ANRRI365
TMF Poster
- Joined
- Jan 9, 2024
- Messages
- 80
- Points
- 18
I was so happy for my roommate, Jodie. Today was the day she'd get her cast off and begin physical therapy to get back to normal life. It had been eight weeks she'd, and I had shared this room. We had never spoken, and I knew nothing about her.
As the doctor entered the room, pushing a cart filled with medical supplies, I couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation mixed with unease. The woman on the bed was barely recognizable beneath the bulk of the cast that encased her entire body. Only her fingers and her feet—now free of their plaster prison as the doctor worked, removing the cast—were visible. Her feet, soft and high arched, a size 9.5, were grimy and had an unpleasant odor after being trapped in the cast for eight weeks.
The doctor, a tall man with an easy smile, looked down at her exposed feet and frowned slightly. “Well, it looks like we need to clean these up before we proceed,” he said with a light chuckle. His voice was friendly, but there was something about it that made me uneasy as I watched him grab a basin and scrub brush.
The woman, unable to speak due to her jaw being wired shut, grunted and wiggled her fingers and toes. The panic in her eyes was unmistakable. She must have realized what was coming. She couldn’t tell him to stop, couldn’t express her dread, and I could only imagine the horror that must have been racing through her mind. I have extremely ticklish feet, and I couldn't imagine someone cleaning my feet with a soapy brush, especially when I couldn't move an inch. I don't know Jodie, and I don't know if she is ticklish, but if she is, Lord help her.
"Oh, don't you worry," the doctor said in a tone that seemed more playful than professional. He didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he didn’t care—how she was struggling about. He picked up a brush and dipped it into a bowl of soapy water. “We’ll have these feet all clean in no time,” he cooed in a sing-song voice, reminiscent of someone teasing a child.
Her toes clenched instinctively as the brush made contact with the sole of her right foot. I could see the muscles in her legs tighten beneath the cast as she tried to pull her foot away, but she was trapped. Completely helpless. The doctor began to scrub her foot with the brush, working it over her arch and down to her heel. Her foot twitched uncontrollably, her toes splaying and curling as if trying to escape the relentless tickling sensation.
After a short time, it became obvious to me that the doctor realized his scrubbing was tickling her. He grinned to himself and continued silently scrubbing her feet. The only sounds in the room were Jodie's muffled grunts and the brush scrubbing her soles.
The woman’s reaction was intense. Her toes flexed and wiggled frantically, and I could see the tension in her foot as the tickling overwhelmed her. Her fingers clenched into tight fists, the only outlet for the torment that she was experiencing. The doctor continued to scrub, moving the brush in small circles across the sensitive skin of her sole. Her foot jerked involuntarily with each pass of the brush, but there was no escape.
“Try and hold still now” the doctor cooed mockingly as he scrubbed her toes, focusing on the delicate area between them. Completely ignoring the fact that Jodie was losing her mind. “we have to get you nice and clean!” He was relentless, his tone patronizing as he continued to scrub her feet, making sure to pay extra attention to the spots that elicited the strongest reactions.
Her feet reacted wildly, her soles wrinkling and her toes spreading wide, then curling tight as if trying to protect themselves from the brush. Every nerve in her feet must have been on fire with the unbearable tickling sensation. Her fingers twitched and grasped at the air, as if she were trying to grab hold of something—anything—to ground herself, to find some relief from the maddening tickle that she couldn’t escape.
I felt a deep sense of sympathy for her. The sight of her struggling so desperately, the muffled grunts that barely escaped her wired-shut jaw, the way her feet spasmed under the doctor’s touch—it was all too much. I couldn't imagine someone brushing my own sensitive feet with a cleaning brush while I couldn't move, couldn't beg them to stop, couldn’t even laugh due to being unable to open my mouth. And if Jodie could see the sadist look on the Doctor’s face as he purposely prolonged her torture, smirking with pompous arrogance while he incessantly ran the brush across her soles. I could even see the Doctor’s pants bulging at his crouch while he tickled her feet. He was getting off on this. The power to torment her with his damned brush for as long as he wants. The power to manipulate Jodie's body and mind under the color of medical need. I wanted to intervene, to tell the doctor to stop, to show some mercy. But I was frozen, caught between the absurdity of the situation and the overwhelming pity I felt for her.
“Almost done,” the doctor said with a grin that suggested he was in no hurry at all. “Just a little more scrubbing to go."
The woman’s feet continued to squirm and jerk, her toes now flexing so hard I worried she might hurt herself. Her soles, red from the relentless scrubbing, wrinkled and bunched up in a vain attempt to protect themselves from the bristles. But the doctor didn’t stop. He kept at it. He had no intention of stopping. Jodie's long toes were splaying in all directions and she strained for relief from the brush. This only encouraged the Doctor to floss between her toes with the brush. My God, that must tickle so bad. I'd pass out if he did that to me. By the reaction of her grunts and hands slamming the bed, I thought she may break her jaw again trying to scream.
In that moment, I could only imagine the thoughts racing through her mind. The frustration, the helplessness, the sheer agony of being tickled beyond endurance. She would have given anything, I was sure, for him to stop. But there was nothing she could do, no way to communicate her desperation. As the doctor continued to scrub, her suffering seemed endless.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the doctor pulled the brush away. “All done!” he announced cheerfully, as if he had just completed a pleasant task. He patted her foot lightly, almost affectionately. “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?” What a complete asshole. He knew what he was doing. He knew how painfully ticklish his brush strokes were on her helpless soles.
