storyteller
TMF Master
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(m/f, >18)
Readers: I finally came up with a version of this act with which I’m satisfied. Hope you are too. For those who haven’t yet read, or need reminding of Act I, which was posted on this forum 3 August 2006, go to
http://www.ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?t=85871
The Foot-fetishist, Tickling Bartender and the Novice—
Act II: The Bartender’s Prey
Scene: Regularly dispersed street lamps illuminate the early morning darkness. Starlight occasionally breaks through the partial, but dense, cloud coverage. Few cars are on the road. One sits at a traffic light.
While waiting for a green signal, the bartender rolls the long sleeves of his light blue cotton dress shirt up to just beneath his elbows. He is excited and tired as he drives to her apartment. Getting the late-night crowd out of the pub at closing had been a challenge. He’d completed his tasks there as quickly as possible and arrived at his apartment at 2:45 a.m. for a quick shower and shave. He’d forgotten that he’d worn his last clean pair of jeans to work the now-previous night and had decided that it was better to be overdressed for the pending liaison than to show up in dirty clothes or well-worn sweats. He'd donned the button-down and khaki, front-pleated casual pants and walked out the door without adding his hallmark Astros’ baseball cap.
The light changes and he accelerates through it as he presses the send button on his cell phone.
“Hello,” she answers on the second ring.
“I’m on my way. Should be there in about 5 minutes,” the bartender says, hoping she doesn’t tell him not to bother.
“Okay. See you then,” she states and hangs up.
The bartender spends the rest of the short drive considering the tickling scenario he’s fantasized about. He knows it may not be possible to delve into it completely today. He needs to tread slowly and carefully to ensure her complete trust; otherwise, she’ll balk. This need for a slow approach is why he opted to leave his portable bondage gear at home.
Oh well, he thinks and sighs, Maybe next time, and he realizes that he hopes this goes well so there will be a next time, when the fantasy can go a little further...
He pulls into the parking lot of her apartment complex and parks in an open space. Shutting off the engine, he leans over, opens the glove compartment, and extracts a dry ballpoint pen. He slides it into his shirt pocket as he gets out of the car and shuts the door. Her apartment isn’t too distant from the lot. He walks up the sidewalk and veers to the right when it forks. As he passes her patio, he sees light shining through the slats between the blinds covering the sliding-glass door. A few feet later, he turns left to walk the remaining distance to the front door on which his knuckles produce a quick one-two-one rap. Within seconds he hears the clicking of two locks and sees the knob turn.
“Welcome to my chamber,” she says in a tone a pitch or so lower than usual as her eyes slowly raise up to his.
He looks at her with some surprise and she laughs.
“Just kidding,” she says in her normal pitch with a simultaneous laugh and blink of both eyes, her head tilting to the right. “Come on in,” and she stands to one side as she opens the door for him to pass through.
“So, you did remember how to get here,” she teases.
“Told you I did,” he quips, noting that she looks as though she’d just left the pub, those wonderful shoes increasing her height so that her eyes are nearly level with his own.
“Yeah, well, the stereotype about men and directions exists for a reason,” she laughs as she closes and relocks the door.
“Do you want anything to drink? Water, Coke, Dr. Pepper, coffee, scotch? That’s about all I have. Oh, and apple juice. I think I have some Merlot too.” She asks making her way to the kitchen.
Appraising the possibilities of the crop top and wrap skirt, nylon-clad legs, and feet swimming atop those shoes, he replies, “Just some water right now.”
“You changed clothes. You look nice,” she comments as she heads toward the kitchen.
“Thanks, so do you,” he returns, “I don’t know that I told you earlier.”
“No, you didn’t,” she says, taking two glasses from a cabinet and putting them on the counter. She opens the freezer to remove ice, puts it into the glasses, then opens the refrigerator and takes out bottled water. She opens the bottle and begins to fill the glasses.
“That’s okay, though,” she tells him. “Your eyes indicated a positive opinion.”
“Did they?” he asks with a smile.
“Yes, especially concerning the shoes,” she states, walking into the living area with a glass of ice water in each hand.
“I’ve never seen shoes quite like them,” he says glancing down. “Where did you get them?”
“I made them,” she states simply.
“You made...” he gets out before she seems to trip while proffering him one of the ice waters. Water sloshes up and out of the glass toward him as her body falls forward. His torso automatically pulls back, avoiding most of the water, as his hands reach out over each of hers to steady her and stop the descent of both glasses.
