There's a sort of epilogue or continuation of this, but with a different heroine. That will be next time.
Meanwhile, I hope this one pleases.
I suppose it’s the situation rather than the actual tickling- in this particular case a walk in the park that led to a perfect seduction during which absolutely nothing went wrong; so much so that every episode of that lovely late afternoon and evening and the following morning dovetailed together like a credibility-straining feelgood film- at any rate until the epilogue.
London, 80s, midsummer. Having finished playing minor parts in two sequential West End shows and having returned to my usual poverty-stricken unemployed obscurity I was taking the air on a warm summer Saturday afternoon by the Serpentine in Hyde Park, which was across the road from my lodgings at the time. And there I was accosted by a large friendly fawn-coloured dog, who’d apparently slipped his lead and was beatifically gamboling about, loving on everyone. I prefer cats, but was happy enough with his enthusiastic presence, scratching his ears and laughing when he smiled doggily, rose on his hind legs, put his forepaws on my shoulders and gave me an enthusiastic and very wet kiss.
At that point a slim, pretty blonde with a very red mouth, and American by her accent dashed up apologetically and began disentangling the dog from me. He then jumped on her and began the same routine, while she giggled and told him to behave. We exchanged names (let’s call her ‘Jane’) and continued chatting while she calmed ‘Fido’ down. The conversation was beginning to flag when a small kid passing by on a bicycle lost control of it and both caromed into the Serpentine.
I trotted gallantly over to the bank, as befitted the ‘resting’ veray parfit gentil knight that I was, and without jumping in got him and his bicycle back onshore. Being posh English he thanked me politely, and after the dog had slobbered over him enthusiastically as well he went on his way. Jane found this all rather charming, and relaxed quite a bit, the conversation flowing far more easily thereafter. As we strolled about the three of us happened to amble into the Italian Garden, a formally laid out section of the park. And then, unexpectedly, we encountered an older man I knew, sitting on a bench among the roses with a very beautiful woman, and he hailed me by name with a friendly wave.
This was the producer of the recent West End (London’s Broadway) show I’d been in. I introduced Jane, he smiled at her, and said, indicating the lovely actress holding his arm, ‘And I’m sure you know [name redacted because I hate namedroppers]. I certainly DID know of her and the four of us chatted for a bit before the two of them rose to leave. He shook my hand goodbye, then clasped it in both of his, saying, ‘Call my office Monday. I have an important project I’d like to chat to you about.’
I was delighted. Jane was further impressed. I suggested she and I celebrate the good news over dinner, named a nice little nearby Greek restaurant I knew would be impecunious-friendly, and she happily took her dog home to change before meeting me there.
She was on time too, wearing a long white Grecian tunic and sandals, her hair brushed out and fresh black nail polish on finger and toenails. Roast lamb, stuffed grape leaves and a glass or two of retsina rendered her content and giggly, and while purposely eating the dessert figs in a most provocative manner she surreptitiously removed a sandal, caressing my calf with her toes and high arch. ‘Be nice or I shall tickle you’, I said with mock sternness, stroking her offered foot beneath the tablecloth and she tilted her head to one side, opened her eyes very wide, batted her eyelashes theatrically, smiled and licked her lips in an anticipatory fashion. Then she let her toes wander up my inner thigh, gently caressed my extremely interested lap with them, and invited me home.
She lived alone in a nearby basement apartment with a separate entrance. Dog locked in the kitchen with a huge bowl of food, a stack of records placed on the changer, (no CDs or streaming in those long-vanish’d, primitive days, children…) wine poured and her sandals discarded we fell upon one another.
She was deliciously ticklish, and while she certainly wasn’t drunk, the wine had removed any self-consciousness or inhibition.
We began a little game in which we sat at opposite ends of the sofa and she placed her ankles across my closest thigh, then tried not to move her feet while I used fingertips and fingernails to tickle her while she writhed and giggled. ‘Just go for it’, she challenged, but I forbore until she’d said the magic words we eventually agreed upon during a long and amusing conversation punctuated by caresses, kisses, tickles and nibbles, assisted by a few more sips of wine and my professional coaching on how the speech was to be delivered for the most dramatic effect.
