pictures of my pretty feet, ya? And post them on the internet for the whole world of sick little foot pervs to jack off to, huh?" She cackles maniacally and digs her nails into your knees, scraping behind them, squeezing across the tops. You are completely undone now. You can't even form a coherent thought, much less a coherent sentance. You laugh and laugh, and cry, and shudder, struggling and shaking. Finally, Miss Rook stops again, giving you a much needed break. You choke and cough, gasping for breath. Just about the time you catch your breath and clear your throat, Miss Rook climbs up onto the heavy table. She straddles your torso, and kicks off her heels. You can smell the warm, salty, pungent essence of her bare feet. She looks down at you as you open your eyes. Tears streak your face as she speaks.
"So, you like feet, huh? You like my pretty, shapely, sexy little feet? Let's see just how much you like them..." she lifts her foot, and slowly lowers it onto your face, pressing her baby-soft sole down on your mouth and nose. Her feet stink a little bit, like warm shoe leather and sweaty toes. She rubs her foot around your face a bit roughly, her warm sole pressing down just a bit too hard. You struggle as her foot covers your nostrils, and mouth. She switches feet, rubbing her sweaty foot-stink into your face. She draws her toes down to your mouth, and forces them inside. You gag and drool as her toes cram their way deeper into your mouth. "How do you like my feet now, you little perv? Had enough yet? Hmmm? What was that?" She removes her toes from your mouth as you wince and flinch, just long enough for you to confirm.
"Yes! Yes! I've had enough! Please!" Miss Rook hops down from the table and paces slowly around the table as you gather your wits. You close your eyes, wishing this was over. Miss Rook speaks, confirming that it is not.
"Hmmm... still 20 minutes left." Your heart sinks. How will you tolerate this for another 20 minutes. Then, you hear the soft padding of Miss Rook's bare feet go silent at the foot of the table. She places one hand gently on your ankle, under your buched up pants. The other hand grabs one end of the lace of your shoe, and tugs til the knot gives way. She loosens the laces and slips off your sneaker, dropping it to the floor. The cool air of the room against your sweaty, socked foot brings you a sudden awareness. She's going to tickle your feet. Your bare, helpless, vulnerable, incredibly ticklish feet. Your worst spot. The last time someone tickled your feet, you peed your pants on the 4th grade playground. You absolutely can not handle having your feet tickled. Your body tenses in panic and fear... embarrassment... anticipation. You scream, pleading desperately...
"NO! NO! NO! PLEASE! PLEASE MISS ROOK! NOT MY FEET! PLEASE DON'T TICKLE MY FEET! ANYTHING BUT MY FEET! I'LL DO ANYTHING! OH GOD PLEASE!" Alas, Miss Rook just grins and unties your other shoe. Her green eyes light up with a new enthusiasm as she peels off your sweaty socks.
"Awww... does somebody have ticklish feet!? Oh no! This is gonna be really bad for you then. Because I am going to slowly, torturously, tickle each and every little nook and cranny of these helpless, vulnerable soft feet... Run my nails up and down your sweaty arches... in between your toes... over the tops of your feet, the insteps, the tops of your sensitive little toes... your heels, the sides... but I'm gonna start right here with that spot on the balls of your feet, right there between the first toe and second toe... RIGHT HERE!"
