kibdos
TMF Novice
- Joined
- Aug 29, 2002
- Messages
- 63
- Points
- 1
This is a TRUE story about AN ADULT TICKLING AN ADULT but, to give the background, I have to go back when the girl was younger. It was also the closest I came to cheating and, as far as tickling women’s feet go, was one of the most erotic experiences of my life. But because of the age difference and the danger, I have always felt guilty about it. Perhaps this is why I have taken so long to write it down.
Kristi was cute rather than beautiful, dark blonde, short and quite sexy if a little inclined to plumpness at times. She was the daughter of a close neighborhood friend of my wife’s. As she grew older, her baby-fat rounded out but she often went on diets to keep her weight down. From the time she was sixteen, we would go running together four or five times a week when our schedules allowed it. Living near us, she was a natural babysitter for our children and was still doing it at 20 – at least from time to time. In her late teens, she got her Life Guard’s certificate and this became her summer job. We paid her to watch our children’s pool parties and she eventually came to regard our pool and hot tub as open to her on all warm days. As she was a family friend, this was fine with us. Often, over the years, I would come home to find her sunning herself or splashing in the pool with the kids or staying late for dinner.
I am both a tickler and a foot-lover and, given enough time for reflection with a good bottle of wine, I might one day work out which is paramount. It’s safe to say, however, that both are important to me and I noticed Kristi’s small but beautifully shaped feet the first time I met her. (Inside a house, she always went barefoot, even in winter.) But, although some may disagree with me, I have this ethic about not tickling underage girls. Tickling feet is, for me, a highly sexual act and I shied away from any temptations I encountered. I had my wife to consider and my profession and the difference between Kristi’s age and mine. Also, to be both practical and honest, I didn’t need the whole damn neighborhood knowing about it. But there were plenty of temptations. So, I had yearnings but a clear conscience and the trade-offs were worth it.
My wife paid for it at times, though. I remember one summer day after filling my eyes with Kristi’s bare soles splayed out by the poolside, I went indoors to find my wife – also bare foot - on her knees tidying the bedroom closet. She was in cut-offs and a denim halter-top, her soft, wrinkled soles facing me. We had had some sensuous tickling sessions lately but not a hard tickle for a month or so. For the next few minutes, her giggles and squeals filled the room as I took out my frustrations in a roughhouse tickling of her feet. After I finished, she lay panting on the floor. My tickling had slowed to a gentle caress that she had usually liked. Bending my head, I kissed her toes.
“I hope Kristi and the kids didn’t hear that,” she laughed. Then she added, “Why don’t you go out and tickle her instead? She’s got the kind of feet you like.” (How well she knew my tastes.) I could see immediately it wouldn’t bother her if I did tickle Kristi (she had already told me that she didn’t mind me tickling other women if it didn’t go further) but I shrugged off the suggestion.
“Too young for me,” I said.
And, so, it remained until the summer Kristi was twenty.
I came home from work one Friday afternoon looking forward to having some time alone. Em had taken the kids to a lakeside cabin with a friend and her daughter. I would have the rest of the weekend to myself. I changed for a swim, mixed myself a large martini (in my metal, “pool-only” martini glass), went out to the backyard – and stopped in my tracks. Kristi lay on her stomach on a large, green, canvas mattress we kept on the pool-deck. She had heard me open the pool gate and glanced over her shoulder.
“Hi,” she said cheerfully. “Em said it would be okay if I had a swim.”
“Of course,” I answered. But, instead of sitting next to her, which would have been the polite things to do, I deliberately chose a lounge-chair behind her. She had just finished her sophomore year of college. I had helped tutor her in History and English and we had developed a closer, adult relationship. She started calling me her “study-buddy” and credited her good grades to my help. I knew she regarded me as a friend. We talked of her courses for her junior year and her summer job at the Water-Park. As I sipped my drink, I devoured the sight of her bare feet, soles up, only a couple of yards away. They were mid-sized, high-arched, a bit wide, especially at the ball (which I always felt gave more tickling room) with cute, chubby toes. The soles seemed so soft, largely unwrinkled except for a few at the arch, and I longed to run my fingers over them.
