TEACHER'S TICKLE TORTURE
When Emma put the key in the lock of her front door, she had no idea that her day was about to get horrifically bad.
She was a teacher at the local secondary school, young, pretty and popular. She was full of figure, with a shock of red, crimped hair and startling, deep blue eyes. She was rarely seen without a smile on her face, and her teaching style was highly commended by her students. She was the type of person who definitely didn’t deserve to be mercilessly tortured.
Yet she was just about to be, and there was no way she could have known.
As she turned the key on the front door of her modest-sized home, where she lived alone, a beefy arm wrapped around her waist, causing her to squeal. A fraction of a second later a knife was held to her neck. Her blood froze. Now was one of those times when she was not smiling.
‘Go in,’ said a female voice, one she recognised.
She did as she was told, not wanting to mess with a knife-wielding student. Her assailant closed the door behind them, leaving them standing in the dimly lit hallway of Emma’s house.
The intruder’s large breasts pressed into her back, and Emma felt hot breath on the back of her neck. ‘We need to talk,’ she said.
Emma was baffled. ‘Vicky, what are you doing?’
Vicky let go of Emma, who moved quickly away and turned around to look at her eighteen year old English student. She was plump – fat, even, although not in a ghastly way – with blond hair and wide hips. She kept the knife in clear view.
‘Why did you only give me a C in my coursework essay?’ she asked.
Emma dumped her bag on the floor, her mouth open in disbelief. ‘You followed me home!’
‘Don’t dodge the question,’ Vicky said calmly.
Emma swallowed. ‘I wrote on your paper why I gave the grade I did.’
‘But I don’t want a C,’ said Vicky coldly. ‘I want an A. To get into my university.’
‘I can’t change your grade, Vicky.’
‘Oh, I think you can. And you will.’
Emma stood up straight and crossed her arms under her bosom. ‘No I won’t. And if you don’t leave now, I’ll call the police.’
Vicky smiled, but Emma could see no humour in it. ‘That’s a shame. Now I’m going to have to make you change my grade. And you won’t like that.’
‘How are you going to make me?’ Emma asked, moving toward the phone even as she spoke.
Vicky raised the knife. ‘Let’s find out.’ She suddenly lunged forward, and Emma was forced to step sideways, away from the telephone.
Vicky was looking over Emma’s shoulder. ‘Up the stairs,’ she instructed, pointing the knife in the corresponding direction. Emma started to do so, seeing now that rash moves would not be advisable.
‘Vicky, we can talk about this…’ she started. Then she noticed what could only be a pair of handcuffs attached to the girl’s belt, and she felt her first real stab of fear. Whatever Vicky planned to do to her, it wouldn’t be enjoyable.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Vicky cut in. ‘I want my A.’
‘Vicky, I can’t…’
The obviously insane girl was looking straight at Emma, her eyes showing an intensity that invited no discussion. She was herding her teacher up the stairs – like a sheepdog, Emma thought then.
Emma stepped backwards onto the landing, and so did Vicky. For a second, Emma considered rushing across to the open bathroom and locking herself in, but before she could even complete the thought her captor moved with surprising speed and spun her around, once more holding the knife to her throat.
‘Which one’s your bedroom?’
‘That one,’ Emma gagged, pointing to the door at the end of the landing.
‘Go in.’
Emma did, moving slowly so as not to cut her own head off, trying to appear calm although the first shades of panic had set in. What was going to happen to her?
The bedroom was nicely furnished with a pleasant juxtaposition of subtle shades and bright tones. The single bed lay with its foot facing the door, all made and ready.
Ready for what? Emma wondered unexpectedly.
Vicky did indeed manoeuvre toward the bed, pushing the teacher roughly onto it. Emma swivelled to face the demonic student, but did not try to flee.
‘This is your last chance,’ Vicky said. ‘Change my grade.’
‘No,’ said Emma, and she smiled defiantly. ‘You can’t scare me.’
‘Very well,’ said Vicky, as if exasperated. She raised the knife again. ‘Lie down. On your back.’
Emma did so without dissent, making it a point to show Vicky how ‘unafraid’ she was. It was false bravado.
Vicky clambered onto the bed, tucking the knife under her arm, and took the handcuffs from her belt. Silently, she took hold of Emma’s wrists and pulled them over her head, then cuffed them to one of the bars on the headboard.
That was it, then. There was now no way that Emma could get away. Her black sleeveless top rode up slightly at the waist, exposing her belly button, and the vulnerable position she had been cuffed in left her shaved armpits bare and showing. She wondered again what was going to happen now. The truth was, she didn’t have a clue.
She decided to make one final attempt to throw Vicky off, after which she had resolved to be quiet and allow the girl to practise whatever pathetic method of persuasion she had in mind. She would not crack. She was too strong for that.
‘I’ll tell someone at school tomorrow, and you’ll be expelled,’ she threatened, not sure how convincing she sounded. ‘Then there’ll definitely be no university for you.’
Vicky looked unconcerned. She was in the process of removing her teacher’s high heels, revealing her fluffy rainbow socks.
