This is the promised follow-on from my last memoir. It’s actually a prequel rather than a sequel but I think you’ll understand why I decided to post it second. The show I mention here is the one in which the producer who later facilitated my liaison with ‘Jane’ the following summer had cast me.
So if by chance you’ve not read the first part yet, please do so now, if you don’t mind- here’s a link.
http://www.ticklingforum.com/showth...efoot-After-the-Park-quot-Some-sexual-content
Now, then… if this (and those of my other stories not involving professionals) focuses more on the person rather than the tickling, I think we’d all agree that the overwhelming number of tickling tales all have a certain similarity, the same as do the overwhelming number of ordinary sexual encounter recollections. But it’s the situations, rather than the acts themselves that have the most variation.
This analysis doesn’t include escorts, because in those cases there’s no preamble involved, nor any real, natural interaction or for that matter anything else apart from a few pleasantries followed by payment and the deed itself. So since there’s no emotional perspective the bare-bones mechanics of the physical encounter alone can be described in detail, as I did with the encounter I enjoyed with ‘June’ in my first tale. I was a client, she was a provider, so there was no emotional connection whatsoever. http://www.ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?311386-Tales-of-Times-Gone-to-Dust&p=4463877#post4463877
But the proper and extended tickling of an ‘ordinary’ girl does require a fair bit of social interaction beforehand, and that process is in a way more interesting than simply tickling a girl into hysterics, fun though that is as well.
With that in mind, here’s another story.
It’s very odd and unfortunately very memorable- you’ll see.
I kept a journal in those days, so can tell you this incident occurred on Tuesday, December 18th, 1984 through sunrise of the following morning.
The preceding Saturday night (15th) after finishing the show in which I was acting I’d visited a London fetish club called Der Putsch which had a very strict dress code as is typical in the UK, Europe and Canada but not at all in the United States. People had to ‘Dress to Impress’ or be denied entry by the tall prodomme at the entrance, flanked by a bouncer to enforce her word.
She was known as ‘The Door *****’, and reveled in that appellation. But she approved me with a smile- I sure passed muster, all right! All in black, I wore fitted leather trousers, knee-high English riding boots, a wide, chrome studded leather belt and a military-cut long-sleeved shirt also made of leather, plus a leather (surprise, surprise…) necktie. This ensemble was tastefully accessorized with a pair of buckled elbow-length chrome-studded leather forearm bands.
1980s… Yeah, in retrospect I looked gay as hell.
The women who clubbed there were generally very attractive and cutting-edge fashionable, leather or rubber clad with big hair, skyscraping stiletto heels and carefully ripped fishnets, tightly laced corsets, bosoms fighting the containment of lace bustiers, chains connecting pierced nostrils to pierced ears and (delightfully, now and again) bare breasts with rouged aureoles and pierced nipples on display. Some were there with their doms, others led subby men on leashes, who often crawled on all fours.
Once a night the DJ would play Lou Reed’s ‘Venus in Furs’ (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iLQzaLr1enE) and that was the signal for various scenes of amorous discipline to be enacted on the willingly unwilling’of both sexes who were stripped and secured to the bondage furniture during that and about a further half-hours worth of similar music, such as New Order’s ‘Blue Monday’ (‘How does it feel, To treat me like you do…’
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KSGWsmR4ipM).
There they were spanked, paddled, whipped, flogged, tormented in various ways along with occasionally being masturbated to orgasm- women only for the later as it was less ‘messy’. Unfortunately I never once witnessed any tickling …
And then I saw, dancing alone, a lissome woman in her late 20s with a rice-powdered, very pale face, and heavy dark Gothic eye makeup. The expertly applied rouge highlighting her faultless cheekbones matched the crimson slash of her beautiful mouth, and she was all in black. She wore a tight calf-length leather cocktail dress that must have cost a fortune, shoulder-length leather opera gloves, seamed stockings and very high heels.
Completing this delightful ensemble was a sort of coif in textured leather fitted tightly around her head, surmounted by a draped waist-length ‘nun’s veil’ in black glove leather. Everything was concealed except for her face.
Obviously destiny beckoned- and accordingly the Trouser Maniac raised his insatiable head within my black leather jodhpurs, yammering at me very loudly indeed to get my incompetent arse over there, talk to her, and not fuck up like the last few times.
As the music hammered to a close, obedient to ‘Him’ as always I sauntered up to her while working out an approach, then, smiling, gently touched the hem of her veil, indicated my own clothing, and deadpanned, ‘I was wondering who was wearing the other half of the cow.’
