chandor864
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- Apr 14, 2025
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PACT AND CONVULSIONS
It had all started with a stupid bet on the class WhatsApp group. Mrs. Vasseur, the math professor, was a fortress of austerity: straight back, tight bun, and a knack for giving pop quizzes that dragged the class average below 40%. But Kevin, while retrieving a pen under her desk the day before, had stumbled upon a major secret: by accidentally brushing against the regent's ankle, she had jumped with a small, high-pitched cry, revealing an unsuspected vulnerability.
The plan was hatched in record time. The following Monday, while the class was supposed to be studying independently via the university's videoconferencing platform, a small squad led by a student named Kevin broke into the prep room where Mrs. Vasseur was grading papers, connected to the video feed that allowed her to monitor her students remotely.
I nodded to my computer camera: "All set, I'm ready. The whole class is logged on to see just how ticklish the math prof really is." On the video chat, messages were flying by at lightning speed—a mix of excitement and disbelief.
— "Go on, Kevin, don't flinch! Start by tickling the soles of her feet!" I whispered into my mic, my heart pounding.
Kevin, who had stealthily slipped under the table in the prep room, didn't need to be told twice. His fingers darted toward Mrs. Vasseur’s bare soles; she had removed her pumps for comfort. At the first touch, the shock was immediate. The professor, previously made of stone, was jolted as if by an electric shock. Her toes cramped violently, curling up as if to flee the invisible assault.
What followed exceeded all our expectations. Mrs. Vasseur tried to maintain her dignity, but her vocal cords betrayed her. A stifled laugh, almost a hen-like cluck, escaped her pursed lips. Then, as Kevin intensified his circular motions on her heels and arches, the dam broke.
The math prof spiraled into true hysteria. She writhed in her office chair, her legs flailing in the air in a disorganized dance. Her face, usually so pale, turned purple. — "No! Stop! Mercy! Heehee... Haha... This is... it's unfair!" she screamed between jagged breaths.
Her laughter turned into shrill shrieks, uncontrollable hiccups that made the image on our screens tremble. She tried to push Kevin away, but each additional contact plunged her deeper into a nervous delirium. She was drenched in sweat, her eyes watering, unable to catch her breath.
Mrs. Vasseur's resistance lasted only a few seconds longer. Her attempts to grab the armrests of her swivel chair were in vain; her legs, shaking with uncontrollable spasms under Kevin's expert fingers, eventually pulled her down. With a final gasp of high-pitched laughter, she slid heavily from her seat and slumped onto the cold linoleum of the prep room floor.
She didn't even have time to try to get up. Taking advantage of her vulnerability, three students—Lucas, Nathan, and Sarah—rushed toward her.
"Pin her down!" I shouted through the screen, fascinated by the chaos unfolding live.
Nathan and Lucas firmly pinned her shoulders and legs to the floor, while Sarah held her wrists above her head, exposing her flanks. Mrs. Vasseur was now completely at their mercy, spread-eagled, short of breath, her face bathed in tears of laughter.
That was when Kevin shifted into high gear. He no longer settled for just the feet. His hands became a blur of motion, a lightning attack on all strategic zones:
— "The exam!" Kevin yelled, while continuing his incessant drumming on her ribs. "We want the details of the test!"
She was at her limit. Her laughter became almost silent—that stage where you can't even expel air. She frantically waved the hand Sarah could no longer hold, a sign of absolute surrender.
— "Okay... okay! Stop!" she managed to utter in a final spasm. "Exercise 4... it's an exponential function study... with an area calculation... heehee! I'll give you the grading scale too! Just let me go!"
Despite her partial confession, the grip did not loosen. Kevin, galvanized by the excitement of the group screaming encouragement in the video chat, gave the professor no respite. His fingers went back on the attack, drumming frantically on Mrs. Vasseur’s ribs before dropping sharply back to the soles of her feet, which were wiggling desperately.
— "Not so fast, Madame!" Nathan said, leaning his full weight on her shoulders to keep her pinned to the floor. "We want the whole thing. The scale, the traps, the bonus question... Everything!"
The tickling resumed with renewed vigor.