‘If you do, this won’t be the last time I pay you a visit.’
Her threat hadn’t worked. Emma went quiet and waited for the girl to make the next move.
Vicky shifted into a more comfortable position, her legs curled to one side of her, and moved to the head of the bed. Emma noted the way the girl’s eyes flashed sadistically when she looked at her, and the contented grin which had spread over her face.
Vicky moved her hands to the teacher’s wrists, as if to unlock the handcuffs. Then she lay her fingers gently on the white skin of each of Emma’s arms and dragged her long fingernails slowly down to the elbows. Emma’s arms twitched and she uttered a low giggle at the slight tickling sensation.
Vicky did this several more times, and each time Emma tried more successfully to conceal her discomfort. This light tickling wasn’t exactly unpleasant, but it was kind of irritating.
‘Stop it,’ she ordered, but there was no conviction in her voice.
Vicky beamed. ‘No,’ she said, then started to gently stroke the redhead’s upper arms, stopping just short of the armpits. Emma felt the heat rising a bit as the sensations became a bit more palpable. She giggled more freely, unable to hold it back.
Was this was Vicky was going to do to her? Tickle her into a change of heart?
The girl stopped suddenly and held her hands directly above the smooth hollows of her teacher’s armpits. The sadistic grin did not leave her face.
Emma realised what was about to happen and suddenly wanted out. She was ticklish. Very ticklish, in fact, and the thought of having this little weakness exploited while she was cuffed helpless to the bed was not appealing. ‘No!’ she protested, shaking her head. She couldn’t help smiling, though. Ticklish people always laugh before the tickling even starts.
Vicky nodded. ‘Yes!’ she said, then brought her fingers down and began to tickle Emma’s armpits.
Emma’s laughter exploded loudly out of her mouth. This was no light, irritating stroking; this was fast, full-fledged tickling, and she couldn’t hide the reflexive reaction which jumped out of her. She rocked her head from side to side and tried to pull her arms down, but the handcuffs did their job. She was helplessly exposed as Vicky’s fingernails danced over her skin, and the feeling was one of complete submission. She suddenly couldn’t speak, and she didn’t want to. Her body (and mind) had given itself over to her angry student’s will, perhaps irretrievably. Instead of complaints, what came from her mouth was laughter. Loud, musical laughter.
Vicky kept up this ruthless armpit tickling for what must have been a couple of minutes more, sometimes scuttling her fingers like spiders up the arms before moving back down to the armpits, then stopped, moving down the bed slightly, to Emma’s side. ‘You had enough yet?’ she asked.
‘I can take whatever you throw at me,’ Emma answered, panting slightly, not sure what that meant. Was she taking this because she was a strong-willed dominatrix who was more suited to giving punishment than receiving, or because she actually enjoyed it? She didn’t know.
Such questions were clearly not on Vicky’s mind. ‘All right, then.’ She nodded, then reached out and began to tickle Emma’s ribs. Emma burst out laughing again, bucking her hips in a vain attempt to withdraw the tickled parts. But with her arms restrained firmly where they were, there was no way she was going anywhere.
Vicky formed her hands into claws and dug in harder, every now and then using both hands to tickle the belly which was peeking out from above Emma’s waistline. Emma laughed and thrashed, but did not object to her treatment.
That meant it was all right to continue.
Vicky stopped tickling for a moment – it was only a moment – and lifted her leg up and over her teacher’s hips, so that she was straddling her victim’s waist. It also meant that her large backside was now pinning Emma’s bucking hips to the bed.
She resumed the tickling, enjoying the pleasant sound of the pretty young woman’s laughter, somewhat surprised to find that she liked the feeling of Emma’s hips thrusting beneath her. It made her feel as though she were riding a horse. It made her feel in control.
Emma guessed that she had actually been enjoying it up to that point, but suddenly something broke in her brain – kind of like a dam bursting – and the sensations that were sprinting all up and down her ribcage and across her stomach became unbearable. She laughed even louder, but now there was a hint of panicky screeching coming out, too.
‘No, Vicky, stop!’ she cried, then dissolved into more laughter. ‘Please, stop!’
‘Why?’ Vicky asked, not stopping. ‘You ready to change my grade?’
‘No, but…AHAHAHAHAAAA!’
‘Well, that’s too bad,’ Vicky said delightedly, and returned her concentration to the tickle torture.
She spent the next few minutes working over Emma’s torso (occasionally returning to the armpits for a few seconds) with her claws, and then she found one spot that drove her teacher absolutely wild. On a whim she stuck one finger into the woman’s belly button and wiggled it about. Emma bucked hard, almost knocking Vicky off. Her face was reddening, and her laughing mouth seemed also to be grimacing in pain.
She has to crack soon, Vicky thought. To speed up the process, she lifted Emma’s black top to just below her breasts and blew several loud raspberries, her lips stuck like a plunger over the redhead’s navel. Emma actually screamed once or twice during this period, but Vicky guessed it was less to do with her ticklishness and more to do with the humiliation of being treated like a three-year old.