Fortunately she burst out laughing, and we began a pleasant conversation after relocating to the seating area. Her name was Deborah; she had a soft, well-bred Australian accent (as opposed to, for instance, that of Sheila from the Sheep Station) and was well-spoken and intelligent. And from what I could see of it her figure seemed beautifully drawn. At one point she crossed a beautifully trim pair of ankles, and the hollow of her high arch showed above the instep of her shoe to continue my incipient captivation. Of course, given the fact that everything else but her lovely silhouette was completely invisible, this was the only thing I could fully appreciate. Nevertheless, it was a charming appetizer.
We didn’t go home together that night for some reason or another, but I promised her a comp for the show in which I was appearing for the following Tuesday, a very physical piece in which I wore not too much. I was in pretty good shape in those days and figured the sight might help. Actors generally suffer from inferiority complexes masked by ego anyway, envenomed by unemployment and ghastly dayjobs between ‘real’ work.
Anyway, it was a pretty big theatre in London’s West End, seating 1500, and while the show was a bit of a bomb and we weren’t filling it, the surroundings were pretty impressive, all red velvet seats, flocked wallpaper and polished brass rails.
Deborah met me at the stage door afterwards, dressed in a different black outfit but still carrying on the same theme of the completely covered, black-swathed Madame X. I held up a bottle of champagne and winked, she smiled back, and back to mine we went.
I had flatmates but they were either asleep or away working, and since the only way we could afford the place was the permanent conversion of the living room into my bedroom, there was only one place for Deborah and me to sit and chat. And as we sat on the long (fake…) leather sofa in my room with a 90 minute cassette tape of Leonard Cohen playing (primitive days again, children…) I pointed out that since her heels were so high, a footrub accompanied by another glass of champagne might be pleasant for her. Chuckling, she kicked off her shoes immediately, I refilled her glass and after a long, appreciative swallow she placed her feet in my lap. ‘If you have any handcream, it’ll feel better without the stockings’, she said.
My very strict classical theatre training had involved two solid years of very intensive voice work, which helped to keep my own voice steady while expressing casual agreement.
She flowed to her feet, posed prettily on tiptoe with hands on hips and a quick roll of her bottom, coyly told me not to look, and when I turned 'round she was lounging on the couch again, barefoot though otherwise fully dressed, calf-length skirt, coif, veil and all. Her seamed black stockings (not tights) were on the floor by the couch and her toenails were a deep maroon. She looked like a nun poised for experimentation.
Ever the Boy Scout, I just happened to have a plastic squeezebottle of Bodyshop Pink Peppermint Foot Cream near and hopefully to hand for those happy occasions when this sort of thing came to pass. I applied some cream to the tops of her feet, her prettily-painted toes, and her soft soles, drew her attention to the bedside clock, told her I’d spend 15 minutes on each foot, and began.
She loved having her feet rubbed, and told me so in words and sighs. The joints and tendons popped gently under my ministrations, and I could feel the tension both flowing from her and building in another way for both of us. After her promised half hour she bit her lower lip, caressed the growing lump in my trousers with the ball of her foot, slowly and gently scrunched it with her widespread toes a few times then shyly, without preamble or meeting my eye asked, ‘Would you please tickle my feet?’
Delightfully surprised, I did, gently at first, as she began to twitch and giggle, then faster as her eyes opened widely, her face pinkened, and she laughed, louder and louder and strange to relate, almost musically. My fingertips flew over her feet, from her smooth heels to her soaring, balletic arches, then all over her soles, her toes, between them and everywhere else, the scented cream slickening my efforts.
‘More…harder!’, she panted through very gratifying hysterics, her face now flushed, eyes clenched shut, her hips writhing, her laughter fluctuating between screams and convulsive silence and her breath coming in ragged gasps. I locked her ankles in the crook of my elbow and tickled even faster, goading her involuntary mirth to its limits and almost worshipfully watched the tears of her helpless ecstasy flow down her glowing cheeks.
Then we rolled onto my previously unfolded foam sofabed, both kneeling, as I ground my rampant erection into her groin and reached for her cowl to pull her head back so I could nibble her throat and suck her earlobes.
‘No- please DON’T!’ she demanded with a half-sob, and with what I was happily prepared to dismiss as false fair-maidenly protestation, absolutely certain that what she REALLY wanted was for me to be a Rampant Beast. Then she shoved both hands into my chest, and I fell backwards onto the cushions, convulsively clutching her veil.
The cowl slipped downwards.
Deborah had no ear.
On the side of her head there was just a tiny malformed lump of flesh, and there was no hair to speak of there either, just a few strands growing though chicken-skinlike scar tissue. Her neck and the top of her shoulder were of the same scaly appearance, here more like alligator hide, and she held my gaze, rose to her knees, and sadly said, ‘I hope you have a strong stomach’.
