kibdos
TMF Novice
- Joined
- Aug 29, 2002
- Messages
- 63
- Points
- 1
Like all my stories, this is completely true.
For me, women’s feet and tickling have always been intertwined, a mutual passion. Together with the desire, came the guilt and the feeling that I was alone: the only one who was this way. All my friends talked about girls – of course, so did I – but tickling never came into it nor did their feet. I developed the strong conviction that I was weird and was determined to keep my mouth shut about my desires.
I indulged myself whenever I could though, particularly with my older cousin, Ellen. Oddly, I wasn’t interested in tickling girls my own age until my mid-teens. I got crushes and “fell in love” often enough but my interests in feet and tickling seemed focused on older women: cousins, aunts, and neighbors – especially neighbors. And every time I fantasized, I pictured tickling the bare feet of an older woman.
I realize that these women were mostly in their mid-thirties then – hardly what I would call “old” today at 56 – but they all seemed old when I was 18. This was in the late ‘50’s and most of the mothers I knew were homemakers. In other words, when I dropped in to see my friends, I could be almost sure that the mothers were around somewhere or soon would be. A few were unattractive or, at least, commonplace or with harsh personalities but most were friendly and I had the ability to connect with adults and talk about things other than just “kid-stuff”.
Mrs. Kerran was high on my list as a target for I knew her best and, although she rarely went barefoot, she always wore open-toed, backless slippers that would be no problem removing. One of the ironies of life, however, is the fact that I never got a chance to tickle her until my early twenties. By that time, I had scored with four others in the neighborhood and had started a foot- tickling affair with another neighbor who was to become my future mother-in-law.
But, when I was 18, Mrs. Campbell - the mother of a very close friend - was my first big tickle among the neighbors.
She certainly was the youngest of the mothers as well as the prettiest with short, dark hair and a full figure. Her feet were what I noticed most though: they were small and wide with very high arches and short, almost chubby toes, which had always turned me on. Around the house, she wore backless fuzzy slippers, or flat “slip-on” types shoes. Once in awhile she wore only socks and, in the summer, I had seen her barefoot on more than one occasion.
The problem was that, every time I was there, so was her son, and - in order to tickle her - I had to get her alone. I was also terrified that she would tell everyone that I had tickled her. This fear is something I have never gotten over with any of the women I have tickled. (And no, even at my age, I don’t need letters telling me to come out of the closet). So, a couple of times when I had a chance to tickle her, I backed off because it was late in the afternoon and her husband would soon be home from work. I didn’t need her greeting him at the door with her shoes in one hand and her face red from laughter.
My chance came during the summer holidays. She had given birth in May and passed on the family’s regular July fishing trip, choosing to keep the baby at home. Seeing an opportunity, I volunteered to take over my friend’s regular chores of cutting the grass for the two weeks he was gone with his father and younger brother. I even played the good friend and refused any money, saying I would do it to help them out. So everyone thought I was a noble little bastard when I was really trying to ingratiate myself with her. But it worked.
Two weeks, I thought, three cuttings. I would use the first one to scout out my chances, and the second one to tickle her. During the third, I would play innocent, not go near her and hopefully she would forget about the tickle and not tell anyone. But, as they say, the best laid plans….
It was a hot, clear day. I knocked on the door but no one answered. Disappointed that she wasn’t home, I walked around to the backyard where the mower was kept in a small shed. And there she was: on a blanket with the baby, sunning herself in what they called in those days a “sun-dress”, short, sleeveless, pink cotton skirt and top….and she was barefoot, lying on her stomach, her legs stretched towards me, her toes slowly wiggling in the grass. A pair of thongs laid beside her.
I froze for a moment taking it all in, then I walked quietly up behind her. I wasn’t going to tickle her yet but it was the closest I had ever been to the soles of her feet and I looked them over hungrily. They were smooth and curving with a wide ball and a high arch moving up to a strong heel.
