kibdos
TMF Novice
- Joined
- Aug 29, 2002
- Messages
- 63
- Points
- 1
Tickling A Family Friend
This story is true although I realize, in hindsight, it has the some of the hallmarks of fantasy. It was my first and deepest experience with an older woman. I am not going to lie about it or even distort it because it was – and remains - too important a moment in my life. It’s a long story but, because it was an entire incident, I am not going to break it into two parts. If you are a devoted tickler, you have experienced that one, first BIG tickle. If you have ever had a drink, you have experienced that first time when a bit too much led you to indiscretion. This was such a time for both.
When I was young, especially in my early teens in the innocent ‘50’s, I had two goals as far as females and feet went: first, to tickle as many women as many times as possible and, second, not to get caught and labeled a pervert. Obviously, the two goals were always at odds, sometimes clashed and usually resulted in one overpowering the other. I backed off some potentially arousing tickles because I estimated the risks as too great but I also took some chances that, while they came off, left me – in later years – shaking my head at the gamble. Carol was such a chance.
She was a friend of my mother’s, in her late 30’s when I was in my teens, a former associate in an accounting firm who had stayed a friend after my mother stopped working. She was divorced, which, at that time and place, was much rarer than now. While it hardly labeled her a “scarlet woman”, it did make her intriguing - as if her high arched feet hadn’t all ready caught my notice. I met her first when I was eight or nine and, by the time I was in my early teens, her presence around the house was common. She had very large, brown eyes and soft, short-cut dark hair that framed an oval face. She helped us move into our new place and remained a delicious memory spending the day on her knees in bare feet and tight, black Capri pants unpacking boxes and cleaning woodwork. I had plenty of chances to look closely at her soles but too many people were around so tickling was out of the question. Had I thought about it, I would have realized I had a crush on her but the difference in our ages drove this awareness to the back of my mind.
One day, however, when I was fifteen, both Carol and a great opportunity came knocking at the same door. My parents were skiing for the entire weekend and I was on my own. Carol had promised them that she would “look in on me to make sure I was all right”. Like any growing kid, I resented being treated like a baby but I stopped arguing when I was told Carol would be doing the checking. Friday passed quietly enough but on a snowy Saturday afternoon, the doorbell chimed. I opened the door and Carol stood there, in boots and a heavy jacket with a casserole dish in her hands.
“Dinner’s served!” she laughed and came in, shaking the snow out of her dark hair. I noticed how naturally beautiful she looked and how young. The cold made her skin glow with health. (Ever since then, I have always been a sucker for outgoing, cute, brown-eyed brunettes.)
Then I got my first disappointment. Her boots came off in the hallway but underneath were thick, ugly, gray socks. No joy there: I wasn’t even going to get a chance to see her feet tonight, I thought. I knew I would never have the nerve to take her socks off myself. The first thing she would do was tell my parents all about it. I was grateful for a nice meal (at that point, my cooking skills didn’t run beyond hamburgers) but I was deeply disappointed.
She busied herself in the kitchen while I built up the fire in the living room. I was – and still am – a voracious reader so I lay on the floor by the fireplace trying to bury my frustrations in a book. She chatted cheerfully from the kitchen and I answered politely but let her carry the conversation. I was surprised at my reaction. I didn’t really know I would be this disappointed but I had pictured my Saturday night filled with images of her bare or nylon-clad feet and I suppose I had overdone it. Damn the snow, I thought.
She came into the room with a cheery, “Dinner will be ready in half an hour.” I thanked her and kept focused on my book. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her hands: They were holding something and, as I watched spellbound, those two lovely hands neatly placed on the stones in front of the fireplace two…thick…ugly…gray socks. The hands patted the socks flat and left them side-by-side.
I flushed hot, not just in my groin, but all over. Fate, luck or whatever had turned around and given me, not a slap in the face, but a broad grin and a wink. I couldn’t believe it.
“My boots leak,” she said, obviously feeling no other explanation was necessary.
I turned around. Carol was kneeling in front of the fireplace. She wore a loose, white turtleneck sweater and black pants with stirrup straps around her feet – her now very bare feet.
There was the expensive clink of ice against good crystal. She placed a wide, stubby glass of whisky next to her socks. My father wouldn’t mind her having a drink but I knew he would resent her putting ice in his best single malt Scotch. I also noticed that the glass was very full.
“Are you allowed to drink?”
