dumbledore
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Orchestrating an EPIC foot tickle - The Tickling Experiment #2
This is part II of a real life story. Join me as I uncover the ticklish spots of my new girlfriend - the most gorgeous girl I've ever dated. She's a girl next door type, and has no idea I'm into tickling.
Let me set the picture. We'll call her Amelia. She's twenty-something, was born in France, but grew up in England and has a well-spoken British accent. When she switches to French, all that sultry sexiness is there. She's 5' 5", slim, with long wavy blonde hair and intensely pretty blue eyes. She looks like Rachel McAdams, with a little Kristin Kreuk thrown in. You can read about the first time I tickled her here.
The long and short of it: after poking her in the ribs got a delightfully jumpy reaction, a playful exchange of texts ended with her admitting: OMG! I'm the most ticklish person in the world! Over the following weeks, I worked up the courage to get her with a full-on upper body tickle attack that proved her words to be unquestionably true.
The tickle count as it stands:
1. Surprise rib poke: she jumped back, and said "Oh my God!"
2. Surprise stomach poke: again she jumped about a foot in the air.
3. Tickle attack on her sides and back of leg: Screaming, thrashing, wriggling, instant laughter and a swift kick to the chest as she threw me off.
After three thrilling tickles, I'm buzzing. Before this I'd never tickled a girl in my life, and I've jumped right into the big leagues with this one. The adrenaline rush is HUGE.
So let's try tickling her a little more, shall we?
Okay, so Amelia and I have been dating three weeks now. I've tickled her once in this time. (The rib and stomach pokes were before it became official). I can't wait to tickle her again, but I don't want it to seem weird - I don't want her to realise it's a 'thing' for me. Patience is key.
At this point we're talking to each other every day, lost in the giddy excitement of it all. I'm at work and we're flirting over email. She's already admitted that she's the most ticklish person in the world, and after seeing how true that is, I'm determined to find out more.
We're shooting each other questions. Glancing around to make sure no one in the office is looking, I hold my breath, summon up a burst of confidence, and type:
Where are you most ticklish?
Waiting for the reply is agonising. Had I gone too far? Is she weirded out? I try and focus on my job, but I can't. I keep flicking back to see if she's replied.
And then it comes in:
Totally my sides. My dad used to pin me down and tickle me all the time, I hated it.
My heart skipped a beat reading that. I couldn't have asked for a better reply. But at the same time, I couldn't help but think... really? I mean, what about her feet? That's where people are usually the most ticklish, and the image of tickling her feet turned me on more than any other.
Maybe it was wishful thinking, but despite what she said, I resolved to believe her sides weren't her most ticklish spot. They were very ticklish - I knew this first hand. But I also saw her reaction when I squeezed the back of her leg. In my opinion, she was more ticklish there than on her sides.
I decided that she probably didn't know all of her ticklish spots... and I couldn't wait to find them. Already knowing she was wrong, I couldn't wait to put her theory to the test.
At this point I hadn't actually seen her feet. I'd had a few tantalizing glimpses - she liked to wear dresses, with black nylon tights and black ballet pumps. I stole glances at them whenever I could. She had slender ankles, and her shoe size was about a 6. I knew her feet would be gorgeous, and longed to see more of them. Especially now that I had decided they were my next target.
A few days later I met her at a cafe. It was lunchtime, and quiet, and there was a corner we liked to go to where we could sit by ourselves and talk.
After a while we got into an impromptu tickle fight. If you read my last story, you'll know I allowed her to believe my "biggest weakness" was very ticklish knees, even though they're not at all. She delighted in squeezing my knee, thinking it really got me, when in reality it didn't. So we were sitting there, and eventually she got this evil glint in her eye, and squeezed my knee.
I gave my fake reaction (it's such fantastic tickle bait), then prodded her in the side. Immediately she squeaked and sat back, then poked me in retaliation. I'm not really that ticklish, so I could happily put up with that all day. I poked her back, getting another delightful "Arrgh!" as she squirmed out of reach.
It was so easy to get her to react. The slightest finger jab sent an electric thrill through her.
The fight didn't last very long, but it was so thrilling, my heart was pounding. A few minutes later we were talking again, and she crossed her left leg over her right, so her leg was pressing right up against mine. And her foot . . . her foot was hanging between my legs.
As we talked, I kept stealing glances at it. I willed her to dangle her shoe, to give me a glimpse, even the slightest glimpse of the rest of her foot.
Then it happened. The shoe slipped down, her nylon clad heel popped out, and there, right in front of me, was the soft curve of her arch. I quickly turned back to her, hoping she hadn't caught me looking. We kept talking and drinking, but inwardly all I could think about was what it would feel like to run my finger along that foot.