“Thanks,” she gasps. “Oh no! I’ve gotten you all wet! I am SO sorry!”
Relying on his steadying hands, she kicks the shoes off, her height returning to normal, the top of her head now level with his Adam’s apple. His hands reach under hers to take the glasses. He puts the glasses on the desk behind him while she uses her now free hands to steady herself, mumbling that she’s not used to walking around in stilts.
“Are they dry clean only,” he hears as she rushes from the room.
“What?” he asks.
“Your shirt and slacks, are they dry clean only?”
“No,” he says as she returns with a towel and begins to pat at his shirt.
His hands come up and wrap around hers. “It’s not that big a deal. I’m not that wet,” he says. “Most of the water hit the floor, not me.”
She looks embarrassed as she says, “Still, if they’re machine washable, I can throw the shirt or both into the washer and dryer and iron as necessary before you leave.”
“It’s only water,” he laughs, “The shirt’s a little damp. I’ll just take it off.”
As he speaks she’s soaking up the water on the carpet with the towel. He untucks and unbuttons the shirt and she picks up the nearly empty water glass and returns to the kitchen to refill it and throw the wet towel over the washer.
He considers the wonderful opportunity those fantastic "stilts" have provided. Without further ado, he quickly removes his own shoes, unfastens his belt, and begins to remove his slacks as well.
When she returns with the water, he’s standing in short-sleeved undershirt and boxer briefs contemplating where to lay his outer clothes. He turns toward her, clothes in hand. She stops within arm’s reach and extends the water glass toward him.
“Here, better take this now, just in case. Did your pants get wet after all?" she asks.
“Hmmm, a little,” he replies, grateful that the water had sort of dripped down the front of them.
Her arm still outstretched, she says, “Hand them to me and I’ll hang them up so they can dry.”
He hands her the shirt and slacks and eyes her nylon-clad feet as she walks out of the room. Waiting for her return, he sits in the gliding rocker and contemplates the potential of his surroundings in regard to his plans.
The room has changed quite a bit since the last time he was here. Most of its furniture is wood, functional, and against the various walls, leaving empty central space. The daybed-trundle that serves as both her couch and extra beds now sits beneath the bar that separates the kitchen from the den. Her desk, filing cabinet, and a short chest-of-drawers occupy its former place along the wall shared between den and bedroom. He glances at the daybed and observes that she’s replaced the multiple large pillows of coordinating colors that used to line its back with a single long cushion. He notes the white-painted metal rails on each end of the daybed. The only other seating in the room is a wooden chair with armrests. An ottoman sits in front of it.
“It’s a Danish Modern,” she tells him as she returns to the room and sees him looking at the chair. “Needs new cushions. I inherited it.”
She moves the ottoman in front of him and pulls and turns the Danish Modern so that it is nearer and facing him before she sits in it.
“We can share the ottoman,” she says propping her feet on it to one side. It has a gliding base too, like the rocker.”
The bartender relishes how well events are playing into his fantasy. Slow, gentle foot action, he thinks, is a great way to start things off. Yes, things are progressing perfectly.
He props his sock-clad feet next to hers and says, “You were saying you made those lovely shoes?”
“Oh. Yes,” she answers.
He moves his feet so that they are on either side of hers and then uses them to guide hers toward the center of the ottoman.
“I didn’t know you were a cobbler,” he says. He glides back and the ottoman glides forward, bringing her feet with it. He takes advantage of the motion to rub his feet against hers and her lower legs.
“I’m not,” she states.
“Then, how did you make them?” he inquires.
“I used the Internet,” she replies.
Thinking this conversation is like pulling teeth, the bartender gives her a chiding look and tells her, “Could you be more informative?”
His feet continue to play with hers, aided by the gliding motion. He becomes aware that their movement is in beat with music emanating from her CD player. Music he’d not consciously noticed before but now realizes has changed from what was playing when he arrived. He recognizes Chuck Mangione’s “Feels So Good” and thinks how appropriate that title is.
“I like the music,” he tells her, his legs pressing gently against hers as his feet continue to move. “You were explaining how you made the shoes?”
She takes a deep breath and begins, “I couldn’t find what I wanted in stores or online so I did an online search for custom shoe makers. Still didn’t find what I wanted, or what I could afford, so I did a search for ‘how to make shoes.’ That resulted in a site put up by a woman who, when she found herself in the same predicament, came up with an inexpensive way to make her own using equipment she already had and items that were readily available. She wrote a step-by-step book that includes diagrams and photos. I bought the book and followed the directions to make a shoe cast,” she relates. She takes a sip of water and continues,
“I bought the materials—heels and shoe cement, fabrics and things needed for the upper and lower parts of the shoes, and a few other things that were required—none very expensive—got out my sewing machine and set to work making the design I had in my head a reality.”