As she begins her assault on your tender, vulnerable bare feet, you explode in hysterical peels of garbled laughter, protests and pleas. Miss Rook grins, cackling, and coos, condescendingly. "Oh! Does it tickle, Honey? Right here on the bottoms of your sweaty bare feet! Tell me where it tickles the most, you little foot monkey! Goochie goochie goo-ooo!" As her nails scribble deftly up and down your bare feet, you descend further into hysterical, laughing madness. Kicking, struggling, wriggling, wailing, and cackling. There is nothing you can do but take it. She drags her nails between your toes, over the pads of your toes, all over your ticklish bare feet as your toes curl involuntarily, scrunching your soles into frantic wrinkles as your feet quiver and twitch uncontrollably. "Where does it tickle the most, foot-monkey? Hmmm? The toes? Right here in the arches? Between these toes? You can't get away. I'm going to tickle these little feet right up to the end of detention. Tickle tickle tickle! Goochie goochie goochie goochie goochie goochie goooo-ooooo! Hahahaha! Such ticklish bare feet! I'm tickling your fee-eet! Tickle tickle tickle your feet!" Her teasing completely unravels you. The tickling sensations became intolerable a long time ago. Now that she's focused on your poor feet, you can't deal anymore. Panic kicks in full. You feel a sensation of warm, wet relief as your bladder lets go. A warm trickle penetrates your underwear and pools under you. Miss Rook notices. "Oh, dear! You've wet yourself! Naughty little foot monkey! What am I supposed to do with you now? I guess I'll have to keep tickling. Tickling these ticklish bare feet!" She continues. You find yourself whispering pleas, prayers inside your own mind. Just when you think you are going to pass the edge of sanity, leaving you a babbling lunatic for the rest of your days, an alarm goes off on Miss Rook's watch. She stops tickling you, and clears her throat. She walks calmly to the door, and walks out of the room, leaving you laying there in a puddle of cold pee. Shortly, she returns with a warm, wet towel. She cleans you up, maintaining no expression. She passes the towel under you as you arch your butt. After cleaning you up, she pulls your pants back up and fasters them. She releases your wrists and ankles and hands you your shoes and socks. "All of the pictures you posted of my feet have been taken down. Your account has been banned. I think you know what happens if you do it again. Yes?" You grab up your socks and hurry to put them on. Sliding on your shoes in a rush.
"Yes Ma'am! I understand!" You gasp, so, so glad this experience is over.
"Good. Now, I want 10 thousand words on the importance and virtue of consent. On my desk first thing Monday morning. It's going to be 20% of your grade. Now get out of here." You quickly gather your books, nodding affirmatively, and exit the classroom with all haste. As you drive home, you ponder the possibility of having been expelled, and wonder if it might not have been preferred to the torture you just endured.
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You sit quietly in detention. Again. You seem to find your way here often, though this time you aren't exactly sure what you did to land your butt in this chair. Your name was read aloud over the intercom just before the conclusion of your last class of the day, instructing you to proceed to room 213 for detention. You could hide detention from your parents, but not the suspension that comes when you ditch. You had no choice but to report. Oh, how you long for graduation. You hate being beholden to these institutional regulations, especially now that you have recently celebrated your 18th birthday. College, you assume, will be so much more chill.
Looking around the room, you find it curious that no other students have arrived. There are usually at least 3 or 4 more aside from you. As the bell rings to indicate 4 o'clock p.m., your detention steward struts in, stilletto heels clicking sharply on the hallway tile, and falling silent as she steps into the classroom. Miss Rook. Lynette... 5 feet and 6 inches tall. She's at least 5'10" with those shoes. Her toes peak out the open toes of those shoes, just enough to give you a glimpse of her perfect, deep red nail polish. You are well-familiar with her pretty, perfect toes. You've been sneaking snapshots of them for years, and posting them to a candid feet-pics sight called 'feetography'. You gaze, subtly, up her bare legs, strong and shapely. Her black pencil-skirt is maybe just an inch or two short for administration dress code, but no one ever reprimands her. Her white blouse drapes comfortably around her ample breasts, and as-yet-unseen tummy. She holds a stack of books, notebooks, papers, and grade-books in front of her as she marches in. Her manner gives you the faintest impression of her elevated level of intensity. Her face, expressionless behind her black rimmed glasses, gives you no hint of mood or attitude. She drops her burden on the table at the front of the room, and returns quickly to the classroom door. She closes it and locks it, returning to the front table as she pulls the chopstick from her bun, releasing her gentle, voluptuous black curls to cascade down her back, to her waist. She sits on the edge of the table, licking her teeth behind pillowy red lips. Her foot bounces nervously, no... angrily, as her piercing green eyes bore into you, seemingly drilling for your very soul.
"Do you... have any idea... why you are here?"
Her question shocks you awake. You have no answer. You can guess. There are a few reasons, but none you would disclose. You shake your head and part your lips as a mousy "No, Ma'am." crackles out like a squeaking door hinge. Miss Rook stares, now plainly agitated.
