Solesbrusher
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- Oct 24, 2005
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So, as I was on the point of leaving London, the wednesday 11am group gave a party in honour of me, at Susanna's parents' house on Hampstead Heath. This was the very first evening I was spending with some of my students (we'd only drunk a couple of coffees and ales downtown just after the class). The meal was square, the drinks numerous, alcoholic, the atmosphere in this wealthy victorian house warm and relaxed. As some students from other groups had joined the party, there were about thirty persons making a hell of a noise in the huge living-room. Susanna was appearing to be still more voluble, extravert than she used to be during the classes — maybe because she'd soon got a bit drunk. She was behaving familiarly towards me, sometimes slapping me on the shoulder, saying enthusiastic things such as : "I'm enjoying so much to see you there being so relaxed, not playing the strict french lecturer's part anymore. In fact, I'm sure you're a cool guy, with a true sense of humour you unfortunately didn't let us show enough! After all, you're only a couple of years older than we actually are!" As small conversation groups had formed, she was keeping on going from one to another like a bee with flowers, teasing people, poking some male mates' ribs from behind — something I hadn't failed to observe... even before she eventually did it to me while saying in a sarcastic voice : "Ooo, sorry : I had forgotten our dear french lecturer was veeery ticklish!" This teasing hint at the conversation we'd had a few weeks ago suddenly reminded me of the embarrassment and, in the same time, of the excitment I'd felt, and I only was able to grin clumsily. Though, at the moment, I still couldn't imagine what was to happen later. Anyway, the party went on joyfully. At a given time, Tim, one of my most skillful students, made a brief speech, at the end of which I was offered a couple of funny gifts... just before Susanna asked me to deliver my own speech, which I barely managed to make, being as moved as drunk.
Now, the party was nearly over. Only a few students, all of them from the wednesday 11am group, were still there : six girls, including Susanna, and two strong guys who were playing in UCL's rugby team. As we were sitting deeply in the wealthy leather sofas and armchairs, our hostess suddenly proposed :
— Well, let's play a game together. This is a test, a test of will some of us might not easily pass, and some might even fail... Here are the rules of it : each competitor's gonna have to read Shylock's famous tirade's main section in The Merchant of Venice by Shakespeare — here's a copy of it — whilst getting tickled on the soles of the feet. The one who can read the longest piece of this text without laughing nor moiving wins the game... The one who reads the shortest loses it and is therefore submitted to a forfeit the winner chooses. Who dares to play my game?
The guys burst into laughter. The girls screamed, as terrorized as enthusiastic with this proposition. But I was petrified. She'd been looking at me defiantly, with harsh sadistic eyes, all the time she'd been stating the rules. I was now beginning to understand what she'd been keeping in mind for weeks. What was I going to do? The excitment I felt was so high as my terror. I couldn't quit, should I run the risk of getting humiliated in front of my pupils. Then, heartened by pride, by alcohol, and by an insidious turn on, I took up the challenge, immediately winning applause from the — still a little surprised — attendance.
— Now we all accepted to play the game, let's take off our shoes. Hey! Don't cheat : no socks are allowed on, except nylon ones. Ooo, look at this! The french guy's wearing black nylons. So cute! Do you feel comfortable with women's socks on?
I muttered, a bit ashamed : "Huuh... yes, yes. I happen to wear nylons when the weather's not too cold... as more men than you could guess".
— Well, well, well. Feel free to keep them on. It's the same for you, girls. So, each competitor must lay the feet on this footstool and read the text, while I do the tickling — you all know I'm a skillful tickler. Are you OK? Well. In order to honour our dear french professor, I'll let him tickle my feet. Let's see if he's able to break me. I go first.
First delighted with the proposition, I knelt down in front of Susanna's large and big feet, which were covered with fishnet stockings. Then, she begun reading Shakespeare's beautiful text, while my fingers were eagerly attacking her soles :
— I am a Jew... Hath not a Jew eyes ? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions ? Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is ? If you prick us, do we not bleed ? If you tickle us, do we not laugh ? If you poison us, do we not die ? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge ? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that...