Before every tickle, I always enjoyed planning the tickling and looking for a long time at the woman’s feet. Now, I could imagine my fingers digging into her as she laughed and kicked under my grasp. I was going to tickle her today and to hell with my plans. I wasn’t going to miss this chance. I looked at her feet for a few moments longer. Then, “Hi,” I said.
She turned. “Oh, hello! I didn’t hear you.”
“I’ll start,” I said.
“I’ll move if I’m in your way.”
“No,no.” I wanted her to stay just where she was.
It was an old, push-mower and I cut the lawn around the perimeter so that every circuit I passed behind her, getting a good look at those delicious feet. Finally, the only uncut part was under the wide blanket. She picked the baby up saying it was time for his nap and I laid the blanket in a freshly cut space, hoping she would come back. By the time I finished, she came back with two glasses of lemonade. I put the mower away and sat beside her. We chatted for a bit, finished our drinks, and then she said, “I think I’ve had enough sun.”
Now or never, I thought. I put down my glass and picked up her thongs. She was still lying on her stomach, her feet near me. I held up the sandals. “Do you want these?”
She laughed. “Sure,” she said. Then she raised both her feet in what I now know as The Pose. “Are you going to put them on for me?”
My mouth went dry and I hope I didn’t look to startled. “Okay…” My voice must have shown my nervousness but I dropped one thong and got the other ready. I was going to do this one at a time to get the most out of it.
“Make sure there’s no grass on my feet.”
I raised a trembling hand and gently brushed down her right sole. Her soft skin felt incredible under my slowly moving hand, like a jolt of electricity right through to my groin. She giggled but arched her foot and spread her toes.
“That tickles.” she said, looking over her shoulder at me.
“Does it?” I dropped the thong and grabbed her ankle. “Then let’s see how much!”
Her eyes widened in surprise as she realized what was about to happen. I started tickling.
She screamed and I braced myself for the kicks and struggling that almost always followed when I tickled a woman. I dug my fingers hard into her arch as her foot twisted under my hands. She was screaming with laughter broken with cries of “Oh no – oh no – oh no – oh no – oh no!” Her foot bunched tightly making incredibly soft, wrinkled ridges on her sole. Seen close up, her foot was even sexier than ever and her toes bunched and spread in spasms. I pushed my fingers deep under them and between them. Her foot jerked sideways trying to escape but I was having no problem hanging on tight with my left arm. Then, glancing quickly back over my should, I saw why.
It was the one of the strangest reactions I had ever seen in a ticklish woman. From her knee down, her leg was thrashing, kicking, thrusting and twisting as she tried to break away. But the rest of her was still, flat on the ground, her arms unmoving by her sides. It was as if her upper body had been drained of power, collapsing like a wet bag, and all her focus was on the storm of tickling on her right foot. She didn’t even move her head much. I realized that, except for her lower leg, she wasn’t putting up much of a fight at all. But there was no denying she was ticklish!
My body thought before my brain and I pulled both her feet together and sat firmly on her ankles. If the struggling was all below her knees, I was more than a match for that. Even though an average 14 year old, I had both weight and height advantage. This was going to be good!
Her bare feet were now gripped between my legs, just inches from my thrusting erection. Her ankles were twisting on the grass. Using both my hands in the roughest tickling I had ever done, I dug into her soft soles, my fingers scrambling up and down from her heels to her sexy toes. I shot another quick glance over my shoulder. Her face was red, a wide, screaming smile on her face and the laughter was pouring out of her now, no more words, not asking me to stop, just endless, breathless laughter. I felt a wild rush of sexual energy burst in me. Turning back to her feet, I tickled her even harder, not stopping to tickle special parts or to search for ticklish points as I sometimes did or even admiring her feet. I just tickled…and tickled….
I don’t know how long it lasted, probably only a few minutes, although it seemed like hours. Finally, I heard her gasp out, “Please…please…I can’t breathe!”
