Jenny's Diary

The following work of fiction contains some sexually explicit content (including male-female sexual action). All depicted characters are 18 or older.

SYNOPSIS: Jenny, after spending years without revealing her sexual fantasies to anyone, is forced by a strange woman with mysterious powers to act them out in the presence of her college classmates.

Originally posted: February 2009

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The clock's second hand swooshed past the six again. Two thirty-nine. Jenny wasn't bored, though... she liked math, but at the moment, she was more fascinated with the motion of the hand.

Before too long, she looked back up at Gene, the grad student who was teaching the class, in order to catch up on notes. Even then it was hard not to be distracted, but considering Gene's countenance, that was understandable. He was good-looking, and she respected both his concision and his general charm. His decision to regularly wear a tie was really nice. Jenny listened and wrote, and when she was confident she was safe, she looked back at the clock and allowed her mind to drift again. Every two minutes or so, the cycle restarted.

The second hand, with its hypnotic motion, was only one of two reasons to look in that direction. The second was that the clock was located above Nick. She only knew his first name by overhearing his conversation with a friend, but she liked to think that her knowledge of him exceeded that. She had watched him. His hair always fell perfectly over his forehead, and she really liked the way he smiled when he talked to... well, anyone. He seemed insightful.

She'd heard him say, "oh, hey, Brandon!" and "oh, hey, Franny!" depending on who ended up sitting beside whom. If only he'd say "oh, hey, Jenny!" with that boyish smile of his, and that laugh that made its way into the words he spoke. She had imagined him saying that to her. Indeed, she had imagined somewhat more than that.

As she looked at him, she imagined the feeling of a feather inside her right running shoe, firmly licking itself once up the sole of her foot, and endured the sharp sexual feeling it made in her.

That would be a moment for her diary entry tonight. Maybe she would expand on it. Thank goodness she had that diary, or she would have no outlet for this kind of thought. Thank goodness, even further, that it had a lock.

"I believe this is yours," said Gene.

Jenny jumped. How long had she been staring at Nick?

Gene was looking right at her, and somehow, he was holding her diary in his hand.

"It says 'Jennifer Deluca' on the back," he indicated.

Jenny's pulse quickened. Had the diary fallen out of her bag? Thank goodness again for that lock.

"Yes, that's mine; thank you," Jenny uttered.

"Come up here, please, Jennifer," Gene requested.

Jenny's eyes surveyed the situation. She was behind a long table with a half-dozen students on either side, and Gene was standing right in front of her. He could easily have handed it to her instead of bidding her walk all the way out to one side of the room and back.

Very well. She liked the sound of his voice and the way he called her "Jennifer," even if it was only because he didn't know her well. Now she'd be fortunate enough to approach him face-to-face. That would go in her diary too.

Should she walk around the table to the left, or the right? Left would take her toward the door with the clock above it, and she would brush by Nick as she went. She wouldn't embarrass herself like that, so she sidled to the right end of the room, and met Gene at the front.

"Have you been paying attention?" Gene asked her. The room seemed unusually silent. Everybody was watching her, she discovered, as she looked over the class.

"I -- yes. I'm sorry," she said to him. "May I have that back?"

"You're sure you haven't been distracted?" Gene said, holding the diary up, pressing the latch, and swinging the book open.

Jenny was shocked; surely she hadn't forgotten to lock it.

"Hey!!" she shouted sharply and grabbed the book from him, smacking it firmly shut. "Thank you very much," she said smartly, turning back to her seat.

"Jennifer, stop," she heard Gene utter behind her, and her feet gently planted themselves on the ground.

The feeling surprised her. She was deliberately headed for her seat, but it was as though Gene was able to command her feet instead of her, and there she stood.

"Jennifer, let us please be honest," he continued gently. "It's time to share your thoughts with the class."

Jenny managed to turn back to face him in defiance. She had never imagined herself capable of rude comebacks, but she had also never been the target of such condescension. One more comment and she would leave the classroom.

"Stop it," she said, quivering. It came out softly, but the silence in the room had grown even more palpable, and no one misheard.

Gene gestured to a chair by the board. "Come and sit here, Jennifer."

