Studious_Hustler
Verified
- Joined
- Dec 4, 2011
- Messages
- 720
- Points
- 18
Georgia got her feet stuck in the headrest. It wasn’t entirely her fault; I pushed it down and trapped them there. But she was the one who had asked for a foot rub.
“Give me a foot rub,” she whined at Alan and me, the only two sitting in the van row in front. Girls are unfathomable that way. She never said two words to me before then, or I to her. She was aware of me. Our parents were friends, which made us social cousins. I was definitely aware of her—sometimes in church she would sit in the row in front, and I would look down and see her wiggly orange feet flexing right there. I would just watch those soles. What else was I supposed to do?
“Give me a foot rub,” Georgia whined, interrupting whatever I was doing. She slid her feet into the space between my headrest and seatback. Her toenails were painted red like the ripest strawberries, that classic color. I’ve never even seen a photograph of Georgia’s feet where the toenails weren’t painted that shade of red.
Jill Marie P. could have been further evidence of girls’ unfathomability, except that in Jill’s case it was just stupidity. Early on that trip, the force of Jill impressed on me her oozing nature. I realized that in prehistoric times she would have been worshipped as a fertility goddess, a totem to summon bounteous crop yields. Jill would be brought to life by the shaman’s magic. She had a big nose, freckles, and blue eyes, and wore towering high heels. She dyed her brown hair blonde. She had massive breasts, a bare belly, and an aspartame-flavored ass. Jill plopped into the back row beside Georgia. If one’s first orgasm re-gifts itself to the most deserving, mine goes to Jill.
Hunter, a guy in Jill and Georgia’s row, was younger than me. Jill stretched herself across the row like four courses, and her feet landed in Hunter’s lap. She kicked off her shoes. Jill cackled, panicked, when Hunter stroked her feet.
“Oh my gosh! My feet are so ticklish!” she gasped huskily. “I can’t get a pedicure without laughing. The girls call me ‘sausage toes’ and torture me!”
Jill’s fat sausage toes were long and sexy, with marmalade-colored nail polish. I imagined ancient peoples chiseling Jill from wood. Heaven help that tribe when someone tickled the bottoms of Jill’s tanned toes.
Hunter wouldn’t give Jill a break for eleven hours. Someone investigated Jill’s belly with a mischievous hand. They all could have done it like a factory, tickling Jill’s neck, underarms, and helpless soles, tickling Jill even worse than the pedicurists did. Jill’s predicament was the reason above all reasons why Georgia’s decision was unfathomable.
“Give me a foot rub,” Georgia decided to whine. She pushed her gorgeous feet toward me. My thoughts raced. Georgia and I didn’t know each other. I slipped a pencil from the notepad where a friend and I had been composing dumb jokes. I held it next to the orange feet that I’d watched playing in front of me through church. I dragged its tip from top to bottom of one of her soles.
Georgia released something unspellable.
I asked Alan how to spell Georgia’s noise. In the notepad, I wrote the nonsense letters with which Alan supplied me. Georgia tried to wrest her feet away, but I pushed the headrest down, ensnaring her.
“Georgia, we need more measurements of that noise you made.”
Georgia’s feet waved. My fingers slid the pencil tip back and forth along each of her soles. She went rigid and shrieked.
Hunter attacked Jill’s arches, and her giggles redoubled. Both girls were bucking and hooting. Hunter searched Jill’s creamy soles, teasing her.
Who could handle more? Jill the Fertility Goddess, confessed too ticklish even for a pedicure? –Or my unfathomable Georgia? In either case, we would just keep tickling them both.
Alan grabbed the pencil. He started dancing up and down Georgia’s thick feet. “Geooorrgiaa do you liiiiike thiiis?” he drawled.
Georgia thrust her chin back, raised her sharp eyebrows in surrender, screwed her eyes tight, and wept with regal laughter. Then all of Alan’s long fingers spider-tickled her soles, and she exploded in a gushing, huffing frenzy. She curled her toes orgasmically and bruised her ankles against their restraints. Her snorting was louder than the raucous van radio.
Hunter’s fingertips interrogated the softest bottoms of Jill’s sausage toes. That was her worst spot. Jill Marie howled, melding her laughter with Georgia’s.
My social cousin Georgia was helpless under the touch of Alan, a dork. I disrupted Alan’s work on her, and she rasped in wild relief. She looked up from beneath her sopping blonde bangs, meeting my gaze. Her green eyes clouded with fear.
Her orange feet squirmed, just as they had in church.
My nails went instinctively to her toes. Stroking between them would totally defeat her: that was Georgia’s most closely guarded secret. In between her red-tipped toes I tickled, and she wriggled them crazily, trying to escape but only making them even more vulnerable. “Please!” Georgia begged.
I leapt down Georgia’s feet. I worked her heels, and she writhed in the headrest. I went up her arches and attacked her toes again. That was Jill’s spot, and it was Georgia’s spot too. Georgia moaned. My face bent near her feet.
“Do you need me to stop?”
She could only snort, thrashing.
“Why do you need me to stop?”
My hands went to the soft inner sides of her feet now. She was so ticklish there. She grasped spastically at the bars of the headrest. “It tickles so much!” she choked.
My fingertips were past Georgia’s ankles, circling up her calves.
Georgia was rigid.
“Those girls better never be bratty around y’all again!” the van driver called to us, cutting in. “Or you’ll get them good. You’ll tickle them half to death!”
I let up.
A moment later, Hunter let up from Jill.
