I'm very tired tonight. I think it must be from all my play online last night with my lers. You guys are relentless and I love you for it. I also did a little tickling myself and found myself getting excited when telling my lee what was going to happen to him. Hmmmm...a lee acting as a ler becomes her own ler...very complicated and not as satisfying. But then it got me thinking of this scenario....
I come home from work, bone dog tired. My ler leads me to the coach and has me lay down on my stomach. He puts a pillow under my head so I can just lay here and doze...then I feel him sink into the couch and rest my feet in his lap.
He massages my calves and ankles and I all but purr it feels so good and so relaxing. Then I become aware of him unlacing my sneaker. I am not sure how I feel about this. I am too tired to play, but as the show is pulled up and I feell my heel exposed, the anticipation in my stomach decides and I lay back down smiloing.
I try to figure out what he will do next, go for the sock or go for the other sneaker. I am caught off-guard when I feel the strong length of a nylon cord tickle across my ankle. I wait for him to tie the ankles but it doesn;t hapen. Instead, he now goes to the other foot and slowly pulls the sneaker off. I hear it clump somewhere across the room.
Now the nylon is tying my ankles together, pulling tight so my feet can't turn into each other or wiggle. He lays the sock clad feet back in his lap and there is nothing. Just nothing. I start to shift my body, an uneasy feeling starting in my stomach. My predictable ler is suddenly being unpredictable.
"I'm thinking about what we talked about the other night." His voice is soft but firm.
"As I recall, I told you that when you were home with me these feet needed to be bare and ready to be tickled at my pleasure."
I feel one strong finger glide over my sock covered sole. I am jumpy. I have disobeyed and suddenly I am terrified that I won't be able to take the punishment. Why didn't I take my shoes and socks off before coming into the house?
He lifts my legs and slides out, placing my feet back on the couch. He lights the fireplace and then disappears into the bedroom. I hear rummaging around, sounds clinking, bags rattling, drawers opening and shutting. I am straining to see what he is doing. As he comes out of the room I realize he has gathered all my shoes, all my socks. He can't be serious.
"You need to watch this." He stokes the fire. He looks at the shoe in his hand and then gives my bound, sock clad feet a long, hard llook.
"Who are you?" He asks as he tosses my favorite shoes into the fire. I know the answer, it has been drillled in me a million times. "Your slave." I say softly. Another shoe goes in and the flames rise. "What type of slave?" "Barefoot."
"And what are the rules for a barefoot slave?"
"To be barefoot all the time and have my feet ready to be tickled at the whim of my master." I watch him throw the socks and shoes into the fire and although I know it could have dire consequences, I speak up. "You can't get rid of them all, I have to go to work."
"Maybe you'll have a new job, a stay at home job, just like I do. Imagine all day long me being able to watch those bare feet. I often think about how nice it would be to have you laying across my desk in my office as I talk to clients on the phone. I would take their orders by writing on your feet. There's one guy that calls...buys about 40 things at the same time. Maybe I could get him to double his order."
He know he has me when he details this fantasy. Knows that any writing with a pen on my bare soles drive me to the point of insanity. He comes back to the couch, sits down and places my feet in his lap again.
"Here." He holds out a pair of sandlals. "You can keep these but if I see them on your feet inside this house, they go too." I know why he has chosen them. They are nothing more than a leather flip flop with the entire foot exposed. Even when you walk the sole of shoe slips away enough to allow a skillful finger or fingernail brush to get in. He has played with my feet over and over again in public with these sandals.
I hear him rattle a bag and he pulls out his tickle box. He opens it and takes out the small scissors. He starts cutting the sock from the heel up as far as the arch so that the toes and part of the arch are still covered as he pulls the other part away. He does the same thing to the other foot. I can't even begin to describe the sensation that this gives me. Half exposed, half covered. Where he has cut the sock near the arch there is now plenty of room for one...two...three.. maybe even 4 fingers to get in there.