I didn’t know what to say. She moved some of her clothing aside, piece by piece, revealing horrendous scarring on one area of her body after another. Her legs from the upper thighs down, one of her breasts, one side of her head and her beautiful face were all unaffected, but from what I could see the rest of her skin, for want of a better description, looked like huge patches of cracked, badly healed raw meat. Her navel-less stomach looked like a still photograph of spring runoff water boiling over rocks and her other breast was distorted and had no nipple.
She took my hand, held it hard in both of hers as if she expected me to run, and in a very small voice faltered, ‘I was a prodomme in Sydney. I owned a house I’d converted to a dungeon, and my own apartment was upstairs. I made a lot of money in those days and I took a lot of drugs.’
‘Then one night when I was really pilled out, so deeply asleep I was practically unconscious, an angry client whom I’d told I wasn’t going to see anymore a week or two previously firebombed the place. It was wood, and went up like a torch. I was trapped. A flaming part of the roof fell on me, but the firemen got me out. I was in hospital for seven or eight months, and at a couple of points they thought I was going to die from tissue loss and spreading infection. It happened six years ago. This was the best the plastic surgeons could do.’
‘After the trial the judge sentenced the fucking bastard to life, saying that he hoped he would never be released, and would die in prison. I hope so too. But I’m never going to look the same again’
She didn’t cry, but sighed softly and looked at nothing for a bit, sitting with hands clasped around her bent knees, then drew me closer to her and kissed me gently. I kissed her back. She kept most of her clothes on and we made love. What else could I have done? And after an hour or so of us dozing afterwards, she rolled over onto one elbow, smiled, and said, ‘Before I became a prodomme I was a call girl. Want a proper half hour’s professional cocksucking in exchange for that footrub?’
Her inspired brilliance as a fellatrix was another unforgettable part of a very strange evening, and at the end of an awe-inspiring half hour she looked into my eyes and swallowed deeply. As dawn was breaking she said she had to go, and I got dressed and went outside with her to hail a taxi. She kissed me goodbye, got in, and leaned out of the window to say, ‘You’ve GOT to tickle my feet again!’, then waved goodbye, laughing high-pitched and happily as the cab drove her off past Regent’s Park into an orange and pink sunrise that could have been painted by Maxfield Parrish.
That was my last sight of Deborah.
So if by chance you’ve not read the first part yet, please do so now, if you don’t mind- here’s a link.
http://www.ticklingforum.com/showth...efoot-After-the-Park-quot-Some-sexual-content
Now, then… if this (and those of my other stories not involving professionals) focuses more on the person rather than the tickling, I think we’d all agree that the overwhelming number of tickling tales all have a certain similarity, the same as do the overwhelming number of ordinary sexual encounter recollections. But it’s the situations, rather than the acts themselves that have the most variation.
This analysis doesn’t include escorts, because in those cases there’s no preamble involved, nor any real, natural interaction or for that matter anything else apart from a few pleasantries followed by payment and the deed itself. So since there’s no emotional perspective the bare-bones mechanics of the physical encounter alone can be described in detail, as I did with the encounter I enjoyed with ‘June’ in my first tale. I was a client, she was a provider, so there was no emotional connection whatsoever. http://www.ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?311386-Tales-of-Times-Gone-to-Dust&p=4463877#post4463877
But the proper and extended tickling of an ‘ordinary’ girl does require a fair bit of social interaction beforehand, and that process is in a way more interesting than simply tickling a girl into hysterics, fun though that is as well.
With that in mind, here’s another story.
It’s very odd and unfortunately very memorable- you’ll see.
I kept a journal in those days, so can tell you this incident occurred on Tuesday, December 18th, 1984 through sunrise of the following morning.
The preceding Saturday night (15th) after finishing the show in which I was acting I’d visited a London fetish club called Der Putsch which had a very strict dress code as is typical in the UK, Europe and Canada but not at all in the United States. People had to ‘Dress to Impress’ or be denied entry by the tall prodomme at the entrance, flanked by a bouncer to enforce her word.
She was known as ‘The Door *****’, and reveled in that appellation. But she approved me with a smile- I sure passed muster, all right! All in black, I wore fitted leather trousers, knee-high English riding boots, a wide, chrome studded leather belt and a military-cut long-sleeved shirt also made of leather, plus a leather (surprise, surprise…) necktie. This ensemble was tastefully accessorized with a pair of buckled elbow-length chrome-studded leather forearm bands.
1980s… Yeah, in retrospect I looked gay as hell.