Maybe it was the drink, or the thrill of the earlier tickle fight, but after a few minutes, I made up my mind: I would try it. She was talking about a display they were unveiling at the museum at the weekend, and as I listened, I inched my finger closer to her exposed arch.
The closer I got the more nervous I felt. But there was no going back now. I slipped my index finger into the gap, and quickly twitched it. Her tights were smooth and my finger easily slid across their surface. Time seemed to freeze for a second.
And then several things happened at once. Her eyes widened. Her breath caught. Her foot kicked inadvertently and her shoe fell off.
I quickly withdrew my hand, heart hammering. I grinned, trying to play it cool.
She scrambled for her shoe, and as she slipped it back on, she said, "Don't do that!"
Inwardly I was panicking. Had I gone too far? I felt like an idiot for going for it.
She leant back and brushed a strand of hair out of her face, and breathlessly said, "I can't take it."
The moment passed in a flash, and I realised after it happened that I could have seen her completely uncovered foot there and then, but I missed it. I didn't mind, though, because even just from that instant, I had proof that her feet were very ticklish.
Within seconds, we were chatting away again, and everything was completely fine. Later that night, feeling playful, I sent her a text:
So it seems like your feet are your most ticklish spot.
I can't handle my feet getting tickled, she wrote.
Instant thrill. Instant adrenaline.
It's possible she knew this all along, and was trying to hide it in the way people do when they feel it's a weakness. It's automatic, sometimes, to say no, if someone asks if you're ticklish. Maybe this was like that. I don't know. But I suspected more than ever that my gut reaction was right: her feet were more ticklish than her sides. Probably by a long way. I was desperate to find out just how ticklish they were, but part of me still felt foolish for trying like that, so I left it. I left it days, I left it weeks.
In those weeks, I saw more and more of her feet.
We had a drink one evening, and she was all dressed up because she'd been to a lunch party with her friends from work. She was dressed in a sleeveless green dress, with her black tights, and a pair of black high heels. Towards the end of the night, faced with the prospect of a walk to the train station, she said, "Sorry, I need to change my shoes. My feet are killing me."
The angle of the table made it hard to see, but I just managed a surreptitious glance as she took off her heels. I couldn't believe my eyes. As she fished in her bag for her ballet pumps, she crossed her legs, resting on the ball of her right foot. I knew I should look away, but I couldn't. Here were her feet, her gorgeous, nylon-clad feet, completely exposed for the first time. Her pale heel showed through at the back, and I thought I could just make out dark polish on her toes. Then the shoes were back on, and they were gone, hidden away again from the world.
A week later, the sun was out in force. An unnaturally hot day. A day too hot for tights.
I'd never seen her without them, and I wasn't prepared for just how hot she'd look. When I met her, she was in a floral pink dress that came halfway down her thighs, and was cut in a way that showed a nice amount of cleavage. It was completely respectable, but ever so slightly starting to push the barrier. And her feet - for the first time out of those tights - looked pale and invitingly soft in her trademark black ballet pumps.
We sat outside in the sun, on a quiet park bench, with birds flitting around and flowers all around us. But when she dangled her shoe, none of that mattered. I tried not to show it, but I was entranced by her creamy bare arch; now smooth when she flexed her toes, now ever so slightly wrinkled as the shoe flicked back.
Of course I didn't tickle her, not then, but I fantasized about it. How could I not? Picturing how she'd react if I were to just reach out and dance my nails over that foot. It drove me crazy.
It wouldn't be long before that dream turned into reality.
The following few days were warm too, and the nylons stayed off. Three days after that lunch in the park, she invited me back to her place after work for dinner and a movie. She was dressed in a sleeveless white top, blue jeans, and was barefoot in her black pumps. I was excited about everything the evening would entail of course - just spending time with her was amazing. But knowing that when we walked in that door, she would take off her shoes and I'd get to properly see her completely bare feet was thrilling.
We got to the door, she opened it and let us in, and I kicked off my shoes. This was it. This was the moment.
Except... it wasn't. She kept her shoes on as she cleaned the kitchen, kept her shoes on as she poured the wine, kept her shoes on as we sat on the sofa.
Then, finally, as I loaded up the DVD, I heard the thump-thump of shoes falling to the floor. When I turned around, she was laying across the sofa, her bare feet propped up on the arm rest. As soon as I saw them I turned away, because I didn't want her to catch me looking. I moved back to the sofa, and she lifted her legs so I could sit down, then she dropped them in my lap.