I have never seen a pair of female feet without wondering how ticklish they were. And, as the martini warmed through me, melting my inhibitions, I knew that, after years of watching her poolside, I really wanted to tickle her feet - and I didn’t want to wait any longer.
I had the time; God knows, the motivation had been with me for years; and now I had the opportunity.
If this was a fantasy, I would have gone for her right then. But, since I am telling the story as it actually was, I had to deal with a couple of problems. First, she had unhooked her turquoise bikini top to get the sun full on her back and there was no way I was going to get into that sort of a problem. Second, although a lot of guys would disagree, I had to struggle a bit with my conscience. Sure, she was an adult now but she was also a family friend. And, behind all of my rationalizing ethics, I had to wonder if she would tell anyone – especially her parents. As I sat thinking, Kristi solved part of the problem by hooking her top back on and getting up to dive in the pool. While she swam, I went back in and mixed another drink. It wouldn’t help me think but it might steady my resolve.
By the time I got back in my chair, she had climbed out, toweled herself off and was laying down again. Her top stayed clipped which was a relief. She lay face down, chatting dreamily in the sun, as my eyes crawled slowly over every delicious inch of her smooth, bare soles. “I’ll start with the arches,” I thought. “That’s where Em is the most ticklish. Then I’ll try those cute, little toes.”
She lazily brought her legs together, her feet now side by side. I took a final drink for luck and put the glass firmly down. I stood up and knelt by the left side of her feet.
“You know, I’ve always wondered something,” I said.
Kristi didn’t stir. “What?” she asked.
I swung myself over both her ankles, pinning them against the mattress. “Just how ticklish you are!” I said – then I dug my fingers deep into her soles.
She shrieked, first with surprise and then in response to my fingers scrambling across her arches. She had a cute, squealing laugh that really suited her. She didn’t beg me to stop. She just kept laughing and saying, “Oh my God…Oh my God…!” over and over again.
She tried to pull her legs free but couldn’t. I realized I had some time to enjoy myself. I looked down and slowed the action of my fingers. Her skin was as soft as I thought, even bunched tight against the storm of tickling. I ran my fingers along the ridges of her wrinkles and then between them. Then with my left hand, I grabbed her toes firmly, pried them apart and put a wiggling finger against those soft, small pads.
She went crazy.
Screaming and panting with laughter, she pulled harder, trying to crawl out of the trap of my legs. Her left foot slipped up a bit and I realized I was going to lose my grip. My left hand shot back to her right ankle gripping hard and I started digging my fingers deep into the soft ticklishness of her sole. Finally, her other foot squeezed free but I kept her right one firmly down and I went to town on her.
I threw my full body-weight onto her ankle, my face only inches from her sole, my fingers digging between her sexy toes. Now her laughter had turned to pleading: “Please…Please…Please…!” I knew she wanted me to stop but there was no way I could. I kept tickling hard, almost in a frenzy. My eyes had tunneled down to the single, erotic image of her twisting, scrunching, bare foot and my own dancing fingers.
Then I noticed her tone had changed. She was now strongly begging me to quit and I thought maybe I had gone too far. I stopped tickling and turned towards her. Her shoulders were heaving and tears of laughter edged her eyes. I released her foot and she pulled it sharply away.
“Oh, damn,” I thought. “Now I’ve done it!”
She caught her breath. I noticed for the first time how developed she was under the heaving bikini top. She looked at me for a moment through her tousled blonde hair. I waited. Then she said something that – as fantasy-based as it sounds – was true and almost blew me away. She grinned and giggled, “You know…that wasn’t so bad! It’s a good thing we’re buddies.”
I paused, surprised. Then I quickly laughed, “Well, at least I found out how ticklish you are.” I couldn’t stand up without her noticing the bulge in my bathing suit. But, wanting to change the subject, I nodded toward the barbeque.
“I’m going to throw a steak on. Do you want to stay for dinner?”