I stopped and rolled off her ankles. I watched her as she caught her breath, her lungs heaving, her body shaking. She kept repeating, “Oh my God…oh my God…” over and over. I realized how aroused I was, not just my prick, but my whole body. I was shaking as much as she was and my arms felt weak. She brushed her bangs out of her eyes and rolled over and looked at me, grinning and shaking her head. “You little…..” She paused, still gulping for air. Then she added, “You can get us both some lemonade.”
I went into the house. “I’ve gone too far this time,” I said to myself. “I’m really going to get it.” My hands were trembling but with nervousness now, not just sexual tension. I thought of going into the bathroom and jacking off right there but I didn’t have time. I brought the two brimming glasses back to the blanket. She was sitting up, her legs bent in front of her, bare soles firmly on the ground.
She drank slowly. Silence. This was an adult and I was just a kid. I thought of her husband and my friend and the possible anger of my parents. I was scared. Nervously, I said, “I’m sorry…I…I…didn’t mean…” My voice trailed off.
“Don’t worry,” she said lightly. She took another long drink and then looked at me, her large brown eyes candid and direct. Here comes the lecture, I thought. But she only smiled. “It was fun,” she said, “But I guess I paid for getting my lawn cut.”
The next week, I was determined not to go near her, whatever happened. If I did, I hoped she would forget about the tickle or pass it off as harmless fun. My fear of getting known as a foot-fetish was about equal to my desire for feet in the first place. I didn’t even bother knocking this time. I just went around the back, took out the mower and started in. Halfway through, she came out on the back porch. And, damn it, she was barefoot again.
After some regular pleasantries, she said, “I really wish you would let me pay you for all this.”
“No, it’s okay,” I replied. “I’m happy to help out.”
“Well, come in and get some lemonade when you finish.”
Fifteen minutes later, I put the mower away and nervously walked into the kitchen. I’m not going near her, I reminded myself. I’m not even going to look at her bare feet. She heard me come in and called me into the living room. She was on a deep plush couch, wearing a sleeveless, cotton housedress, her legs and feet resting on the cushions. I had a drink, forcing myself to look directly at her eyes or through the window, anywhere but at those feet. When I rose to go, she said, ”Wouldn’t you accept even a couple of dollars?”
I shook my head. She teased, “Of course, that would be for this week. If I remember, you got paid for last week.”
I froze. I probably looked every bit as frightened as I felt.
“I…I’m sorry for that,” I stammered. “It was wrong. I shouldn’t have done it.” Then I added, “I don’t want to get in trouble…I’m sorry…” It makes me cringe a bit to think of how pleading I was but, after all, I was only 14 and it was the straight-laced ‘50’s. I was scared.
Then, in my nervousness, I did what I had promised myself I would not do: I looked directly at her feet. They were resting on the cushion, soft and tanned, the soles toward me. Her toes, unpainted last week, were polished a soft pink today. Having discovered how ticklish they were, I found them even more desirable than ever. I followed the curving line of those high, inviting arches and remembered how wonderful it felt to push my fingers between her toes. I dragged my eyes away and glanced at her. She was smiling but looking directly at me. I thought I was being casual but she had seen where my eyes had gone.
She waved her hand. “You’re not in trouble.” Her voice was light and relaxed. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. It was just a bit of fun.” Then she added, “I just thought maybe you’d want the same payment.”
My expression must have been very funny for she giggled. Almost involuntarily, she wiggled her toes. I forgot my fears: I didn’t think about her husband, my friend, my parents. Suddenly those beckoning feet were the most delicious things I had ever seen and I lunged.
She laughed as I grabbed her ankles. The moment I started tickling, she collapsed like last time, falling back on the couch, kicking and pulling with her knees only. Again, her upper body seemed to have lost all its strength. In all my years of tickling girls and women, it was the strangest reaction I have ever had.
