My Willing Mother-in-Law
I hope this is the appropriate thread for this contribution, since it is not strictly about a Mom or an Aunt. It is a true story. Everything happened exactly as I have described it.
Her feet weren’t as sexy as her daughter’s and she might not be as ticklish, but that was just the problem. My (then) future wife, Em, was so ticklish that she became angry whenever I grabbed her feet. Arguments rather than lovemaking always followed. I had long-range plans to change that but, for the moment, with Em going barefoot all the time and me in a constant state of excitement, I needed a stop-gap ticklee. And with Gloria – the woman who became my mother-in-law – it might be different.
My future father-in-law was an idiot, and for Gloria, her marriage was rather passionless. I certainly wasn’t setting out to seduce her, but the tickling side of my sexuality needed a release. The two questions were, "Was she ticklish?" and "Would she go along without telling everyone?"
Gloria not telling was important to me. I wasn’t out of the closet with my foot tickling preference (fifty years later, I’m still not), and I didn’t want a reputation as the local pervert. At that time (the 60’s), I thought I was alone in my tastes. It never occurred to me that there might be other guys out there who felt the same as I did. Also, I had managed to tickle assorted aunts and even some friends’ mothers. Since Em and I lived in the same area, I was worried that the secret might get out. So, I had to go carefully.
Gloria rarely went barefoot but, after working all day, she always slipped out of her shoes and stockings and into slippers or sandals. These offered tantalizing glimpses of her feet and would be no problem to take off. In fact, they often slipped off on their own accord. I had the means in my fingers and I sure as hell had the motive in my mind. All I needed was the opportunity.
It came one night when Em was in her bedroom on the phone to one of her friends. I was in the kitchen table alcove and Gloria was sitting across from me. As we talked, I played absentmindedly with a pencil, which I then let fall to the floor. “I’ll get it,” I said quickly as I dived under the table. I pushed the pencil towards her feet in case she looked underneath. Her feet were tucked under her chair, the toes of her left foot on the floor. Her narrow-strapped sandals, half-off, hid nothing. This was the closest I had ever been to her feet. They were high arched, wide, with short, nicely shaped toes – just my taste.
“Do you see it?” she asked.
“Got it,” I replied. Then I picked up the pencil and, reaching out, ran the tip down her bare right arch. She yelped once and pulled her foot back. I got back into my chair, and she grinned across at me, saying nothing. And when Em came back to the kitchen, Gloria said nothing to her, either. So, it seemed she was ticklish. That was good news. And she didn’t get angry or tell anyone. That was even better. Step One accomplished.
But the next few steps brought confusion rather than insight. I tickled her twice, both briefly, both when she was in stockings. The first time, she didn’t react at all. The second time, she yelped again. “What is going on?” I thought to myself. “Was she ticklish or not?” I was determined to find out.
I was in my second year of university at the time and had some mornings off. My girlfriend was in her last year of High School and had no free time at all. I found out that Tuesday was Gloria’s day off from the restaurant and so I turned up one morning, asking to look at some encyclopedias. No one in Gloria’s family had much education and she didn’t realize that university students don’t consult mundane sources, so it seemed a reasonable request to her.
Fresh from a shower, she was still in a bright pink housecoat and – My God – she was barefoot! “I’m not leaving this place,” I promised myself, “until I give this woman a real hard tickling.” I pulled the books from the shelf and spread them around me on the floor. Instead of sitting, as I had hoped, she stood right next to me. But she stood on her left leg and crossed her right foot over balanced on her toes. Her bare right sole was only inches from my hand. I pretended to turn the pages while I gazed at her delicious sole, imagining my fingers tickling the soft skin. Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore.
Without looking up, I reached over and lightly ran one finger from her toes down into her arch and back again. She didn’t move. I stroked her again. She still didn’t move, and she said nothing. I looked up and her large brown eyes were sparkling at me. She grinned and winked.
“I’m not ticklish,” she said. She kept her foot in place and I kept tickling her gently.
“You’re not?”
“Nope.” Then she walked across the hall to her bedroom, sat down on the corner of the bed and stretched out her feet in front of her, her ankles crossed, one heel resting on the floor, both soles facing me. “You can tickle my feet all day and it wouldn’t bother me.” Only later would I realize that this was an invitation to do just that. Only even later would she admit that she stood next to me that way, hoping I would tickle her feet. But I had never met a woman who wanted to be tickled – and, in addition, I was very nervous. I didn’t want to wreck my relationship with Em or her mother. So, I missed the hints and left, frustrated. Again, Gloria said nothing to her daughter.