It went on for a few more minutes, the laughter and screeches unceasing, then Vicky stopped. Emma was breathing heavily, and her face was flushed. Vicky saw she was sweating.
She didn’t allow much time for her teacher to get her breath back. After a few silent moments, she slid her bottom quickly down Emma’s legs so that she was sitting on her shins, then proceeded to squeeze her thighs, just above the knees. Emma screamed once, then dissolved into laughter. She tried to kick her tormentor off, but Vicky was too heavy, and the teacher’s arms thrashed violently against the handcuffs, but did not move far.
Vicky stopped again for another short break. ‘You ready to do what I want yet?’ she asked, although in truth she had no intention of stopping the tickle torture. It was just too damn fun.
‘Go to Hell!’ Emma snapped. She was clearly angry and no longer in the thrall of her submissive other self. ‘I’ll never do it!’
Vicky grinned. Now would come the really fun part.
‘Oh, really?’ she said quizzically, then turned around on Emma’s legs and slowly removed her colourful socks. Emma’s feet were large with big toes and nails painted red. They presented an easy target. Vicky gave the sole of each a quick stroke with one finger.
‘Oh, fuck!’ Emma shouted, realising what was just about to happen. She wiggled her feet pathetically at the ankles. ‘Oh God, not my feet!’
‘Yes, your feet,’ Vicky confirmed, emotionlessly. ‘Unless you want to give me an A?’ She turned around and glanced at her teacher. Emma groaned in defeat and said no more.
Vicky started slowly, stroking Emma’s soft white soles with all of her fingers, making it as agonising as possible. Emma laughed weakly and struggled in vain.
Then suddenly she was tickling hard, her nails scampering all over Emma’s peds like demented insects, and Emma let out a hoarse scream. She was reaching the end of her limits, Vicky guessed. So it would be wise for her to give in.
Incredibly, though, she did not. Vicky was tickling her feet for the next five minutes, alternating between fast and slow and keeping her victim continually guessing. Emma’s laughs were almost silent by then, and a quick glance back revealed that her face was bright red and her blue eyes were darting from side to side in torment.
Vicky decided at this point to play her final card. If Emma did not break after the next attack, she would give up and accept a C. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that, though; she hoped this would work.
‘Right, then,’ she said to herself, and to Emma’s surprise she climbed off the bed and left the room, leaving her there on her own, cuffed to the bed.
Emma’s already soaring uneasiness grew. ‘Vicky, what are you doing?’ she called wearily.
No answer. Emma wondered whether Vicky had decided to just leave her here to rot.
But a moment later she did reappear, and Emma saw something in her hand. It was her toothbrush, stolen from the bathroom.
Vicky straddled Emma’s legs again. ‘If this doesn’t break you, I don’t know what will.’ She started to scrub Emma’s feet with the brush. Emma kicked and screamed, but Vicky showed no mercy. She even held Emma’s toes back, dragging the brush’s bristles all over her exposed feet.
‘Please…Vicky…stop!’ Emma panted.
‘Only if you change my grade!’ Vicky demanded, somewhat joyously.
‘Vicky, no…I can’t!’
‘Well, I’ll just keep going, then!’
Those were the words that broke Emma. She couldn’t take it any more. She couldn’t keep up the pretence of her strong-woman demeanour; she was being tortured, and she wanted it to stop. Now.
‘OK,’ she choked weakly. ‘I’ll…change…it…’
Vicky continued for several more agonising seconds before stopping. ‘Good,’ she said, and dropped the toothbrush onto the bed. ‘There, I knew you could be reasonable.’
* * *
A couple of hours later, Emma sat alone in her living room with a cup of tea in one hand, staring at a blank television screen. Vicky was long gone, her grade now changed.
She can’t get away with it, Emma thought, and she wondered if there was anything she could do now that she had acquiesced to her student’s insane wishes. She couldn’t tell the school, she had decided that right away. What would she say? That one of her students broke into her house after school and tickled her into changing an essay grade? She would be laughed off. The same went for the police.
But how could she just let Vicky get away with it? She supposed she could get the girl for carrying a weapon. But she didn’t truly believe that Vicky had ever intended to use the knife. It was just a tool to make the student’s threats seem more real. To lead her upstairs, into the bedroom…
Tomorrow would be worse. Tomorrow, third period, she had English with none other that the Terrible Tickler herself. No words would pass between them during that lesson, but Emma would be able to see it in the girl’s eyes, that silent look that said I got ya good! And what you gonna do about it? And Emma would be expected to just sit there and take it.
This was not acceptable. It was not that look which made her want more than anything else to stay in bed tomorrow morning. It was the fact that she had been humiliated. She had always thought of herself as a tough, unbreakable feminist icon, and she had been reduced to fits of giggles because of some spoilt cow tickling her. It might take her months to get over it, to build a new defensive wall for the castle of protection she had built around herself.
Whatever the consequences, she told herself with a grim smile, Vicky will pay.
She began to devise her plans then.
Soon, when her naughty student least suspected it, Emma would have her revenge.
