Gemma Visits the Doctor

– a non-consensual tickling story

By Tamira K.

Gemma hurried through the doors of the GP surgery. Behind the welcome desk the receptionist had just finished putting on her coat. She lifted her handbag, a bunch of keys in hand, and was turning off the lights when she saw the young woman enter. She sized her up quickly: distinctly average height, distinctly average dress-sense, a distinctly average face covered with an excess of make-up and a bleach-blonde bob that, if it was to be at all convincing, was in dire need of some touching up at the roots. She was obviously running late but overplaying the early-twenties, “I couldn’t help it!” breathlessness.

‘We’re about to close,’ said the receptionist with a humourless sing-song lilt to her voice.

‘I’m so sorry but got delayed,’ said Gemma, ‘Is it still possible to see Dr Garrison?’

‘I’m afraid not. Dr Garrison has left for the day. What time was your appointment?’

‘Six forty-five,’ said Gemma. She followed the receptionist’s eyeline as she looked to a clock on the wall. It was 7:16pm. The receptionist looked back to Gemma with a condescending smirk. “Alright, bitch,” thought Gemma, “I didn’t ask to get into a fight with my boyfriend that distracted me from being here on time.” ‘Are there any other Doctors I can see? It’s really important.’

Noting the look of urgency on Gemma’s face, the receptionist sighed, ‘The only doctor still here is Dr Silas. But he may have already packed up.’

‘I haven’t seen Dr Silas before,’ said Gemma.

The receptionist dismissed this statement as unimportant. ‘He only joined the surgery this week,’ she said, lifting the phone and punching in a couple of digits. There was a pause as Gemma could hear the phone ringing from the doctor’s office at the far end of the corridor to her left. The receptionist sighed again and checked her watch.

“Yeah, I get it, woman,” thought Gemma, “I’m really putting you out. Thank you for making me feel worse on my trip to the bloody doctor’s! It’s a real picnic for me too!”

Then the phone was answered. As the receptionist spoke Gemma could hear the muffled murmur of the doctor’s voice emanating from his office.

‘Hello Doctor,’ said the receptionist, ‘Dr Garrison’s last patient of the day has arrived but he’s gone home…… Yes…… She is very eager to see someone… Yes……’ she looked up at Gemma, ‘Your name?’

‘It’s Gemma Strobe.’

‘Gemma Strobe, Doctor.’ There was a long pause but eventually Gemma could hear the distant confirmation that he would see her. ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ she hung up. ‘Take a seat,’ she said to Gemma.

Gemma stepped over to the small waiting area and sat down. The receptionist locked the door to reception and left without saying another word. ‘Moody cow,’ Gemma muttered to herself. She was instantly bored and looked around but there were no magazines to thumb through; nothing to keep her entertained except a handful of colourful toys for the under-fives in one corner. She confirmed to herself that she wouldn’t be touching them and pulled out her phone: still out of battery.

She sighed to herself. “If the place is empty and there are no other patients and the doctor is sitting in there on his own, why am I having to wait?” She silently cursed that she wasn’t going to see Dr Garrison. If there was one thing that made coming to the doctor’s less of a chore and took her mind off the incessant bickering with her boyfriend, it was putting herself in the hands of a young, handsome, well-dressed black doctor.

The digital noticeboard beeped a prolonged and excessively loud beep that made Gemma jump in her seat. ‘Jesus!’ she exclaimed to the empty room, as though someone in the vicinity should do something about it. Her name flashed up on the board and informed her that she was to go to room 6. As she walked the corridor and knocked on the door of room 6, a subconscious thought came to mind: “Hopefully, if he’s new, he’ll be young and handsome too!”

‘Come in,’ said a posh voice.

She opened the door and forced a smile to hide her disappointment — Dr Silas was not neither young nor handsome. As she was only 22 herself, her best guess as to his age could have landed anywhere between 45 and 85. Still, he looked the same age as her Dad’s oldest brother and he’d just had his 60th birthday. ‘Hello,’ she said.

‘Hello Gemma. Come in, come in,’ he ushered her to sit down. She could already tell that there was an element of wackiness to him — a skinny white man with a beaky nose and a slightly goofy smile, dressed smartly but wearing something that Gemma had never seen another person wear outside of a TV show — a bow tie.

She took a seat, ‘Thanks.’

‘Now,’ he said, ‘what can I do for you?’

Gemma was caught a little off-guard by the intensity of his smile. She bit her cheeks to prevent herself from laughing in his face but realised quickly that she couldn’t answer and bite at the same time and so ended up answering with an inappropriate smirk, ‘I feel a bit silly saying içel seks hikayeleri it now that I’m here,’ she said, hoping the sentiment would justify the smirk.