Suddenly, the surprising feeling took Jenny over again. It was terrifying to feel her own feet begin to carry her to the chair. She resisted, trying to tug her legs in the opposite direction as they walked, but found herself unable to do so. She yelped in objection, saying "hey!" again out loud. There was no result.

She felt her body rest itself lightly on the chair, her hands rested palms-down on her diary, and her eyes turn to Gene softly as though seeking his approval. How this was happening, she couldn't afford to think about. She just had to stop it.

"Consider, Jennifer," Gene said. Her eyes were still staring at his, locked there, as he continued.

"You believe you write your own feelings, your own thoughts in their totality, but you don't consider the full picture, Jennifer. And now, you have found yourself here, in front of everybody."

The book, resting under her palms, felt lighter.

"With that book of yours," he said. "That... diary. Locked. What does that lock represent, Jennifer? Is it really your desire to keep those muses secret?"

Jenny's eyes had moved -- of her own will this time -- to the diary, which was now beginning to press upward against her hands. Its cover began to flutter and shake. She impulsively pressed it against her lap, but it pressed back with equal force.

"You've betrayed yourself, Jennifer. You can't keep it up any longer. You want us to know, don't you?"

The diary was so active, now, that Jennifer was hardly able to grasp the diary's cover and spine without her fingers slipping. She clasped as hard as she could. She had never been so desperate.

"Please... make this stop, Gene," she whimpered, and looked up at his eyes sincerely. He didn't move, and returned her look with expectation.

The diary shot sideways in her grasp like a magnet against its twin, then attempted to jump into the air, causing her to stand quickly in order to retain it. It forcefully whipped itself back and forth, dancing her around. Her grasping hands jutted all the way above her head, and her navel -- which she never exposed -- flashed momentarily into full view of the class. Finally, she forced the diary to the ground and held it tightly to her chest.

"Now, Jennifer," announced Gene, "it's time to reconcile."

The diary escaped her arms and zipped into the open air above her.

"No, please!!" Jenny cried. "Please don't--"

At that moment, her diary snapped wide open in mid-air and exploded into the room. Pages flew everywhere. Jenny lost control of her own body. It mimicked the explosion as her arms and legs stretched to full extension, making her a statuesque snow angel, unable to move, watching as students grasped and began to examine the pages as they floated by.

Jenny squeezed her eyes shut as tightly as she could.

Everything went silent.

Jenny paused, daring not to open her eyes. Seconds passed, and then a quarter of a minute, but nothing happened.

Still with her eyes closed, she felt like she was sitting at a counter, with her head resting on her arms.

Squinting and blinking, she raised her head, and saw her own face in front of her.

It was a mirror, bordered by glowing light bulbs which illuminated her visage. It looked clean, and her hair was tidily pulled behind her ears. She was dressed in a white collared shirt, unlike the one she'd worn to class.

The small dressing room was empty and silent, except for approaching footsteps. They belonged to a young girl now entering the room, wearing a black shirt and a headset with a microphone in front.

"Jenny Deluca, right? You're on in 90 seconds. Come on, now." she said with an inviting smile.

This was a pretty girl with a soft, reassuring face. Not the kind of "pretty" which she so irritated to see overused beneath female Facebook profile pictures by other girls, but genuinely attractive. She knew her. There was no time to think about that, though; she leading her down a hallway by the hand.

"Are you nervous?" the girl said gently. "The first interview is never as bad as you think. The words will come right to you. And you look very attractive."

The return compliment flattered her to the extent that she was able to concentrate on it. It wasn't a far extent. She was presently ushered toward a door marked "studio entrance."

"Oh, I'm Melanie," the girl finally said.

"I know," said Jenny pensively, trying to recall from where.

A voice came from behind the studio door, and Melanie thrust her through it easily. Everything was moving so fast.

"... To welcome our guest, Jennifer Deluca," was all Jenny heard as the examined her situation. She was walking up to what appeared to be a news anchor's desk in a full-fledged studio. A cityscape background stretched behind her back, and on the downstage side of the desk, three cameramen manned large apparatuses, interspersed with a few other headset-wearing, staffpeople.