But I could see the exhaustion in her body, the way her toes trembled, the tension in her fingers. It had been bad—very bad. And as I laid there, watching her slowly relax as the doctor moved on to the next part of the cast removal procedure, I couldn’t shake the feeling that must have been awful and I was thankful I wasn't that it wasn't me.
As the doctor entered the room, pushing a cart filled with medical supplies, I couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation mixed with unease. The woman on the bed was barely recognizable beneath the bulk of the cast that encased her entire body. Only her fingers and her feet—now free of their plaster prison as the doctor worked, removing the cast—were visible. Her feet, soft and high arched, a size 9.5, were grimy and had an unpleasant odor after being trapped in the cast for eight weeks.
The doctor, a tall man with an easy smile, looked down at her exposed feet and frowned slightly. “Well, it looks like we need to clean these up before we proceed,” he said with a light chuckle. His voice was friendly, but there was something about it that made me uneasy as I watched him grab a basin and scrub brush.
The woman, unable to speak due to her jaw being wired shut, grunted and wiggled her fingers and toes. The panic in her eyes was unmistakable. She must have realized what was coming. She couldn’t tell him to stop, couldn’t express her dread, and I could only imagine the horror that must have been racing through her mind. I have extremely ticklish feet, and I couldn't imagine someone cleaning my feet with a soapy brush, especially when I couldn't move an inch. I don't know Jodie, and I don't know if she is ticklish, but if she is, Lord help her.
"Oh, don't you worry," the doctor said in a tone that seemed more playful than professional. He didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he didn’t care—how she was struggling about. He picked up a brush and dipped it into a bowl of soapy water. “We’ll have these feet all clean in no time,” he cooed in a sing-song voice, reminiscent of someone teasing a child.
Her toes clenched instinctively as the brush made contact with the sole of her right foot. I could see the muscles in her legs tighten beneath the cast as she tried to pull her foot away, but she was trapped. Completely helpless. The doctor began to scrub her foot with the brush, working it over her arch and down to her heel. Her foot twitched uncontrollably, her toes splaying and curling as if trying to escape the relentless tickling sensation.
After a short time, it became obvious to me that the doctor realized his scrubbing was tickling her. He grinned to himself and continued silently scrubbing her feet. The only sounds in the room were Jodie's muffled grunts and the brush scrubbing her soles.
The woman’s reaction was intense. Her toes flexed and wiggled frantically, and I could see the tension in her foot as the tickling overwhelmed her. Her fingers clenched into tight fists, the only outlet for the torment that she was experiencing. The doctor continued to scrub, moving the brush in small circles across the sensitive skin of her sole. Her foot jerked involuntarily with each pass of the brush, but there was no escape.
“Try and hold still now” the doctor cooed mockingly as he scrubbed her toes, focusing on the delicate area between them. Completely ignoring the fact that Jodie was losing her mind. “we have to get you nice and clean!” He was relentless, his tone patronizing as he continued to scrub her feet, making sure to pay extra attention to the spots that elicited the strongest reactions.
Her feet reacted wildly, her soles wrinkling and her toes spreading wide, then curling tight as if trying to protect themselves from the brush. Every nerve in her feet must have been on fire with the unbearable tickling sensation. Her fingers twitched and grasped at the air, as if she were trying to grab hold of something—anything—to ground herself, to find some relief from the maddening tickle that she couldn’t escape.
I felt a deep sense of sympathy for her. The sight of her struggling so desperately, the muffled grunts that barely escaped her wired-shut jaw, the way her feet spasmed under the doctor’s touch—it was all too much. I couldn't imagine someone brushing my own sensitive feet with a cleaning brush while I couldn't move, couldn't beg them to stop, couldn’t even laugh due to being unable to open my mouth. And if Jodie could see the sadist look on the Doctor’s face as he purposely prolonged her torture, smirking with pompous arrogance while he incessantly ran the brush across her soles. I could even see the Doctor’s pants bulging at his crouch while he tickled her feet. He was getting off on this. The power to torment her with his damned brush for as long as he wants. The power to manipulate Jodie's body and mind under the color of medical need. I wanted to intervene, to tell the doctor to stop, to show some mercy. But I was frozen, caught between the absurdity of the situation and the overwhelming pity I felt for her.
“Almost done,” the doctor said with a grin that suggested he was in no hurry at all. “Just a little more scrubbing to go."
The woman’s feet continued to squirm and jerk, her toes now flexing so hard I worried she might hurt herself. Her soles, red from the relentless scrubbing, wrinkled and bunched up in a vain attempt to protect themselves from the bristles. But the doctor didn’t stop. He kept at it. He had no intention of stopping. Jodie's long toes were splaying in all directions and she strained for relief from the brush. This only encouraged the Doctor to floss between her toes with the brush. My God, that must tickle so bad. I'd pass out if he did that to me. By the reaction of her grunts and hands slamming the bed, I thought she may break her jaw again trying to scream.
In that moment, I could only imagine the thoughts racing through her mind. The frustration, the helplessness, the sheer agony of being tickled beyond endurance. She would have given anything, I was sure, for him to stop. But there was nothing she could do, no way to communicate her desperation. As the doctor continued to scrub, her suffering seemed endless.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the doctor pulled the brush away. “All done!” he announced cheerfully, as if he had just completed a pleasant task. He patted her foot lightly, almost affectionately. “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?” What a complete asshole. He knew what he was doing. He knew how painfully ticklish his brush strokes were on her helpless soles.
But I could see the exhaustion in her body, the way her toes trembled, the tension in her fingers. It had been bad—very bad. And as I laid there, watching her slowly relax as the doctor moved on to the next part of the cast removal procedure, I couldn’t shake the feeling that must have been awful and I was thankful I wasn't that it wasn't me.
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