JoePTickle
1st Level Red Feather
- Joined
- Nov 30, 2011
- Messages
- 1,034
- Points
- 36
[Note: As usual, glad to share details of the who/what/where/how much for those who are interested in setting up a similar experience – just send me a PM. Note some erotic at the end. Thanks.]
I lay face down on the hotel bed, waiting for the knock on the door. Beneath me was the warmth of an electric blanket that I’d brought along to function as a “table warmer,” in line with this tickling massage scenario I’d scheduled with her several months ago.
We’d never met. I found her by referral from a TMF friend, who pointed me to her Backpage.com ad in Michigan (near Detroit) and was curious to know about her services. I’d promised I’d post in the True Stories once I was done.
We’d talked by phone, and her voice had the playfulness of a woman decades younger than her photo suggested. She did massage professionally. Now while lying on massage tables back at home I’d occasionally imagined those long strokes suddenly giving way to light exploratory fingernail tickles, the cordial conversation devolving into sensual verbal teasing, the masseuse turning the session into her own gradually intensifying personal tickling playground.
She arrived early, as reliable as she had been from the time of our earliest e-mail correspondence that set this day in motion. She set her oil warmers on the desk, and went to wash her hands while I disrobed.
How shall we begin today? As she’d said all along, from her 15+ years of tickling experience, each session tends to take on the personality of the ticklee, depending on what excites them. I gave her some general suggestions, then assumed the traditional massage position of lying on my stomach. The scenario was ideal, knowing that I’m most ticklish when warm, and when facing downward.
During the first ten minutes she went to work gently massaging my hamstrings and calves, which were tight from exercise earlier that day. Naturally, it got blood flowing and warmed me up even beyond what the blanket was providing as well.
Then… nails dragging slowly up from my ankles toward my knees.
As I began to twitch involuntarily and stifle a laugh, they continued upward toward my privates. Then they lingered there, dancing loosely about as my hips started to buck while trying to hold still.
“I’ve gooot youuu…” she purred, then easing into giggles, delighted by the reaction.
I could sense her leaning over me, focused intently and unhurriedly on discovering the most ticklish places.
She’d described herself as having become something of a professional tickler through the years, a passion she especially enjoyed pursuing on weekends outside her normal practice. And also, in a match made in my heaven, a specialist in tickling feet.
Which is where she now positioned herself, seating eye level with them after propping my ankles up on pillows.
The nails drew from the heel, up each side of my left foot. Slowly trickled all along the arch, then scribbling more rapidly as she measured my voice and flinching. Occasionally, she paused to heighten the anticipation. She switched between feet, or attacked both at once.
“Hmmm… are you right-handed? Your right foot seems more ticklish than your left,” she continued, always accompanied by the sing-song laugh of the tormentor celebrating yet another new weakness to exploit.
Once her nails curled under my toes and she saw the electricity shoot through me, she locked in. Thrashing about couldn’t escape her nimble fingers, which followed along effortlessly and raked them over and over.
“I want to hear you beg me!” she said slyly.
“Please!” I said.
“No, I won’t stop until I hear you say, ‘I’m begging you, please stop tickling me there!’”
Eventually, I had to. But she returned there later, and repeatedly.
That is, when she wasn’t experimenting with my newfound ticklishness between my legs. She propped pillows beneath my stomach and spread my legs far apart, giving her merciless access to do whatever she wished. Ten nails continued to slide around in random patterns, yet with the clear intent to discover the most arousing effect.
As with the rest, she succeeded.
As the hour concluded, she flipped me to my back, with that wicked smile still spread across her face. She crawled up toward my midsection.
Her boundaries of good taste meant that her hands wouldn’t come into contact with the shaft, and she also wouldn’t lead me over the edge, so to speak. But as it happened, the hotel room was supplied with devilishly effective Q-tip swabs, she caressing the oiled skin rhythmically, and of course, soon identifying and zeroing in on the sweet spot.
I lay there with my back arching, my ears filled with her cooing and soft laughter, my eyes absorbing the view of her nose perched inches from her target… completely absorbed in her goal.
She had me at the edge. She returned to my soles, eyes twinkling as she stroked them lightly and fluidly, as I ended it.