“Impressive,” he says. One of his feet continues to play with hers as the other slides up, parts the wrap of the skirt, and rubs along her inner leg, stroking it just a touch higher with each glide.
She stretches her back and eases herself lower in her chair, arms on either rest, eyes closed, head tilted back. The crop shirt rises up as she stretches and lifts and crosses her arms over her head. He glimpses inviting ribs and wonders what her reaction will be when he tickles them and then lets his fingers wander along the undersides of her arms up toward their pits. For now, though, he’ll continue with foot play. Her relaxed movements indicate interest. The feel of her pointed toes and arch as her right foot begins to move along and around the length of his left foot confirms his perception of her interest. Her left foot wiggles against his right leg. He wishes now that he’d removed his socks. He’d prefer to feel her skin through the nylons with his bare feet and toes.
He hates to break this moment, her left foot just might move a little higher...But, he really wants to get his socks off.
Her head jerks up as he abruptly pulls his feet away and reaches toward them to remove the socks. He looks up and finds her questioning gaze on him, her arms again on the rests of her chair.
Now what, he thinks, do I tell her my feet were hot or the truth?
He blurts out, “My socks are impeding my senses.”
Well, that sounded esoteric, he thinks, but she says nothing, merely smiles.
He’s about to return his feet to the ottoman when he realizes that this is a good time to get his hands on at least one of her feet, laying still on the ottoman, which glides toward him, now propelled by her.
He props his right leg on the outside of her left, returning his left leg between hers. He grasps her right shin, raises her leg toward his lap with his right hand, then cups her right foot in his left hand, leaving her left foot free to explore him as she chooses. With his free right hand he reaches to remove the pen in his pocket and finds only his undershirt. Somewhat confused, he looks down and remembers the water.
“Looking for this?” she asks in a soft, teasing voice.
He looks up and sees that she’s gently waving her right hand in the air, her fingers curled around the dried ballpoint pen.
“As a matter of fact,” he says, reaching out for it.
She pulls her arm back further, grasps his left foot, and says, “I think I’ll hold on to this. I’m curious as to what your reaction will be.”
The bartender thinks quickly. He knows exactly how the pen will feel against his sole and his reaction. He also realizes that he’s told her what he wanted to do with that pen, so she knows where to apply it to his foot. His mind kicks into high gear. He’s in front of the desk. He can just open the center drawer, surely there’s a pen or something...
He turns his torso, opens the drawer with his right hand--YES!--he thinks as he spies a click pen just inside. As long as he doesn’t click it, he won’t write on her foot, if indeed it still has ink. And, if he does, well, ink washes off. He reaches in, grabs the pen, and runs its tip along the sole of her right foot still cupped in his left hand.
Her reaction is immediate.
A sharp intake of breath is accompanied by an “Aaahhh!" as her entire body shudders because of the violent knee-jerk reaction of her right leg. Her toes involuntarily flex and point as her foot shakes.
A soft click indicates the CD player switching discs and Henry Mancini’s music from “The Pink Panther” begins to play. An evil glint enters the bartender’s eyes and he smiles.
She tries to wiggle her foot out of his hand but his grip firmly cups her heel and his fingers tighten against the back of her ankle. He pushes her wrap skirt out of the way as he crosses his right leg over her left, trapping it. He sees she’s wearing thigh-high stockings with wide-lace elastic bands. Her black tap pants have loose leg openings his left toes will enjoy exploring. He gives a low, wicked laugh as he strokes her right foot again with the tip of the pen.
“Theme from the Pink Panther” is barely into it’s opening while this occurs. Her body tense from it’s previous reaction shudders again. Another intake of breath and stifled "aaoohh” escapes as she exhales. Her eyes are wide with shock as he pulls at her nylons and kneads the fingers of his right hand between her toes while continuing to stroke the length of her sole gently with the pen. A quick, pressured stroke produces another violent shudder and the pen he’d brought falls from her hand and hits the floor. Both her hands now firmly grip the armrests of the Danish Modern. She moves her body to free herself to no avail. His left toes press against her lower abdomen, moving with the music and motion of the gliding rocker and ottoman.
