This story, or rather the beginning of it at any rate, has been banging around my noggin for more years than I like to admit. A fan of F/F, M/F, & M/M tickling, I have always been fascinated by the epic tales we've had grace our fair forum over the years (many of which had been penned even before this "collective" came into being), and how they have shown the progression of a few key characters over the course of their own respective tickling-odysseys.
While I have enjoyed nearly all of these lengthy tales, I have often harbored the notion that I might, one day, contribute something of my own. The kicker is, because I am a bit bisexual, my own literary-excursion would invariably have to include some instances of Male-on-Male tickling, with a good bit of sexuality through in, to boot.
Because I really don't want to scare anyone off with this forward, allow me to preface this, and all of my future posts, with a guarantee that all of my story segements (chapters?) will, of course, have a gender/gender indicator in their titles. While I hope to remain consistent with each volume that I "send to press", so to speak, certain storylines will be self-contained, so as to keep up the reader's enjoyment without leaving any gaps because I went all "cumulative" on ya'll.
So, with (ALL) that being said, I submit to whomever should partake of this post the introduction to my own tickle-epic. I hope you like it and that any and all who do give it a go feel compelled to comment as such feedback will make or break my decision to continue on posting here and not just writing for myself...
The first thing that really told Todd he wasn’t back home in Virginia was the ceiling. Opening one heavy-lidded eye to stare up from his bed, he silently cursed to himself. He knew that opening the other eye, despite adding a bit of depth to the rough plastered surface above him, would only serve to confirm the fact that the ceiling above him was indeed an alien sight. It just wasn’t the sight he’d grown accustomed to waking up to over the last twenty years of his life. There was no denying it: he was miles away from where he grew up, from the place he could really call “home.” He wasn’t in Kansas anymore, hell, he wasn’t even south of the Mason-Dixon line.
“The least she could’ve done is paint the walls,” he muttered while rolling off the bed. Nimbly stepping around the haphazardly strewn contents of his duffle bag, he prayed for safe passage into the hallway –and through it to the bathroom- before Meg caught wind that he was, once again, amongst the living. This hope was shattered in almost as little time as it took for him to reach the knob and free the latch from the doorjamb…
Instantly deafened by the roar of electronic music -Sasha’s Ibiza mix as it happens- Todd shook his head to both try to regain some sense of place and equilibrium, and also in partial amazement that anyone could live with in such cacophony. To say the least, it was a wonder that anyone could do so without running the risk of being thrown out on one’s -deafened- ear by the tenant's association.
Peering around the corner of the tiny alcove that separated his makeshift bedroom from the rest of the studio-esque apartment -one hand to the wall while the other rubbed at his travel-weary eyes- he gazed out over the gloriously lit interior of his sister’s abode. Having come in late last night -or would it have been early this morning?- he was amazed at how the looming shadows he’d been ushered hastily through at that late hour had transformed, and now really seemed to resemble a rather nice living space in the light of day.
Situated in a southern suburb of Pittsburgh, the Tremane Towers apartment complex was erected in the mid-1940s with privacy in mind. Entering the building’s parking lot from Shannon Boulevard, one was privy to not one, but five security cameras adorning the ivy-covered walls that made up the facade of the main entrance square. Were one to take note of the parking spaces available, the total would equal roughly that of one and a half times the number of apartments housed in the building, itself. Basically, there were just enough spots to accommodate the tenants (nearly all single-occupancies), the staff and caretakers, and the occasional guest now and again.
Double security doors proved the only way in or out of the building, having been retrofitted in the late ‘80’s so that one would need both a standard key and an electronic badge to get in “after hours.” Some thought this to be a tad bit excessive, but when it came to keeping out solicitors and “the riff raff that plagued the South Hills,” a majority of the tenants (aged 60 and up, mind you) were amply sated by the precautions.
What really appealed to those who lived at Tremane, though, was the soundproofing. Built in an era where wild, all-night parties we hardly uncommon, the architects had constructed the building from top to bottom with sound-dampening, cinderblock supports. Between each apartment, wall and floor, was sandwiched a triple layer of stone, air, and stone, allowing for better noise control than could be sought in the most professional recording studio.
It was this particular feature of the apartments that originally sealed the deal for Megan, Todd’s stepsister, when she signed the lease about 4 years ago. She was an analyst for USX in the city who moonlighted in her spare time as what her friends and fans lovingly referred to as a “bedroom DJ”. All too happy to be able to escape the, fast-paced, socially-devoid Mecca that was her work world, the rather lengthy commute in and out of the city to the ‘burbs each day was well worth it, allowing her some much needed “alone time” in the car. “Anything to keep the ol’ sanity in check”, she often used to say upon first moving in. Also, considering that her free time usually consisted of loud and frequently lengthy music mixing, the relative privacy and security of Tremane proved the distance from work to home even more bearable.
Any hopes that Todd had harbored about making it into the bathroom unseen were eliminated almost instantly as he fully took stock of the sight before him. He hadn’t been caught by any watchful eye, nor had he even given himself away by stumbling over one of the many stacks of albums that littered the floor. No, what had halted his progress was his sister, well step-sister really, and the position she’d placed herself in, halfway across the room.
