kopfhorer1
1st Level Orange Feather
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Here is my first attempt at a tickling story.
Tammy the Tickler was kind of a joke among the freshman class at Tech. A lot of guys just wrote her off as a local kook, like the guy who walked around downtown in a plastic wig and hung out in the only Chinese restaurant down there, eating bowl after bowl of wonton soup. Some believed that she was a hooker, which she certainly was not. And then there were the select few who had actually met her, like Will, my classmate and shift manager at Carrot Computers where I worked as a techie. She didn’t have a phone, and she never answered her door if you knocked. The only way you got to see her was if you were sent by someone she already knew. It was Will who set me up with her after weeks of apprehension and anticipation on my part. “Tell me how it goes!” he said to me as we got out of his car in the parking lot of Carrot Computers, which was only a mile or so from where Tammy lived.
Tammy’s house was a 120-year-old Queen Anne home with a small rotunda on the northeast corner. Word was that it had once belonged to a local timber magnate. Although it had definitely seen better days, it looked lived-in rather than dilapidated, painted in earth brown with yellow trim, both of which had faded to soft pastels from years of weathering. There were well-manicured shrubs planted along the well-worn slate walkway which led from the sidewalk to the house’s entrance, which was bordered on each side by red, yellow and black tulips. I climbed the three steps to its great wrap-around porch, approached its great varnished oaken doors, lifted the wrought-iron door knocker on the left-hand one, knocked twice and waited.
After what seemed like hours, a woman in her late twenties with straight, neatly trimmed neck-length black hair and fair, skin with only a hint of wrinkles opened the door a few inches and peeked out at me. “Will sent you, right?” she asked. “Sure did” I answered, trying not to stutter, “My name’s Matt”. “My name’s Tammy” she replied in a sweet but slightly gravelly voice. She was slender, but shapely. She was dressed in black jeans, a powder-blue T-shirt and black running shoes, and wore no make-up. “Well, why don’t you come in? I’ve been expecting you!” she said, and beckoned me into her house’s great hallway. I stared at the rich woodwork on the walls of the entrance hallway. “Will told me you were kind of shy”. “Um, yeah, I guess I am!’ I replied.. “Well, don’t worry.” she reassured me as she led me up the carpeted main staircase,. “Nothing bad is going to happen. Nothing bad ever happens here. And if things get too intense for you, just say the word, and we’ll call it a day. You can come back anytime you feel that you’re ready.” As I climbed the stairs I held onto the polished black walnut hand railing, as if I were in danger of floating away. “I’m ready right now” I said, voice quivering, only half-believing myself.
The first room at the top of the stairs and to the right was her den. From just outside the entrance I could see a TV, an exercise machine and across the room a great marble fireplace. On entering I saw to my left a black leather recliner chair and an antique ladderback chair in a far corner of the room in front of a floor-to-ceiling window which was covered in translucent lace drapes and framed in opaque white ones, the mid-afternoon sun filtering through.
“Have a seat” Tammy said, gesturing at the recliner. As I settled into the chair I felt nervous, sort of the way I felt back in high school when I got sent to the principal’s office. “Would you like something to drink?” she offered, smiling coyly at me. “Yeah, sure”. “What would you like?” “Um, Coke”? “Sure thing” she answered, as she spun on her heel toward the kitchenette which was just through the pocket doors behind the TV, coming back with two highball glasses filled to the rim with ice cubes and coke. She handed me mine, then took a sip of hers as she settled into the ladderback chair next to me.
“So, why don’t you tell me a little about yourself” she softly inquired. I replied by telling her I was a student at tech, majoring in pre-engineering and that I’d been Will’s friend since junior high. “Let’s get down to brass tacks” she replied after I got through, She leaned across the arm of her recliner and smiled. “How ticklish are you?” I was stumped. I’d played tickling games with my sister and some of my summer-camp-mates when I was a kid, but talking about that subject as a young adult and with a grown woman just about floored me. “Well. . . I’m actually not that ticklish”. Tammy’s face twisted slightly into an expression of bewilderment. “What I mean is, “ I continued, “I like being tickled. I don’t laugh a lot like a lot of my friends do. It just feels really good to me”. She put her finger to her closed mouth and raised her eyes toward the ceiling. “Hmm, I’ve never had a guest who just liked how being tickled felt. Most of my tickle buddies like the tickle-torture aspect of it! This should be interesting. Tell me, where do you like to be tickled?” “Um, my feet, my back and sides, my tummy.” She stared inquisitively, but smiling. “Actually, my sides and armpits are really sensitive. It’s kind of intense here.” I pointed to the left side of my waist. She thought for a minute. Then she got out of her chair and walked over to where I was sitting. She squatted down next to me.