For a minute or so she manages to make no sound, but then his right hand leaves her toes and moves up to surround and rapidly squeeze her right knee. An involuntary, high-pitched “uuuhhhnnn!!! coming through clinched teeth escapes her now parted lips as his fingers knead their way back along her leg toward her toes. His left toes wander along the top of her left thigh and back to her lower abdomen, his hands continue to stroke and knead her right foot and lower leg.
“I-i-issss thhhiiisss yoooouuuurr ffffaaaaan...” she manages before another quick stroke of the pen tip along her arch causes her upper body and head to arc backward, her crop top rising up. He slides his left foot up beneath her top as her head falls forward and he hears her somewhat resigned “ooohhhh!!!" followed by legitimate tinkling giggles as he continues to play with her right leg and foot.
The top of his left foot presses itself and the center of her bra into her chest bone. He angles his foot sideways and moves his toes between the lace of her bra and her breast. At least two, maybe as many as three of Mancini’s works have sounded through the room, but the bartender is not yet ready to stop his fun. This first round needs a big finale to render her completely at his mercy.
With the pen still in his right hand, he reaches up and runs it along her ribs while pulling the nylons back from her toes with his teeth before nibbling them. Her giggles become interspersed with shuddered “eehhhuuuhhhsss” and breathed in “aaahhhsss.” Next round he thinks, the nylons come off. It will be fun removing them...
He drops the pen and uses his fingers to play along her ribs and sides, before increasing their rhythm up and around her arms toward her arm pits. The bartender's right fingers keep time with and through the next Mancini work as they travel among her ribs, sides, and arms, his teeth and tongue playing with the nylon-clad toes of her right foot still firmly clasped in his left hand. Her body shaking, she gasps for breath.
Following one deep intake, she manages a clear but low pleading “Enough!” as her body jerks once more and then seems to cave in completely.
The sadistic glint and grin are replaced by the expression and smile of a victorious conqueror as the bartender stops all movement and relaxes his own muscles, returning his left foot to her lap.
“Yes,” he says smugly, “this is quite in line with my fantasy.”
“Well, that’s good,” she breathes.
He’s ensconced in self-satisfaction as both their breathing returns to normal. He closes his eyes.
He doesn’t see her lean forward and use her long arms and fingers to grasp the pen she’d dropped on the floor earlier. He’s unprepared for the sudden shift as she swings her left leg from beneath his right, reverses how their legs are wrapped, and plants her foot solidly between his crotch and the gliding rocker. Simultaneously she grips his left foot with her left hand, anchors her elbow beneath her breast, angles his foot upward, then uses her right hand to stroke the soles of his foot with the tip of the dried ballpoint pen.
“Good, because it’s my turn now,” she announces as she frees her right foot from his grasp while he jerks, gasps, and utters an “AHHHAAAA!” Now his eyes open wide.
She knows she doesn’t have much time, that he’s much stronger than she is and can free himself at will. But, she takes advantage of his surprise to continue stroking the sole of his foot with the pen tip while flicking her tongue between his toes.
After all, she thinks, surely this is part of his fantasy as well?
It had certainly become part of hers during the long weeks of her extensive online research into his particular predilections. A tickling forum she’d come across, and joined, was a gold mine of useful information and members ready to share. She’d spent a lot of time doing research, ultimately making shoes she felt sure would appeal to him, while being within her budget and fitting her foot perfectly. She’d exercised and dieted to ensure that her black-silk outfit would once again drape her body becomingly.
She drops the pen, looks into his eyes, and innocently asks, “Do you want to start round two by polishing my toe nails?”
Without waiting for an answer, she begins to suck his toes while stroking his foot with her fingernails, keeping time with Mancini’s “The Inspector Clouseau Theme.” How ideal she thinks as he squirms.
His soft laughter tells her that the bartender is enjoying himself. She doesn’t mind his certain belief that events from the moment she entered the pub have been all his idea or lucky happenstance. In fact, she thinks, as she again catches his eyes with hers, smiles around his toes, her tongue flicking between them: it just proves how well executed her own plan was.
Authorial Notes: While writing Act II, I listened to “The Best of Chuck Mangione” (A&M Records, 1976) and “The Ultimate Pink Panther” (BMG Music, 2004) CDs. The website, book, and reason behind both for making women’s shoes is true. Although I haven’t actually yet attempted to make the shoes described, it's on my "to-do" list because I find them and the possibility of making them intriguing. If anyone else wants similar information go to http://www.marywalesloomis.com/.