“A glass of wine on Saturday night,” I said.
“Well, it’s Saturday. Why don’t you join me?”
This was long before kegs were invented but there was a half-bottle of Beaujolais in the cabinet so I uncorked it and poured a glass. (Yes, I know I should have allowed time for the wine to breathe but, with those bare feet so close, I was having enough trouble breathing myself. To hell with the wine.) Coming back into the living room, I noticed two things: her glass was now half empty and her bare feet were on the hearth, her toes spread to catch the warmth. I lay down and tried to pretend I was reading.
The foot closest to me was beautiful in the flickering half-light, the skin turned golden by the flames, the red polish reflecting the fire every time she curled her toes. Her toes were not “perfect” but very sexy, small, chubby, curling into separate soft pads, falling in a curving arch from her big toe. The ball was wide and smooth, except for a deep crease running from the middle of her arch to between her big and second toe. The arch under the stirrup strap was deep and shadowed with the ridges and valleys of soft wrinkles spreading from her heel. The side of her foot was a fleshy and rounded and I wondered how it would feel to run a single finger slowly down those curves. Most of my tickling had been with older women and all of it rough, fast, deep tickling that left most of them gasping. For the first time in my young life, I thought not of hard tickling but of caressing a foot, tickling it lightly, tracing the flow of curves and lines with a gentle, tickling finger…making love to it, in fact. It was a new feeling and very powerful.
She asked me about my book and we talked about that and school and going to university afterwards. And, all the while, I watched her feet flexing slowly and sensuously in the light and my desire to reach out – just once – and tickle them became overwhelming. If I wasn’t actually drooling from my mouth, I suppose it showed in my eyes.
Suddenly she pulled her feet back and stood up.
“I’d like a refill,” she said quickly. “How about you?”
I shrugged. One more wasn’t going to make a difference. “Why not?”
She went to the bar and came back with both glasses brimming. Sitting down this time, she placed her left ankle on top of her right, giving me a full view of the sole of her left foot. The elastic strap was now looped around the back of her heel. We talked some more and, lying less than an arm’s length from those feet, I decided if I didn’t tickle her now I might not get a chance later. I moved my glass away from me and waited for her to put her Scotch down. I didn’t want a spilled drink to put an end to it all.
What I didn’t know was that she was watching me quietly over the rim of her glass.
She arched her left foot lazily and slowly spread her toes in the warmth. It was a show but I never learned if it was deliberate. My eyes lingered hungrily on her foot – far too hungrily, far too long. I heard her voice over my shoulder:
“Do my feet bother you?”
I had been caught.
I had two choices: to duck the question or approach it head on. It must have been the wine or – more likely - the fact that I knew she was on her second double Scotch. I decided to risk everything. I turned and looked at her directly.
“Well, I don’t know if “bother” is the right word.” She had put her glass down and was sitting back, her arms propping her up. I nodded at her feet. “They’re very pretty.” Then I stretched out my left hand and deliberately – slowly – ran it down her arch.
I had expected her to pull it away with a squeal. Nothing of the sort. Her eyes closed and her head went back. A low moan came from her, half shudder, half giggle. Then she looked at me again. “Now,” she said quietly, “that was nice!” She paused for a moment and then added, “You know, I was hoping you’d do that.”
I heaved myself beside her feet. Out of habit, I grasped her ankle to keep her from pulling away but I soon found I didn’t need to. My fingers started tickling her left sole…gently, slowly. Her eyes closed again and her toes spread apart, inviting me to go between them. She giggled and bit her lip.
In a low, almost whispery voice she said, “That tickles…but, boy, does it feel good!”
“I’m glad you like it,” I said thickly. I was surprised that I could talk at all.
I got to my knees. Realizing she wasn’t struggling, I let go of her ankle. She placed both feet side by side. I slipped the other stirrup strap behind her heel and let my hands glide over her bare soles, lightly, gently…Her head back, her eyes closed, her mouth open - if ever I saw a woman in ecstasy, Carol was one. Her bare feet were suddenly two sexual instruments that I played carefully. Never before had I been so conscious of my finger tips and the electric charge that came from running them over the softness of a woman’s bare feet. I felt a power and a sexuality that I had never experienced before.
All the things that had governed my earlier tickling experiences disappeared: holding the woman down, trying to tickle against her struggling and kicking, her squeals of protest and her eventual escape from my grasp. Don’t misunderstand: I love a hard struggle as much as any tickler but here, for the first time, was a woman I didn’t have to hold at all, who wanted my hands on her feet and whose shuddering reactions I was finding as erotic as laughter.