The women who clubbed there were generally very attractive and cutting-edge fashionable, leather or rubber clad with big hair, skyscraping stiletto heels and carefully ripped fishnets, tightly laced corsets, bosoms fighting the containment of lace bustiers, chains connecting pierced nostrils to pierced ears and (delightfully, now and again) bare breasts with rouged aureoles and pierced nipples on display. Some were there with their doms, others led subby men on leashes, who often crawled on all fours.
Once a night the DJ would play Lou Reed’s ‘Venus in Furs’ (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iLQzaLr1enE) and that was the signal for various scenes of amorous discipline to be enacted on the willingly unwilling’of both sexes who were stripped and secured to the bondage furniture during that and about a further half-hours worth of similar music, such as New Order’s ‘Blue Monday’ (‘How does it feel, To treat me like you do…’
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KSGWsmR4ipM).
There they were spanked, paddled, whipped, flogged, tormented in various ways along with occasionally being masturbated to orgasm- women only for the later as it was less ‘messy’. Unfortunately I never once witnessed any tickling …
And then I saw, dancing alone, a lissome woman in her late 20s with a rice-powdered, very pale face, and heavy dark Gothic eye makeup. The expertly applied rouge highlighting her faultless cheekbones matched the crimson slash of her beautiful mouth, and she was all in black. She wore a tight calf-length leather cocktail dress that must have cost a fortune, shoulder-length leather opera gloves, seamed stockings and very high heels.
Completing this delightful ensemble was a sort of coif in textured leather fitted tightly around her head, surmounted by a draped waist-length ‘nun’s veil’ in black glove leather. Everything was concealed except for her face.
Obviously destiny beckoned- and accordingly the Trouser Maniac raised his insatiable head within my black leather jodhpurs, yammering at me very loudly indeed to get my incompetent arse over there, talk to her, and not fuck up like the last few times.
As the music hammered to a close, obedient to ‘Him’ as always I sauntered up to her while working out an approach, then, smiling, gently touched the hem of her veil, indicated my own clothing, and deadpanned, ‘I was wondering who was wearing the other half of the cow.’
Fortunately she burst out laughing, and we began a pleasant conversation after relocating to the seating area. Her name was Deborah; she had a soft, well-bred Australian accent (as opposed to, for instance, that of Sheila from the Sheep Station) and was well-spoken and intelligent. And from what I could see of it her figure seemed beautifully drawn. At one point she crossed a beautifully trim pair of ankles, and the hollow of her high arch showed above the instep of her shoe to continue my incipient captivation. Of course, given the fact that everything else but her lovely silhouette was completely invisible, this was the only thing I could fully appreciate. Nevertheless, it was a charming appetizer.
We didn’t go home together that night for some reason or another, but I promised her a comp for the show in which I was appearing for the following Tuesday, a very physical piece in which I wore not too much. I was in pretty good shape in those days and figured the sight might help. Actors generally suffer from inferiority complexes masked by ego anyway, envenomed by unemployment and ghastly dayjobs between ‘real’ work.
Anyway, it was a pretty big theatre in London’s West End, seating 1500, and while the show was a bit of a bomb and we weren’t filling it, the surroundings were pretty impressive, all red velvet seats, flocked wallpaper and polished brass rails.
Deborah met me at the stage door afterwards, dressed in a different black outfit but still carrying on the same theme of the completely covered, black-swathed Madame X. I held up a bottle of champagne and winked, she smiled back, and back to mine we went.
I had flatmates but they were either asleep or away working, and since the only way we could afford the place was the permanent conversion of the living room into my bedroom, there was only one place for Deborah and me to sit and chat. And as we sat on the long (fake…) leather sofa in my room with a 90 minute cassette tape of Leonard Cohen playing (primitive days again, children…) I pointed out that since her heels were so high, a footrub accompanied by another glass of champagne might be pleasant for her. Chuckling, she kicked off her shoes immediately, I refilled her glass and after a long, appreciative swallow she placed her feet in my lap. ‘If you have any handcream, it’ll feel better without the stockings’, she said.
My very strict classical theatre training had involved two solid years of very intensive voice work, which helped to keep my own voice steady while expressing casual agreement.
She flowed to her feet, posed prettily on tiptoe with hands on hips and a quick roll of her bottom, coyly told me not to look, and when I turned 'round she was lounging on the couch again, barefoot though otherwise fully dressed, calf-length skirt, coif, veil and all. Her seamed black stockings (not tights) were on the floor by the couch and her toenails were a deep maroon. She looked like a nun poised for experimentation.