I knew this had to be a shorter tickle so I concentrated on her wiggling, bunching toes. Her laughter was more controlled but I got my fingers deep between her toes and tickled hard. She squealed, “This is as bad as I remember!” but I held her firmly and kept scrambling from one foot to the other. When she was reduced to muffled giggles, I attacked her arches and this brought a fresh shriek as she tried to pull sharply away. Her skin felt wonderful under my dancing fingers, soft and firm at the same time.
Usually my tickling sessions ended with the woman managing to break away, but she couldn’t escape the tight grip of my left arm. Knowing I had taken it almost as far as I could, I tickled her for another minute. She had almost given up struggling but her laughter was still squealing from her. When it started to come in short sobs of breath, I slowed from a tickle to what one later tickle-victim called “a caress”. In later years, I found this slow tickling - lightly tracing patterns with my fingers, following the lines and wrinkles of a woman’s soles, tracing the curve of her arches and the contour of her bare toes, exploring the whole shape of her feet with slow, tickling strokes - to be almost as erotic as a hard tickle. But this was the first time I had ever done it. Her giggles turned more to pleasurable moans.
I looked closely at her feet, thinking how beautiful they were. For the first time in my life, I thought of how much I wanted to kiss a woman’s toes. Later, I was surprised at this for the idea of kissing or licking a woman’s feet had never occurred to me before. But, at that moment, I wanted it badly. I just couldn’t get the nerve. I knew it would be crossing a boundary. Perhaps she saw me drooling over her toes. Perhaps she was aware that her own giggles had turned to moans and squeaks of pleasure. She must have realized that things were turning sexual for her. At any rate, she gently pulled her feet from under my arm and said, “I guess you had better stop now.”
She gave a groaning giggle and put both feet on the floor. “Well,” she laughed, “That’s a cheap way of getting my lawn cut.”
Her family came back four days later. I waited nervously for a week but I heard nothing. I don’t know if she ever told her husband; certainly, she never told her son since he never mentioned it. Well, I said to myself, I got away with it. Two years later, they moved away. It was only many years after that, however, that I understood she must have realized what I was and why I did it.
For me, women’s feet and tickling have always been intertwined, a mutual passion. Together with the desire, came the guilt and the feeling that I was alone: the only one who was this way. All my friends talked about girls – of course, so did I – but tickling never came into it nor did their feet. I developed the strong conviction that I was weird and was determined to keep my mouth shut about my desires.
I indulged myself whenever I could though, particularly with my older cousin, Ellen. Oddly, I wasn’t interested in tickling girls my own age until my mid-teens. I got crushes and “fell in love” often enough but my interests in feet and tickling seemed focused on older women: cousins, aunts, and neighbors – especially neighbors. And every time I fantasized, I pictured tickling the bare feet of an older woman.
I realize that these women were mostly in their mid-thirties then – hardly what I would call “old” today at 56 – but they all seemed old when I was 18. This was in the late ‘50’s and most of the mothers I knew were homemakers. In other words, when I dropped in to see my friends, I could be almost sure that the mothers were around somewhere or soon would be. A few were unattractive or, at least, commonplace or with harsh personalities but most were friendly and I had the ability to connect with adults and talk about things other than just “kid-stuff”.
Mrs. Kerran was high on my list as a target for I knew her best and, although she rarely went barefoot, she always wore open-toed, backless slippers that would be no problem removing. One of the ironies of life, however, is the fact that I never got a chance to tickle her until my early twenties. By that time, I had scored with four others in the neighborhood and had started a foot- tickling affair with another neighbor who was to become my future mother-in-law.
But, when I was 18, Mrs. Campbell - the mother of a very close friend - was my first big tickle among the neighbors.
She certainly was the youngest of the mothers as well as the prettiest with short, dark hair and a full figure. Her feet were what I noticed most though: they were small and wide with very high arches and short, almost chubby toes, which had always turned me on. Around the house, she wore backless fuzzy slippers, or flat “slip-on” types shoes. Once in awhile she wore only socks and, in the summer, I had seen her barefoot on more than one occasion.