Her beautiful bare feet were sitting in my lap. I quickly folded my hands, desperately trying to cover up how hard I was getting. Thankfully she didn't notice - she was already engrossed in the film.
From time to time, when I dared, I glanced down at her feet. But I was never brave enough to look for too long. Then, halfway through the movie, she fell asleep.
I waited a moment, listening to her slow breathing, making sure she was actually asleep. Then I turned to her feet, and let my eyes drink them in. They were crossed, one over the other, so the arch of her left foot was closest to my face. Up close, I could see every little wrinkle. She had a freckle just below her arch, on the side of her heel. Her feet were perfectly proportioned, her toes slim, but not too thin. Her dark red polish was stark against her pale skin.
I leant as far as I could without waking her up, trying to get a look at her soles. They had a thin line of wrinkles down the middle. Every inch of them was soft and smooth, as if they'd never seen a hard day's walking or running in their life.
Again I fantasized about tickling them there and then. If I stroked them, ever so slightly, would she wake up? My heart was beating so hard and fast. I'd never seen such perfect feet, and here they were, so close. But I couldn't do it.
She woke up soon after that, and I had to go back to pretending to watch the movie. All the while in my mind, I was going through possible plans. I wanted to tickle her, but how?
As it happened, it was she herself that helped put the plan into action.
We were lying on the bed that evening, lounging around, reading, listening to music. I was on my back, flicking through a few websites. She was next to me but on her stomach. Then she rolled over onto her side, and squeezed my knee. Remembering it was supposed to be agony, I tried to pull away.
"No," she said, "you've got to see how long you can take it."
I let her do it for a few seconds, then scrambled away, as if I couldn't take anymore. She seemed delighted by the idea of having this "weapon" to use against me.
She rolled back onto her stomach, lifting her feet up into that classic pose position. This was it. Thanks again to that wonderful knee ruse, I had an opportunity here. If I tickled her, it wouldn't be an out of the blue move - it would simply be flirtatious retaliation.
I watched her feet, waiting for the right moment. She was 'air dangling' them, if you get what I mean - holding them aloft, soles to the ceiling, then letting them drop until her heels nearly hit her butt, then lifting them up again, slowly, tantalizingly.
I reached out and grabbed her ankle.
She turned to me, a slight frown on her face. There was a second where she didn't realise what was about to happen.
"Now it's your turn," I said. "You've got to see how long you can take it.
As realization dawned, her eyes widened. "No!" she said. "Not there. Feet are out of bounds. I can't handle it."
"I'll be really gentle," I said. "It won't tickle at all, look."
With my left hand, I brought her foot closer. With my right, slowly, slowly, I traced a figure of eight with my index finger on her sole. It was one thing seeing the soft skin, but quite another touching it. It was warm, and so smooth, so silky. I was as delicate as possible, using the lightest touch.
She grinned playfully - the light touch winning her over. She realized it wasn't torture, it was a game, a challenge. I changed direction with my finger, moving up and down her sole now, slowly, slightly, the merest gesture of a tickle. Her face scrunched up. Her eyes shut tight, her jaw set determinedly.
Her reaction was turning me on so much. I was barely doing anything, barely even touching her, and it was excruciating for her. After a few seconds she yanked her foot away, and said, "Okay, okay, stop!"
So I did.
But even though the light tickling was a huge turn on for me, what I really wanted was to see how she'd react to proper tickling. So I tried to entice her on. I tried to open up another opportunity.
"I won," I said.
Immediately her eyes narrowed. If there was one thing I learned quickly with Amelia, it was that she had a competitive streak.
"No," she said. "I clearly won."
I put on a mocking voice: "Okay, okay, stop!"
And that was it - she tried to tickle me back. She went for my sides, and when it didn't work as well as she hoped, she went for my underarms. It tickled a bit, but not enough to make me laugh. She wasn't getting the reaction she wanted, so she spun round and went for my knees - both at the same time. Pretending it was hell, I tried to get out from underneath her, but she moved again and pinned me down.
Now she started tickling my sides again, and I couldn't move. The more she tickled, the more I automatically squirmed at her touch.
"If you don't stop," I said, trying to wriggle out, "I'm going to have to really get you."
All that served to do was make her tickle me more. "Admit it," she said. "I've won."
In reality, she'd inadvertently opened up a window for me to escape. I rolled out of her grasp; she tried to whirl away but I grabbed her. She tried to pin me down again, but I pushed back. For a second, we were a tangle of limbs, and then I emerged on top. She had her back on the bed, laying across the width of it, and I was on top of her with a knee either side of her body.