‘You can tell me anything. Go ahead,’ he said, but now his eyelids were fluttering like he was having a blinking fit.

Gemma had to look away and talk fast in order to distract herself, ‘Well, I’ve started to feel sensitive recently,’ she said.

‘Sensitive? Do you mean emotionally?’ he asked.

‘No. Physically. All over,’ she replied. ‘It’s like the volume has been cranked up on my skin.’

‘It causes you pain?’

‘Not really. It’s just intense.’

There was a pause. She looked up at him and had to clamp her lips tight — his pensive look was even more clownish than his geeky smile! This time she saw a little change in his demeanour, as though her smirk had insulted him. Perhaps he’d had a whole lifetime of people who found him amusing and was sick of it. “Then why don’t you do some work on yourself, you bloody loon?” she thought to herself. “Fancy being 60 and still dressing like you’re in a shit BBC sitcom!”

In that moment he took a deep breath in through his nose and one nostril made a subtle but comical “parp” sound. Gemma’s smile was instant and this time there was no doubt he saw it. His smile evaporated and he turned to his computer. ‘Okay, let’s just confirm some details. Have you changed your diet recently?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she replied, happy that she could permit herself a loosening of her smile while his attention was elsewhere.

‘How about washing powder?’

‘Nope.’

‘Washing products? Soap? Shampoo? Skin cleansers? Moisturisers? Make-up?’

‘Nope. None of those are any different.’

‘How long have you been experiencing it?’

‘A few months. Since about Christmas.’

‘Do you recall drinking anything or eating anything or taking any medication that may have set it off?’

She considered, ‘Nope.’

‘Do you notice it getting worse at any point during your “ladies’ cycle”?’ he asked and twisted towards her on these last two words in such a way that she couldn’t help having a giggle in her voice as she replied.

‘No!’

He sat back in his chair almost as quickly as he’d leant forward and span in the opposite direction to stand up. He was thin and gangly, like a Quentin Blake illustration. ‘Let’s measure you,’ he said and waited over by a stadiometer. ‘Boots and coat off please.’

Gemma removed her coat and pulled off her Ugg boots. She was now in a loose-fitting jumper, jeans and turquoise short cotton socks with white frills around the ankles that seemed to catch Dr Silas’s attention. He motioned for her to stand against the stadiometer. She did so and he brought down the bar until it just touched the top of her head. ‘5’6″,’ he said, ‘Now onto the scales.’ Gemma stepped sideways onto the weighing scales and he observed the results, ‘A hundred and twenty-one pounds,’ he pronounced. ‘Take a seat please.’

As Gemma returned to her chair she noticed Dr Silas’s family portrait on the wall that must have been taken before she was born. His wife was as equally unattractive as him and their teenaged children were both nerdy but in different ways. She noticed the boy’s spikey hair, which almost resembled a light brown brush of a chimney sweep. But it was the four geeky smiles that made her have to contain her laughter. She bit her cheeks again.

Dr Silas reached under his desk and returned with a Brannock device. Gemma recognised it from having her feet measured for shoes as a kid and her temptation to laugh disintegrated. ‘What’s that for?’ she asked.

‘It measures your feet,’ Dr Silas said without looking up, as he knelt down.

‘Do you have to do that?’ Gemma asked.

‘We may as well get everything as we’re here,’ he said and coaxed her right foot forward. She instantly moved her foot into the device, avoiding his assistance.

He gently pulled at the width strap and it closed gently around the top of her foot. She jumped, clenched her fists and looked to the ceiling as he ever-so-gently pressed her foot back into the heel cup. He then slid the bar to meet the tip of her toes, ‘Size 7,’ he noted, releasing the first foot and awaiting the second. Gemma hesitated, wondering why he needed to measure both, ‘Sometimes they can be slightly different sizes,’ he explained.

She huffed and placed her other foot into the device, making certain that it was in the position it needed to be in so that he wouldn’t have to touch it. But he did. Again with aggravatingly feather-light touches. She had to gasp to prevent herself from kicking out.

‘Is something wrong?’ he asked.

‘Yep,’ said Gemma through held breath, ‘It’s why I’m here!’

‘Oh…’ said Dr Silas, ‘So this is sensitive for you?’

‘Yeah!’ she replied with sarcastic understatement.

He unstrapped her foot and she quickly retracted it. ‘You mean you’re ticklish,’ said the Doctor, ‘how funny.’