I took my eyes off her cute face and looked down. Her feet were arched backwards, her toes spread wider than any woman’s I had ever seen, as if she was trying to expose every possible inch of skin to my tickling hands. She looked like a cat begging to be stroked. I took my index finger and thumb of each hand and placed them on the soft, curving outer edges of her feet by her heel. Slowly, with careful delicacy, I slid them up towards her toes. For the first time, a loud, drawn-out “Ooooohh!” broke from her. Her whole body arched and shuddered. I dragged my hands slowly back down to her heel, this time letting my others fingers run lightly over the tops of her feet. She uttered a low, satisfied laugh. “You’re good at this.” God, I thought, she likes it as much on the top as she does on the soles.
For the next few minutes, from her ankles to the tops of her rounded, neatly trimmed toes, I explored the part of a woman’s foot that I had never tickled before. As I was teasing the skin around her anklebone, she picked up her glass and took a long drink. Then she replaced the glass and lay back slowly, her head resting on her upraised arms, totally surrendering to the white fire licking around her feet.
I began concentrating on the baby toe of her right foot. Holding it back with my left hand, I tickled it with a single finger. When I had done enough to get her used to the feeling, I moved to the next toe – and then the next. Each time I started tickling on a new toe, she would jerk spasmodically and her low, moaning purr would change to a brief giggle. She seemed to particularly like having her big toe tickled and I was using all my fingers on it when the sharp “Ding!” of the oven timer cut through the room.
Dreamily, she said, “Dinner’s ready…”. There was a long pause. I started tickling her again but she sat up. “I guess we should eat,” she said and pulled her feet away.
She was quiet throughout dinner. We talked, but about nothing much. I thought she was angry with me or, at least, upset for the tickling had been very intimate. Perhaps she thought I had gone too far. The casserole was excellent but a growing fear made it taste like cardboard in my mouth. “Oh Hell,” I thought, “What is she going to say to my parents?” I couldn’t help noticing, however, that during dinner she had another Scotch. I finished the half-bottle of Beaujolais. My nervousness made me need it.
She made the dinner so I volunteered to clean up. I admit I was also trying to get on her good side. I decided I was going to ask her not to tell my parents. I didn’t want to use the word “beg” but I was prepared to do that if I had to. The dishes were quickly done. Now, I thought, we are going to have to talk. Cinching up my courage, I went back to the living room.
She had built up the fire, dimmed the reading light, refilled her glass and, lying on her back in front of the fireplace, had placed a cushion under her ankles.
My God, she wants it again!
She heard me walk up to her.
“Hi,” she said sleepily. She lazily picked up her glass and drank.
“Hi,” I replied. That seemed to say it all. I lay down flat and started where I had left off: the baby toe of her left foot. At my first touch, she gave a very friendly, encouraging moan. It gave me the confidence to continue. But as I tickled her, another image kept pushing its way into my thoughts.
A year ago, while tickling a friend’s mother, I realized I wanted to lick her toes. Of course, I never got the nerve. Last summer, during an very brief romance with a girl my own age, I tried kissing her toes. She pulled her foot away, called me a weirdo, and that had ended that. It also reinforced my self-image as a guy totally alone in his desire for female feet, an outsider at whom others would laugh or sneer.
I realize that, in the 21st Century, it is very easy for a younger generation to deride these feelings. But, even in the wild 60’s, foot tickling wasn’t considered mainstream. Hell, in the sexual river, it wasn’t even a tributary. And this was the 50’s. “Let it all hang out” and “Go for it!” were phrases that hadn’t been invented and hardly ever practiced.
And I was only fifteen years old. And this was an older woman.
But, as my fingers tickled the soft skin between her spreading toes, as my face got closer and closer to those delicious feet, I very much wanted to replace those fingers with my tongue.
She stirred and sat up. She picked up her glass, drained it and lay back down again. That was three…no, four glasses, I thought…almost half a bottle. I looked down again. The toes of her left foot were spread wide, only a few inches from my mouth. Today, it might be easy to laugh at me but I admit I was shaking – with nerves and desire. Her feet were so close, I could smell the soft perfume of leather and sweat; I could see every line and pore on her toes. My hands slipped around and started tickling the sides of her left foot. Still tickling, I bent my head and gently kissed her big toe. I heard the hiss of her drawn-in breath but she lay still. One by one, I kissed her other toes, feeling the softness of her skin on my lips…then I placed my tongue under her big toe and licked upward.