The welcome had come from the man sitting at the desk. As Jenny stumbled to the empty seat opposite him, she recognized him as well. He reminded her of someone she had had a crush on half-a-year ago. The similarity was enough to attract her to him slightly, and she tried to harness the feeling and calm herself, if that was possible.

"Pleased to see you here, Jennifer," he said with a smile. "May I call you Jenny?"

"Um... sure," she said, smiling nervously back. She had nothing prepared, but apparently she was on the news, or a talk show. Whatever it was, she dared not ask any questions; she was still stupefied, and apparently, she was about to wing an interview.

"So, you go to school at Barberra College?"

The question came as a great relief; if she was only here to answer questions, then she wouldn't risk alluding to her own cluelessness.

"Yes, I'm a sophomore there," she said back to him.

"Are you pleased with the classes?"

"Oh, yes," she said, brightening. "I'm in Art History, Anthropology, and Calculus for general requirements. They're not related to my major, but I'm actually enjoying all three of them."

"The professors are highly-rated regionally. What do you think of them?"

"They're good. I especially like the grad student, actually, who teaches my math class, mainly because I think he's really cute. I've fantasized about him a lot."

Jenny suddenly stopped. Everything was silent. She performed a mental double-take to verify that she had truly spoken those words.

She had not imagined it was possible, but no... it was true. She looked at her interviewer momentarily, but quickly averted her gaze to one of the cameras with pressed lips.

Her cheeks burned. Never at any time would she have said anything like that, in public or in private. Her cheeks flared brightly.

"I -- I didn't mean... I mean..." she stuttered. She considered trying to rephrase her thought, but there was no synonym for "fantasized" which could possibly undo the damage.

"It's all right, Jenny," said the man gently. "That's what you're here to talk about, after all."

She looked at him.

"... What?"

"Everybody fantasizes, Jenny," he said. "You must know that."

"Well... of course, I suppose. It's just that I have some really serious sexual fetishes, and I'm really embarrassed to talk about them."

Jenny stopped again, breathless in disbelief. It was impossible that she uttered words which, until then, had only swum within the confines of her mind. And yes, she had said them with a straight face and in the most casual manner.

Jenny found herself looking directly into another of the cameras. One dark-haired woman standing beside it, with dark-rimmed glasses and a pen pressed to her lower lip, watched with intense anticipation as Jenny felt herself take another inward breath in preparation to speak. She willed herself to freeze, not to say anything. But she felt her tongue, her own tongue, press itself lazily under her front teeth as if to mock her effort to stop it, ready to form a "th" sound at its own discretion.

"The main fetish is tickling," Jenny said. "It's completely embarrassing to talk about it, like I said, but I fantasize -- I mean, I've fantasized for a long time -- about being completely helpless and having someone really understand what it feels like for me to be helpless. They would really... you know, like having me in that position, and they'd love how easily they could control me by... well, by tickling me, in this case."

No sooner had her lips formed the final sound than Jenny was once again in full control of her body. But by that time, her state had changed. She had felt her body respond to her own confession. With each word, her pulse had increased, her skin tightened. Her blushing cheeks were reflective of arousal as well as embarrassment. None of this, though, she intended to reveal. She feared that she was no longer sure what she would reveal, but she was optimistic, and redoubled her effort to stop whatever was happening to her.

And only seconds after she regained her own will, she felt the same dreaded feeling that her body was about to betray her once again. She tried as hard as she could to wrench it out of its poised position, to bite her tongue to keep it from humiliating her any further.

"I love the idea of having, for example," she explained with calm dignity directly to the face of her interviewer," my arms stretched above my head, and someone tickling them lightly. I would be able to try to resist, but they would begin tickling under my arms, making me laugh. And... I see being made to laugh as very erotic, because you'd think somebody in a helpless situation would protest, wouldn't you? So, the fact that they could make me smile and laugh, and act like I was enjoying it, really turns me on. In my fantasies I know that they really like me, so I'm trying to keep myself from looking like I enjoy it, but they're making me do it for him. It's like they're forcing me to be sexy for them."

"That's fascinating, Jenny."

