kibdos
TMF Novice
- Joined
- Aug 29, 2002
- Messages
- 63
- Points
- 1
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. I developed the strong conviction that I was weird and was determined to keep quiet about my desires. I indulged myself whenever I could though, particularly with my Aunt Ellen. (I have stories about her but, as I was young then, they would violate the age rule.)
I know this may sound odd, but I wasn’t interested in tickling girls of my own age until I was into my mid-teens. I got crushes on girls and “fell in love” often enough but my interests in feet and tickling seemed focused on older women. I liked their sophistication, their relaxed attitudes and - best of all - because I was younger, they did not feel sexually threatened by my tickling. In most cases, they regarded it simply as a tease or a joke. And so, every time I fantasized, I pictured tickling the feet of an older woman.
I realize that these women were mostly in their mid-thirties or forties then – hardly what I would call “old” today – but they all seemed old when I was 18. And, when I was that age, Mrs. Campbell - the mother of a close friend - was high on my “desire list”.
She certainly was the youngest of the mothers as well as the prettiest with short, dark hair, a full figure, and a friendly, even flirtatious, personality. Her feet were what I noticed most though: they were average size but wide with very high arches and short, pretty toes, which had always turned me on. Around the house, she always wore backless fuzzy slippers, and in the summer, I had seen her barefoot on more than one occasion.
The problem was that I could never get her alone. I was also terrified that she would tell everyone – a fear I have never gotten over. 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. 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 kid 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 tickling and not tell anyone. But, as Robbie Burns said, the best laid plans….
It was a hot, clear day. I knocked on the door, but no one answered. Disappointed, 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 sandals lay 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.
I decided immediately that 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 sandals. 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 is “The Pose”. “Are you going to put them on for me?”
My mouth went dry, and I hope I didn’t look too startled. “Okay…” My voice must have shown my nervousness, but I dropped one sandal 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, arching her foot and spreading her toes.
“That tickles.” she said, looking over her shoulder at me.
“Does it?” I dropped the sandal and grabbed her left ankle. “Then let’s see how much!”
Her eyes widened in surprise as she realized what was about to happen. I started tickling.
She squealed 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 seductively under my hand. She was squealing with laughter broken with cries of “No…no…no…no!” Her foot bunched tightly making incredibly soft, wrinkled ridges on her sole. Seen close, her foot was even sexier than ever, and her toes bunched and spread in spasms. I pushed my fingers under and in 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 shoulder, I saw why.
It was the one of the strangest reactions I had ever seen in a ticklish woman. From her knees down, her legs were 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 and all her focus was on the storm of tickling on her left foot. She didn’t even move her head much. I realized that, except for her lower legs, she wasn’t putting up much of a fight at all. But there was no denying she was ticklish!
I pulled both her feet together and sat firmly on her calves. If the struggling was all below her knees, I was more than a match for that. Even though an average 18-year-old, I had both weight and height advantage. This was going to be good!
Her bare feet were now nestled between my legs, her ankles gripped by my knees. 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 toes. I shot another quick glance over my shoulder. Her face was red, a wide, smile on her face and the laughing words “No…no…no…no!” pouring out of her. I felt a wild rush of sexual energy burst in me. Turning back to her feet, I tickled her even faster, 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 - honestly only a couple of minutes - although it seemed much longer. Finally, I heard her gasp out, “No…no…please stop…please stop!”
I stopped and rolled off her legs. 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…you little…” she was probably searching for a polite word, “…You little devil!” She paused, still gulping for air. Then she added, “For that, you can get me some more 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 had always loved tickling women’s feet, but I had never been so turned on before and I thought I had really shown it. I waited a few minutes for my erection to calm down then I brought the brimming glass 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 and embarrassed. Nervously, I said, “I’m sorry…I…I…didn’t mean…” My voice trailed off.
She looked at me and winked. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said lightly. Then she smiled. “It was just in fun.” Then she added, “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-tickling freak was about equal to my desire for tickling women’s 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.”
Thirty 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 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…”
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 bright red 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 run my fingers over her soles. 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 might have seen where my eyes had gone.
She waved her hand. “You’re not in trouble.” Her voice was light and relaxed. “You were just having fun.” Then she stunned me by adding, “I was just worried that maybe you’d want the same payment this week.”
My expression must have been very funny for she giggled. Almost involuntarily, she flexed her toes and smiled at me. 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 went for them.
She squealed as I seized her ankles. The moment I started tickling, she collapsed like last time, falling back on the couch, kicking, and pulling with her lower legs only. Again, her upper body seemed to have lost all its strength. In all my years of tickling women, it was the strangest reaction I have ever seen.
I knew this had to be a shorter tickle and that I had to keep myself in control. I concentrated on her wiggling, bunching toes which looked even sexier now they were polished. Her giggles were more subdued, 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. Her skin felt wonderful under my dancing fingers, soft yet 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 a final, hard – and very arousing - 30 seconds, her beautiful toes flexing only inches from my face. She was still struggling but her giggles were becoming breathless. I didn’t press my luck. Reluctantly, I relaxed my hold.
She pulled her feet from under my arm and said, “Whew!” She sat up, her chest heaving. “Oh wow!...I’m so glad you stopped!” She groaned and put both feet on the floor. “You took the wind right out of me!” She was silent for a moment, breathing hard. Then she looked at me sideways, panting, and grinned. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve done that before?”
I shrugged and looked at the ground, embarrassed.
“Well,” she laughed as she caught her breath, “That’s a cheap way of getting my lawn cut.”