"No Ma'am." she reapeats flatly, not quite mockingly. She continues. "Do you remember, when you were a freshman, being given a library computer lab login, and e-mail address?" The question turns your stomach. You do remember. Very well. Miss Rook recognises your realization, and continues. "Are you familiar with a website called 'feetography'?" You need not answer. Miss Rook knows by your shrinking posture and blushing face that the answer is yes. You can see it in her face, as she smiles wickedly. "For the last... 4 years, sssssomeone, has been sneaking photographs of my feet. In sandals. In high heels. In nylons. Bare. That same someone, has been posting them to 'feetography' all this time. According to the I.T. supervisor at 'feetography', the account is always logged in at an i.p. address that has been traced to the school computer lab. Cross referencing student logins, tells us that the student logged into those computers, every single time, is you." Silence hangs heavy. You are so, so busted. You never thought for a minute you would be caught.
"It wasn't me! I can explain!" You squeal, the words scraping up your dry thoat. You don't know HOW you will explain, but at this point, you are desperate. You will be expelled for sure. Everyone will know you are some kind of weird foot-perv. Miss Rook looks down, disappointed, clicking her tongue.
"Sweetheart. Save it. Library surveillance footage confirms it was you. Principal Dallas was going to expell you. I spoke with her and convinced her not to." Your mind races with relief, and confusion.
"Wh... why? Why would you... defend me... after..." You are humbled. You owe Miss Rook, big time. You also, suddenly, feel very guilty for what you have done. Shameful, all those photos of her fantastic feet, taken without her knowledge or permission.
"I convinced her instead, to allow me to decide your punishment. Something appropriate. An effective deterrent. You are not the most gifted of my students, but surely you have a bright future. It would be a shame to ruin your chances of going to college with an expulsion and criminal charges." The words echo in your mind. You never realised what you were doing was illegal, but when you hear Miss Rook say it, you know it is true, and understand the gravity of your situation. Your expression fades from fear, into resignation, and relief, gratitude.
"I'm so, so sorry! I never meant to... for anyone to... I... I" you really don't know what to say.
"Forget that, what's done is done. You can't take it back. You understand how angry I am? You understand why I am angry? You understand that what you did was wrong, and why?" You nod enthusiastically.
"Yes! Yes Ma'am! I know! I know it was wrong! I'll never do it again! Not to you or anyone!" Miss Rook can sense the fear, and sincerity in your admission and plea. She clears the table at the front of the classroom.
"Ok, then. We'll proceed with your punishment. Come here." You freeze, staring at Miss Rook, her hips cocked with a demanding attitude. She repeats. "Come... here..." You reluctantly slide from the desk, and nervously approach. "Lay down on the desk." As you climb onto the desk, you hear a curious rattle. Turning quickly, you see Miss Rook untangling a knot of straps, clips, and cuffs. Two bars, about 18" long. You gasp.
"Wh... what is that stuff? What are you doing? She continues straightening and arranging the gear.
"I'm saving you from expulsion. Now, lay down." You reluctantly lay down, as she pulls your wrists over your head. She cuffs your wrists, and tightens a nylon strap. The cuffs pull on your wrists securely, but not painfully. She walks to the other end of the table, and pushes up the legs of your jeans, repeating the binding process on your ankles. She tightens the nylon strap, and your ankles are stretched securely toward the end of the desktop. You stare at the ceiling, nervous, your heart racing.
"Wh... what are you going to do!?" You beg, fearful of the impending punishment. Miss Rook coos mockingly. Chuckling low.
"Oh, sweetheart. You will just have to grin and bear it now. Detention ends in 45 minutes, so your punishment will last until that time." She stands at the side of the table, that serves as a desk in this classroom. Her wicked, deep-red fingernails grace your forearms, sending shivers up your spine. You gasp, quivering just a bit. Miss Rook giggles, sensually, breathing long, slow. Her prickly, sharp nails glide feather-light, past your elbows, along the underside of your arms.
"Wait! Wait! Nonono! Don't do it!" You squeal desperately. Oh god! She's going to tickle you! Anything but that! You are so, so deathly ticklish! It's your greatest fear! You feel the warmth as you blush heavily. You smile involuntarily as her nails tease the edge of your vulnerable armpits, underneath your loose t-shirt. Giggles bubble up from your choked throat as you squirm and squeal, mortified, and terrified. Your heart races, as Miss Rook's nails scribble lightly all over your tender, helpless armpits. She grins, giggling gleefully at your plight. She teases you verbally, driving home the embarrassment and helplessness.