Jenny thought that fascinating was not quite the right word, but her emotions had become louder than her thoughts. Her nipples were almost uncomfortably rigid, and her body was tingling. Her pelvis had contracted itself involuntarily several times while she was speaking, and she had recited that entire speech while looking directly into the eyes of her intent host.

"But most of my fantasies involve my feet," she said, looking back at a camera.

Her cheeks accommodated a fresh surge of redness as her lips intoned what, to her, was probably the most sexual word in the English language. She usually avoided saying it, even in normal conversation.

In the moment of silence that followed, Jenny became aware that the eyes of everybody in the room were on her. The woman with the dark-rimmed glasses was still observing with calm detachment and expectation.

"Would you like to explain that?" said the man.

"Well, I never show my feet to anyone, and it's because I feel like they're really sexual. I especially love the idea of someone tickling my feet, especially if they're completely helpless, because... well, a few reasons."

She winced inside, hearing herself imply an intention to elaborate. She felt herself lean back in her chair as though to take a more relaxing position, and the movement stimulated her pelvic area to another contraction. It filled her with a pulse of sexual pleasure that she tried to ignore.

She had also been trying to ignore her feet themselves, hidden behind the desk. It appeared that this would be the end of that consolation as well, as Jenny's hands methodically removed her shoes, and her bare feet placed themselves in front of her on the desk's surface, soles facing directly at one of the cameras. They began to flex systematically as she felt herself speak again.

"First of all, they're especially sensitive. They're another part of you that can be used against you to make you laugh and smile. But also, if someone's tickling your feet, the natural response is to curl your toes. It's pretty much impossible to help, and of course it's not very effective for protecting yourself. Also, I know that a lot of people are turned-on by feet, including a lot of guys, so I fantasize that whoever's tickling my feet is really interested in them sexually... my feet, I mean. So, once again, it's not just that he can make me laugh and everything, but he can also make my feet flex and move for him, even if I'm trying not to reward him at all. My body is turning him on without my consent, if that makes sense."

"All right, let's cut there," came a smooth voice. It was the lady with the dark-rimmed glasses, standing by the camera. "We'll get your sign-off later, Brad."

"Thank you," the host responded coolly. "Oh, and Jenny?"

Jenny looked over timidly, apparently stuck in her reclined position.

"You did well; good job" he said, smiled, and lightly scuttled his fingers up the soles of her feet.

Jenny was severely flustered, but his touch was too deft. She felt him draw the giggle out of her, and she ended up smiling at him, and shyly lowering her eyes, before he squeezed her shoulder and exited.

"Hey, Jenny! Good job!" said a cheerful voice from behind.

It was Melanie, doffing her headset and rubbing Jenny's shoulders with enthusiasm.

"Oh," Jenny said, with none. "Thank you."

"I asked if you were nervous on the way in, remember? I bet you were nervous by the end, weren't you?"

Jenny bit her lip, hoping the blood would drain away from her cheeks, as Melanie walked around and looked at her.

"It's over now. And you'll be glad you did it. I can tell you're not really sad. Just a little embarrassed."

Jenny nodded.

"You know what? I have a tickling fetish too."

Jenny looked at her.

"You do?"

"Yep," said Melanie. "A pretty similar one to yours, it turns out."

"You... you like to be... you mean, helpless? Too?" said Jenny with a certain touch of wonderment.

Melanie nodded slowly.

"Yes," she said. "I enjoyed watching you talk about it. It bordered on touching. I mean emotionally, not..."

"I understand," Jenny affirmed.

"Especially the feet part."

Both were silent. Jenny couldn't respond to this out of self-consciousness. Her own feet were still displaying themselves on the desk in front of her, wiggling idly. Evidently, Melanie's attention had gone there too.

"You still can't stop them, can you?"

Jenny blushed. "I'm trying."

"Valerie did the same thing to me, too, on my first interview," said Melanie.

Jenny noticed that during this conversation, the studio had been vacated by everybody except for the woman in the dark-rimmed glasses. She stood poised, smiling and still watching.

"Thank you for finally introducing me, Mel," she lilted, approaching Jenny slowly. Her face was truly angelic, but authoritative.

"What do you mean, Valerie did the same thing to you?" Jenny whispered to Melanie. "Is she the person who..."