Her assigned incantation/audition, which we solemnly rehearsed (while trying to keep straight faces) involved Jane kneeling before me, gently holding both my hands in hers while gazing into my eyes accompanied by a breathy, throaty delivery of ‘Oh, my lord and master- pleeeassse tickle-torture the soles of my feet until I can’t bear it, and please don’t stop…’ (pause, glance downward in maidenly embarrassment, and then, wide-eyed…) ‘no matter how hard I plead and beg you for mercy.’
Her final performance, given the admittedly ghastly material, was excellent. Maybe she wasn’t up to Royal Shakespeare Company standards, but on balance she certainly was a charming little actress…
Anyway, although her request was a nasty job, someone had to do it.
Tears of laughter soon streaked her cheeks and she shrieked ‘Oh, God, you’re driving me crazy!’’ between peals of tormented hilarity, much to my delight. I didn’t tie her, but we had a lovely ticklewrestling match on her bed as I slowly explored her weakest spots, among which, I was delighted to discover, were her large breasts and hard pink nipples. Our clothing gradually disappeared as we undressed one another and to put it crudely, fucked until sunrise. I recall one bout finishing when I held her arms above her head against the pillows while pounding down the home stretch and licking the smooth hollows of her armpits as she howled and convulsed, laughing harder and harder until her final orgasmic scream.
Another was equally noisy because I was impaling her while kneeling and holding her legs straight up, one arm locking her upper thighs against my lower abdomen with the opposite elbow securing her ankles together as I spidered my fingertips all over her tender, apparently just pedicured soles, which caused her to writhe and shriek, repeatedly forcing me even deeper inside her with every stroke.
I was much younger then, it was London, and AIDS and herpes and neo-puritanism hadn’t yet ruined spontaneously casual sex. I know she climaxed several times to my three, and eventually we fell asleep in one another’s arms as the dawn blushed.
But we didn’t live happily ever after. I awoke in the late forenoon to her holding Fido and crying, and she told me outright that she had a boyfriend with whom she’d quarreled two day previously, and that I was an unknowing and innocent symptom of her revenge. She’d decided to try and repair things with him, she said, but was decent enough to offer me tea, toast, marmalade and a long tearful kiss goodbye (Fido also gave me a slurp) before I took my leave. I consoled myself on the way home that it certainly had been a splendidly unexpected adventure, and better yet, that the West End producer was expecting my call on Monday. At long last my career, like Lazarus himself, would rise from the dead.
So as not to appear too eager, I waited until 11:30ish on the Monday morning, then rang as requested. I knew his secretary from the show’s opening night party; she greeted me warmly and immediately put me through.
The producer also greeted me warmly, said what a nice surprise it had been seeing me, and asked if I’d had a pleasant time of it with ‘Jane’, whose appearance he praised, congratulating me for having such a charming companion. I thanked him, saying the afternoon and evening had indeed been most pleasant. Chuckling, he told me how the entertainment industry was a business that attracted many beautiful women, and while he decried the casting couch as unethical, said that many pleasant dalliances could result from being a member of such a socially driven profession. I could not but agree and that heartily, memories of the three other women I’d slept with during the six-week run of the show in which he’d cast me still a relatively recent recollection- one of those will be the subject of my next tale!
I could feel the warmth and good humour of the man over the phone. And then he said, ‘I have to tell you that I may have misled you, but it was for a good reason. You see, I’m over seventy now and have some experience of women. I liked ‘Jane’, but her body language told me that your relationship was very new, and that she’d not slept with you yet. It was a lovely afternoon, I knew what [famous beautiful middle-aged actress] and I would be doing that night, and wanted you to be doing the same thing. Some women love successful men, so I gave things a nudge in the right direction in the only way I could. From the way ‘Jane’ took your arm when I asked you to ring me, I suspect all went well?’
And what could I do but laugh, agree and thank him?
-------------------------------------------------
Though we never spoke again, I learned he’d passed a few months after our conversation, and reading his obituary in the ‘Times’ also found out that during the final days of WW2 it was his regiment, in which he’d been a captain, that had liberated Belsen concentration camp.
He’d never forgotten it, and the obit said his recollections and nightmares of the horrors he saw there drove him to work as hard as he could and enjoy each day to the fullest in honour and memory of those whom he’d helped free but still saw die of starvation and disease in front of him, so many of them being too far gone for any earthly remedy.