We talked afterward, and she was happy to hear about TMF for the first time. I gave her my screen name.
Hopefully, we’ll see her around. And maybe, you'll get a chance to meet her.
I lay face down on the hotel bed, waiting for the knock on the door. Beneath me was the warmth of an electric blanket that I’d brought along to function as a “table warmer,” in line with this tickling massage scenario I’d scheduled with her several months ago.
We’d never met. I found her by referral from a TMF friend, who pointed me to her Backpage.com ad in Michigan (near Detroit) and was curious to know about her services. I’d promised I’d post in the True Stories once I was done.
We’d talked by phone, and her voice had the playfulness of a woman decades younger than her photo suggested. She did massage professionally. Now while lying on massage tables back at home I’d occasionally imagined those long strokes suddenly giving way to light exploratory fingernail tickles, the cordial conversation devolving into sensual verbal teasing, the masseuse turning the session into her own gradually intensifying personal tickling playground.
She arrived early, as reliable as she had been from the time of our earliest e-mail correspondence that set this day in motion. She set her oil warmers on the desk, and went to wash her hands while I disrobed.
How shall we begin today? As she’d said all along, from her 15+ years of tickling experience, each session tends to take on the personality of the ticklee, depending on what excites them. I gave her some general suggestions, then assumed the traditional massage position of lying on my stomach. The scenario was ideal, knowing that I’m most ticklish when warm, and when facing downward.
During the first ten minutes she went to work gently massaging my hamstrings and calves, which were tight from exercise earlier that day. Naturally, it got blood flowing and warmed me up even beyond what the blanket was providing as well.
Then… nails dragging slowly up from my ankles toward my knees.
As I began to twitch involuntarily and stifle a laugh, they continued upward toward my privates. Then they lingered there, dancing loosely about as my hips started to buck while trying to hold still.
“I’ve gooot youuu…” she purred, then easing into giggles, delighted by the reaction.
I could sense her leaning over me, focused intently and unhurriedly on discovering the most ticklish places.
She’d described herself as having become something of a professional tickler through the years, a passion she especially enjoyed pursuing on weekends outside her normal practice. And also, in a match made in my heaven, a specialist in tickling feet.
Which is where she now positioned herself, seating eye level with them after propping my ankles up on pillows.
The nails drew from the heel, up each side of my left foot. Slowly trickled all along the arch, then scribbling more rapidly as she measured my voice and flinching. Occasionally, she paused to heighten the anticipation. She switched between feet, or attacked both at once.
“Hmmm… are you right-handed? Your right foot seems more ticklish than your left,” she continued, always accompanied by the sing-song laugh of the tormentor celebrating yet another new weakness to exploit.
Once her nails curled under my toes and she saw the electricity shoot through me, she locked in. Thrashing about couldn’t escape her nimble fingers, which followed along effortlessly and raked them over and over.
“I want to hear you beg me!” she said slyly.
“Please!” I said.
“No, I won’t stop until I hear you say, ‘I’m begging you, please stop tickling me there!’”
Eventually, I had to. But she returned there later, and repeatedly.
That is, when she wasn’t experimenting with my newfound ticklishness between my legs. She propped pillows beneath my stomach and spread my legs far apart, giving her merciless access to do whatever she wished. Ten nails continued to slide around in random patterns, yet with the clear intent to discover the most arousing effect.
As with the rest, she succeeded.
As the hour concluded, she flipped me to my back, with that wicked smile still spread across her face. She crawled up toward my midsection.
Her boundaries of good taste meant that her hands wouldn’t come into contact with the shaft, and she also wouldn’t lead me over the edge, so to speak. But as it happened, the hotel room was supplied with devilishly effective Q-tip swabs, she caressing the oiled skin rhythmically, and of course, soon identifying and zeroing in on the sweet spot.
I lay there with my back arching, my ears filled with her cooing and soft laughter, my eyes absorbing the view of her nose perched inches from her target… completely absorbed in her goal.
She had me at the edge. She returned to my soles, eyes twinkling as she stroked them lightly and fluidly, as I ended it.
We talked afterward, and she was happy to hear about TMF for the first time. I gave her my screen name.
Hopefully, we’ll see her around. And maybe, you'll get a chance to meet her.