She uttered a deep, satisfied groan and spread her toes even wider. I started licking hard in between and around each toe, across the wide ball and then down deep into her arch. I scrambled to my knees and pulled her foot against my face, licking and kissing her sole. Glancing up, I saw her eyes were closed, her mouth was open and her back was arched. Unconsciously, she was grinding her hips into the deep carpet. I put her foot down in my lap and hungrily grabbed her other, my left hand cradling her ankle, my right tickling the side of her arch, my tongue lashing, washing and lapping around her toes. I wasn’t just tickling her foot; I was making love to it. And I was losing control.
I don’t know how long I kept it up. Looking back, I was probably pushing my groin against her left foot but I don’t remember it. All I saw was that incredibly sexy foot under my eyes; all I felt was the unbelievable softness of her bare sole under my tongue; all I remember was wanting those feet more than I had ever wanted anything in my life.
“Maybe we’d better stop.”
Her voice – still soft – cut across my passion like a knife. I paused and looked up. She had raised herself on her elbows and was looking gently at me. No anger was in her eyes, only concern. I became aware of the room again and the fireplace and her left foot resting against the bulge in my jeans. I realized I was breathing hard. The firelight glinted off her bare sole, wet with my saliva.
Gently, I put her foot down. She got to her knees, reached for her socks and left the room. I was still shaking. When she came back, her jacket was on. She went into the hall and pulled on her boots. Then she looked at me.
“I’m going to walk home. It’ll do me good – you know – clear my head.” She smiled and came over to me. She kissed my cheek. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “It was all my fault. I was lonely…and it just felt so good…” She paused, trying to find words. Then she said, “Please, don’t tell your parents. I feel I’ve betrayed their trust. Please.”
I shook my head. “I wouldn’t think of it,” I answered. Then I added, “You see, maybe we both have something to hide.” She gave me a quiet smile and left.
I still saw her from time to time but I was never able to tickle her again. Later she remarried – which wasn’t surprising – and moved to Seattle. My mother still writes to her. As for me, I have never forgotten her or the gift she gave me.
This story is true although I realize, in hindsight, it has the some of the hallmarks of fantasy. It was my first and deepest experience with an older woman. I am not going to lie about it or even distort it because it was – and remains - too important a moment in my life. It’s a long story but, because it was an entire incident, I am not going to break it into two parts. If you are a devoted tickler, you have experienced that one, first BIG tickle. If you have ever had a drink, you have experienced that first time when a bit too much led you to indiscretion. This was such a time for both.
When I was young, especially in my early teens in the innocent ‘50’s, I had two goals as far as females and feet went: first, to tickle as many women as many times as possible and, second, not to get caught and labeled a pervert. Obviously, the two goals were always at odds, sometimes clashed and usually resulted in one overpowering the other. I backed off some potentially arousing tickles because I estimated the risks as too great but I also took some chances that, while they came off, left me – in later years – shaking my head at the gamble. Carol was such a chance.
She was a friend of my mother’s, in her late 30’s when I was in my teens, a former associate in an accounting firm who had stayed a friend after my mother stopped working. She was divorced, which, at that time and place, was much rarer than now. While it hardly labeled her a “scarlet woman”, it did make her intriguing - as if her high arched feet hadn’t all ready caught my notice. I met her first when I was eight or nine and, by the time I was in my early teens, her presence around the house was common. She had very large, brown eyes and soft, short-cut dark hair that framed an oval face. She helped us move into our new place and remained a delicious memory spending the day on her knees in bare feet and tight, black Capri pants unpacking boxes and cleaning woodwork. I had plenty of chances to look closely at her soles but too many people were around so tickling was out of the question. Had I thought about it, I would have realized I had a crush on her but the difference in our ages drove this awareness to the back of my mind.
One day, however, when I was fifteen, both Carol and a great opportunity came knocking at the same door. My parents were skiing for the entire weekend and I was on my own. Carol had promised them that she would “look in on me to make sure I was all right”. Like any growing kid, I resented being treated like a baby but I stopped arguing when I was told Carol would be doing the checking. Friday passed quietly enough but on a snowy Saturday afternoon, the doorbell chimed. I opened the door and Carol stood there, in boots and a heavy jacket with a casserole dish in her hands.