Her eyes were still full of playful fight. She struggled to get up, but couldn't move. It was then that I turned to her feet.
"Uh oh," I said, gripping her ankle.
Her eyes widened as she realized what I was doing. She struggled again, flailing and thrashing beneath my grip, but with the weight of my body above her, she couldn't go anywhere.
Relishing the torture of her situation, I inched my fingers slowly closer to her exposed sole.
"No," she said, squirming beneath me, getting more and more desperate now. "NO! I'm serious!"
The closer my fingers got to her feet, the more wildly she twisted and thrashed.
"Please not my feet!" she squealed.
My fingers were closing in. I hardly dared to breathe. After all the daydreaming and imagining, after wishing I could tickle her feet, properly tickle them, it was about to happen.
In that heartbeat, Amelia made one last desperate bid for freedom.
"NO!" she yelled, panicking. She managed to roll over, and her left leg broke free.
She almost escaped, but I clamped down on her ankle and locked it in place. Now I had the exposed bare arch of her left foot facing up at me, and I didn't hesitate.
Keeping a firm grip on her ankle with my left hand, I moved in with my right and scribbled my fingers up and down her utterly helpless sole.
This wasn't a quick, daring tickle in a cafe. It wasn't over before my brain could register it. I tickled hard and fast, my face inches from her stunning foot, and I savoured every moment of her reaction.
The second my fingers made contact, her foot twitched twice - the instant, instinctive reaction as the tickling began, and another when it didn't stop. As my fingers moved, the twitch became a jerk, a desperate jerk as she tried to pull away.
But I wasn't letting go of her ankle. She had nowhere to go. All this happened within moments. She was still screaming NO! when the ticking began. My fingers raced and slithered, up and down and all over her sole, and behind me her terrified voice changed.
"NOOOO - AAAAHHHHHHH!" she wailed.
In those first few thrilling seconds, as her foot twitched and pulled, as my fingers scribbled, her sentence became an incoherent scream.
She screamed high and loud, realising the terror of her situation, and it drove me on, tickling faster.
Instantly the scream became laughter. Wild, uncontrollable laughter.
"AHHHHHHHH - Ha ha ha!"
Her foot writhed in my grip. She brought her other foot up to try and kick my hand away, but I moved my leg, blocking it.
I swung myself round to get an even better grip on her vulnerable foot, cranking up the attack. Her roaring laughter was music to my ears, and it rose with every sweep of my fingers. I had her right where I wanted her. Even in my dreams, it was never as good as this. I was so close to her gorgeous bare sole that I could see its every desperate tug as if in high definition.
And with such a close-up view, I decided to experiment, to see if I could find an especially ticklish spot on her extraordinarily ticklish feet.
I burrowed my fingers between her toes, ran them up and down both edges of her foot, spidered them over her heel and circled the wrinkles in the middle of her sole. I raced them left and right across the ball of her foot, the glorious expanse of hyper-sensitive skin just beneath her flexing toes.
"NOOOO!" she roared. "NOOOO - AH HA HA HAAA!"
The biggest squeal came when I got her arch.
So I used my knee to pin down her ankle, then grabbed her toes with my left hand, pulling them back to expose the full length of her deliciously ticklish sole. Then I mounted an all out attack on her arch, scribbling as fast as I could.
"NNNOOO - HA HAA!"
"Oh my God! OH MY GOD! Stop! Ha Haaa!"
"NNNNAAAAAAAHHHH - Ha Ha Ha Haaa!"
Earlier, when she was panicking before the ticking started, I felt her strength ebbing, but now she wriggled with supernatural vigor. She flailed madly, pushing and pulling and kicking, trying desperately to escape. And all the while she laughed and laughed until it sounded more like a cackle.
I started to toy with her, slowing down then speeding up in merciless bursts. She kept trying to speak, kept trying to say NO! - but every flick of my fingers turned her sentence into a peal of unrelenting laughter.
"NOOOAAAAAAAAA Ha Ha HAAAAAA!"
"NAAAHH HA HA HA HA!"
She kicked and kicked, trying with everything she had to escape my fingers.
Finally, with one manic tug, she pulled free and fell off the bed, onto the floor. I could hear her panting heavily, nervous exhausted laughter still escaping in bursts. I felt electric. It didn't seem real. The adrenaline was like a fire burning inside me.
Amelia stood up, glaring at me. Her hair fell in strands about her face. "Don't - tickle - my feet," she panted, still breathing in ragged gasps. "I told you I can't handle it."
Suffice to say, I think she might be slightly more ticklish on her feet than her sides.