The problem was that, every time I was there, so was her son, and - in order to tickle her - I had to get her alone. I was also terrified that she would tell everyone that I had tickled her. This fear is something I have never gotten over with any of the women I have tickled. (And no, even at my age, I don’t need letters telling me to come out of the closet). So, a couple of times when I had a chance to tickle her, I backed off because it was late in the afternoon and her husband would soon be home from work. I didn’t need her greeting him at the door with her shoes in one hand and her face red from laughter.
My chance came during the summer holidays. She had given birth in May and passed on the family’s regular July fishing trip, choosing to keep the baby at home. Seeing an opportunity, I volunteered to take over my friend’s regular chores of cutting the grass for the two weeks he was gone with his father and younger brother. I even played the good friend and refused any money, saying I would do it to help them out. So everyone thought I was a noble little bastard when I was really trying to ingratiate myself with her. But it worked.
Two weeks, I thought, three cuttings. I would use the first one to scout out my chances, and the second one to tickle her. During the third, I would play innocent, not go near her and hopefully she would forget about the tickle and not tell anyone. But, as they say, the best laid plans….
It was a hot, clear day. I knocked on the door but no one answered. Disappointed that she wasn’t home, I walked around to the backyard where the mower was kept in a small shed. And there she was: on a blanket with the baby, sunning herself in what they called in those days a “sun-dress”, short, sleeveless, pink cotton skirt and top….and she was barefoot, lying on her stomach, her legs stretched towards me, her toes slowly wiggling in the grass. A pair of thongs laid beside her.
I froze for a moment taking it all in, then I walked quietly up behind her. I wasn’t going to tickle her yet but it was the closest I had ever been to the soles of her feet and I looked them over hungrily. They were smooth and curving with a wide ball and a high arch moving up to a strong heel.
Before every tickle, I always enjoyed planning the tickling and looking for a long time at the woman’s feet. Now, I could imagine my fingers digging into her as she laughed and kicked under my grasp. I was going to tickle her today and to hell with my plans. I wasn’t going to miss this chance. I looked at her feet for a few moments longer. Then, “Hi,” I said.
She turned. “Oh, hello! I didn’t hear you.”
“I’ll start,” I said.
“I’ll move if I’m in your way.”
“No,no.” I wanted her to stay just where she was.
It was an old, push-mower and I cut the lawn around the perimeter so that every circuit I passed behind her, getting a good look at those delicious feet. Finally, the only uncut part was under the wide blanket. She picked the baby up saying it was time for his nap and I laid the blanket in a freshly cut space, hoping she would come back. By the time I finished, she came back with two glasses of lemonade. I put the mower away and sat beside her. We chatted for a bit, finished our drinks, and then she said, “I think I’ve had enough sun.”
Now or never, I thought. I put down my glass and picked up her thongs. She was still lying on her stomach, her feet near me. I held up the sandals. “Do you want these?”
She laughed. “Sure,” she said. Then she raised both her feet in what I now know as The Pose. “Are you going to put them on for me?”
My mouth went dry and I hope I didn’t look to startled. “Okay…” My voice must have shown my nervousness but I dropped one thong and got the other ready. I was going to do this one at a time to get the most out of it.
“Make sure there’s no grass on my feet.”
I raised a trembling hand and gently brushed down her right sole. Her soft skin felt incredible under my slowly moving hand, like a jolt of electricity right through to my groin. She giggled but arched her foot and spread her toes.
“That tickles.” she said, looking over her shoulder at me.
“Does it?” I dropped the thong and grabbed her ankle. “Then let’s see how much!”
Her eyes widened in surprise as she realized what was about to happen. I started tickling.