"Awwww... is that ticklish? Hmmm? You still wanna sneak pictures of my pretty little feet? Hmmm?" You squeal hysterically, wiggling wildly, thrashing and wailing. Her nails scrape just so lightly over your tender armpits. The tickling is excrutiating, and fills you with panic. You can not escape it. No matter how you move, her nails find those tender, soft armpits. She giggles at your plight, clearly enjoying this. You struggle, squealing and drooling, giggling and laughing like a maniac. Miss Rook extracts her hands from your sleeves, only to dig into your ribs. She laughs sadistically as your back arches, and you thrash like a fish out of water.
"Hahaaaaa! Somebody's very ticklish! Awwww, maybe you should have thought about that before you took those pictures, huh? I bet you regret it now, don't you?" You wriggle and scream, laughter choking your words as you plead desperately.
"Please! Please M.... Miss Rook! I'm So.... Sorry! I won't do it again! Ohohohoho god stop! Staaaaaaaawp! Pleaheaheaheahease!" And yet, your pleas are like music to her ears. She giggles gleefully, and continues down, tickling your sides. You pull hard against your restraints, to no avail, as your stomach begins to hurt from laughing so hard. You feel your shirt come untucked as she tugs it sharply. Her nails cascade back and forth over your exposed, tender tummy. She smiles wickedly, her dimples curling adorably, as her green eyes light up with sadistic joy. You feel like you might explode, and just then, she stops. You gasp for breath, huffing and puffing, grateful for the interruption. You close your eyes hard, breathing deep, to end your hyperventilating. Then, you feel Miss Rook teasing at your waistband. Her fingers deftly undo your button-flys, and pull them down, over your hips, leaving them bunched up at your ankles.
"What are you doing! You can't take my pants off! Stop! Stop! No more! Please! I can't take..." but your words are cut short when she digs her thumbs into the hollows of your hips. A new level of hysteria overtakes you as she pokes, prods, and teases your hips, thighs, and butt. You feel so violated, but can do nothing to stop her. Laughter erupts from you profusely! You beg and plead. "NO MOHOHORE! PLEAHEAHEASE! STAAAAAAAAAHP! STOPPIT! OH GOD!" you scream like a banshee, pleading and laughing in raucous guffaws. Miss Rook seems to revel in your desperate reaction. She only continues, goading you.
"Awwww... poor little foot goblin... thinks it's ok to take pictures of my pretty feet, ya? And post them on the internet for the whole world of sick little foot pervs to jack off to, huh?" She cackles maniacally and digs her nails into your knees, scraping behind them, squeezing across the tops. You are completely undone now. You can't even form a coherent thought, much less a coherent sentance. You laugh and laugh, and cry, and shudder, struggling and shaking. Finally, Miss Rook stops again, giving you a much needed break. You choke and cough, gasping for breath. Just about the time you catch your breath and clear your throat, Miss Rook climbs up onto the heavy table. She straddles your torso, and kicks off her heels. You can smell the warm, salty, pungent essence of her bare feet. She looks down at you as you open your eyes. Tears streak your face as she speaks.
"So, you like feet, huh? You like my pretty, shapely, sexy little feet? Let's see just how much you like them..." she lifts her foot, and slowly lowers it onto your face, pressing her baby-soft sole down on your mouth and nose. Her feet stink a little bit, like warm shoe leather and sweaty toes. She rubs her foot around your face a bit roughly, her warm sole pressing down just a bit too hard. You struggle as her foot covers your nostrils, and mouth. She switches feet, rubbing her sweaty foot-stink into your face. She draws her toes down to your mouth, and forces them inside. You gag and drool as her toes cram their way deeper into your mouth. "How do you like my feet now, you little perv? Had enough yet? Hmmm? What was that?" She removes her toes from your mouth as you wince and flinch, just long enough for you to confirm.
"Yes! Yes! I've had enough! Please!" Miss Rook hops down from the table and paces slowly around the table as you gather your wits. You close your eyes, wishing this was over. Miss Rook speaks, confirming that it is not.