The attendance burst into applause. Susanna hadn't moved a single toe nor let a single laughter escape from her throat, though I'd tried every tickling technique — and God! I know many! — , though I'd sadistically run my fingers all over her feet. She soon began teasing :
— Well, sorry for my dear professor, whose tickling technique I find quite good : I am not ticklish on my feet tonight. Therefore, I'm, at least, an ex-aequo winner. Let's now see how the eight of you react. Who goes next? Professor, would you mind going last ? It's a matter of honour : I do want the best of us to be the last.
I made one more clumsy grin and mumbled a few words of consent. Though, I was feeling less and less comfortable, more and more deeply persuaded she'd do her best to make me lose the game... Before that, she had to tickle her seven mates, and I was truly eager to watch her doing it — there had a couple of girls I wouldn't have minded tickling myself. She began with the five girls, getting good reactions, though not as soon as I was expecting, all of them being able to read past the famous "If you tickle us, do we not laugh ?" before exploding. I was very disappointed. Either these girls weren't very ticklish, or Susanna had done a fake tickling. I already was as good a tickler to know the answer... She was obviously cheating. Then came the guys' turn. Though showing a bit more sadistic, Susanna did not get better reactions from them. However, she had not run much risk tickling them, for they obviously weren't very ticklish — I still guess everything had been planned, she'd chosen appropriate people for the game. Both guys could read the whole text but, according to us all, Susanna was still winning, for they had moved their feet once or twice near the end, which she hadn't done. She soon carried the footstool to the place where I was sitting. Then, she begun to tease :
— Well, well, well. Now comes our dear lecturer's turn. Oh my God! I've been waiting for this moment for weeks. Sooo, dear professor, you recently confessed that you were "extremely ticklish" on your feet. Well, well, well. Time has come to see if you told us the truth. Here's the text : please, read it, unless you know it by heart, which I wouldn't find astonishing from such a serious French intellectual.
All the participants suddenly became silent, as I laid my nyloned feet on the footstop, but I could see some kind of sadistic delight in their eyes. I was confused, somehow ashamed of the situation, somehow turned on by it. Where had my pride gone? I felt so nervous I had no idea how long I'd be able to stand the tickling, especially with these black nylon socks on. I began reading :
— I am a Jew...
Susanna, who'd caught my left foot's big toe and was now holding it in her left hand's thumb, began to slowly run her right hand's long-nailed index finger down my sole.
— Hath not a Jew eyes ?
Susanna was still exploring my left foot, trying to find my worst spot... and soon finding it, just under the toes, right in the middle of the ball. I was trying not to move but couldn't. It was already difficult for me to breathe.
— Hath not a Jew hands,
Then she began to scrape my undertoes, my ball then my sole with all her fingers moving like crab paws. I was forced to stop reading a few seconds, in order to catch my breath again. I didn't think nylons could have increased my ticklishness so much.
— organs, dimensions, senses,
She attacked my right foot's edges with both hands, just before moving them towards the middle of the arch. I was near to surrendering.
— affections, passions ?
She was drawing circles with her index on the middle of my rightsole, another weak point she soon had found.
— Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons,
Then she firmly held my right foot's toes back and began to scrape my ball vigorously.
— sub... sub... subject to the same diseases,
Spiders gliding up and down my right foot's sole...
— healed by the same... means,
Now she was tickling both feet in the same time by slowly running all her fingers from heels to arch...
— waaarmed and cooled... by the same winter and summer,
then to balls...
— as a ...Christian is ?
then to undertoes...
— If you prick us,... do we not bleed ? If you tickle us,
Suddenly, whereas she'd just seeemed to give me a short break, she dug her fingers right inbetween my toes.
— do we not lauuugh ah ah... aaaah ah ah...Please, stop it. Stop iiit!!!
Susanna had broken me. A thunder of applause and "hurrah!" immediately resounded, as she stopped the tickling then stared at me with terrific eyes.
— Well, well, well, dear lecturer. It looks like you've lost.