She screamed and I braced myself for the kicks and struggling that almost always followed when I tickled a woman. I dug my fingers hard into her arch as her foot twisted under my hands. She was screaming with laughter broken with cries of “Oh no – oh no – oh no – oh no – oh no!” Her foot bunched tightly making incredibly soft, wrinkled ridges on her sole. Seen close up, her foot was even sexier than ever and her toes bunched and spread in spasms. I pushed my fingers deep under them and between them. Her foot jerked sideways trying to escape but I was having no problem hanging on tight with my left arm. Then, glancing quickly back over my should, I saw why.
It was the one of the strangest reactions I had ever seen in a ticklish woman. From her knee down, her leg was thrashing, kicking, thrusting and twisting as she tried to break away. But the rest of her was still, flat on the ground, her arms unmoving by her sides. It was as if her upper body had been drained of power, collapsing like a wet bag, and all her focus was on the storm of tickling on her right foot. She didn’t even move her head much. I realized that, except for her lower leg, she wasn’t putting up much of a fight at all. But there was no denying she was ticklish!
My body thought before my brain and I pulled both her feet together and sat firmly on her ankles. If the struggling was all below her knees, I was more than a match for that. Even though an average 14 year old, I had both weight and height advantage. This was going to be good!
Her bare feet were now gripped between my legs, just inches from my thrusting erection. Her ankles were twisting on the grass. Using both my hands in the roughest tickling I had ever done, I dug into her soft soles, my fingers scrambling up and down from her heels to her sexy toes. I shot another quick glance over my shoulder. Her face was red, a wide, screaming smile on her face and the laughter was pouring out of her now, no more words, not asking me to stop, just endless, breathless laughter. I felt a wild rush of sexual energy burst in me. Turning back to her feet, I tickled her even harder, not stopping to tickle special parts or to search for ticklish points as I sometimes did or even admiring her feet. I just tickled…and tickled….
I don’t know how long it lasted, probably only a few minutes, although it seemed like hours. Finally, I heard her gasp out, “Please…please…I can’t breathe!”
I stopped and rolled off her ankles. I watched her as she caught her breath, her lungs heaving, her body shaking. She kept repeating, “Oh my God…oh my God…” over and over. I realized how aroused I was, not just my prick, but my whole body. I was shaking as much as she was and my arms felt weak. She brushed her bangs out of her eyes and rolled over and looked at me, grinning and shaking her head. “You little…..” She paused, still gulping for air. Then she added, “You can get us both some lemonade.”
I went into the house. “I’ve gone too far this time,” I said to myself. “I’m really going to get it.” My hands were trembling but with nervousness now, not just sexual tension. I thought of going into the bathroom and jacking off right there but I didn’t have time. I brought the two brimming glasses back to the blanket. She was sitting up, her legs bent in front of her, bare soles firmly on the ground.
She drank slowly. Silence. This was an adult and I was just a kid. I thought of her husband and my friend and the possible anger of my parents. I was scared. Nervously, I said, “I’m sorry…I…I…didn’t mean…” My voice trailed off.
“Don’t worry,” she said lightly. She took another long drink and then looked at me, her large brown eyes candid and direct. Here comes the lecture, I thought. But she only smiled. “It was fun,” she said, “But I guess I paid for getting my lawn cut.”
The next week, I was determined not to go near her, whatever happened. If I did, I hoped she would forget about the tickle or pass it off as harmless fun. My fear of getting known as a foot-fetish was about equal to my desire for feet in the first place. I didn’t even bother knocking this time. I just went around the back, took out the mower and started in. Halfway through, she came out on the back porch. And, damn it, she was barefoot again.
After some regular pleasantries, she said, “I really wish you would let me pay you for all this.”
“No, it’s okay,” I replied. “I’m happy to help out.”
“Well, come in and get some lemonade when you finish.”
Fifteen minutes later, I put the mower away and nervously walked into the kitchen. I’m not going near her, I reminded myself. I’m not even going to look at her bare feet. She heard me come in and called me into the living room. She was on a deep plush couch, wearing a sleeveless, cotton housedress, her legs and feet resting on the cushions. I had a drink, forcing myself to look directly at her eyes or through the window, anywhere but at those feet. When I rose to go, she said, ”Wouldn’t you accept even a couple of dollars?”