His fingers ghost over my heel making circles and hitting the same ticklish spot again and again. I bite my lip. I know better than to squirm because it will give that spot away and in the mood he is in, he could spend hours. He runs his finger from the sole up to the heel
I come home from work, bone dog tired. My ler leads me to the coach and has me lay down on my stomach. He puts a pillow under my head so I can just lay here and doze...then I feel him sink into the couch and rest my feet in his lap.
He massages my calves and ankles and I all but purr it feels so good and so relaxing. Then I become aware of him unlacing my sneaker. I am not sure how I feel about this. I am too tired to play, but as the show is pulled up and I feell my heel exposed, the anticipation in my stomach decides and I lay back down smiloing.
I try to figure out what he will do next, go for the sock or go for the other sneaker. I am caught off-guard when I feel the strong length of a nylon cord tickle across my ankle. I wait for him to tie the ankles but it doesn;t hapen. Instead, he now goes to the other foot and slowly pulls the sneaker off. I hear it clump somewhere across the room.
Now the nylon is tying my ankles together, pulling tight so my feet can't turn into each other or wiggle. He lays the sock clad feet back in his lap and there is nothing. Just nothing. I start to shift my body, an uneasy feeling starting in my stomach. My predictable ler is suddenly being unpredictable.
"I'm thinking about what we talked about the other night." His voice is soft but firm.
"As I recall, I told you that when you were home with me these feet needed to be bare and ready to be tickled at my pleasure."
I feel one strong finger glide over my sock covered sole. I am jumpy. I have disobeyed and suddenly I am terrified that I won't be able to take the punishment. Why didn't I take my shoes and socks off before coming into the house?
He lifts my legs and slides out, placing my feet back on the couch. He lights the fireplace and then disappears into the bedroom. I hear rummaging around, sounds clinking, bags rattling, drawers opening and shutting. I am straining to see what he is doing. As he comes out of the room I realize he has gathered all my shoes, all my socks. He can't be serious.
"You need to watch this." He stokes the fire. He looks at the shoe in his hand and then gives my bound, sock clad feet a long, hard llook.
"Who are you?" He asks as he tosses my favorite shoes into the fire. I know the answer, it has been drillled in me a million times. "Your slave." I say softly. Another shoe goes in and the flames rise. "What type of slave?" "Barefoot."
"And what are the rules for a barefoot slave?"
"To be barefoot all the time and have my feet ready to be tickled at the whim of my master." I watch him throw the socks and shoes into the fire and although I know it could have dire consequences, I speak up. "You can't get rid of them all, I have to go to work."
"Maybe you'll have a new job, a stay at home job, just like I do. Imagine all day long me being able to watch those bare feet. I often think about how nice it would be to have you laying across my desk in my office as I talk to clients on the phone. I would take their orders by writing on your feet. There's one guy that calls...buys about 40 things at the same time. Maybe I could get him to double his order."
He know he has me when he details this fantasy. Knows that any writing with a pen on my bare soles drive me to the point of insanity. He comes back to the couch, sits down and places my feet in his lap again.
"Here." He holds out a pair of sandlals. "You can keep these but if I see them on your feet inside this house, they go too." I know why he has chosen them. They are nothing more than a leather flip flop with the entire foot exposed. Even when you walk the sole of shoe slips away enough to allow a skillful finger or fingernail brush to get in. He has played with my feet over and over again in public with these sandals.
I hear him rattle a bag and he pulls out his tickle box. He opens it and takes out the small scissors. He starts cutting the sock from the heel up as far as the arch so that the toes and part of the arch are still covered as he pulls the other part away. He does the same thing to the other foot. I can't even begin to describe the sensation that this gives me. Half exposed, half covered. Where he has cut the sock near the arch there is now plenty of room for one...two...three.. maybe even 4 fingers to get in there.
His fingers ghost over my heel making circles and hitting the same ticklish spot again and again. I bite my lip. I know better than to squirm because it will give that spot away and in the mood he is in, he could spend hours. He runs his finger from the sole up to the heel