“Dinner’s served!” she laughed and came in, shaking the snow out of her dark hair. I noticed how naturally beautiful she looked and how young. The cold made her skin glow with health. (Ever since then, I have always been a sucker for outgoing, cute, brown-eyed brunettes.)
Then I got my first disappointment. Her boots came off in the hallway but underneath were thick, ugly, gray socks. No joy there: I wasn’t even going to get a chance to see her feet tonight, I thought. I knew I would never have the nerve to take her socks off myself. The first thing she would do was tell my parents all about it. I was grateful for a nice meal (at that point, my cooking skills didn’t run beyond hamburgers) but I was deeply disappointed.
She busied herself in the kitchen while I built up the fire in the living room. I was – and still am – a voracious reader so I lay on the floor by the fireplace trying to bury my frustrations in a book. She chatted cheerfully from the kitchen and I answered politely but let her carry the conversation. I was surprised at my reaction. I didn’t really know I would be this disappointed but I had pictured my Saturday night filled with images of her bare or nylon-clad feet and I suppose I had overdone it. Damn the snow, I thought.
She came into the room with a cheery, “Dinner will be ready in half an hour.” I thanked her and kept focused on my book. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her hands: They were holding something and, as I watched spellbound, those two lovely hands neatly placed on the stones in front of the fireplace two…thick…ugly…gray socks. The hands patted the socks flat and left them side-by-side.
I flushed hot, not just in my groin, but all over. Fate, luck or whatever had turned around and given me, not a slap in the face, but a broad grin and a wink. I couldn’t believe it.
“My boots leak,” she said, obviously feeling no other explanation was necessary.
I turned around. Carol was kneeling in front of the fireplace. She wore a loose, white turtleneck sweater and black pants with stirrup straps around her feet – her now very bare feet.
There was the expensive clink of ice against good crystal. She placed a wide, stubby glass of whisky next to her socks. My father wouldn’t mind her having a drink but I knew he would resent her putting ice in his best single malt Scotch. I also noticed that the glass was very full.
“Are you allowed to drink?”
“A glass of wine on Saturday night,” I said.
“Well, it’s Saturday. Why don’t you join me?”
This was long before kegs were invented but there was a half-bottle of Beaujolais in the cabinet so I uncorked it and poured a glass. (Yes, I know I should have allowed time for the wine to breathe but, with those bare feet so close, I was having enough trouble breathing myself. To hell with the wine.) Coming back into the living room, I noticed two things: her glass was now half empty and her bare feet were on the hearth, her toes spread to catch the warmth. I lay down and tried to pretend I was reading.
The foot closest to me was beautiful in the flickering half-light, the skin turned golden by the flames, the red polish reflecting the fire every time she curled her toes. Her toes were not “perfect” but very sexy, small, chubby, curling into separate soft pads, falling in a curving arch from her big toe. The ball was wide and smooth, except for a deep crease running from the middle of her arch to between her big and second toe. The arch under the stirrup strap was deep and shadowed with the ridges and valleys of soft wrinkles spreading from her heel. The side of her foot was a fleshy and rounded and I wondered how it would feel to run a single finger slowly down those curves. Most of my tickling had been with older women and all of it rough, fast, deep tickling that left most of them gasping. For the first time in my young life, I thought not of hard tickling but of caressing a foot, tickling it lightly, tracing the flow of curves and lines with a gentle, tickling finger…making love to it, in fact. It was a new feeling and very powerful.
She asked me about my book and we talked about that and school and going to university afterwards. And, all the while, I watched her feet flexing slowly and sensuously in the light and my desire to reach out – just once – and tickle them became overwhelming. If I wasn’t actually drooling from my mouth, I suppose it showed in my eyes.
Suddenly she pulled her feet back and stood up.
“I’d like a refill,” she said quickly. “How about you?”
I shrugged. One more wasn’t going to make a difference. “Why not?”
She went to the bar and came back with both glasses brimming. Sitting down this time, she placed her left ankle on top of her right, giving me a full view of the sole of her left foot. The elastic strap was now looped around the back of her heel. We talked some more and, lying less than an arm’s length from those feet, I decided if I didn’t tickle her now I might not get a chance later. I moved my glass away from me and waited for her to put her Scotch down. I didn’t want a spilled drink to put an end to it all.
What I didn’t know was that she was watching me quietly over the rim of her glass.