Readers: I finally came up with a version of this act with which I’m satisfied. Hope you are too. For those who haven’t yet read, or need reminding of Act I, which was posted on this forum 3 August 2006, go to
http://www.ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?t=85871
The Foot-fetishist, Tickling Bartender and the Novice—
Act II: The Bartender’s Prey
Scene: Regularly dispersed street lamps illuminate the early morning darkness. Starlight occasionally breaks through the partial, but dense, cloud coverage. Few cars are on the road. One sits at a traffic light.
While waiting for a green signal, the bartender rolls the long sleeves of his light blue cotton dress shirt up to just beneath his elbows. He is excited and tired as he drives to her apartment. Getting the late-night crowd out of the pub at closing had been a challenge. He’d completed his tasks there as quickly as possible and arrived at his apartment at 2:45 a.m. for a quick shower and shave. He’d forgotten that he’d worn his last clean pair of jeans to work the now-previous night and had decided that it was better to be overdressed for the pending liaison than to show up in dirty clothes or well-worn sweats. He'd donned the button-down and khaki, front-pleated casual pants and walked out the door without adding his hallmark Astros’ baseball cap.
The light changes and he accelerates through it as he presses the send button on his cell phone.
“Hello,” she answers on the second ring.
“I’m on my way. Should be there in about 5 minutes,” the bartender says, hoping she doesn’t tell him not to bother.
“Okay. See you then,” she states and hangs up.
The bartender spends the rest of the short drive considering the tickling scenario he’s fantasized about. He knows it may not be possible to delve into it completely today. He needs to tread slowly and carefully to ensure her complete trust; otherwise, she’ll balk. This need for a slow approach is why he opted to leave his portable bondage gear at home.
Oh well, he thinks and sighs, Maybe next time, and he realizes that he hopes this goes well so there will be a next time, when the fantasy can go a little further...
He pulls into the parking lot of her apartment complex and parks in an open space. Shutting off the engine, he leans over, opens the glove compartment, and extracts a dry ballpoint pen. He slides it into his shirt pocket as he gets out of the car and shuts the door. Her apartment isn’t too distant from the lot. He walks up the sidewalk and veers to the right when it forks. As he passes her patio, he sees light shining through the slats between the blinds covering the sliding-glass door. A few feet later, he turns left to walk the remaining distance to the front door on which his knuckles produce a quick one-two-one rap. Within seconds he hears the clicking of two locks and sees the knob turn.
“Welcome to my chamber,” she says in a tone a pitch or so lower than usual as her eyes slowly raise up to his.
He looks at her with some surprise and she laughs.
“Just kidding,” she says in her normal pitch with a simultaneous laugh and blink of both eyes, her head tilting to the right. “Come on in,” and she stands to one side as she opens the door for him to pass through.
“So, you did remember how to get here,” she teases.
“Told you I did,” he quips, noting that she looks as though she’d just left the pub, those wonderful shoes increasing her height so that her eyes are nearly level with his own.
“Yeah, well, the stereotype about men and directions exists for a reason,” she laughs as she closes and relocks the door.
“Do you want anything to drink? Water, Coke, Dr. Pepper, coffee, scotch? That’s about all I have. Oh, and apple juice. I think I have some Merlot too.” She asks making her way to the kitchen.
Appraising the possibilities of the crop top and wrap skirt, nylon-clad legs, and feet swimming atop those shoes, he replies, “Just some water right now.”
“You changed clothes. You look nice,” she comments as she heads toward the kitchen.
“Thanks, so do you,” he returns, “I don’t know that I told you earlier.”
“No, you didn’t,” she says, taking two glasses from a cabinet and putting them on the counter. She opens the freezer to remove ice, puts it into the glasses, then opens the refrigerator and takes out bottled water. She opens the bottle and begins to fill the glasses.
“That’s okay, though,” she tells him. “Your eyes indicated a positive opinion.”
“Did they?” he asks with a smile.
“Yes, especially concerning the shoes,” she states, walking into the living area with a glass of ice water in each hand.
“I’ve never seen shoes quite like them,” he says glancing down. “Where did you get them?”
“I made them,” she states simply.
“You made...” he gets out before she seems to trip while proffering him one of the ice waters. Water sloshes up and out of the glass toward him as her body falls forward. His torso automatically pulls back, avoiding most of the water, as his hands reach out over each of hers to steady her and stop the descent of both glasses.
“Thanks,” she gasps. “Oh no! I’ve gotten you all wet! I am SO sorry!”
