(First published in Issue 5 of Tickle Master Magazine 1998)
The best thing about my senior year at State College was English class. Not because I loved Shakespeare, but because of my teacher, Mr. Simpson. He was most inspiring. Not in the sense of Robin Williams’ character in “Dead Poet’s Society.” No, Mr. Simpson was inspiring in a different way. A very physical way. He was just out of grad school and this was his first college teaching job. He had a beautiful face with bright blue eyes and longish, blond hair. He started the year with a moustache but was now clean shaven. I’d guess he was 6′ 1″ and about 180 lbs. I could tell by the way his clothes fitted that he was well built. Most important to me was that he had about a size 12 shoe. A couple of times when I came to class early he would be sitting there preparing for class with his shoes off. I would find myself staring at his feet in a trance.
Fortunately, I had more contact with Mr. Simpson than just English class. He was a great supporter of the basketball team on which I happened to be a reserve guard. During the season he would chat with me after class about the games, all of which he attended. Over the year he became somewhat close to me and a couple of his other students who were on the team. Even after season ended he continued to talk with me after class. I didn’t mind the attention. One day he asked if I would mind helping him later that afternoon move two large boxes over to a building commonly known as “The Barn.” Needless to say, I readily accepted.
“The Barn” was an old farm building on the edge of campus that had been converted into a storage space for various things of the college. As we entered and walked through it, my heart jumped as I noticed old wooden stocks in the corner.
“What’s this?” I asked, feigning ignorance.
“It’s an old set of stocks that was used in a school play a few years ago, ” he said.
“How do they work?” I continued.
“The person who was being punished had their hands and feet placed in these holes and then secured. They would be placed in public for humiliation.”
I quickly replied, “It doesn’t look like anyone’s hands or feet would fit into these holes. They seem small.”
To my amazement, Mr. Simpson went around and sat down on the connecting seat and put his hands and feet in the holes. “See,” he said, “They’re not as small as they look.”
“But you can easily get out” I said like a dummy.
“Oh, the other wooden piece needs to be pulled across and fastened down.” he said, playing into my little game.
As I finished tightening the pieces around his wrists and ankles he said, “There, you see? I can’t get my hands or feet out of these.”
“Are you sure?” I said. He pulled and twisted but he was very secure.
My mind was now racing with thoughts of doing what I had fantasized about for months. When I didn’t immediately let him out, he looked at me quizzically like, “What’s going on?”
As I reached forward and began untying his shoes, a nervous, worried look came on his face. “Oh no, Steve. Come on, don’t do this,” he said with nervous giggles.
“What’s the matter? Ticklish?” I said, as I ran my finger down his left sole. He jumped and hooted out a laugh.
“Please, Steve, please don’t do that. I’m really very ticklish. I can’t stand it!”
Just what I wanted to hear. My fingers started to lightly rake up and down the soles of his feet. “No, hee-hee, please don’t, ha-ha, I really can’t ha-ha-ha” he didn’t have a chance to finish the sentence.
Losing control of myself I became a crazed torturer. For five solid minutes I tickled the soles of his feet while he went absolutely crazy. His eyes bulged, his feet jerked spasmodically, and gales of laughter pierced the silence of the old building. I had become so engrossed that I was completely oblivious that someone might overhear us. Luckily, no one else was around.
Letting him rest a minute, I decided to really get fiendish. “What are you giving me for a final grade in English?” I asked.
“An F if you don’t let me go right now!” he demanded.
“If you promise to give me an A I’ll stop tickling your feet.”
“You can’t threaten me,” he said.
“Okay, have it your way”, I replied.
I began to take off his socks. “No Steve, wait. No more!” he cried.
“Then promise to give me an A,” I said.
“Steve, you know I can’t do that.”
His laughter turned to screams as I started playing This Little Piggy with his toes. Now absolutely desperate, he was begging for mercy. “You can have an A, anything, please just STOP!” I felt as if I had died and gone to tickler’s heaven. I was determined to let this experience last as long as possible.
For the next 20 minutes I had my poor English teacher in hysterics as I continued tickling his feet and toes. I then moved around and ran my hands over his ribs and stomach. His laughter never stopped. In my exploration of his stomach, I realized the cock in his pants was stiff and tented out. Continuing the tickling of his ribs, I unzipped his pants and out popped his cock. He wasn’t wearing underwear! By this time my cock was out and in my hand. I leaned down and took the head of his cock in my mouth and his laughter subsided to moans.
“Stop! Don’t, Steve!” he blurted out, but my fingers reached in and began tickling his balls which were now tightening up against his body. Soon, his “Stop! Don’t Steve!” turned into “Don’t stop, Steve…” as he drew in quick gasps of breath. I could tell it wouldn’t be long before his tool erupted. My right hand was pumping my own cock while my tongue twirled around the head of his piece making him shudder and giggle. I managed to get my left hand under and around the bottom of the stocks and lightly started to tickle his foot. With this new endeavour combined with the sensations his cock was receiving, Mr. Simpson began giggling out of control in a cute, high-pitched giggle. This was enough to drive me over the edge and I shot all over the floor where I was kneeling. Seconds later he was filling my mouth with his cum as he laughed, gasped, giggled, and thrashed in his seat.
As I stood up and looked at his bewildered face, I leaned over and kissed him. To my surprise, I found him kissing me back. After a minute or two I finally pulled away. Coming to my senses, I suddenly became overwhelmed with embarrassment and thoughts of the possible consequences of my actions. As I let him out, he said he was so exhausted that he wanted to lie down there and rest. I mumbled some words of apology for getting carried away with the moment. He didn’t respond so I left him alone and went home. The next day he was polite, but never spoke to me after class again. My fears of him telling anyone were unfounded. Perhaps he was just as embarrassed himself. Although he ended up estranged from me, it was worth it. Besides, he couldn’t have hated it that much. He gave me a B+ in English!