I was trying to recover my breath, my strength, the little that remained from my pride. Then, I admitted my defeat :
— Wow. All I can say is that you're a great tickler. OK : I lost. I'd told you I was very ticklish, but you didn't trust me.
— Ooo I trusted you, poor boy. You might not still have been there so late in the evening with me and my friends if I hadn't trusted you. But, as St Thomas, I did want to verify things. After all, you're the one who told me I was building my demonstrations on an insufficient amount of proofs...
— OK : you're the winner, you devilish Susanna.
All her mates were hilarious. Some of them gently teased me : "What a shame, professor!... What will Descartes think of you now? Ooo, this guy is so ticklish : I wouldn't have guessed... Coochie coochie coo!" I forced a laugh or two, eager to let the attendance show I hadn't lost my sense of humour, though I had appeared ridiculous under torture. Though, I'd forgotten what was promised the loser : Susanna hadn't.
To be continued.
Now, the party was nearly over. Only a few students, all of them from the wednesday 11am group, were still there : six girls, including Susanna, and two strong guys who were playing in UCL's rugby team. As we were sitting deeply in the wealthy leather sofas and armchairs, our hostess suddenly proposed :
— Well, let's play a game together. This is a test, a test of will some of us might not easily pass, and some might even fail... Here are the rules of it : each competitor's gonna have to read Shylock's famous tirade's main section in The Merchant of Venice by Shakespeare — here's a copy of it — whilst getting tickled on the soles of the feet. The one who can read the longest piece of this text without laughing nor moiving wins the game... The one who reads the shortest loses it and is therefore submitted to a forfeit the winner chooses. Who dares to play my game?
The guys burst into laughter. The girls screamed, as terrorized as enthusiastic with this proposition. But I was petrified. She'd been looking at me defiantly, with harsh sadistic eyes, all the time she'd been stating the rules. I was now beginning to understand what she'd been keeping in mind for weeks. What was I going to do? The excitment I felt was so high as my terror. I couldn't quit, should I run the risk of getting humiliated in front of my pupils. Then, heartened by pride, by alcohol, and by an insidious turn on, I took up the challenge, immediately winning applause from the — still a little surprised — attendance.
— Now we all accepted to play the game, let's take off our shoes. Hey! Don't cheat : no socks are allowed on, except nylon ones. Ooo, look at this! The french guy's wearing black nylons. So cute! Do you feel comfortable with women's socks on?
I muttered, a bit ashamed : "Huuh... yes, yes. I happen to wear nylons when the weather's not too cold... as more men than you could guess".
— Well, well, well. Feel free to keep them on. It's the same for you, girls. So, each competitor must lay the feet on this footstool and read the text, while I do the tickling — you all know I'm a skillful tickler. Are you OK? Well. In order to honour our dear french professor, I'll let him tickle my feet. Let's see if he's able to break me. I go first.
First delighted with the proposition, I knelt down in front of Susanna's large and big feet, which were covered with fishnet stockings. Then, she begun reading Shakespeare's beautiful text, while my fingers were eagerly attacking her soles :
— I am a Jew... Hath not a Jew eyes ? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions ? Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is ? If you prick us, do we not bleed ? If you tickle us, do we not laugh ? If you poison us, do we not die ? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge ? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that...
The attendance burst into applause. Susanna hadn't moved a single toe nor let a single laughter escape from her throat, though I'd tried every tickling technique — and God! I know many! — , though I'd sadistically run my fingers all over her feet. She soon began teasing :
— Well, sorry for my dear professor, whose tickling technique I find quite good : I am not ticklish on my feet tonight. Therefore, I'm, at least, an ex-aequo winner. Let's now see how the eight of you react. Who goes next? Professor, would you mind going last ? It's a matter of honour : I do want the best of us to be the last.