“Sure….as long as you don’t tickle me all the time!”
I waved a hand. “Nah,” I said offhand, “not more than once an hour.”
She giggled again, stood up and dove into the pool. She thought my comment was a tease. I knew it was a promise.
The most striking thing about tickling Kristi was not how erotic I found it - that was no surprise at all – but how much she seemed to enjoy it. I noticed immediately how much friendlier she was to me, as if some ice had been broken. Our running together and my tutoring her had brought us closer but now, simply because of the tickling, she seemed warmer, even a bit flirtatious. Where I live, drinking is legal at 19, so I offered her a glass of wine and poured one for myself. I am a good cook but she teased me about it, criticizing the way I was making the salad, the short length of time I cooked the steaks – almost as if she was hoping I would tickle her again as a “punishment” for her comments. The teasing continued during dinner and through another glass of wine. After I cleaned up, I came back out to the pool. The sun was setting, the evening cooling down. She sat in a lounge chair, a short, white robe around her shoulders, her legs straight in front, her bare feet resting on a towel.
“You know,” she grinned, “You’re not a bad cook – I mean for an old man!”
This was deliberate and I realized she was asking for it. With my left arm, I swept her ankles into the air and tight against my sides. My right had went to her soles and she squealed again as I started tickling. The feeling of those soft soles was the same, the delight of her sexy feet was as erotic – but there was something different. She wasn’t struggling as much and her screams quickly subsided to giggles. Her feet were still twisting under my strokes, her toes still wiggling as my fingers probed between them, but she was no longer trying to get away. I turned and looked back at her. She was grinning in delight, giggling but only pretending to fight.
Still holding her ankles tight, I slowed the strokes of my right hand. Using only my index finger, I gently, lightly, and very slowly began tracing sensuous patterns from her toes to her heel. I have always loved watching my fingers glide over a woman’s foot and I carefully followed the route I was marking on the curve of her soles. Without taking my eyes off this picture, I said, “You don’t seem as ticklish as you were before.”
“I always used to think I was ticklish…And when you do it hard, it does tickle. But, the way you are doing it now….well, it…it really feels good.” Then she pulled her feet away and glanced to the upper deck. “I’m kinda cold…Could we use the hot tub?”
A short while later, we were both shoulder deep in the steaming water. I sat in a corner seat at the foot of the molded “lounge” chair that ran along one side. She sat in lounge, again with her feet towards me. We talked randomly for a while and then she lazily brought her left leg out of the water and propped her heel on the edge of the tub about twenty inches from my right shoulder. A droplet of water rolled glistening across her sole, outlining the curves of her arch. She slowly flexed her toes. The shadows were deepening and I hoped she didn’t see the hunger in my eyes. And then – truly - she spoke seven incredible words:
“Are you going to tickle me again?”
My mind went blank for a moment in sheer surprise – then I shifted closer to that inviting foot.
“As long as you do it slowly,” she warned.
I looked at those incredibly enticing toes only inches away. I wasn’t fool enough to spoil a chance like this. “Whatever you want,” I agreed. Then I reached out with my hands.
For the next ten minutes, first one foot then the other, I tickled every soft, moist inch of her soles, sides, tops and toes. It was one of the most erotic moments I have every experienced, one in which my entire body, my eyes, my hands, even my trembling mouth seemed totally focused on those soft, deliciously slippery, bare feet, glittering in the dancing reflection of the pool lights.
She seemed to like a single finger running slowly up and down her deep, curving arches. Her eyes would close and she would settle back against the edge of the tub, a wide, sweet smile on her face. But she particularly liked it when I tickled between her toes. Every time I started there, she would give a muffled giggle and spread them wide, helping me to tickle her. Every few minutes, she would pull one foot away and place the other on the edge of the tub and I would start fresh all over again.
But, at first, I just couldn’t get the courage to use my tongue.
Everything screamed for it: her willingness, her closeness, the warmth of the water, the darkness that surrounded us. I would like to be able to say that it was a moral decision but it wasn’t. It was not because she was 20 years younger than I was, nor because she was a family friend, nor because I loved my wife. I didn’t do it simply because I didn’t have the nerve. It was too sensual, too sexual, too much of a risk. But, God, I wanted to.