Relying on his steadying hands, she kicks the shoes off, her height returning to normal, the top of her head now level with his Adam’s apple. His hands reach under hers to take the glasses. He puts the glasses on the desk behind him while she uses her now free hands to steady herself, mumbling that she’s not used to walking around in stilts.
“Are they dry clean only,” he hears as she rushes from the room.
“What?” he asks.
“Your shirt and slacks, are they dry clean only?”
“No,” he says as she returns with a towel and begins to pat at his shirt.
His hands come up and wrap around hers. “It’s not that big a deal. I’m not that wet,” he says. “Most of the water hit the floor, not me.”
She looks embarrassed as she says, “Still, if they’re machine washable, I can throw the shirt or both into the washer and dryer and iron as necessary before you leave.”
“It’s only water,” he laughs, “The shirt’s a little damp. I’ll just take it off.”
As he speaks she’s soaking up the water on the carpet with the towel. He untucks and unbuttons the shirt and she picks up the nearly empty water glass and returns to the kitchen to refill it and throw the wet towel over the washer.
He considers the wonderful opportunity those fantastic "stilts" have provided. Without further ado, he quickly removes his own shoes, unfastens his belt, and begins to remove his slacks as well.
When she returns with the water, he’s standing in short-sleeved undershirt and boxer briefs contemplating where to lay his outer clothes. He turns toward her, clothes in hand. She stops within arm’s reach and extends the water glass toward him.
“Here, better take this now, just in case. Did your pants get wet after all?" she asks.
“Hmmm, a little,” he replies, grateful that the water had sort of dripped down the front of them.
Her arm still outstretched, she says, “Hand them to me and I’ll hang them up so they can dry.”
He hands her the shirt and slacks and eyes her nylon-clad feet as she walks out of the room. Waiting for her return, he sits in the gliding rocker and contemplates the potential of his surroundings in regard to his plans.
The room has changed quite a bit since the last time he was here. Most of its furniture is wood, functional, and against the various walls, leaving empty central space. The daybed-trundle that serves as both her couch and extra beds now sits beneath the bar that separates the kitchen from the den. Her desk, filing cabinet, and a short chest-of-drawers occupy its former place along the wall shared between den and bedroom. He glances at the daybed and observes that she’s replaced the multiple large pillows of coordinating colors that used to line its back with a single long cushion. He notes the white-painted metal rails on each end of the daybed. The only other seating in the room is a wooden chair with armrests. An ottoman sits in front of it.
“It’s a Danish Modern,” she tells him as she returns to the room and sees him looking at the chair. “Needs new cushions. I inherited it.”
She moves the ottoman in front of him and pulls and turns the Danish Modern so that it is nearer and facing him before she sits in it.
“We can share the ottoman,” she says propping her feet on it to one side. It has a gliding base too, like the rocker.”
The bartender relishes how well events are playing into his fantasy. Slow, gentle foot action, he thinks, is a great way to start things off. Yes, things are progressing perfectly.
He props his sock-clad feet next to hers and says, “You were saying you made those lovely shoes?”
“Oh. Yes,” she answers.
He moves his feet so that they are on either side of hers and then uses them to guide hers toward the center of the ottoman.
“I didn’t know you were a cobbler,” he says. He glides back and the ottoman glides forward, bringing her feet with it. He takes advantage of the motion to rub his feet against hers and her lower legs.
“I’m not,” she states.
“Then, how did you make them?” he inquires.
“I used the Internet,” she replies.
Thinking this conversation is like pulling teeth, the bartender gives her a chiding look and tells her, “Could you be more informative?”
His feet continue to play with hers, aided by the gliding motion. He becomes aware that their movement is in beat with music emanating from her CD player. Music he’d not consciously noticed before but now realizes has changed from what was playing when he arrived. He recognizes Chuck Mangione’s “Feels So Good” and thinks how appropriate that title is.
“I like the music,” he tells her, his legs pressing gently against hers as his feet continue to move. “You were explaining how you made the shoes?”
She takes a deep breath and begins, “I couldn’t find what I wanted in stores or online so I did an online search for custom shoe makers. Still didn’t find what I wanted, or what I could afford, so I did a search for ‘how to make shoes.’ That resulted in a site put up by a woman who, when she found herself in the same predicament, came up with an inexpensive way to make her own using equipment she already had and items that were readily available. She wrote a step-by-step book that includes diagrams and photos. I bought the book and followed the directions to make a shoe cast,” she relates. She takes a sip of water and continues,
“I bought the materials—heels and shoe cement, fabrics and things needed for the upper and lower parts of the shoes, and a few other things that were required—none very expensive—got out my sewing machine and set to work making the design I had in my head a reality.”