I shook my head. She teased, “Of course, that would be for this week. If I remember, you got paid for last week.”
I froze. I probably looked every bit as frightened as I felt.
“I…I’m sorry for that,” I stammered. “It was wrong. I shouldn’t have done it.” Then I added, “I don’t want to get in trouble…I’m sorry…” It makes me cringe a bit to think of how pleading I was but, after all, I was only 14 and it was the straight-laced ‘50’s. I was scared.
Then, in my nervousness, I did what I had promised myself I would not do: I looked directly at her feet. They were resting on the cushion, soft and tanned, the soles toward me. Her toes, unpainted last week, were polished a soft pink today. Having discovered how ticklish they were, I found them even more desirable than ever. I followed the curving line of those high, inviting arches and remembered how wonderful it felt to push my fingers between her toes. I dragged my eyes away and glanced at her. She was smiling but looking directly at me. I thought I was being casual but she had seen where my eyes had gone.
She waved her hand. “You’re not in trouble.” Her voice was light and relaxed. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. It was just a bit of fun.” Then she added, “I just thought maybe you’d want the same payment.”
My expression must have been very funny for she giggled. Almost involuntarily, she wiggled her toes. I forgot my fears: I didn’t think about her husband, my friend, my parents. Suddenly those beckoning feet were the most delicious things I had ever seen and I lunged.
She laughed as I grabbed her ankles. The moment I started tickling, she collapsed like last time, falling back on the couch, kicking and pulling with her knees only. Again, her upper body seemed to have lost all its strength. In all my years of tickling girls and women, it was the strangest reaction I have ever had.
I knew this had to be a shorter tickle so I concentrated on her wiggling, bunching toes. Her laughter was more controlled but I got my fingers deep between her toes and tickled hard. She squealed, “This is as bad as I remember!” but I held her firmly and kept scrambling from one foot to the other. When she was reduced to muffled giggles, I attacked her arches and this brought a fresh shriek as she tried to pull sharply away. Her skin felt wonderful under my dancing fingers, soft and firm at the same time.
Usually my tickling sessions ended with the woman managing to break away, but she couldn’t escape the tight grip of my left arm. Knowing I had taken it almost as far as I could, I tickled her for another minute. She had almost given up struggling but her laughter was still squealing from her. When it started to come in short sobs of breath, I slowed from a tickle to what one later tickle-victim called “a caress”. In later years, I found this slow tickling - lightly tracing patterns with my fingers, following the lines and wrinkles of a woman’s soles, tracing the curve of her arches and the contour of her bare toes, exploring the whole shape of her feet with slow, tickling strokes - to be almost as erotic as a hard tickle. But this was the first time I had ever done it. Her giggles turned more to pleasurable moans.
I looked closely at her feet, thinking how beautiful they were. For the first time in my life, I thought of how much I wanted to kiss a woman’s toes. Later, I was surprised at this for the idea of kissing or licking a woman’s feet had never occurred to me before. But, at that moment, I wanted it badly. I just couldn’t get the nerve. I knew it would be crossing a boundary. Perhaps she saw me drooling over her toes. Perhaps she was aware that her own giggles had turned to moans and squeaks of pleasure. She must have realized that things were turning sexual for her. At any rate, she gently pulled her feet from under my arm and said, “I guess you had better stop now.”
She gave a groaning giggle and put both feet on the floor. “Well,” she laughed, “That’s a cheap way of getting my lawn cut.”
Her family came back four days later. I waited nervously for a week but I heard nothing. I don’t know if she ever told her husband; certainly, she never told her son since he never mentioned it. Well, I said to myself, I got away with it. Two years later, they moved away. It was only many years after that, however, that I understood she must have realized what I was and why I did it.
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