“Before we begin, I’d like to set down a few ground rules. First, I don’t want to fuck, just tickle. Is that going to be a problem?”
“No problem whatsoever, Tammy” I answered.
“Good. Next, we’ll have to agree on a safe-word”.
“What’s that?”
“It’s what you say when you need me to stop, for whatever reason. Why don’t you choose one now?”
“Okay, how about...’splunge’?”
She grinned. “Another Monty Python fan! I think we’re going to get along just fine!”
She raised the footstool on my recliner, so it was no trouble at all for her to untie my high-top basketball shoes and slip them off one by one, gently setting them down next to my chair, then slip off the freshly-washed cotton tube socks I’d put on that morning. I felt the cool air of the room on my feet.
Then Tammy went over to an antique mahogany roll-top desk against the far wall of the room only a few steps from where I was. She opened one of its drawers and produced a loop of black nylon webbing, like the kind used for car seat belts. My heart jumped into my mouth. I had visions of being bound up and totally helpless. She was about to slip it over the footstool and my ankles when I yanked my feet away as if the footstool had just become red hot. “What’s wrong?” Tammy asked, stopping in her tracks. My voice trembling, I replied “Uh, ummm. . . I’m not into bondage.” She came over to the side of the recliner and gently rested her hand on my shoulder. She looked into my eyes. “Relax. I’m not into bondage either. I just don’t want to get kicked in the face. That happened with one of my first tickle buddies. Oh, he was very decent about it. He was completely beside himself apologizing, but he gave me a bloody nose.” She pointed to her nose. Then she held up the strap. “See the long end of the strap? It’s got Velcro where it meets the part where it forms a loop around the footstool. Go ahead, have a look”. I looked, and it was as she described it. “Now, take this part of the strap and pull on it, hard”. I pulled it as she held the other end. The loop gave way. “See? There’s nothing to worry about. Why don’t we get going? Here, let me put it on you.” I put my feet back onto the footstool. She had the strap on me before I knew it. She handed me the “ripcord”, and then began.
Tammy didn’t have long, claw-like fingernails the way some of the girls at Tech did. Tammy’s were rather short, giving her rounded finger pads full access to my skin. She ran her fingers - very, very slowly - up and down the sole of my left foot, nails on the up stroke, the pads of her fingertips on the downstroke, rhythmically, over and over again, playfully, kind of like a mischievous schoolgirl doing a number on a distracted sibling. She engaged her other hand and started working on my other foot. The sensations were intense. She had obviously been doing this kind of thing for quite a while. I clamped my hands onto the arms of the recliner, my nails digging into the leather. I bit my lip. As I’d said, I didn’t consider myself ticklish, but this felt a lot more intense to me than I was used to. My ankles strained against the nylon webbing which held them in place. Tammy didn’t say anything, she just gazed into my eyes, grinning knowingly, impishly, hands and fingers going rhythmically up and down my soles. She soon changed her stroking pattern, drawing circles and arabesques around my heels, my arches, the balls of my feet, their outer edges. I started panting.
Then she stopped, but only long enough to get something else from the desk. It was a large, pointed-tip sable artist’s paint brush in a jar of water. Before I could ask her what she was going to do, she had its pointed, wet tip on my left sole. I thought I was going to burst. She drew fine lines on my skin. The sensations were intense. Then something happened which I’d never expected. I started giggling. Not loud, just little titters at first, then steadier and a bit louder, as if I’d just been told a joke. I kept on giggling, being just barely able to catch my breath. It felt wonderful. I kept on giggling softly as Tammy worked the brush across my foot, between my toes, and around the outside of it.