“Impressive,” he says. One of his feet continues to play with hers as the other slides up, parts the wrap of the skirt, and rubs along her inner leg, stroking it just a touch higher with each glide.
She stretches her back and eases herself lower in her chair, arms on either rest, eyes closed, head tilted back. The crop shirt rises up as she stretches and lifts and crosses her arms over her head. He glimpses inviting ribs and wonders what her reaction will be when he tickles them and then lets his fingers wander along the undersides of her arms up toward their pits. For now, though, he’ll continue with foot play. Her relaxed movements indicate interest. The feel of her pointed toes and arch as her right foot begins to move along and around the length of his left foot confirms his perception of her interest. Her left foot wiggles against his right leg. He wishes now that he’d removed his socks. He’d prefer to feel her skin through the nylons with his bare feet and toes.
He hates to break this moment, her left foot just might move a little higher...But, he really wants to get his socks off.
Her head jerks up as he abruptly pulls his feet away and reaches toward them to remove the socks. He looks up and finds her questioning gaze on him, her arms again on the rests of her chair.
Now what, he thinks, do I tell her my feet were hot or the truth?
He blurts out, “My socks are impeding my senses.”
Well, that sounded esoteric, he thinks, but she says nothing, merely smiles.
He’s about to return his feet to the ottoman when he realizes that this is a good time to get his hands on at least one of her feet, laying still on the ottoman, which glides toward him, now propelled by her.
He props his right leg on the outside of her left, returning his left leg between hers. He grasps her right shin, raises her leg toward his lap with his right hand, then cups her right foot in his left hand, leaving her left foot free to explore him as she chooses. With his free right hand he reaches to remove the pen in his pocket and finds only his undershirt. Somewhat confused, he looks down and remembers the water.
“Looking for this?” she asks in a soft, teasing voice.
He looks up and sees that she’s gently waving her right hand in the air, her fingers curled around the dried ballpoint pen.
“As a matter of fact,” he says, reaching out for it.
She pulls her arm back further, grasps his left foot, and says, “I think I’ll hold on to this. I’m curious as to what your reaction will be.”
The bartender thinks quickly. He knows exactly how the pen will feel against his sole and his reaction. He also realizes that he’s told her what he wanted to do with that pen, so she knows where to apply it to his foot. His mind kicks into high gear. He’s in front of the desk. He can just open the center drawer, surely there’s a pen or something...
He turns his torso, opens the drawer with his right hand--YES!--he thinks as he spies a click pen just inside. As long as he doesn’t click it, he won’t write on her foot, if indeed it still has ink. And, if he does, well, ink washes off. He reaches in, grabs the pen, and runs its tip along the sole of her right foot still cupped in his left hand.
Her reaction is immediate.
A sharp intake of breath is accompanied by an “Aaahhh!" as her entire body shudders because of the violent knee-jerk reaction of her right leg. Her toes involuntarily flex and point as her foot shakes.
A soft click indicates the CD player switching discs and Henry Mancini’s music from “The Pink Panther” begins to play. An evil glint enters the bartender’s eyes and he smiles.
She tries to wiggle her foot out of his hand but his grip firmly cups her heel and his fingers tighten against the back of her ankle. He pushes her wrap skirt out of the way as he crosses his right leg over her left, trapping it. He sees she’s wearing thigh-high stockings with wide-lace elastic bands. Her black tap pants have loose leg openings his left toes will enjoy exploring. He gives a low, wicked laugh as he strokes her right foot again with the tip of the pen.
“Theme from the Pink Panther” is barely into it’s opening while this occurs. Her body tense from it’s previous reaction shudders again. Another intake of breath and stifled "aaoohh” escapes as she exhales. Her eyes are wide with shock as he pulls at her nylons and kneads the fingers of his right hand between her toes while continuing to stroke the length of her sole gently with the pen. A quick, pressured stroke produces another violent shudder and the pen he’d brought falls from her hand and hits the floor. Both her hands now firmly grip the armrests of the Danish Modern. She moves her body to free herself to no avail. His left toes press against her lower abdomen, moving with the music and motion of the gliding rocker and ottoman.