Later in the month, I went over once more. Housedress this time and light canvas slip-on shoes. She sat nearby while I was working, her legs crossed, her right shoe dangling on the tips of her toes. I still couldn’t bring myself to believe she was doing it deliberately. During the hour I was there, I tickled her briefly, in a teasing way, three times, each time getting a cheerful squeal and the mock-indignant words, “I’m not ticklish! I told you.” But she didn’t seem to mind it and – again – said nothing to her daughter.
Two weeks after that, it happened: the incident that changed our entire relationship. I went over to borrow one of her husband’s many tape recorders. He was like a child with his toys and would have flipped if he knew that I was using one of them. Gloria shrugged and said, “We’ll just keep it between us.” She was wearing a housedress again and the ugliest, heaviest slippers that I had ever seen, completely hiding her feet. I was in sandals that I kicked off when I came in.
I followed her upstairs to the crowded room where her husband kept his junk. She stood at the door, waved in the general direction of the recorders, and said, “Help yourself. I’ve got dishes to do.” I went in and knelt beside the scattered machines. “She seems distracted,” I thought, “and not in the best of moods. No action today.” But I was aware that she hadn’t gone downstairs. She stood watching me from the doorway. What I didn’t know then was that she was making up her mind. Suddenly, she was behind me and this time it was her hands on my feet!
“Tickle, tickle, tickle!” she laughed. Though I’m not ticklish, I jumped in surprise. Then she added, “It serves you right!” As she said this, she stepped slowly passed me, carefully picking her way through the mess of recorders. Again, only later did I realize that she was giving me an opportunity to grab her feet. But I missed my chance.
“It doesn’t serve me right,” I protested. “Why does it serve me right?”
There was a leather armchair and large footstool in front of me. She settled into the chair and slowly put both of her feet on the stool, inches from my hands. “Well, you tickle my feet and I’m not ticklish.”
I looked at her for a moment, stunned. She looked back with a teasing smile. “My God!” I realized with a shock, “She wants it! She’s asking to be tickled!” I deliberately pushed one of the recorders out of the way. She grinned, knowing what was coming. Returning her smile, I said, “You’re not?”
“Nope.” Her dark eyes sparkled with mischief. This mature woman was flirting like a teenager!
I lunged.
She squealed as my left arm wrapped tightly around her ankles and my right hand swept off her slippers. I began tickling her bare feet hard, my fingers digging into her soft soles. She laughed, saying over and over, “I’m not… I’m not… I’m not!”. But she wasn’t struggling. Her laughter then subsided to elated little squeaks and occasional – surprising - moans of pleasure. I took a risk and released her ankles. To my relief, she didn’t pull away but kept her feet on the stool. Now I able to use both hands and, realizing she wasn’t fighting me, my tickling slowed to light, lingering caresses. She arched her feet and spread her toes as my fingers ran between them. Her squeaks of protest diminished but the long, drawn-out sighs of enjoyment increased.
If this was fiction, I would now start sucking her toes and she would have loved it. Since this is a true story, I didn’t have the nerve – I had never kissed a woman’s feet before, anyway - and she would have been shocked at such intimacy. It would have blown everything. Besides, I was having enough fun.
I am both a foot-lover and a tickler. But, up to this moment, all my tickling had been hard struggles - grasping a girl’s bucking ankle, scrambling my fingers over a writhing sole, laughing protests filling my ears. I had never done slow, sensuous tickling before, with a woman whose only noises were encouraging sounds of delight. The electric feeling between my fingertips and her soft skin was incredible. My hungry eyes roamed over her soles, probing the curves and wrinkles just as my fingers were doing.
I doubt she had ever heard about foot fetishes: She was very religious, quite inhibited, trapped in what seemed a loveless marriage, and this was the mid 1960’s. It probably never occurred to her then that the tickling was sexual - but she must have known I was enjoying myself.
Both my hands were now focused on her right foot, my left playing with her toes, my right lightly tickling her arch. I looked up at her. She smiled. “It feels good….but I’m not ticklish.”
“But it feels good?” I asked encouragingly.
Like an offering, she raised her left foot and spread her toes invitingly. “Sure….Try the other one.”
It was the beginning of a fifteen-year foot-tickling “affair”. And she never told anyone.
I have ordered this book and it is estimated to arrive on Wednesday.