(To Be Continued)
Tammy the Tickler was kind of a joke among the freshman class at Tech. A lot of guys just wrote her off as a local kook, like the guy who walked around downtown in a plastic wig and hung out in the only Chinese restaurant down there, eating bowl after bowl of wonton soup. Some believed that she was a hooker, which she certainly was not. And then there were the select few who had actually met her, like Will, my classmate and shift manager at Carrot Computers where I worked as a techie. She didn’t have a phone, and she never answered her door if you knocked. The only way you got to see her was if you were sent by someone she already knew. It was Will who set me up with her after weeks of apprehension and anticipation on my part. “Tell me how it goes!” he said to me as we got out of his car in the parking lot of Carrot Computers, which was only a mile or so from where Tammy lived.
Tammy’s house was a 120-year-old Queen Anne home with a small rotunda on the northeast corner. Word was that it had once belonged to a local timber magnate. Although it had definitely seen better days, it looked lived-in rather than dilapidated, painted in earth brown with yellow trim, both of which had faded to soft pastels from years of weathering. There were well-manicured shrubs planted along the well-worn slate walkway which led from the sidewalk to the house’s entrance, which was bordered on each side by red, yellow and black tulips. I climbed the three steps to its great wrap-around porch, approached its great varnished oaken doors, lifted the wrought-iron door knocker on the left-hand one, knocked twice and waited.
After what seemed like hours, a woman in her late twenties with straight, neatly trimmed neck-length black hair and fair, skin with only a hint of wrinkles opened the door a few inches and peeked out at me. “Will sent you, right?” she asked. “Sure did” I answered, trying not to stutter, “My name’s Matt”. “My name’s Tammy” she replied in a sweet but slightly gravelly voice. She was slender, but shapely. She was dressed in black jeans, a powder-blue T-shirt and black running shoes, and wore no make-up. “Well, why don’t you come in? I’ve been expecting you!” she said, and beckoned me into her house’s great hallway. I stared at the rich woodwork on the walls of the entrance hallway. “Will told me you were kind of shy”. “Um, yeah, I guess I am!’ I replied.. “Well, don’t worry.” she reassured me as she led me up the carpeted main staircase,. “Nothing bad is going to happen. Nothing bad ever happens here. And if things get too intense for you, just say the word, and we’ll call it a day. You can come back anytime you feel that you’re ready.” As I climbed the stairs I held onto the polished black walnut hand railing, as if I were in danger of floating away. “I’m ready right now” I said, voice quivering, only half-believing myself.
The first room at the top of the stairs and to the right was her den. From just outside the entrance I could see a TV, an exercise machine and across the room a great marble fireplace. On entering I saw to my left a black leather recliner chair and an antique ladderback chair in a far corner of the room in front of a floor-to-ceiling window which was covered in translucent lace drapes and framed in opaque white ones, the mid-afternoon sun filtering through.
“Have a seat” Tammy said, gesturing at the recliner. As I settled into the chair I felt nervous, sort of the way I felt back in high school when I got sent to the principal’s office. “Would you like something to drink?” she offered, smiling coyly at me. “Yeah, sure”. “What would you like?” “Um, Coke”? “Sure thing” she answered, as she spun on her heel toward the kitchenette which was just through the pocket doors behind the TV, coming back with two highball glasses filled to the rim with ice cubes and coke. She handed me mine, then took a sip of hers as she settled into the ladderback chair next to me.
“So, why don’t you tell me a little about yourself” she softly inquired. I replied by telling her I was a student at tech, majoring in pre-engineering and that I’d been Will’s friend since junior high. “Let’s get down to brass tacks” she replied after I got through, She leaned across the arm of her recliner and smiled. “How ticklish are you?” I was stumped. I’d played tickling games with my sister and some of my summer-camp-mates when I was a kid, but talking about that subject as a young adult and with a grown woman just about floored me. “Well. . . I’m actually not that ticklish”. Tammy’s face twisted slightly into an expression of bewilderment. “What I mean is, “ I continued, “I like being tickled. I don’t laugh a lot like a lot of my friends do. It just feels really good to me”. She put her finger to her closed mouth and raised her eyes toward the ceiling. “Hmm, I’ve never had a guest who just liked how being tickled felt. Most of my tickle buddies like the tickle-torture aspect of it! This should be interesting. Tell me, where do you like to be tickled?” “Um, my feet, my back and sides, my tummy.” She stared inquisitively, but smiling. “Actually, my sides and armpits are really sensitive. It’s kind of intense here.” I pointed to the left side of my waist. She thought for a minute. Then she got out of her chair and walked over to where I was sitting. She squatted down next to me.