Her family came back early, 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 feeling and why I did it. And it occurred to me as well that - in the second session - she never said, “No…no…no!”
I know this may sound odd, but I wasn’t interested in tickling girls of my own age until I was into my mid-teens. I got crushes on girls and “fell in love” often enough but my interests in feet and tickling seemed focused on older women. I liked their sophistication, their relaxed attitudes and - best of all - because I was younger, they did not feel sexually threatened by my tickling. In most cases, they regarded it simply as a tease or a joke. And so, every time I fantasized, I pictured tickling the feet of an older woman.
I realize that these women were mostly in their mid-thirties or forties then – hardly what I would call “old” today – but they all seemed old when I was 18. And, when I was that age, Mrs. Campbell - the mother of a close friend - was high on my “desire list”.
She certainly was the youngest of the mothers as well as the prettiest with short, dark hair, a full figure, and a friendly, even flirtatious, personality. Her feet were what I noticed most though: they were average size but wide with very high arches and short, pretty toes, which had always turned me on. Around the house, she always wore backless fuzzy slippers, and in the summer, I had seen her barefoot on more than one occasion.
The problem was that I could never get her alone. I was also terrified that she would tell everyone – a fear I have never gotten over. 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. 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 kid 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 tickling and not tell anyone. But, as Robbie Burns said, the best laid plans….
It was a hot, clear day. I knocked on the door, but no one answered. Disappointed, 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 sandals lay 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.
I decided immediately that 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 sandals. 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 is “The Pose”. “Are you going to put them on for me?”
My mouth went dry, and I hope I didn’t look too startled. “Okay…” My voice must have shown my nervousness, but I dropped one sandal 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, arching her foot and spreading her toes.
“That tickles.” she said, looking over her shoulder at me.
“Does it?” I dropped the sandal and grabbed her left ankle. “Then let’s see how much!”
Her eyes widened in surprise as she realized what was about to happen. I started tickling.
She squealed 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 seductively under my hand. She was squealing with laughter broken with cries of “No…no…no…no!” Her foot bunched tightly making incredibly soft, wrinkled ridges on her sole. Seen close, her foot was even sexier than ever, and her toes bunched and spread in spasms. I pushed my fingers under and in 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 shoulder, I saw why.
It was the one of the strangest reactions I had ever seen in a ticklish woman. From her knees down, her legs were 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 and all her focus was on the storm of tickling on her left foot. She didn’t even move her head much. I realized that, except for her lower legs, she wasn’t putting up much of a fight at all. But there was no denying she was ticklish!
I pulled both her feet together and sat firmly on her calves. If the struggling was all below her knees, I was more than a match for that. Even though an average 18-year-old, I had both weight and height advantage. This was going to be good!
Her bare feet were now nestled between my legs, her ankles gripped by my knees. 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 toes. I shot another quick glance over my shoulder. Her face was red, a wide, smile on her face and the laughing words “No…no…no…no!” pouring out of her. I felt a wild rush of sexual energy burst in me. Turning back to her feet, I tickled her even faster, 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 - honestly only a couple of minutes - although it seemed much longer. Finally, I heard her gasp out, “No…no…please stop…please stop!”
I stopped and rolled off her legs. 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…you little…” she was probably searching for a polite word, “…You little devil!” She paused, still gulping for air. Then she added, “For that, you can get me some more 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 had always loved tickling women’s feet, but I had never been so turned on before and I thought I had really shown it. I waited a few minutes for my erection to calm down then I brought the brimming glass 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 and embarrassed. Nervously, I said, “I’m sorry…I…I…didn’t mean…” My voice trailed off.
She looked at me and winked. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said lightly. Then she smiled. “It was just in fun.” Then she added, “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-tickling freak was about equal to my desire for tickling women’s 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.”
Thirty 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 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…”
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 bright red 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 run my fingers over her soles. 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 might have seen where my eyes had gone.
She waved her hand. “You’re not in trouble.” Her voice was light and relaxed. “You were just having fun.” Then she stunned me by adding, “I was just worried that maybe you’d want the same payment this week.”
My expression must have been very funny for she giggled. Almost involuntarily, she flexed her toes and smiled at me. 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 went for them.
She squealed as I seized her ankles. The moment I started tickling, she collapsed like last time, falling back on the couch, kicking, and pulling with her lower legs only. Again, her upper body seemed to have lost all its strength. In all my years of tickling women, it was the strangest reaction I have ever seen.
I knew this had to be a shorter tickle and that I had to keep myself in control. I concentrated on her wiggling, bunching toes which looked even sexier now they were polished. Her giggles were more subdued, 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. Her skin felt wonderful under my dancing fingers, soft yet 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 a final, hard – and very arousing - 30 seconds, her beautiful toes flexing only inches from my face. She was still struggling but her giggles were becoming breathless. I didn’t press my luck. Reluctantly, I relaxed my hold.
She pulled her feet from under my arm and said, “Whew!” She sat up, her chest heaving. “Oh wow!...I’m so glad you stopped!” She groaned and put both feet on the floor. “You took the wind right out of me!” She was silent for a moment, breathing hard. Then she looked at me sideways, panting, and grinned. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve done that before?”
I shrugged and looked at the ground, embarrassed.
“Well,” she laughed as she caught her breath, “That’s a cheap way of getting my lawn cut.”
Her family came back early, 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 feeling and why I did it. And it occurred to me as well that - in the second session - she never said, “No…no…no!”
Thanks for sharing your experience here. 