She arched her left foot lazily and slowly spread her toes in the warmth. It was a show but I never learned if it was deliberate. My eyes lingered hungrily on her foot – far too hungrily, far too long. I heard her voice over my shoulder:
“Do my feet bother you?”
I had been caught.
I had two choices: to duck the question or approach it head on. It must have been the wine or – more likely - the fact that I knew she was on her second double Scotch. I decided to risk everything. I turned and looked at her directly.
“Well, I don’t know if “bother” is the right word.” She had put her glass down and was sitting back, her arms propping her up. I nodded at her feet. “They’re very pretty.” Then I stretched out my left hand and deliberately – slowly – ran it down her arch.
I had expected her to pull it away with a squeal. Nothing of the sort. Her eyes closed and her head went back. A low moan came from her, half shudder, half giggle. Then she looked at me again. “Now,” she said quietly, “that was nice!” She paused for a moment and then added, “You know, I was hoping you’d do that.”
I heaved myself beside her feet. Out of habit, I grasped her ankle to keep her from pulling away but I soon found I didn’t need to. My fingers started tickling her left sole…gently, slowly. Her eyes closed again and her toes spread apart, inviting me to go between them. She giggled and bit her lip.
In a low, almost whispery voice she said, “That tickles…but, boy, does it feel good!”
“I’m glad you like it,” I said thickly. I was surprised that I could talk at all.
I got to my knees. Realizing she wasn’t struggling, I let go of her ankle. She placed both feet side by side. I slipped the other stirrup strap behind her heel and let my hands glide over her bare soles, lightly, gently…Her head back, her eyes closed, her mouth open - if ever I saw a woman in ecstasy, Carol was one. Her bare feet were suddenly two sexual instruments that I played carefully. Never before had I been so conscious of my finger tips and the electric charge that came from running them over the softness of a woman’s bare feet. I felt a power and a sexuality that I had never experienced before.
All the things that had governed my earlier tickling experiences disappeared: holding the woman down, trying to tickle against her struggling and kicking, her squeals of protest and her eventual escape from my grasp. Don’t misunderstand: I love a hard struggle as much as any tickler but here, for the first time, was a woman I didn’t have to hold at all, who wanted my hands on her feet and whose shuddering reactions I was finding as erotic as laughter.
I took my eyes off her cute face and looked down. Her feet were arched backwards, her toes spread wider than any woman’s I had ever seen, as if she was trying to expose every possible inch of skin to my tickling hands. She looked like a cat begging to be stroked. I took my index finger and thumb of each hand and placed them on the soft, curving outer edges of her feet by her heel. Slowly, with careful delicacy, I slid them up towards her toes. For the first time, a loud, drawn-out “Ooooohh!” broke from her. Her whole body arched and shuddered. I dragged my hands slowly back down to her heel, this time letting my others fingers run lightly over the tops of her feet. She uttered a low, satisfied laugh. “You’re good at this.” God, I thought, she likes it as much on the top as she does on the soles.
For the next few minutes, from her ankles to the tops of her rounded, neatly trimmed toes, I explored the part of a woman’s foot that I had never tickled before. As I was teasing the skin around her anklebone, she picked up her glass and took a long drink. Then she replaced the glass and lay back slowly, her head resting on her upraised arms, totally surrendering to the white fire licking around her feet.
I began concentrating on the baby toe of her right foot. Holding it back with my left hand, I tickled it with a single finger. When I had done enough to get her used to the feeling, I moved to the next toe – and then the next. Each time I started tickling on a new toe, she would jerk spasmodically and her low, moaning purr would change to a brief giggle. She seemed to particularly like having her big toe tickled and I was using all my fingers on it when the sharp “Ding!” of the oven timer cut through the room.
Dreamily, she said, “Dinner’s ready…”. There was a long pause. I started tickling her again but she sat up. “I guess we should eat,” she said and pulled her feet away.
She was quiet throughout dinner. We talked, but about nothing much. I thought she was angry with me or, at least, upset for the tickling had been very intimate. Perhaps she thought I had gone too far. The casserole was excellent but a growing fear made it taste like cardboard in my mouth. “Oh Hell,” I thought, “What is she going to say to my parents?” I couldn’t help noticing, however, that during dinner she had another Scotch. I finished the half-bottle of Beaujolais. My nervousness made me need it.