Mrs. Vasseur was overwhelmed by a new fit of hysteria. She writhed again, her body arching into an improbable bridge, her head tossing from side to side on the linoleum. Her laughter, now hoarse and jagged, rang out like a symphony of defeat. Every "Heehee... nooo... please!" was smothered by a new burst of targeted tickling under her armpits and on her waist.
For long minutes, the prep room was the stage for a surreal spectacle: an eminent mathematics professor from a world-renowned university, reduced to a trembling, laughing heap, surrendering the secrets of an exam one by one between hiccups. Once the last detail was recorded by the students watching from their screens, Kevin stopped suddenly, but kept his hands just inches from the woman's flanks, like a hovering threat.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by Mrs. Vasseur’s erratic, wheezing breath.
— "Listen to me carefully, Madame," Kevin said in a calm, almost icy voice, as she tried to regain her composure, her eyes reddened. "We're going to delete the recording. No one will know what happened here... on one condition."
He leaned into her ear while she was still being held on the floor.
— "On Monday, you will act as if nothing happened. And for every future test, you will slip us the exam 48 hours in advance, spontaneously. If you speak to the administration or if you forget our agreement... we'll be back. And I guarantee you the next session will be much, much longer and more unbearable."
Mrs. Vasseur, still shaken by residual tremors—those small nervous spasms that follow an intense tickling session—closed her eyes and gave a weak nod. She was broken, drained of all authority. The image of the tyrannical prof had shattered on that cold floor, replaced by a woman who dreaded being tickled above all else. The fortress had fallen.
Kevin abruptly pulled away. Silence fell over the room again, disturbed only by the professor's long, gasping breaths, her hair in disarray and her gaze empty. On the chat, it was an explosion: the students were exultant.
The three students finally released her and left the room in silence, leaving the professor alone with her undone hair and bare feet, utterly defeated by her insurmountable fear of being tickled.
It had all started with a stupid bet on the class WhatsApp group. Mrs. Vasseur, the math professor, was a fortress of austerity: straight back, tight bun, and a knack for giving pop quizzes that dragged the class average below 40%. But Kevin, while retrieving a pen under her desk the day before, had stumbled upon a major secret: by accidentally brushing against the regent's ankle, she had jumped with a small, high-pitched cry, revealing an unsuspected vulnerability.
The plan was hatched in record time. The following Monday, while the class was supposed to be studying independently via the university's videoconferencing platform, a small squad led by a student named Kevin broke into the prep room where Mrs. Vasseur was grading papers, connected to the video feed that allowed her to monitor her students remotely.
I nodded to my computer camera: "All set, I'm ready. The whole class is logged on to see just how ticklish the math prof really is." On the video chat, messages were flying by at lightning speed—a mix of excitement and disbelief.
— "Go on, Kevin, don't flinch! Start by tickling the soles of her feet!" I whispered into my mic, my heart pounding.
Kevin, who had stealthily slipped under the table in the prep room, didn't need to be told twice. His fingers darted toward Mrs. Vasseur’s bare soles; she had removed her pumps for comfort. At the first touch, the shock was immediate. The professor, previously made of stone, was jolted as if by an electric shock. Her toes cramped violently, curling up as if to flee the invisible assault.
What followed exceeded all our expectations. Mrs. Vasseur tried to maintain her dignity, but her vocal cords betrayed her. A stifled laugh, almost a hen-like cluck, escaped her pursed lips. Then, as Kevin intensified his circular motions on her heels and arches, the dam broke.
The math prof spiraled into true hysteria. She writhed in her office chair, her legs flailing in the air in a disorganized dance. Her face, usually so pale, turned purple. — "No! Stop! Mercy! Heehee... Haha... This is... it's unfair!" she screamed between jagged breaths.
Her laughter turned into shrill shrieks, uncontrollable hiccups that made the image on our screens tremble. She tried to push Kevin away, but each additional contact plunged her deeper into a nervous delirium. She was drenched in sweat, her eyes watering, unable to catch her breath.
Mrs. Vasseur's resistance lasted only a few seconds longer. Her attempts to grab the armrests of her swivel chair were in vain; her legs, shaking with uncontrollable spasms under Kevin's expert fingers, eventually pulled her down. With a final gasp of high-pitched laughter, she slid heavily from her seat and slumped onto the cold linoleum of the prep room floor.