"Hmmm... still 20 minutes left." Your heart sinks. How will you tolerate this for another 20 minutes. Then, you hear the soft padding of Miss Rook's bare feet go silent at the foot of the table. She places one hand gently on your ankle, under your buched up pants. The other hand grabs one end of the lace of your shoe, and tugs til the knot gives way. She loosens the laces and slips off your sneaker, dropping it to the floor. The cool air of the room against your sweaty, socked foot brings you a sudden awareness. She's going to tickle your feet. Your bare, helpless, vulnerable, incredibly ticklish feet. Your worst spot. The last time someone tickled your feet, you peed your pants on the 4th grade playground. You absolutely can not handle having your feet tickled. Your body tenses in panic and fear... embarrassment... anticipation. You scream, pleading desperately...
"NO! NO! NO! PLEASE! PLEASE MISS ROOK! NOT MY FEET! PLEASE DON'T TICKLE MY FEET! ANYTHING BUT MY FEET! I'LL DO ANYTHING! OH GOD PLEASE!" Alas, Miss Rook just grins and unties your other shoe. Her green eyes light up with a new enthusiasm as she peels off your sweaty socks.
"Awww... does somebody have ticklish feet!? Oh no! This is gonna be really bad for you then. Because I am going to slowly, torturously, tickle each and every little nook and cranny of these helpless, vulnerable soft feet... Run my nails up and down your sweaty arches... in between your toes... over the tops of your feet, the insteps, the tops of your sensitive little toes... your heels, the sides... but I'm gonna start right here with that spot on the balls of your feet, right there between the first toe and second toe... RIGHT HERE!"
As she begins her assault on your tender, vulnerable bare feet, you explode in hysterical peels of garbled laughter, protests and pleas. Miss Rook grins, cackling, and coos, condescendingly. "Oh! Does it tickle, Honey? Right here on the bottoms of your sweaty bare feet! Tell me where it tickles the most, you little foot monkey! Goochie goochie goo-ooo!" As her nails scribble deftly up and down your bare feet, you descend further into hysterical, laughing madness. Kicking, struggling, wriggling, wailing, and cackling. There is nothing you can do but take it. She drags her nails between your toes, over the pads of your toes, all over your ticklish bare feet as your toes curl involuntarily, scrunching your soles into frantic wrinkles as your feet quiver and twitch uncontrollably. "Where does it tickle the most, foot-monkey? Hmmm? The toes? Right here in the arches? Between these toes? You can't get away. I'm going to tickle these little feet right up to the end of detention. Tickle tickle tickle! Goochie goochie goochie goochie goochie goochie goooo-ooooo! Hahahaha! Such ticklish bare feet! I'm tickling your fee-eet! Tickle tickle tickle your feet!" Her teasing completely unravels you. The tickling sensations became intolerable a long time ago. Now that she's focused on your poor feet, you can't deal anymore. Panic kicks in full. You feel a sensation of warm, wet relief as your bladder lets go. A warm trickle penetrates your underwear and pools under you. Miss Rook notices. "Oh, dear! You've wet yourself! Naughty little foot monkey! What am I supposed to do with you now? I guess I'll have to keep tickling. Tickling these ticklish bare feet!" She continues. You find yourself whispering pleas, prayers inside your own mind. Just when you think you are going to pass the edge of sanity, leaving you a babbling lunatic for the rest of your days, an alarm goes off on Miss Rook's watch. She stops tickling you, and clears her throat. She walks calmly to the door, and walks out of the room, leaving you laying there in a puddle of cold pee. Shortly, she returns with a warm, wet towel. She cleans you up, maintaining no expression. She passes the towel under you as you arch your butt. After cleaning you up, she pulls your pants back up and fasters them. She releases your wrists and ankles and hands you your shoes and socks. "All of the pictures you posted of my feet have been taken down. Your account has been banned. I think you know what happens if you do it again. Yes?" You grab up your socks and hurry to put them on. Sliding on your shoes in a rush.
"Yes Ma'am! I understand!" You gasp, so, so glad this experience is over.
"Good. Now, I want 10 thousand words on the importance and virtue of consent. On my desk first thing Monday morning. It's going to be 20% of your grade. Now get out of here." You quickly gather your books, nodding affirmatively, and exit the classroom with all haste. As you drive home, you ponder the possibility of having been expelled, and wonder if it might not have been preferred to the torture you just endured.