For a minute or so she manages to make no sound, but then his right hand leaves her toes and moves up to surround and rapidly squeeze her right knee. An involuntary, high-pitched “uuuhhhnnn!!! coming through clinched teeth escapes her now parted lips as his fingers knead their way back along her leg toward her toes. His left toes wander along the top of her left thigh and back to her lower abdomen, his hands continue to stroke and knead her right foot and lower leg.
“I-i-issss thhhiiisss yoooouuuurr ffffaaaaan...” she manages before another quick stroke of the pen tip along her arch causes her upper body and head to arc backward, her crop top rising up. He slides his left foot up beneath her top as her head falls forward and he hears her somewhat resigned “ooohhhh!!!" followed by legitimate tinkling giggles as he continues to play with her right leg and foot.
The top of his left foot presses itself and the center of her bra into her chest bone. He angles his foot sideways and moves his toes between the lace of her bra and her breast. At least two, maybe as many as three of Mancini’s works have sounded through the room, but the bartender is not yet ready to stop his fun. This first round needs a big finale to render her completely at his mercy.
With the pen still in his right hand, he reaches up and runs it along her ribs while pulling the nylons back from her toes with his teeth before nibbling them. Her giggles become interspersed with shuddered “eehhhuuuhhhsss” and breathed in “aaahhhsss.” Next round he thinks, the nylons come off. It will be fun removing them...
He drops the pen and uses his fingers to play along her ribs and sides, before increasing their rhythm up and around her arms toward her arm pits. The bartender's right fingers keep time with and through the next Mancini work as they travel among her ribs, sides, and arms, his teeth and tongue playing with the nylon-clad toes of her right foot still firmly clasped in his left hand. Her body shaking, she gasps for breath.
Following one deep intake, she manages a clear but low pleading “Enough!” as her body jerks once more and then seems to cave in completely.
The sadistic glint and grin are replaced by the expression and smile of a victorious conqueror as the bartender stops all movement and relaxes his own muscles, returning his left foot to her lap.
“Yes,” he says smugly, “this is quite in line with my fantasy.”
“Well, that’s good,” she breathes.
He’s ensconced in self-satisfaction as both their breathing returns to normal. He closes his eyes.
He doesn’t see her lean forward and use her long arms and fingers to grasp the pen she’d dropped on the floor earlier. He’s unprepared for the sudden shift as she swings her left leg from beneath his right, reverses how their legs are wrapped, and plants her foot solidly between his crotch and the gliding rocker. Simultaneously she grips his left foot with her left hand, anchors her elbow beneath her breast, angles his foot upward, then uses her right hand to stroke the soles of his foot with the tip of the dried ballpoint pen.
“Good, because it’s my turn now,” she announces as she frees her right foot from his grasp while he jerks, gasps, and utters an “AHHHAAAA!” Now his eyes open wide.
She knows she doesn’t have much time, that he’s much stronger than she is and can free himself at will. But, she takes advantage of his surprise to continue stroking the sole of his foot with the pen tip while flicking her tongue between his toes.
After all, she thinks, surely this is part of his fantasy as well?
It had certainly become part of hers during the long weeks of her extensive online research into his particular predilections. A tickling forum she’d come across, and joined, was a gold mine of useful information and members ready to share. She’d spent a lot of time doing research, ultimately making shoes she felt sure would appeal to him, while being within her budget and fitting her foot perfectly. She’d exercised and dieted to ensure that her black-silk outfit would once again drape her body becomingly.
She drops the pen, looks into his eyes, and innocently asks, “Do you want to start round two by polishing my toe nails?”
Without waiting for an answer, she begins to suck his toes while stroking his foot with her fingernails, keeping time with Mancini’s “The Inspector Clouseau Theme.” How ideal she thinks as he squirms.
His soft laughter tells her that the bartender is enjoying himself. She doesn’t mind his certain belief that events from the moment she entered the pub have been all his idea or lucky happenstance. In fact, she thinks, as she again catches his eyes with hers, smiles around his toes, her tongue flicking between them: it just proves how well executed her own plan was.
Authorial Notes: While writing Act II, I listened to “The Best of Chuck Mangione” (A&M Records, 1976) and “The Ultimate Pink Panther” (BMG Music, 2004) CDs. The website, book, and reason behind both for making women’s shoes is true. Although I haven’t actually yet attempted to make the shoes described, it's on my "to-do" list because I find them and the possibility of making them intriguing. If anyone else wants similar information go to http://www.marywalesloomis.com/.
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Definitely deserves a bump!