She didn't even have time to try to get up. Taking advantage of her vulnerability, three students—Lucas, Nathan, and Sarah—rushed toward her.
"Pin her down!" I shouted through the screen, fascinated by the chaos unfolding live.
Nathan and Lucas firmly pinned her shoulders and legs to the floor, while Sarah held her wrists above her head, exposing her flanks. Mrs. Vasseur was now completely at their mercy, spread-eagled, short of breath, her face bathed in tears of laughter.
That was when Kevin shifted into high gear. He no longer settled for just the feet. His hands became a blur of motion, a lightning attack on all strategic zones:
- The Soles of the Feet: He returned to them constantly, his knuckles rubbing vigorously against her overextended arches. Each pass caused a violent extension of the professor's legs as she tried desperately to curl into herself, but to no avail as Lucas held them firmly to the ground.
- The Ribs and Waist: His fingers suddenly shot up her flanks. At this contact, Mrs. Vasseur let out a true cry of mock-joyful distress. She arched violently, her torso lifting off the floor in a desperate attempt to escape this sensory torture. Her waist, incredibly reactive to tickling, writhed like a spring.
- The Armpits: To finish off her resistance, Kevin slid his hands under her arms. It was the coup de grâce. The math prof entered a phase of pure hysteria. She could no longer form words, only broken sounds: "No... not there... heehee... mercy... ahahaha!" which echoed throughout the room.
— "The exam!" Kevin yelled, while continuing his incessant drumming on her ribs. "We want the details of the test!"
She was at her limit. Her laughter became almost silent—that stage where you can't even expel air. She frantically waved the hand Sarah could no longer hold, a sign of absolute surrender.
— "Okay... okay! Stop!" she managed to utter in a final spasm. "Exercise 4... it's an exponential function study... with an area calculation... heehee! I'll give you the grading scale too! Just let me go!"
Despite her partial confession, the grip did not loosen. Kevin, galvanized by the excitement of the group screaming encouragement in the video chat, gave the professor no respite. His fingers went back on the attack, drumming frantically on Mrs. Vasseur’s ribs before dropping sharply back to the soles of her feet, which were wiggling desperately.
— "Not so fast, Madame!" Nathan said, leaning his full weight on her shoulders to keep her pinned to the floor. "We want the whole thing. The scale, the traps, the bonus question... Everything!"
The tickling resumed with renewed vigor.
Mrs. Vasseur was overwhelmed by a new fit of hysteria. She writhed again, her body arching into an improbable bridge, her head tossing from side to side on the linoleum. Her laughter, now hoarse and jagged, rang out like a symphony of defeat. Every "Heehee... nooo... please!" was smothered by a new burst of targeted tickling under her armpits and on her waist.
For long minutes, the prep room was the stage for a surreal spectacle: an eminent mathematics professor from a world-renowned university, reduced to a trembling, laughing heap, surrendering the secrets of an exam one by one between hiccups. Once the last detail was recorded by the students watching from their screens, Kevin stopped suddenly, but kept his hands just inches from the woman's flanks, like a hovering threat.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by Mrs. Vasseur’s erratic, wheezing breath.
— "Listen to me carefully, Madame," Kevin said in a calm, almost icy voice, as she tried to regain her composure, her eyes reddened. "We're going to delete the recording. No one will know what happened here... on one condition."
He leaned into her ear while she was still being held on the floor.
— "On Monday, you will act as if nothing happened. And for every future test, you will slip us the exam 48 hours in advance, spontaneously. If you speak to the administration or if you forget our agreement... we'll be back. And I guarantee you the next session will be much, much longer and more unbearable."
Mrs. Vasseur, still shaken by residual tremors—those small nervous spasms that follow an intense tickling session—closed her eyes and gave a weak nod. She was broken, drained of all authority. The image of the tyrannical prof had shattered on that cold floor, replaced by a woman who dreaded being tickled above all else. The fortress had fallen.
Kevin abruptly pulled away. Silence fell over the room again, disturbed only by the professor's long, gasping breaths, her hair in disarray and her gaze empty. On the chat, it was an explosion: the students were exultant.
The three students finally released her and left the room in silence, leaving the professor alone with her undone hair and bare feet, utterly defeated by her insurmountable fear of being tickled.