This is part II of a real life story. Join me as I uncover the ticklish spots of my new girlfriend - the most gorgeous girl I've ever dated. She's a girl next door type, and has no idea I'm into tickling.
Let me set the picture. We'll call her Amelia. She's twenty-something, was born in France, but grew up in England and has a well-spoken British accent. When she switches to French, all that sultry sexiness is there. She's 5' 5", slim, with long wavy blonde hair and intensely pretty blue eyes. She looks like Rachel McAdams, with a little Kristin Kreuk thrown in. You can read about the first time I tickled her here.
The long and short of it: after poking her in the ribs got a delightfully jumpy reaction, a playful exchange of texts ended with her admitting: OMG! I'm the most ticklish person in the world! Over the following weeks, I worked up the courage to get her with a full-on upper body tickle attack that proved her words to be unquestionably true.
The tickle count as it stands:
1. Surprise rib poke: she jumped back, and said "Oh my God!"
2. Surprise stomach poke: again she jumped about a foot in the air.
3. Tickle attack on her sides and back of leg: Screaming, thrashing, wriggling, instant laughter and a swift kick to the chest as she threw me off.
After three thrilling tickles, I'm buzzing. Before this I'd never tickled a girl in my life, and I've jumped right into the big leagues with this one. The adrenaline rush is HUGE.
So let's try tickling her a little more, shall we?
Okay, so Amelia and I have been dating three weeks now. I've tickled her once in this time. (The rib and stomach pokes were before it became official). I can't wait to tickle her again, but I don't want it to seem weird - I don't want her to realise it's a 'thing' for me. Patience is key.
At this point we're talking to each other every day, lost in the giddy excitement of it all. I'm at work and we're flirting over email. She's already admitted that she's the most ticklish person in the world, and after seeing how true that is, I'm determined to find out more.
We're shooting each other questions. Glancing around to make sure no one in the office is looking, I hold my breath, summon up a burst of confidence, and type:
Where are you most ticklish?
Waiting for the reply is agonising. Had I gone too far? Is she weirded out? I try and focus on my job, but I can't. I keep flicking back to see if she's replied.
And then it comes in:
Totally my sides. My dad used to pin me down and tickle me all the time, I hated it.
My heart skipped a beat reading that. I couldn't have asked for a better reply. But at the same time, I couldn't help but think... really? I mean, what about her feet? That's where people are usually the most ticklish, and the image of tickling her feet turned me on more than any other.
Maybe it was wishful thinking, but despite what she said, I resolved to believe her sides weren't her most ticklish spot. They were very ticklish - I knew this first hand. But I also saw her reaction when I squeezed the back of her leg. In my opinion, she was more ticklish there than on her sides.
I decided that she probably didn't know all of her ticklish spots... and I couldn't wait to find them. Already knowing she was wrong, I couldn't wait to put her theory to the test.
At this point I hadn't actually seen her feet. I'd had a few tantalizing glimpses - she liked to wear dresses, with black nylon tights and black ballet pumps. I stole glances at them whenever I could. She had slender ankles, and her shoe size was about a 6. I knew her feet would be gorgeous, and longed to see more of them. Especially now that I had decided they were my next target.
A few days later I met her at a cafe. It was lunchtime, and quiet, and there was a corner we liked to go to where we could sit by ourselves and talk.
After a while we got into an impromptu tickle fight. If you read my last story, you'll know I allowed her to believe my "biggest weakness" was very ticklish knees, even though they're not at all. She delighted in squeezing my knee, thinking it really got me, when in reality it didn't. So we were sitting there, and eventually she got this evil glint in her eye, and squeezed my knee.
I gave my fake reaction (it's such fantastic tickle bait), then prodded her in the side. Immediately she squeaked and sat back, then poked me in retaliation. I'm not really that ticklish, so I could happily put up with that all day. I poked her back, getting another delightful "Arrgh!" as she squirmed out of reach.
It was so easy to get her to react. The slightest finger jab sent an electric thrill through her.
The fight didn't last very long, but it was so thrilling, my heart was pounding. A few minutes later we were talking again, and she crossed her left leg over her right, so her leg was pressing right up against mine. And her foot . . . her foot was hanging between my legs.
As we talked, I kept stealing glances at it. I willed her to dangle her shoe, to give me a glimpse, even the slightest glimpse of the rest of her foot.
Then it happened. The shoe slipped down, her nylon clad heel popped out, and there, right in front of me, was the soft curve of her arch. I quickly turned back to her, hoping she hadn't caught me looking. We kept talking and drinking, but inwardly all I could think about was what it would feel like to run my finger along that foot.