“Before we begin, I’d like to set down a few ground rules. First, I don’t want to fuck, just tickle. Is that going to be a problem?”
“No problem whatsoever, Tammy” I answered.
“Good. Next, we’ll have to agree on a safe-word”.
“What’s that?”
“It’s what you say when you need me to stop, for whatever reason. Why don’t you choose one now?”
“Okay, how about...’splunge’?”
She grinned. “Another Monty Python fan! I think we’re going to get along just fine!”
She raised the footstool on my recliner, so it was no trouble at all for her to untie my high-top basketball shoes and slip them off one by one, gently setting them down next to my chair, then slip off the freshly-washed cotton tube socks I’d put on that morning. I felt the cool air of the room on my feet.
Then Tammy went over to an antique mahogany roll-top desk against the far wall of the room only a few steps from where I was. She opened one of its drawers and produced a loop of black nylon webbing, like the kind used for car seat belts. My heart jumped into my mouth. I had visions of being bound up and totally helpless. She was about to slip it over the footstool and my ankles when I yanked my feet away as if the footstool had just become red hot. “What’s wrong?” Tammy asked, stopping in her tracks. My voice trembling, I replied “Uh, ummm. . . I’m not into bondage.” She came over to the side of the recliner and gently rested her hand on my shoulder. She looked into my eyes. “Relax. I’m not into bondage either. I just don’t want to get kicked in the face. That happened with one of my first tickle buddies. Oh, he was very decent about it. He was completely beside himself apologizing, but he gave me a bloody nose.” She pointed to her nose. Then she held up the strap. “See the long end of the strap? It’s got Velcro where it meets the part where it forms a loop around the footstool. Go ahead, have a look”. I looked, and it was as she described it. “Now, take this part of the strap and pull on it, hard”. I pulled it as she held the other end. The loop gave way. “See? There’s nothing to worry about. Why don’t we get going? Here, let me put it on you.” I put my feet back onto the footstool. She had the strap on me before I knew it. She handed me the “ripcord”, and then began.
Tammy didn’t have long, claw-like fingernails the way some of the girls at Tech did. Tammy’s were rather short, giving her rounded finger pads full access to my skin. She ran her fingers - very, very slowly - up and down the sole of my left foot, nails on the up stroke, the pads of her fingertips on the downstroke, rhythmically, over and over again, playfully, kind of like a mischievous schoolgirl doing a number on a distracted sibling. She engaged her other hand and started working on my other foot. The sensations were intense. She had obviously been doing this kind of thing for quite a while. I clamped my hands onto the arms of the recliner, my nails digging into the leather. I bit my lip. As I’d said, I didn’t consider myself ticklish, but this felt a lot more intense to me than I was used to. My ankles strained against the nylon webbing which held them in place. Tammy didn’t say anything, she just gazed into my eyes, grinning knowingly, impishly, hands and fingers going rhythmically up and down my soles. She soon changed her stroking pattern, drawing circles and arabesques around my heels, my arches, the balls of my feet, their outer edges. I started panting.
Then she stopped, but only long enough to get something else from the desk. It was a large, pointed-tip sable artist’s paint brush in a jar of water. Before I could ask her what she was going to do, she had its pointed, wet tip on my left sole. I thought I was going to burst. She drew fine lines on my skin. The sensations were intense. Then something happened which I’d never expected. I started giggling. Not loud, just little titters at first, then steadier and a bit louder, as if I’d just been told a joke. I kept on giggling, being just barely able to catch my breath. It felt wonderful. I kept on giggling softly as Tammy worked the brush across my foot, between my toes, and around the outside of it.
(To Be Continued)
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