Finally, without knowing it, she made the decision for me. I was working on the ball of her left foot, tracing slow patterns over the soft, wet skin. She lifted her right foot up and I thought she was asking me to switch to that one. But instead of pulling back her left as before, she placed both feet side by side, her heels resting on the edge of the tub.
Then she spread all of her toes as wide as she could.
I couldn’t stop myself. I cradled both her ankles in my hands. My mouth went down on her toes and my tongue hungrily licked around them.
She uttered a long, slow “Mmmmmmm” and then she added dreamily, “Oh boy, I LIKE that!” Her eyes were still closed but her smile was wider than ever. The wetness of her feet made it all the more delicious. I sucked each toe individually, feeling the short-cut nails under my tongue. I roughly searched out the soft, ticklish skin between her toes almost as if I was entering her. I took long, deep licks across the ball of each sole and then went deep into her arches. She made a sound halfway between a squeal and a groan and pushed both her feet against my face. Reaching her heel, I ran my teeth lightly along the outer edge of her left foot and back to her toes. Shifting my position, I knelt on the edge of my seat. I let go of her ankles and started tickling the edges of her feet while my tongue probed, licked, and thrust between her toes. In the darkness, she whispered, “I am beginning to love it when you do this.”
Finally, it got too much. I didn’t know if she was getting turned on but I was ready to explode. The image of me stripping off her skimpy, wet bikini was becoming overpowering. I realized that I wanted her, not just her delicious feet but all of her…and I knew it was impossible. I am not a particularly good looking man and not especially confident with women. I never imagined that she could have a crush on me. So, I slowed, then stopped and suggested we have a swim to cool off.
After I dried off, I threw on an old sweatshirt and some shorts and went up to my study, overlooking the pool. As I poured a stiff brandy, I heard her come up the stairs. She had put on her short, toweled robe. Before I could say anything, she walked up to me and kissed me. I stared at her, stunned, then bent my head towards her. Her mouth opened and I felt the delicious, sensual shock of one of the deepest kisses I had ever experienced. I could feel her body moving under her robe and the heaviness of her breasts against my chest. I slid my left hand down to her bikini bottom and pushed her hips firmly against my own while my right hand slipped into her robe and started gently, lightly tickling her side. She squirmed with delight and her tongue went deeper into my mouth.
I realized I was about to make a fool of myself. She wasn’t in love with me and probably didn’t even have a crush. It was transference: for a year or so, I had been helping her and was the guy who seemed to have the answers and she was translating it in the only way she knew how. One of the toughest things I ever did was pull away from her but I managed it. She looked at me knowingly and gave me a brief smile.
“I know…We shouldn’t be doing this.”
I nodded, walking over to the bar. “I’m too old for you… and then…”
“Yeah…and there’s Em…and the kids.” She went over to the couch and sat down. “But we’re still friends…and you’re still going to be my study-buddy aren’t you?”
“Of course,” I said, taking another sip of brandy. I needed it to calm down.
She smiled impishly, stretching her legs out on the couch and spreading her toes. “Well then, maybe we could be tickle-buddies, too.” Seeing me hesitate, she added, “No one needs to know.”
I tickled her a number of times over the next two years, mostly slowly and sensuously but a couple of hard, fast, rough tickles as well, just for fun. She either openly requested it or made her feet so accessible it was clear what she wanted - and it was always when we were alone. Once, when she had made an appointment to get my help on a term paper, she walked into the study and - deliberately but without hurrying - unlaced her sneakers, pulled off her socks and – just as casually – dropped her bare feet into my lap. While I tickled her, she talked about the essay, pausing only when I bent my head to lick her toes. We hugged like friends but never kissed again.
Then, at the end of her senior year, she met the guy she eventually married and the requests for tickling stopped. When my wife and I split up, Kristi phoned to say how sorry she was and I still get cards at Christmas with pictures of herself, her husband and her three children. Perhaps it’s just coincidence but, in those pictures, she is always barefoot.