Maybe it was the drink, or the thrill of the earlier tickle fight, but after a few minutes, I made up my mind: I would try it. She was talking about a display they were unveiling at the museum at the weekend, and as I listened, I inched my finger closer to her exposed arch.
The closer I got the more nervous I felt. But there was no going back now. I slipped my index finger into the gap, and quickly twitched it. Her tights were smooth and my finger easily slid across their surface. Time seemed to freeze for a second.
And then several things happened at once. Her eyes widened. Her breath caught. Her foot kicked inadvertently and her shoe fell off.
I quickly withdrew my hand, heart hammering. I grinned, trying to play it cool.
She scrambled for her shoe, and as she slipped it back on, she said, "Don't do that!"
Inwardly I was panicking. Had I gone too far? I felt like an idiot for going for it.
She leant back and brushed a strand of hair out of her face, and breathlessly said, "I can't take it."
The moment passed in a flash, and I realised after it happened that I could have seen her completely uncovered foot there and then, but I missed it. I didn't mind, though, because even just from that instant, I had proof that her feet were very ticklish.
Within seconds, we were chatting away again, and everything was completely fine. Later that night, feeling playful, I sent her a text:
So it seems like your feet are your most ticklish spot.
I can't handle my feet getting tickled, she wrote.
Instant thrill. Instant adrenaline.
It's possible she knew this all along, and was trying to hide it in the way people do when they feel it's a weakness. It's automatic, sometimes, to say no, if someone asks if you're ticklish. Maybe this was like that. I don't know. But I suspected more than ever that my gut reaction was right: her feet were more ticklish than her sides. Probably by a long way. I was desperate to find out just how ticklish they were, but part of me still felt foolish for trying like that, so I left it. I left it days, I left it weeks.
In those weeks, I saw more and more of her feet.
We had a drink one evening, and she was all dressed up because she'd been to a lunch party with her friends from work. She was dressed in a sleeveless green dress, with her black tights, and a pair of black high heels. Towards the end of the night, faced with the prospect of a walk to the train station, she said, "Sorry, I need to change my shoes. My feet are killing me."
The angle of the table made it hard to see, but I just managed a surreptitious glance as she took off her heels. I couldn't believe my eyes. As she fished in her bag for her ballet pumps, she crossed her legs, resting on the ball of her right foot. I knew I should look away, but I couldn't. Here were her feet, her gorgeous, nylon-clad feet, completely exposed for the first time. Her pale heel showed through at the back, and I thought I could just make out dark polish on her toes. Then the shoes were back on, and they were gone, hidden away again from the world.
A week later, the sun was out in force. An unnaturally hot day. A day too hot for tights.
I'd never seen her without them, and I wasn't prepared for just how hot she'd look. When I met her, she was in a floral pink dress that came halfway down her thighs, and was cut in a way that showed a nice amount of cleavage. It was completely respectable, but ever so slightly starting to push the barrier. And her feet - for the first time out of those tights - looked pale and invitingly soft in her trademark black ballet pumps.
We sat outside in the sun, on a quiet park bench, with birds flitting around and flowers all around us. But when she dangled her shoe, none of that mattered. I tried not to show it, but I was entranced by her creamy bare arch; now smooth when she flexed her toes, now ever so slightly wrinkled as the shoe flicked back.
Of course I didn't tickle her, not then, but I fantasized about it. How could I not? Picturing how she'd react if I were to just reach out and dance my nails over that foot. It drove me crazy.
It wouldn't be long before that dream turned into reality.
The following few days were warm too, and the nylons stayed off. Three days after that lunch in the park, she invited me back to her place after work for dinner and a movie. She was dressed in a sleeveless white top, blue jeans, and was barefoot in her black pumps. I was excited about everything the evening would entail of course - just spending time with her was amazing. But knowing that when we walked in that door, she would take off her shoes and I'd get to properly see her completely bare feet was thrilling.
We got to the door, she opened it and let us in, and I kicked off my shoes. This was it. This was the moment.
Except... it wasn't. She kept her shoes on as she cleaned the kitchen, kept her shoes on as she poured the wine, kept her shoes on as we sat on the sofa.
Then, finally, as I loaded up the DVD, I heard the thump-thump of shoes falling to the floor. When I turned around, she was laying across the sofa, her bare feet propped up on the arm rest. As soon as I saw them I turned away, because I didn't want her to catch me looking. I moved back to the sofa, and she lifted her legs so I could sit down, then she dropped them in my lap.