She made the dinner so I volunteered to clean up. I admit I was also trying to get on her good side. I decided I was going to ask her not to tell my parents. I didn’t want to use the word “beg” but I was prepared to do that if I had to. The dishes were quickly done. Now, I thought, we are going to have to talk. Cinching up my courage, I went back to the living room.
She had built up the fire, dimmed the reading light, refilled her glass and, lying on her back in front of the fireplace, had placed a cushion under her ankles.
My God, she wants it again!
She heard me walk up to her.
“Hi,” she said sleepily. She lazily picked up her glass and drank.
“Hi,” I replied. That seemed to say it all. I lay down flat and started where I had left off: the baby toe of her left foot. At my first touch, she gave a very friendly, encouraging moan. It gave me the confidence to continue. But as I tickled her, another image kept pushing its way into my thoughts.
A year ago, while tickling a friend’s mother, I realized I wanted to lick her toes. Of course, I never got the nerve. Last summer, during an very brief romance with a girl my own age, I tried kissing her toes. She pulled her foot away, called me a weirdo, and that had ended that. It also reinforced my self-image as a guy totally alone in his desire for female feet, an outsider at whom others would laugh or sneer.
I realize that, in the 21st Century, it is very easy for a younger generation to deride these feelings. But, even in the wild 60’s, foot tickling wasn’t considered mainstream. Hell, in the sexual river, it wasn’t even a tributary. And this was the 50’s. “Let it all hang out” and “Go for it!” were phrases that hadn’t been invented and hardly ever practiced.
And I was only fifteen years old. And this was an older woman.
But, as my fingers tickled the soft skin between her spreading toes, as my face got closer and closer to those delicious feet, I very much wanted to replace those fingers with my tongue.
She stirred and sat up. She picked up her glass, drained it and lay back down again. That was three…no, four glasses, I thought…almost half a bottle. I looked down again. The toes of her left foot were spread wide, only a few inches from my mouth. Today, it might be easy to laugh at me but I admit I was shaking – with nerves and desire. Her feet were so close, I could smell the soft perfume of leather and sweat; I could see every line and pore on her toes. My hands slipped around and started tickling the sides of her left foot. Still tickling, I bent my head and gently kissed her big toe. I heard the hiss of her drawn-in breath but she lay still. One by one, I kissed her other toes, feeling the softness of her skin on my lips…then I placed my tongue under her big toe and licked upward.
She uttered a deep, satisfied groan and spread her toes even wider. I started licking hard in between and around each toe, across the wide ball and then down deep into her arch. I scrambled to my knees and pulled her foot against my face, licking and kissing her sole. Glancing up, I saw her eyes were closed, her mouth was open and her back was arched. Unconsciously, she was grinding her hips into the deep carpet. I put her foot down in my lap and hungrily grabbed her other, my left hand cradling her ankle, my right tickling the side of her arch, my tongue lashing, washing and lapping around her toes. I wasn’t just tickling her foot; I was making love to it. And I was losing control.
I don’t know how long I kept it up. Looking back, I was probably pushing my groin against her left foot but I don’t remember it. All I saw was that incredibly sexy foot under my eyes; all I felt was the unbelievable softness of her bare sole under my tongue; all I remember was wanting those feet more than I had ever wanted anything in my life.
“Maybe we’d better stop.”
Her voice – still soft – cut across my passion like a knife. I paused and looked up. She had raised herself on her elbows and was looking gently at me. No anger was in her eyes, only concern. I became aware of the room again and the fireplace and her left foot resting against the bulge in my jeans. I realized I was breathing hard. The firelight glinted off her bare sole, wet with my saliva.
Gently, I put her foot down. She got to her knees, reached for her socks and left the room. I was still shaking. When she came back, her jacket was on. She went into the hall and pulled on her boots. Then she looked at me.
“I’m going to walk home. It’ll do me good – you know – clear my head.” She smiled and came over to me. She kissed my cheek. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “It was all my fault. I was lonely…and it just felt so good…” She paused, trying to find words. Then she said, “Please, don’t tell your parents. I feel I’ve betrayed their trust. Please.”
I shook my head. “I wouldn’t think of it,” I answered. Then I added, “You see, maybe we both have something to hide.” She gave me a quiet smile and left.
I still saw her from time to time but I was never able to tickle her again. Later she remarried – which wasn’t surprising – and moved to Seattle. My mother still writes to her. As for me, I have never forgotten her or the gift she gave me.
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