Even without the cards, the memory of what her feet looked and felt like is clear in my mind. And, of course, the taste of her toes still lingers on my tongue.
Kristi was cute rather than beautiful, dark blonde, short and quite sexy if a little inclined to plumpness at times. She was the daughter of a close neighborhood friend of my wife’s. As she grew older, her baby-fat rounded out but she often went on diets to keep her weight down. From the time she was sixteen, we would go running together four or five times a week when our schedules allowed it. Living near us, she was a natural babysitter for our children and was still doing it at 20 – at least from time to time. In her late teens, she got her Life Guard’s certificate and this became her summer job. We paid her to watch our children’s pool parties and she eventually came to regard our pool and hot tub as open to her on all warm days. As she was a family friend, this was fine with us. Often, over the years, I would come home to find her sunning herself or splashing in the pool with the kids or staying late for dinner.
I am both a tickler and a foot-lover and, given enough time for reflection with a good bottle of wine, I might one day work out which is paramount. It’s safe to say, however, that both are important to me and I noticed Kristi’s small but beautifully shaped feet the first time I met her. (Inside a house, she always went barefoot, even in winter.) But, although some may disagree with me, I have this ethic about not tickling underage girls. Tickling feet is, for me, a highly sexual act and I shied away from any temptations I encountered. I had my wife to consider and my profession and the difference between Kristi’s age and mine. Also, to be both practical and honest, I didn’t need the whole damn neighborhood knowing about it. But there were plenty of temptations. So, I had yearnings but a clear conscience and the trade-offs were worth it.
My wife paid for it at times, though. I remember one summer day after filling my eyes with Kristi’s bare soles splayed out by the poolside, I went indoors to find my wife – also bare foot - on her knees tidying the bedroom closet. She was in cut-offs and a denim halter-top, her soft, wrinkled soles facing me. We had had some sensuous tickling sessions lately but not a hard tickle for a month or so. For the next few minutes, her giggles and squeals filled the room as I took out my frustrations in a roughhouse tickling of her feet. After I finished, she lay panting on the floor. My tickling had slowed to a gentle caress that she had usually liked. Bending my head, I kissed her toes.
“I hope Kristi and the kids didn’t hear that,” she laughed. Then she added, “Why don’t you go out and tickle her instead? She’s got the kind of feet you like.” (How well she knew my tastes.) I could see immediately it wouldn’t bother her if I did tickle Kristi (she had already told me that she didn’t mind me tickling other women if it didn’t go further) but I shrugged off the suggestion.
“Too young for me,” I said.
And, so, it remained until the summer Kristi was twenty.
I came home from work one Friday afternoon looking forward to having some time alone. Em had taken the kids to a lakeside cabin with a friend and her daughter. I would have the rest of the weekend to myself. I changed for a swim, mixed myself a large martini (in my metal, “pool-only” martini glass), went out to the backyard – and stopped in my tracks. Kristi lay on her stomach on a large, green, canvas mattress we kept on the pool-deck. She had heard me open the pool gate and glanced over her shoulder.
“Hi,” she said cheerfully. “Em said it would be okay if I had a swim.”
“Of course,” I answered. But, instead of sitting next to her, which would have been the polite things to do, I deliberately chose a lounge-chair behind her. She had just finished her sophomore year of college. I had helped tutor her in History and English and we had developed a closer, adult relationship. She started calling me her “study-buddy” and credited her good grades to my help. I knew she regarded me as a friend. We talked of her courses for her junior year and her summer job at the Water-Park. As I sipped my drink, I devoured the sight of her bare feet, soles up, only a couple of yards away. They were mid-sized, high-arched, a bit wide, especially at the ball (which I always felt gave more tickling room) with cute, chubby toes. The soles seemed so soft, largely unwrinkled except for a few at the arch, and I longed to run my fingers over them.
I have never seen a pair of female feet without wondering how ticklish they were. And, as the martini warmed through me, melting my inhibitions, I knew that, after years of watching her poolside, I really wanted to tickle her feet - and I didn’t want to wait any longer.