Her beautiful bare feet were sitting in my lap. I quickly folded my hands, desperately trying to cover up how hard I was getting. Thankfully she didn't notice - she was already engrossed in the film.
From time to time, when I dared, I glanced down at her feet. But I was never brave enough to look for too long. Then, halfway through the movie, she fell asleep.
I waited a moment, listening to her slow breathing, making sure she was actually asleep. Then I turned to her feet, and let my eyes drink them in. They were crossed, one over the other, so the arch of her left foot was closest to my face. Up close, I could see every little wrinkle. She had a freckle just below her arch, on the side of her heel. Her feet were perfectly proportioned, her toes slim, but not too thin. Her dark red polish was stark against her pale skin.
I leant as far as I could without waking her up, trying to get a look at her soles. They had a thin line of wrinkles down the middle. Every inch of them was soft and smooth, as if they'd never seen a hard day's walking or running in their life.
Again I fantasized about tickling them there and then. If I stroked them, ever so slightly, would she wake up? My heart was beating so hard and fast. I'd never seen such perfect feet, and here they were, so close. But I couldn't do it.
She woke up soon after that, and I had to go back to pretending to watch the movie. All the while in my mind, I was going through possible plans. I wanted to tickle her, but how?
As it happened, it was she herself that helped put the plan into action.
We were lying on the bed that evening, lounging around, reading, listening to music. I was on my back, flicking through a few websites. She was next to me but on her stomach. Then she rolled over onto her side, and squeezed my knee. Remembering it was supposed to be agony, I tried to pull away.
"No," she said, "you've got to see how long you can take it."
I let her do it for a few seconds, then scrambled away, as if I couldn't take anymore. She seemed delighted by the idea of having this "weapon" to use against me.
She rolled back onto her stomach, lifting her feet up into that classic pose position. This was it. Thanks again to that wonderful knee ruse, I had an opportunity here. If I tickled her, it wouldn't be an out of the blue move - it would simply be flirtatious retaliation.
I watched her feet, waiting for the right moment. She was 'air dangling' them, if you get what I mean - holding them aloft, soles to the ceiling, then letting them drop until her heels nearly hit her butt, then lifting them up again, slowly, tantalizingly.
I reached out and grabbed her ankle.
She turned to me, a slight frown on her face. There was a second where she didn't realise what was about to happen.
"Now it's your turn," I said. "You've got to see how long you can take it.
As realization dawned, her eyes widened. "No!" she said. "Not there. Feet are out of bounds. I can't handle it."
"I'll be really gentle," I said. "It won't tickle at all, look."
With my left hand, I brought her foot closer. With my right, slowly, slowly, I traced a figure of eight with my index finger on her sole. It was one thing seeing the soft skin, but quite another touching it. It was warm, and so smooth, so silky. I was as delicate as possible, using the lightest touch.
She grinned playfully - the light touch winning her over. She realized it wasn't torture, it was a game, a challenge. I changed direction with my finger, moving up and down her sole now, slowly, slightly, the merest gesture of a tickle. Her face scrunched up. Her eyes shut tight, her jaw set determinedly.
Her reaction was turning me on so much. I was barely doing anything, barely even touching her, and it was excruciating for her. After a few seconds she yanked her foot away, and said, "Okay, okay, stop!"
So I did.
But even though the light tickling was a huge turn on for me, what I really wanted was to see how she'd react to proper tickling. So I tried to entice her on. I tried to open up another opportunity.
"I won," I said.
Immediately her eyes narrowed. If there was one thing I learned quickly with Amelia, it was that she had a competitive streak.
"No," she said. "I clearly won."
I put on a mocking voice: "Okay, okay, stop!"
And that was it - she tried to tickle me back. She went for my sides, and when it didn't work as well as she hoped, she went for my underarms. It tickled a bit, but not enough to make me laugh. She wasn't getting the reaction she wanted, so she spun round and went for my knees - both at the same time. Pretending it was hell, I tried to get out from underneath her, but she moved again and pinned me down.
Now she started tickling my sides again, and I couldn't move. The more she tickled, the more I automatically squirmed at her touch.
"If you don't stop," I said, trying to wriggle out, "I'm going to have to really get you."
All that served to do was make her tickle me more. "Admit it," she said. "I've won."
In reality, she'd inadvertently opened up a window for me to escape. I rolled out of her grasp; she tried to whirl away but I grabbed her. She tried to pin me down again, but I pushed back. For a second, we were a tangle of limbs, and then I emerged on top. She had her back on the bed, laying across the width of it, and I was on top of her with a knee either side of her body.