I made one more clumsy grin and mumbled a few words of consent. Though, I was feeling less and less comfortable, more and more deeply persuaded she'd do her best to make me lose the game... Before that, she had to tickle her seven mates, and I was truly eager to watch her doing it — there had a couple of girls I wouldn't have minded tickling myself. She began with the five girls, getting good reactions, though not as soon as I was expecting, all of them being able to read past the famous "If you tickle us, do we not laugh ?" before exploding. I was very disappointed. Either these girls weren't very ticklish, or Susanna had done a fake tickling. I already was as good a tickler to know the answer... She was obviously cheating. Then came the guys' turn. Though showing a bit more sadistic, Susanna did not get better reactions from them. However, she had not run much risk tickling them, for they obviously weren't very ticklish — I still guess everything had been planned, she'd chosen appropriate people for the game. Both guys could read the whole text but, according to us all, Susanna was still winning, for they had moved their feet once or twice near the end, which she hadn't done. She soon carried the footstool to the place where I was sitting. Then, she begun to tease :
— Well, well, well. Now comes our dear lecturer's turn. Oh my God! I've been waiting for this moment for weeks. Sooo, dear professor, you recently confessed that you were "extremely ticklish" on your feet. Well, well, well. Time has come to see if you told us the truth. Here's the text : please, read it, unless you know it by heart, which I wouldn't find astonishing from such a serious French intellectual.
All the participants suddenly became silent, as I laid my nyloned feet on the footstop, but I could see some kind of sadistic delight in their eyes. I was confused, somehow ashamed of the situation, somehow turned on by it. Where had my pride gone? I felt so nervous I had no idea how long I'd be able to stand the tickling, especially with these black nylon socks on. I began reading :
— I am a Jew...
Susanna, who'd caught my left foot's big toe and was now holding it in her left hand's thumb, began to slowly run her right hand's long-nailed index finger down my sole.
— Hath not a Jew eyes ?
Susanna was still exploring my left foot, trying to find my worst spot... and soon finding it, just under the toes, right in the middle of the ball. I was trying not to move but couldn't. It was already difficult for me to breathe.
— Hath not a Jew hands,
Then she began to scrape my undertoes, my ball then my sole with all her fingers moving like crab paws. I was forced to stop reading a few seconds, in order to catch my breath again. I didn't think nylons could have increased my ticklishness so much.
— organs, dimensions, senses,
She attacked my right foot's edges with both hands, just before moving them towards the middle of the arch. I was near to surrendering.
— affections, passions ?
She was drawing circles with her index on the middle of my rightsole, another weak point she soon had found.
— Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons,
Then she firmly held my right foot's toes back and began to scrape my ball vigorously.
— sub... sub... subject to the same diseases,
Spiders gliding up and down my right foot's sole...
— healed by the same... means,
Now she was tickling both feet in the same time by slowly running all her fingers from heels to arch...
— waaarmed and cooled... by the same winter and summer,
then to balls...
— as a ...Christian is ?
then to undertoes...
— If you prick us,... do we not bleed ? If you tickle us,
Suddenly, whereas she'd just seeemed to give me a short break, she dug her fingers right inbetween my toes.
— do we not lauuugh ah ah... aaaah ah ah...Please, stop it. Stop iiit!!!
Susanna had broken me. A thunder of applause and "hurrah!" immediately resounded, as she stopped the tickling then stared at me with terrific eyes.
— Well, well, well, dear lecturer. It looks like you've lost.
I was trying to recover my breath, my strength, the little that remained from my pride. Then, I admitted my defeat :
— Wow. All I can say is that you're a great tickler. OK : I lost. I'd told you I was very ticklish, but you didn't trust me.
— Ooo I trusted you, poor boy. You might not still have been there so late in the evening with me and my friends if I hadn't trusted you. But, as St Thomas, I did want to verify things. After all, you're the one who told me I was building my demonstrations on an insufficient amount of proofs...
— OK : you're the winner, you devilish Susanna.
All her mates were hilarious. Some of them gently teased me : "What a shame, professor!... What will Descartes think of you now? Ooo, this guy is so ticklish : I wouldn't have guessed... Coochie coochie coo!" I forced a laugh or two, eager to let the attendance show I hadn't lost my sense of humour, though I had appeared ridiculous under torture. Though, I'd forgotten what was promised the loser : Susanna hadn't.
To be continued.