I had the time; God knows, the motivation had been with me for years; and now I had the opportunity.
If this was a fantasy, I would have gone for her right then. But, since I am telling the story as it actually was, I had to deal with a couple of problems. First, she had unhooked her turquoise bikini top to get the sun full on her back and there was no way I was going to get into that sort of a problem. Second, although a lot of guys would disagree, I had to struggle a bit with my conscience. Sure, she was an adult now but she was also a family friend. And, behind all of my rationalizing ethics, I had to wonder if she would tell anyone – especially her parents. As I sat thinking, Kristi solved part of the problem by hooking her top back on and getting up to dive in the pool. While she swam, I went back in and mixed another drink. It wouldn’t help me think but it might steady my resolve.
By the time I got back in my chair, she had climbed out, toweled herself off and was laying down again. Her top stayed clipped which was a relief. She lay face down, chatting dreamily in the sun, as my eyes crawled slowly over every delicious inch of her smooth, bare soles. “I’ll start with the arches,” I thought. “That’s where Em is the most ticklish. Then I’ll try those cute, little toes.”
She lazily brought her legs together, her feet now side by side. I took a final drink for luck and put the glass firmly down. I stood up and knelt by the left side of her feet.
“You know, I’ve always wondered something,” I said.
Kristi didn’t stir. “What?” she asked.
I swung myself over both her ankles, pinning them against the mattress. “Just how ticklish you are!” I said – then I dug my fingers deep into her soles.
She shrieked, first with surprise and then in response to my fingers scrambling across her arches. She had a cute, squealing laugh that really suited her. She didn’t beg me to stop. She just kept laughing and saying, “Oh my God…Oh my God…!” over and over again.
She tried to pull her legs free but couldn’t. I realized I had some time to enjoy myself. I looked down and slowed the action of my fingers. Her skin was as soft as I thought, even bunched tight against the storm of tickling. I ran my fingers along the ridges of her wrinkles and then between them. Then with my left hand, I grabbed her toes firmly, pried them apart and put a wiggling finger against those soft, small pads.
She went crazy.
Screaming and panting with laughter, she pulled harder, trying to crawl out of the trap of my legs. Her left foot slipped up a bit and I realized I was going to lose my grip. My left hand shot back to her right ankle gripping hard and I started digging my fingers deep into the soft ticklishness of her sole. Finally, her other foot squeezed free but I kept her right one firmly down and I went to town on her.
I threw my full body-weight onto her ankle, my face only inches from her sole, my fingers digging between her sexy toes. Now her laughter had turned to pleading: “Please…Please…Please…!” I knew she wanted me to stop but there was no way I could. I kept tickling hard, almost in a frenzy. My eyes had tunneled down to the single, erotic image of her twisting, scrunching, bare foot and my own dancing fingers.
Then I noticed her tone had changed. She was now strongly begging me to quit and I thought maybe I had gone too far. I stopped tickling and turned towards her. Her shoulders were heaving and tears of laughter edged her eyes. I released her foot and she pulled it sharply away.
“Oh, damn,” I thought. “Now I’ve done it!”
She caught her breath. I noticed for the first time how developed she was under the heaving bikini top. She looked at me for a moment through her tousled blonde hair. I waited. Then she said something that – as fantasy-based as it sounds – was true and almost blew me away. She grinned and giggled, “You know…that wasn’t so bad! It’s a good thing we’re buddies.”
I paused, surprised. Then I quickly laughed, “Well, at least I found out how ticklish you are.” I couldn’t stand up without her noticing the bulge in my bathing suit. But, wanting to change the subject, I nodded toward the barbeque.
“I’m going to throw a steak on. Do you want to stay for dinner?”
“Sure….as long as you don’t tickle me all the time!”
I waved a hand. “Nah,” I said offhand, “not more than once an hour.”
She giggled again, stood up and dove into the pool. She thought my comment was a tease. I knew it was a promise.