Her eyes were still full of playful fight. She struggled to get up, but couldn't move. It was then that I turned to her feet.
"Uh oh," I said, gripping her ankle.
Her eyes widened as she realized what I was doing. She struggled again, flailing and thrashing beneath my grip, but with the weight of my body above her, she couldn't go anywhere.
Relishing the torture of her situation, I inched my fingers slowly closer to her exposed sole.
"No," she said, squirming beneath me, getting more and more desperate now. "NO! I'm serious!"
The closer my fingers got to her feet, the more wildly she twisted and thrashed.
"Please not my feet!" she squealed.
My fingers were closing in. I hardly dared to breathe. After all the daydreaming and imagining, after wishing I could tickle her feet, properly tickle them, it was about to happen.
In that heartbeat, Amelia made one last desperate bid for freedom.
"NO!" she yelled, panicking. She managed to roll over, and her left leg broke free.
She almost escaped, but I clamped down on her ankle and locked it in place. Now I had the exposed bare arch of her left foot facing up at me, and I didn't hesitate.
Keeping a firm grip on her ankle with my left hand, I moved in with my right and scribbled my fingers up and down her utterly helpless sole.
This wasn't a quick, daring tickle in a cafe. It wasn't over before my brain could register it. I tickled hard and fast, my face inches from her stunning foot, and I savoured every moment of her reaction.
The second my fingers made contact, her foot twitched twice - the instant, instinctive reaction as the tickling began, and another when it didn't stop. As my fingers moved, the twitch became a jerk, a desperate jerk as she tried to pull away.
But I wasn't letting go of her ankle. She had nowhere to go. All this happened within moments. She was still screaming NO! when the ticking began. My fingers raced and slithered, up and down and all over her sole, and behind me her terrified voice changed.
"NOOOO - AAAAHHHHHHH!" she wailed.
In those first few thrilling seconds, as her foot twitched and pulled, as my fingers scribbled, her sentence became an incoherent scream.
She screamed high and loud, realising the terror of her situation, and it drove me on, tickling faster.
Instantly the scream became laughter. Wild, uncontrollable laughter.
"AHHHHHHHH - Ha ha ha!"
Her foot writhed in my grip. She brought her other foot up to try and kick my hand away, but I moved my leg, blocking it.
I swung myself round to get an even better grip on her vulnerable foot, cranking up the attack. Her roaring laughter was music to my ears, and it rose with every sweep of my fingers. I had her right where I wanted her. Even in my dreams, it was never as good as this. I was so close to her gorgeous bare sole that I could see its every desperate tug as if in high definition.
And with such a close-up view, I decided to experiment, to see if I could find an especially ticklish spot on her extraordinarily ticklish feet.
I burrowed my fingers between her toes, ran them up and down both edges of her foot, spidered them over her heel and circled the wrinkles in the middle of her sole. I raced them left and right across the ball of her foot, the glorious expanse of hyper-sensitive skin just beneath her flexing toes.
"NOOOO!" she roared. "NOOOO - AH HA HA HAAA!"
The biggest squeal came when I got her arch.
So I used my knee to pin down her ankle, then grabbed her toes with my left hand, pulling them back to expose the full length of her deliciously ticklish sole. Then I mounted an all out attack on her arch, scribbling as fast as I could.
"NNNOOO - HA HAA!"
"Oh my God! OH MY GOD! Stop! Ha Haaa!"
"NNNNAAAAAAAHHHH - Ha Ha Ha Haaa!"
Earlier, when she was panicking before the ticking started, I felt her strength ebbing, but now she wriggled with supernatural vigor. She flailed madly, pushing and pulling and kicking, trying desperately to escape. And all the while she laughed and laughed until it sounded more like a cackle.
I started to toy with her, slowing down then speeding up in merciless bursts. She kept trying to speak, kept trying to say NO! - but every flick of my fingers turned her sentence into a peal of unrelenting laughter.
"NOOOAAAAAAAAA Ha Ha HAAAAAA!"
"NAAAHH HA HA HA HA!"
She kicked and kicked, trying with everything she had to escape my fingers.
Finally, with one manic tug, she pulled free and fell off the bed, onto the floor. I could hear her panting heavily, nervous exhausted laughter still escaping in bursts. I felt electric. It didn't seem real. The adrenaline was like a fire burning inside me.
Amelia stood up, glaring at me. Her hair fell in strands about her face. "Don't - tickle - my feet," she panted, still breathing in ragged gasps. "I told you I can't handle it."
Suffice to say, I think she might be slightly more ticklish on her feet than her sides.
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Thanks for sharing your experience here. 