Meanwhile, I hope this one pleases.
I suppose it’s the situation rather than the actual tickling- in this particular case a walk in the park that led to a perfect seduction during which absolutely nothing went wrong; so much so that every episode of that lovely late afternoon and evening and the following morning dovetailed together like a credibility-straining feelgood film- at any rate until the epilogue.
London, 80s, midsummer. Having finished playing minor parts in two sequential West End shows and having returned to my usual poverty-stricken unemployed obscurity I was taking the air on a warm summer Saturday afternoon by the Serpentine in Hyde Park, which was across the road from my lodgings at the time. And there I was accosted by a large friendly fawn-coloured dog, who’d apparently slipped his lead and was beatifically gamboling about, loving on everyone. I prefer cats, but was happy enough with his enthusiastic presence, scratching his ears and laughing when he smiled doggily, rose on his hind legs, put his forepaws on my shoulders and gave me an enthusiastic and very wet kiss.
At that point a slim, pretty blonde with a very red mouth, and American by her accent dashed up apologetically and began disentangling the dog from me. He then jumped on her and began the same routine, while she giggled and told him to behave. We exchanged names (let’s call her ‘Jane’) and continued chatting while she calmed ‘Fido’ down. The conversation was beginning to flag when a small kid passing by on a bicycle lost control of it and both caromed into the Serpentine.
I trotted gallantly over to the bank, as befitted the ‘resting’ veray parfit gentil knight that I was, and without jumping in got him and his bicycle back onshore. Being posh English he thanked me politely, and after the dog had slobbered over him enthusiastically as well he went on his way. Jane found this all rather charming, and relaxed quite a bit, the conversation flowing far more easily thereafter. As we strolled about the three of us happened to amble into the Italian Garden, a formally laid out section of the park. And then, unexpectedly, we encountered an older man I knew, sitting on a bench among the roses with a very beautiful woman, and he hailed me by name with a friendly wave.
This was the producer of the recent West End (London’s Broadway) show I’d been in. I introduced Jane, he smiled at her, and said, indicating the lovely actress holding his arm, ‘And I’m sure you know [name redacted because I hate namedroppers]. I certainly DID know of her and the four of us chatted for a bit before the two of them rose to leave. He shook my hand goodbye, then clasped it in both of his, saying, ‘Call my office Monday. I have an important project I’d like to chat to you about.’
I was delighted. Jane was further impressed. I suggested she and I celebrate the good news over dinner, named a nice little nearby Greek restaurant I knew would be impecunious-friendly, and she happily took her dog home to change before meeting me there.
She was on time too, wearing a long white Grecian tunic and sandals, her hair brushed out and fresh black nail polish on finger and toenails. Roast lamb, stuffed grape leaves and a glass or two of retsina rendered her content and giggly, and while purposely eating the dessert figs in a most provocative manner she surreptitiously removed a sandal, caressing my calf with her toes and high arch. ‘Be nice or I shall tickle you’, I said with mock sternness, stroking her offered foot beneath the tablecloth and she tilted her head to one side, opened her eyes very wide, batted her eyelashes theatrically, smiled and licked her lips in an anticipatory fashion. Then she let her toes wander up my inner thigh, gently caressed my extremely interested lap with them, and invited me home.
She lived alone in a nearby basement apartment with a separate entrance. Dog locked in the kitchen with a huge bowl of food, a stack of records placed on the changer, (no CDs or streaming in those long-vanish’d, primitive days, children…) wine poured and her sandals discarded we fell upon one another.
She was deliciously ticklish, and while she certainly wasn’t drunk, the wine had removed any self-consciousness or inhibition.
We began a little game in which we sat at opposite ends of the sofa and she placed her ankles across my closest thigh, then tried not to move her feet while I used fingertips and fingernails to tickle her while she writhed and giggled. ‘Just go for it’, she challenged, but I forbore until she’d said the magic words we eventually agreed upon during a long and amusing conversation punctuated by caresses, kisses, tickles and nibbles, assisted by a few more sips of wine and my professional coaching on how the speech was to be delivered for the most dramatic effect.