Ever the Boy Scout, I just happened to have a plastic squeezebottle of Bodyshop Pink Peppermint Foot Cream near and hopefully to hand for those happy occasions when this sort of thing came to pass. I applied some cream to the tops of her feet, her prettily-painted toes, and her soft soles, drew her attention to the bedside clock, told her I’d spend 15 minutes on each foot, and began.
She loved having her feet rubbed, and told me so in words and sighs. The joints and tendons popped gently under my ministrations, and I could feel the tension both flowing from her and building in another way for both of us. After her promised half hour she bit her lower lip, caressed the growing lump in my trousers with the ball of her foot, slowly and gently scrunched it with her widespread toes a few times then shyly, without preamble or meeting my eye asked, ‘Would you please tickle my feet?’
Delightfully surprised, I did, gently at first, as she began to twitch and giggle, then faster as her eyes opened widely, her face pinkened, and she laughed, louder and louder and strange to relate, almost musically. My fingertips flew over her feet, from her smooth heels to her soaring, balletic arches, then all over her soles, her toes, between them and everywhere else, the scented cream slickening my efforts.
‘More…harder!’, she panted through very gratifying hysterics, her face now flushed, eyes clenched shut, her hips writhing, her laughter fluctuating between screams and convulsive silence and her breath coming in ragged gasps. I locked her ankles in the crook of my elbow and tickled even faster, goading her involuntary mirth to its limits and almost worshipfully watched the tears of her helpless ecstasy flow down her glowing cheeks.
Then we rolled onto my previously unfolded foam sofabed, both kneeling, as I ground my rampant erection into her groin and reached for her cowl to pull her head back so I could nibble her throat and suck her earlobes.
‘No- please DON’T!’ she demanded with a half-sob, and with what I was happily prepared to dismiss as false fair-maidenly protestation, absolutely certain that what she REALLY wanted was for me to be a Rampant Beast. Then she shoved both hands into my chest, and I fell backwards onto the cushions, convulsively clutching her veil.
The cowl slipped downwards.
Deborah had no ear.
On the side of her head there was just a tiny malformed lump of flesh, and there was no hair to speak of there either, just a few strands growing though chicken-skinlike scar tissue. Her neck and the top of her shoulder were of the same scaly appearance, here more like alligator hide, and she held my gaze, rose to her knees, and sadly said, ‘I hope you have a strong stomach’.
I didn’t know what to say. She moved some of her clothing aside, piece by piece, revealing horrendous scarring on one area of her body after another. Her legs from the upper thighs down, one of her breasts, one side of her head and her beautiful face were all unaffected, but from what I could see the rest of her skin, for want of a better description, looked like huge patches of cracked, badly healed raw meat. Her navel-less stomach looked like a still photograph of spring runoff water boiling over rocks and her other breast was distorted and had no nipple.
She took my hand, held it hard in both of hers as if she expected me to run, and in a very small voice faltered, ‘I was a prodomme in Sydney. I owned a house I’d converted to a dungeon, and my own apartment was upstairs. I made a lot of money in those days and I took a lot of drugs.’
‘Then one night when I was really pilled out, so deeply asleep I was practically unconscious, an angry client whom I’d told I wasn’t going to see anymore a week or two previously firebombed the place. It was wood, and went up like a torch. I was trapped. A flaming part of the roof fell on me, but the firemen got me out. I was in hospital for seven or eight months, and at a couple of points they thought I was going to die from tissue loss and spreading infection. It happened six years ago. This was the best the plastic surgeons could do.’
‘After the trial the judge sentenced the fucking bastard to life, saying that he hoped he would never be released, and would die in prison. I hope so too. But I’m never going to look the same again’
She didn’t cry, but sighed softly and looked at nothing for a bit, sitting with hands clasped around her bent knees, then drew me closer to her and kissed me gently. I kissed her back. She kept most of her clothes on and we made love. What else could I have done? And after an hour or so of us dozing afterwards, she rolled over onto one elbow, smiled, and said, ‘Before I became a prodomme I was a call girl. Want a proper half hour’s professional cocksucking in exchange for that footrub?’
Her inspired brilliance as a fellatrix was another unforgettable part of a very strange evening, and at the end of an awe-inspiring half hour she looked into my eyes and swallowed deeply. As dawn was breaking she said she had to go, and I got dressed and went outside with her to hail a taxi. She kissed me goodbye, got in, and leaned out of the window to say, ‘You’ve GOT to tickle my feet again!’, then waved goodbye, laughing high-pitched and happily as the cab drove her off past Regent’s Park into an orange and pink sunrise that could have been painted by Maxfield Parrish.
That was my last sight of Deborah.
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