I touched the bottom of Georgia’s sweaty foot with my lips. Devastated, Georgia wiggled her red-tipped toes at me. She looked at me for a long time, and then she spoke to me.
“Give me a foot rub,” she whined.
“Give me a foot rub,” she whined at Alan and me, the only two sitting in the van row in front. Girls are unfathomable that way. She never said two words to me before then, or I to her. She was aware of me. Our parents were friends, which made us social cousins. I was definitely aware of her—sometimes in church she would sit in the row in front, and I would look down and see her wiggly orange feet flexing right there. I would just watch those soles. What else was I supposed to do?
“Give me a foot rub,” Georgia whined, interrupting whatever I was doing. She slid her feet into the space between my headrest and seatback. Her toenails were painted red like the ripest strawberries, that classic color. I’ve never even seen a photograph of Georgia’s feet where the toenails weren’t painted that shade of red.
Jill Marie P. could have been further evidence of girls’ unfathomability, except that in Jill’s case it was just stupidity. Early on that trip, the force of Jill impressed on me her oozing nature. I realized that in prehistoric times she would have been worshipped as a fertility goddess, a totem to summon bounteous crop yields. Jill would be brought to life by the shaman’s magic. She had a big nose, freckles, and blue eyes, and wore towering high heels. She dyed her brown hair blonde. She had massive breasts, a bare belly, and an aspartame-flavored ass. Jill plopped into the back row beside Georgia. If one’s first orgasm re-gifts itself to the most deserving, mine goes to Jill.
Hunter, a guy in Jill and Georgia’s row, was younger than me. Jill stretched herself across the row like four courses, and her feet landed in Hunter’s lap. She kicked off her shoes. Jill cackled, panicked, when Hunter stroked her feet.
“Oh my gosh! My feet are so ticklish!” she gasped huskily. “I can’t get a pedicure without laughing. The girls call me ‘sausage toes’ and torture me!”
Jill’s fat sausage toes were long and sexy, with marmalade-colored nail polish. I imagined ancient peoples chiseling Jill from wood. Heaven help that tribe when someone tickled the bottoms of Jill’s tanned toes.
Hunter wouldn’t give Jill a break for eleven hours. Someone investigated Jill’s belly with a mischievous hand. They all could have done it like a factory, tickling Jill’s neck, underarms, and helpless soles, tickling Jill even worse than the pedicurists did. Jill’s predicament was the reason above all reasons why Georgia’s decision was unfathomable.
“Give me a foot rub,” Georgia decided to whine. She pushed her gorgeous feet toward me. My thoughts raced. Georgia and I didn’t know each other. I slipped a pencil from the notepad where a friend and I had been composing dumb jokes. I held it next to the orange feet that I’d watched playing in front of me through church. I dragged its tip from top to bottom of one of her soles.
Georgia released something unspellable.
I asked Alan how to spell Georgia’s noise. In the notepad, I wrote the nonsense letters with which Alan supplied me. Georgia tried to wrest her feet away, but I pushed the headrest down, ensnaring her.
“Georgia, we need more measurements of that noise you made.”
Georgia’s feet waved. My fingers slid the pencil tip back and forth along each of her soles. She went rigid and shrieked.
Hunter attacked Jill’s arches, and her giggles redoubled. Both girls were bucking and hooting. Hunter searched Jill’s creamy soles, teasing her.
Who could handle more? Jill the Fertility Goddess, confessed too ticklish even for a pedicure? –Or my unfathomable Georgia? In either case, we would just keep tickling them both.
Alan grabbed the pencil. He started dancing up and down Georgia’s thick feet. “Geooorrgiaa do you liiiiike thiiis?” he drawled.
Georgia thrust her chin back, raised her sharp eyebrows in surrender, screwed her eyes tight, and wept with regal laughter. Then all of Alan’s long fingers spider-tickled her soles, and she exploded in a gushing, huffing frenzy. She curled her toes orgasmically and bruised her ankles against their restraints. Her snorting was louder than the raucous van radio.
Hunter’s fingertips interrogated the softest bottoms of Jill’s sausage toes. That was her worst spot. Jill Marie howled, melding her laughter with Georgia’s.
My social cousin Georgia was helpless under the touch of Alan, a dork. I disrupted Alan’s work on her, and she rasped in wild relief. She looked up from beneath her sopping blonde bangs, meeting my gaze. Her green eyes clouded with fear.
Her orange feet squirmed, just as they had in church.
My nails went instinctively to her toes. Stroking between them would totally defeat her: that was Georgia’s most closely guarded secret. In between her red-tipped toes I tickled, and she wriggled them crazily, trying to escape but only making them even more vulnerable. “Please!” Georgia begged.
I leapt down Georgia’s feet. I worked her heels, and she writhed in the headrest. I went up her arches and attacked her toes again. That was Jill’s spot, and it was Georgia’s spot too. Georgia moaned. My face bent near her feet.
“Do you need me to stop?”
She could only snort, thrashing.
“Why do you need me to stop?”
My hands went to the soft inner sides of her feet now. She was so ticklish there. She grasped spastically at the bars of the headrest. “It tickles so much!” she choked.
My fingertips were past Georgia’s ankles, circling up her calves.
Georgia was rigid.
“Those girls better never be bratty around y’all again!” the van driver called to us, cutting in. “Or you’ll get them good. You’ll tickle them half to death!”
I let up.
A moment later, Hunter let up from Jill.
I touched the bottom of Georgia’s sweaty foot with my lips. Devastated, Georgia wiggled her red-tipped toes at me. She looked at me for a long time, and then she spoke to me.
“Give me a foot rub,” she whined.