Her assigned incantation/audition, which we solemnly rehearsed (while trying to keep straight faces) involved Jane kneeling before me, gently holding both my hands in hers while gazing into my eyes accompanied by a breathy, throaty delivery of ‘Oh, my lord and master- pleeeassse tickle-torture the soles of my feet until I can’t bear it, and please don’t stop…’ (pause, glance downward in maidenly embarrassment, and then, wide-eyed…) ‘no matter how hard I plead and beg you for mercy.’
Her final performance, given the admittedly ghastly material, was excellent. Maybe she wasn’t up to Royal Shakespeare Company standards, but on balance she certainly was a charming little actress…
Anyway, although her request was a nasty job, someone had to do it.
Tears of laughter soon streaked her cheeks and she shrieked ‘Oh, God, you’re driving me crazy!’’ between peals of tormented hilarity, much to my delight. I didn’t tie her, but we had a lovely ticklewrestling match on her bed as I slowly explored her weakest spots, among which, I was delighted to discover, were her large breasts and hard pink nipples. Our clothing gradually disappeared as we undressed one another and to put it crudely, fucked until sunrise. I recall one bout finishing when I held her arms above her head against the pillows while pounding down the home stretch and licking the smooth hollows of her armpits as she howled and convulsed, laughing harder and harder until her final orgasmic scream.
Another was equally noisy because I was impaling her while kneeling and holding her legs straight up, one arm locking her upper thighs against my lower abdomen with the opposite elbow securing her ankles together as I spidered my fingertips all over her tender, apparently just pedicured soles, which caused her to writhe and shriek, repeatedly forcing me even deeper inside her with every stroke.
I was much younger then, it was London, and AIDS and herpes and neo-puritanism hadn’t yet ruined spontaneously casual sex. I know she climaxed several times to my three, and eventually we fell asleep in one another’s arms as the dawn blushed.
But we didn’t live happily ever after. I awoke in the late forenoon to her holding Fido and crying, and she told me outright that she had a boyfriend with whom she’d quarreled two day previously, and that I was an unknowing and innocent symptom of her revenge. She’d decided to try and repair things with him, she said, but was decent enough to offer me tea, toast, marmalade and a long tearful kiss goodbye (Fido also gave me a slurp) before I took my leave. I consoled myself on the way home that it certainly had been a splendidly unexpected adventure, and better yet, that the West End producer was expecting my call on Monday. At long last my career, like Lazarus himself, would rise from the dead.
So as not to appear too eager, I waited until 11:30ish on the Monday morning, then rang as requested. I knew his secretary from the show’s opening night party; she greeted me warmly and immediately put me through.
The producer also greeted me warmly, said what a nice surprise it had been seeing me, and asked if I’d had a pleasant time of it with ‘Jane’, whose appearance he praised, congratulating me for having such a charming companion. I thanked him, saying the afternoon and evening had indeed been most pleasant. Chuckling, he told me how the entertainment industry was a business that attracted many beautiful women, and while he decried the casting couch as unethical, said that many pleasant dalliances could result from being a member of such a socially driven profession. I could not but agree and that heartily, memories of the three other women I’d slept with during the six-week run of the show in which he’d cast me still a relatively recent recollection- one of those will be the subject of my next tale!
I could feel the warmth and good humour of the man over the phone. And then he said, ‘I have to tell you that I may have misled you, but it was for a good reason. You see, I’m over seventy now and have some experience of women. I liked ‘Jane’, but her body language told me that your relationship was very new, and that she’d not slept with you yet. It was a lovely afternoon, I knew what [famous beautiful middle-aged actress] and I would be doing that night, and wanted you to be doing the same thing. Some women love successful men, so I gave things a nudge in the right direction in the only way I could. From the way ‘Jane’ took your arm when I asked you to ring me, I suspect all went well?’
And what could I do but laugh, agree and thank him?
-------------------------------------------------
Though we never spoke again, I learned he’d passed a few months after our conversation, and reading his obituary in the ‘Times’ also found out that during the final days of WW2 it was his regiment, in which he’d been a captain, that had liberated Belsen concentration camp.
He’d never forgotten it, and the obit said his recollections and nightmares of the horrors he saw there drove him to work as hard as he could and enjoy each day to the fullest in honour and memory of those whom he’d helped free but still saw die of starvation and disease in front of him, so many of them being too far gone for any earthly remedy.
Last edited:
Thanks for sharing your wonderful experience here. 