‘”Funny”?’ she parroted. ‘I hate it.’

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘Doesn’t everyone? It’s just really annoying. I hate the way it makes me jump and laugh when I don’t want to laugh. It’s stupid.’

‘It’s a natural evolutionary instinct,’ said Dr Silas, ‘It helps you learn to defend yourself.’ She shrugged in response as he returned the Brannock device to its home and sat back in his chair. ‘Your feet are exactly the same size. Quite large for your height, actually,’ he said, as though thinking out loud.

Gemma was insulted. ‘Thanks for that. What now?’

‘What issues are your sensitivity causing for you?’ he asked.

‘It keeps making me spaz out everywhere. On the bus. In the pub. At work.’

‘Give me an example,’ he said, leaning back in his chair and placing his fingers together in that typical Mastermind pose. It did nothing to convince Gemma that he was the real deal.

She sighed deeply. ‘Yesterday I was in the photocopy room at work and one of the MD’s had to squeeze past me to get something in the stationery cupboard. She touched my sides and I jumped a mile and spilt my drink all over the place. It’s embarrassing.’

‘I see,’ said Dr Silas. ‘Well, this is a first! I’ve never had someone come to me to say that their ticklishness is a medical issue!’

‘It’s not funny!’ she insisted.

‘Of course not,’ he said with apparent sincerity, although she noticed a slight narrowing of his eyes as he looked at her.

“Is he liking how pissed off I am about this?” she thought. ‘Should I come back and see Dr Garrison?’

‘If that’s who you feel most comfortable seeing,’ Dr Silas replied, ‘but he is on holiday for the next two weeks.’

Gemma gave a look of despair. ‘Aren’t there just some pills you can give me or something? Like anti-inflammatories, but that make you less sensitive?’

‘I believe the lab is working on that as we speak,’ he smiled. She didn’t appreciate his humour. ‘In the meantime, would you like to see if we can perform some tests now to see what we can do to help you?’

Gemma resigned herself to the current situation, ‘Yeah.’

‘Okay, splendid,’ said Dr Silas and wheeled his chair closer to her. His aftershave that was subtly sweet and reassuring. ‘Please roll up your right sleeve,’ he said, opening his left hand.

Gemma turned up her right sleeve and rested the back of her hand into his palm. She tensed as his fingers approached the crook of her elbow and gently came into contact with her skin. ‘Try to relax,’ he said. She held her breath as he began to slowly trace his fingertips down the inside of her forearm and towards her wrist. He hadn’t gotten any further than a quarter of the way along the journey when she found herself unable to contain her reaction; she broke into a wriggle and quickly pulled away, rubbing the area.

‘I can’t take it!’ she said.

‘Hmm,’ pondered the doctor with his comical pensive expression. Gemma struggled not to laugh at him again and this time he definitely caught the stifled smirk on her face. ‘Can you still feel the sensation now?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she replied.

‘It just looks like something is making you want to laugh,’ he said, with a slight hint of irritation.

‘Nope,’ she said, keeping her lips firm and rubbing her arm in an exaggerated manner in order to divert his attention away from her face.

He remained in thought for some moments. Gemma wasn’t certain whether he would continue with the diagnosis or throw her out for being insolent. At last he said, ‘I have an idea. I can’t be certain whether it will work but we can only try, can’t we?’

She nodded.

‘Would you mind going behind the curtain and taking off your top, jeans and socks and lying down on the examination table? Usually we can have a nurse be present if that’s what you would like, but there is nobody else here right now. Of course, you could make an appointment for a later date–‘

‘No, it’s fine,’ she said, promptly moving over to the examination table in the centre of the room. Dr Silas drew the curtain and washed his hands. She removed her jeans, jumper and t-shirt and folded them onto a chair. She hopped up on to the examination table and laid down on the protective sheet of tissue paper.

‘Do let me know when you’re ready,’ said Dr Silas.

‘I’m ready,’ Gemma replied.

The doctor appeared round the curtain but he now adorned a pair of ludicrously unfashionable half-rimmed spectacles. “Oh, come on!” thought Gemma, slinging her attention to the ceiling.

‘Comfy?’ he asked.

Gemma hummed a confirmation, unable to trust herself to do anything more without laughing in his face and having to explain herself.

‘You’ve left your socks on,’ he observed as he pulled on some blue latex gloves.

‘Yes.’ she replied.

He looked her up and down. ‘Your underwear matches your socks.’

She looked down and noticed that her light blue bra and panties had white lace frills, similar to those on her cotton socks. ‘That wasn’t deliberate,’ she said. ‘What do we do now?’

