Helen's Chapel Torment
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"...the kingdom, the power and the glory, be yours, for now and for ever......Amen." Words so familiar that they rolled off Helen's tongue fluently without a thought. Every day for the past eight years at St Mary's Senior School for Girls, she had attended morning chapel and every day she had taken the same seat at the very back of the choir stalls. Indeed, not to have attended would invariably mean a trip to the office of Miss Stephens, St Mary's ferocious and much feared headmistress.
Leaning back in her seat, Helen carefully hooked her toes over the supporting bar that ran horizontally below the low bench and flicked idly through her hymn book, while still half listening to the Chaplain's sermon. For the last fifteen minutes in the cool air of the chapel, she had been fighting an urgent desire to visit the bathroom and she hoped desperately that the service would not last for too long.
Ironically, she had just found one of her favourite songs and was reading, "...and did those feet, in ancient times, walk upon England's mountains green...", when she felt a peculiar sensation at her ankles. Before she realised what was happening and could pull her feet away, she felt strong rope being pulled tightly around her ankles and looped repeatedly around and around, binding her feet tightly to the supporting bar where she was resting them. Her futile struggles were halted in an instant by a sharp glance from the choir mistress who had seen her shuffling in her seat and Helen had no choice but to freeze at once and wait helplessly as she felt the rope continue to be wound around her ankles before being tightened and tied very securely. The choir stalls were slightly tiered and there was a good deal of space behind the back row. Several girls had been known to enter chapel and sneak behind the benches after the role call had been taken. Helen herself had done so once and she began to blame her own carelessness for the predicament in which she found herself, knowing full well that she should have kept her feet well out of reach.
Ever practical, she immediately began to wonder how she would free herself once chapel was over, but before she could get her mind around the problem, she felt nimble fingers unlacing her shoes and easing the short white socks from her feet. She guessed that there must be at least two girls behind her, for they had her shoes and socks off almost simultaneously in a matter of just a few seconds. This really would take some explaining she thought, losing her shoes and socks, but she soon realised that this small loss was the very least of her worries. To her horror, she felt a pair of fingers begin lightly stroking the sole of each foot.
It started very gently, each finger tracing a weaving path all over her foot, but she was terribly ticklish and she could immediately feel the muscles tighten in her legs and had to bite the inside of her bottom lip to prevent herself from gasping out loud. If this wasn't bad enough though, her tormentors had barely started. It was just a couple of minutes before she felt a long fingernail begin sweeping smooth strokes down her foot, from the tips of her toes right across the ball of her heel. The sensation made her want to shudder and she gripped the edge of the bench tightly to hold herself still. It was sheer agony as she fought to hold down the laughter, torn between the furious, almost unbearable tickling and the fear she felt towards the school's headmistress.
Playing up in school chapel was viewed in a very dim light by Miss Stephens, an austere Catholic woman in her mid-fourties. Earlier that term, three girls had been reported for talking during the service and had each received four strokes of the cane. Helen thanked her lucky stars that she had not been involved on that occasion, but she had been the victim of Miss Stephens' penchant for corporal punishment on two occasions in the past. Even now, in her final year and two weeks past her eighteenth birthday, the memory of the deep swoosh as the heavy rattan cane sliced through the air and the awful, penetrating sting as it impacted squarely with her panty clad bottom, filled her with a terrible dread. She knew that nobody, not even a prefect such as herself, was above Miss Stephens' discipline and she kept a close eye on the headmistress where she sat beside the old pipe organ, commanding a view of the entire chapel, expecting at every moment for her to stand and point an accusing finger in her direction.
Helen felt as if she was in a nightmare as the assault upon her tender feet continued. There were more fingers now, two hands on each foot, crawling and sliding around her soles like spiders, mercilessly brushing the sides of her feet and exploring the sensitive places around her toes. It was sheer torture and she knew that if it continued for much longer, she would either wet her knickers, or else just explode into laughter, regardless of what she knew would be very painful consequences. Although, as she thought about it, she dared to wonder if a caning could actually be any worse than this relentless tickling. She was half tempted to let go and just release all the pent up frustration, but just as she was weighing up the pros and cons, the fingers suddenly stopped. It was an incredible relief, but as soon as she began to build up hope that she would finally be untied, a new sensation began.
It was so soft and gentle that she could barely feel it at first, but all too quickly the sensation began to grow. A single feather was dancing all around and in between her toes and she knew that she just couldn't stand it any longer. It was then, in a terrible moment, that Helen felt herself shudder wildly, crashing shoulders with the two girls who sat on either side of her and letting out an almighty cry of barely suppressed laughter that brought the entire Chapel to a deathly silence. Not one girl was in any doubt that somebody was going to be in big, big trouble. For what seemed like an eternity, everybody stared at her, open mouthed, wondering what on earth could have happened. Only Miss Stephens, rising slowly to her feet distracted the congregation from the terrified looking girl at the back of the choir stalls whose eyes were staring blankly at the furious headmistress.
"Helen Barnes," the voice said with icy calm. "Will you stand up please."
"I c-c-can't Ma'am," Helen stammered, but barely had she spoken these words when she realised that the ropes had been slackened off and she could easily pull her feet free.
Miss Stephens seemed to quiver with rage and it would not have surprised Helen if steam had spouted from her ears. "BARNES! I told you to stand up and you WILL stand up -- NOW!!!"
Helen was petrified and as she rose, sensing her fingers tremble with fear, she could feel the first solitary tear roll down the side of her nose. As if she wasn't in enough trouble already, she had dared to anger the headmistress further, but Miss Stephens, recovering her steely calm managed to lower her voice.
"Barnes. I wish to see you in my office the instant chapel is over. Is that quite clear?"
"Yes Ma'am," came the subdued reply.
As Helen took her seat and the service resumed, she very discreetly replaced her shoes and socks. Imagining the shame that she would feel as Miss Stephens ordered her to bend over and raise back her skirt, and contemplating the dreadful smarting as the heavy, old cane cut again and again across her insubstantial panties, she promised herself that from that day forward, she would arrive at chapel early and take a seat at the very, very front...