The most striking thing about tickling Kristi was not how erotic I found it - that was no surprise at all – but how much she seemed to enjoy it. I noticed immediately how much friendlier she was to me, as if some ice had been broken. Our running together and my tutoring her had brought us closer but now, simply because of the tickling, she seemed warmer, even a bit flirtatious. Where I live, drinking is legal at 19, so I offered her a glass of wine and poured one for myself. I am a good cook but she teased me about it, criticizing the way I was making the salad, the short length of time I cooked the steaks – almost as if she was hoping I would tickle her again as a “punishment” for her comments. The teasing continued during dinner and through another glass of wine. After I cleaned up, I came back out to the pool. The sun was setting, the evening cooling down. She sat in a lounge chair, a short, white robe around her shoulders, her legs straight in front, her bare feet resting on a towel.
“You know,” she grinned, “You’re not a bad cook – I mean for an old man!”
This was deliberate and I realized she was asking for it. With my left arm, I swept her ankles into the air and tight against my sides. My right had went to her soles and she squealed again as I started tickling. The feeling of those soft soles was the same, the delight of her sexy feet was as erotic – but there was something different. She wasn’t struggling as much and her screams quickly subsided to giggles. Her feet were still twisting under my strokes, her toes still wiggling as my fingers probed between them, but she was no longer trying to get away. I turned and looked back at her. She was grinning in delight, giggling but only pretending to fight.
Still holding her ankles tight, I slowed the strokes of my right hand. Using only my index finger, I gently, lightly, and very slowly began tracing sensuous patterns from her toes to her heel. I have always loved watching my fingers glide over a woman’s foot and I carefully followed the route I was marking on the curve of her soles. Without taking my eyes off this picture, I said, “You don’t seem as ticklish as you were before.”
“I always used to think I was ticklish…And when you do it hard, it does tickle. But, the way you are doing it now….well, it…it really feels good.” Then she pulled her feet away and glanced to the upper deck. “I’m kinda cold…Could we use the hot tub?”
A short while later, we were both shoulder deep in the steaming water. I sat in a corner seat at the foot of the molded “lounge” chair that ran along one side. She sat in lounge, again with her feet towards me. We talked randomly for a while and then she lazily brought her left leg out of the water and propped her heel on the edge of the tub about twenty inches from my right shoulder. A droplet of water rolled glistening across her sole, outlining the curves of her arch. She slowly flexed her toes. The shadows were deepening and I hoped she didn’t see the hunger in my eyes. And then – truly - she spoke seven incredible words:
“Are you going to tickle me again?”
My mind went blank for a moment in sheer surprise – then I shifted closer to that inviting foot.
“As long as you do it slowly,” she warned.
I looked at those incredibly enticing toes only inches away. I wasn’t fool enough to spoil a chance like this. “Whatever you want,” I agreed. Then I reached out with my hands.
For the next ten minutes, first one foot then the other, I tickled every soft, moist inch of her soles, sides, tops and toes. It was one of the most erotic moments I have every experienced, one in which my entire body, my eyes, my hands, even my trembling mouth seemed totally focused on those soft, deliciously slippery, bare feet, glittering in the dancing reflection of the pool lights.
She seemed to like a single finger running slowly up and down her deep, curving arches. Her eyes would close and she would settle back against the edge of the tub, a wide, sweet smile on her face. But she particularly liked it when I tickled between her toes. Every time I started there, she would give a muffled giggle and spread them wide, helping me to tickle her. Every few minutes, she would pull one foot away and place the other on the edge of the tub and I would start fresh all over again.
But, at first, I just couldn’t get the courage to use my tongue.
Everything screamed for it: her willingness, her closeness, the warmth of the water, the darkness that surrounded us. I would like to be able to say that it was a moral decision but it wasn’t. It was not because she was 20 years younger than I was, nor because she was a family friend, nor because I loved my wife. I didn’t do it simply because I didn’t have the nerve. It was too sensual, too sexual, too much of a risk. But, God, I wanted to.