‘Just relax,’ he said, standing next to her. ‘I just want to do a few tests.’ He took a second to observe her, retaining an outward look of professionalism as he couldn’t help but appreciate how delicious she looked, semi-naked on the table, although the contrast between her natural light skin tone and the over-egged application of foundation on her face was notable in the way it stopped at her neck. She resembled a Barbie doll whose head had been swapped for a different model.

Gemma took a deep breath and prepared herself. He reached across her and touched both thumbs simultaneously to the flanks of her tummy. Her response was instantaneous: ‘GLCH!’ she yelped as she folded in the middle, almost curling into a foetal position and twisting away from him. He had to respond quickly to prevent her from falling from the table and held her in place. This too caused her to react and she jumped from the table, landing opposite him. ‘I can’t do this!’ she barked.

Dr Silas maintained his composure. ‘Let’s try it again–‘

‘Why?! How will that help?!’

‘Lie down again and let me explain…’ he said, indicating the table. With a face of unadulterated petulance, she climbed aboard again. ‘I have a theory that you have grown intolerant to any form of touch because you haven’t allowed yourself to be touched for a long time. Is that correct?’

‘I do all I can to avoid it,’ she responded.

‘Do you have a boyfriend or a girlfriend or a husband or–‘

‘Boyfriend.’

‘And how do you cope with this when you’re together and being intimate?’

‘I haven’t wanted to do that for a while. I don’t even like him putting his arm around my waist or holding my hand because he can’t do it without irritating me,’ she contemplated, ‘It’s kinda causing a lot of fights.’

‘I see,’ said the doctor, as though the pieces of the puzzle were beginning to come together.

‘What?’ she said.

‘If my theory is correct, then you may just need to get past a mental barrier that you have put up. Why you have put it up, we do not know yet.’

‘So you’re going to try touching me so I get past it?’

‘That is correct,’ he nodded.

‘But I can’t stop myself trying to get away and falling off the table!’

‘This is true and we cannot have that. I really don’t want you to hurt yourself.’ He paused, ‘I have one option, which is a little unorthodox.’

‘What’s that?’ she asked.

‘I can restrain you,’ he said.

She looked at him for a moment, trying to read his expression. For once, he looked like a normal human being — sincere in his desire to get to the bottom of the problem. ‘How?’

In response he went over to a drawer and pulled out four medical restraints with attached straps, ‘I can attach these to the table.’

Gemma frowned but nodded. Funnily enough it was the colour of the cuffs that made her feel at ease — they weren’t black leather with metal studs like some weirdo would have in his cupboard, they were white with light blue sponge. They almost match my underwear, flitted across her mind. Dr Silas went to work wrapping the sponge cuffs around her wrists and ankles and attaching them to the four steel-ringed corners of the padded table.

‘Use these much?’ she asked.

‘Not often–raise your arms please–mostly they’re here in case someone is libel to do themselves some harm and need restraining. I actually think this qualifies!’ he said, tying her final wrist and lurching over her with a brand new comical expression which caught her by surprise. She stifled a laugh. He paused again, his smile ebbing away, ‘Are you feeling it already?’ he asked.

‘No, I’m fine,’ she said.

For a few seconds he paced up and down next to her and, under the guise of working out how to begin, permitted himself to take in how she looked stretched out on the table before him. He drew the line at ogling her breasts, if not for the sake of professionalism, then out of respect for the age gap between them. Whilst she was not conventionally pretty, he couldn’t deny that she was most appealing with such delightful, flawless skin. It was just a shame that her personality was at such odds with her physique.

He couldn’t help be be irked at her constant smirk and, stepping to each of the straps, he yanked them tight. In four swift tugs Gemma felt herself to be fully stretched out and totally immobilised. The realisation of the position she’d allowed herself to get into suddenly hit her, ‘I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to take this,’ she said.

‘Treatments can sometimes be challenging,’ Dr Silas said with a new air to his demeanour, ‘But you want to get better, don’t you?’

‘Yes. But what if I need you to stop?’

‘I’m the medical professional, my dear. I will be the one to decide when I stop.’

Gemma didn’t like this arrangement and subtly tested the secureness of her restraints — she couldn’t move at all.

‘You seem to have issues based around humour,’ said Dr Silas.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

‘Well, you’ve since you’ve been here today, several times I’ve seen you laughing when there was nothing to laugh at. Do you think it’s a coincidence that you also don’t want to laugh at a natural physical function that is supposed to make you laugh?’