Finally, without knowing it, she made the decision for me. I was working on the ball of her left foot, tracing slow patterns over the soft, wet skin. She lifted her right foot up and I thought she was asking me to switch to that one. But instead of pulling back her left as before, she placed both feet side by side, her heels resting on the edge of the tub.
Then she spread all of her toes as wide as she could.
I couldn’t stop myself. I cradled both her ankles in my hands. My mouth went down on her toes and my tongue hungrily licked around them.
She uttered a long, slow “Mmmmmmm” and then she added dreamily, “Oh boy, I LIKE that!” Her eyes were still closed but her smile was wider than ever. The wetness of her feet made it all the more delicious. I sucked each toe individually, feeling the short-cut nails under my tongue. I roughly searched out the soft, ticklish skin between her toes almost as if I was entering her. I took long, deep licks across the ball of each sole and then went deep into her arches. She made a sound halfway between a squeal and a groan and pushed both her feet against my face. Reaching her heel, I ran my teeth lightly along the outer edge of her left foot and back to her toes. Shifting my position, I knelt on the edge of my seat. I let go of her ankles and started tickling the edges of her feet while my tongue probed, licked, and thrust between her toes. In the darkness, she whispered, “I am beginning to love it when you do this.”
Finally, it got too much. I didn’t know if she was getting turned on but I was ready to explode. The image of me stripping off her skimpy, wet bikini was becoming overpowering. I realized that I wanted her, not just her delicious feet but all of her…and I knew it was impossible. I am not a particularly good looking man and not especially confident with women. I never imagined that she could have a crush on me. So, I slowed, then stopped and suggested we have a swim to cool off.
After I dried off, I threw on an old sweatshirt and some shorts and went up to my study, overlooking the pool. As I poured a stiff brandy, I heard her come up the stairs. She had put on her short, toweled robe. Before I could say anything, she walked up to me and kissed me. I stared at her, stunned, then bent my head towards her. Her mouth opened and I felt the delicious, sensual shock of one of the deepest kisses I had ever experienced. I could feel her body moving under her robe and the heaviness of her breasts against my chest. I slid my left hand down to her bikini bottom and pushed her hips firmly against my own while my right hand slipped into her robe and started gently, lightly tickling her side. She squirmed with delight and her tongue went deeper into my mouth.
I realized I was about to make a fool of myself. She wasn’t in love with me and probably didn’t even have a crush. It was transference: for a year or so, I had been helping her and was the guy who seemed to have the answers and she was translating it in the only way she knew how. One of the toughest things I ever did was pull away from her but I managed it. She looked at me knowingly and gave me a brief smile.
“I know…We shouldn’t be doing this.”
I nodded, walking over to the bar. “I’m too old for you… and then…”
“Yeah…and there’s Em…and the kids.” She went over to the couch and sat down. “But we’re still friends…and you’re still going to be my study-buddy aren’t you?”
“Of course,” I said, taking another sip of brandy. I needed it to calm down.
She smiled impishly, stretching her legs out on the couch and spreading her toes. “Well then, maybe we could be tickle-buddies, too.” Seeing me hesitate, she added, “No one needs to know.”
I tickled her a number of times over the next two years, mostly slowly and sensuously but a couple of hard, fast, rough tickles as well, just for fun. She either openly requested it or made her feet so accessible it was clear what she wanted - and it was always when we were alone. Once, when she had made an appointment to get my help on a term paper, she walked into the study and - deliberately but without hurrying - unlaced her sneakers, pulled off her socks and – just as casually – dropped her bare feet into my lap. While I tickled her, she talked about the essay, pausing only when I bent my head to lick her toes. We hugged like friends but never kissed again.
Then, at the end of her senior year, she met the guy she eventually married and the requests for tickling stopped. When my wife and I split up, Kristi phoned to say how sorry she was and I still get cards at Christmas with pictures of herself, her husband and her three children. Perhaps it’s just coincidence but, in those pictures, she is always barefoot.
Even without the cards, the memory of what her feet looked and felt like is clear in my mind. And, of course, the taste of her toes still lingers on my tongue.