Facing away from him, Meg was reclined on a padded chaise that might once have looked to be at home in an ancient Roman flat. Dressed in a pair of formal business slacks and a light-colored, unbuttoned sport jacket that revealed a soft teal blouse beneath, she faced away from him on the cream-colored piece of furniture. Able to see just the top of her head from where he stood, Todd noticed that her deep auburn hair was marred only by the thick plastic band that belied a pair of Sony studio-cans. Normally -if one could call any history between the stepsiblings normal- this would have struck Todd as seeming odd- his music-obsessed sister wearing headphones whilst progressive house filled the room from a multitude of speakers. However, it wasn’t Meg’s chosen headgear that held Todd’s attention in sway. Instead, half-“dead to the world” as he was, he found himself rooted to the spot, stock-still, clutching the wall, fully engrossed in that which was -or rather wasn’t- adorning his older sibling’s feet…
At 5’11” and 165 lb., Meg was, to say the least, hardly a dainty gal in her own right. However, the build that she carried was a stature attained through tireless training at the gym 4 to 5 times a week without fail. With pale, glowing skin and rich auburn hair, Meg was frequently on the minds of the many men in her workplace. It didn’t help matters that she was one of the few women –much less overly-competent women- in her workplace either. In true misogynistic fashion, Meg had often found herself the unwilling victim of so many advances from her myriad, male co-workers Their attentions were for naught, however, as Meg was a dyed-in-the-wool lesbian who had, some time ago, given up on finding love altogether and focused instead on living life her way. Where some women would seem almost butch and intimidating at Megan’s height, this career gal was neither, and nor did she carry with her the persona of “man-hating-dyke” either. A laid back kinda girl, her lithe physique and pert breast gave her the ability to both woo who needed to be wooed, and command respect form those who sensed that she wasn’t one to be manipulated either. In short, Megan was one tough son of a bitch.
In fact, the only thing which could be considered a chink in this valkyrie’s armor, a trait she personally considered to be her only “character flaw”, was that of Meg’s lowest extremities: her size 13 (in men's, mind you) feet. Meg’s feet had been, for as long as she could remember, the only criticism she had of herself with regard to her body. This was, of course, because she wasn’t the one who'd initially found fault with them, nor even the first. Rather, said fate was in the hands of those around her. In her younger years, even before puberty had hit, Meg had been forced to wear “older girl” shoes to cover up the fact that she had abnormally large peds. Being teased at school by the other children, the “boats” she came with “would probably work as water-skis if she was ever out at the lake”. Even after she had gone through her own, natural, stage of feminine maturity, where all her girlfriends complained about their breasts not being big enough, Meg, not yet knowing she wasn’t interested in boys, blamed her feet for being too big, believing them to be what scared off every guy, from the jocks all the way to the nerds.
In time, Megan had learned to cope with her uniqueness and even enjoyed looking for hiking boots and jogging shoes in the men’s department, mainly because shoe shopping for women was such a big deal, while the end result usually produced a minimal product for an outrageous price. Indeed, Megan certainly got the most for her money when she sought to camouflage her larger-than-average feet. But now, in spite of all her surreptitiously enacted behavior, she was bare to the world… well, she was bare to the world inside her apartment, at any rate. And that meant she was bare to her still-hidden stepbrother, Todd…
Todd, for as long as he could remember, had harbored an intense love for feet, mainly of the female persuasion. Having been on this earth and aware of his sexuality for but a short time now, he had been attracted to the form of the female foot in manners that, even before he’d ambled his way through puberty, had made him feel like everything in the world would be all right if the gal by his side had a nice pair of peds. Having harbored his odd fascination with the less-than-popular body part, he quietly secreted away his “fetish” from the world around him, never more adamantly than when his closest friends -those with whom he’d grown up and matured beside- made it abundantly clear that their own interests dwelled slightly northward. To Todd, however, there was nothing more attractive that the sensitive duo that lay at the “ground-floor” of a woman’s stature.
Having looked back on his obsession with feet, Todd had frequently found himself wondering just what the attraction was all about. Where the typical influence of a woman’s “T&A” to most other guys seemed logical -as they were synonymously-tied with a person’s sexuality and virility- Todd’s own interests were seemed rather unorthodox to even him.
Reflecting for a moment while standing in his stepsister’s apartment, transfixed, Todd recalled the first time he’d experienced the drive to admire said appendages. It seemed that the seminal discovery lay with a cartoon he’d chanced upon while in the basement of his aunt’s house during some family function years ago. The cartoon was your average beat-‘em-up drivel, interspersed with lewd action and thinly-veiled misogyny. Only half-watching the program, Todd’s attention had suddenly become fixated on the ancient television set when a scene appeared that depicted the program’s heroine tied up and blindfolded, with on bare foot extended forward towards her captor.
For some unknown reason, the very sight of the animated woman with her sole bared to the world was the most interesting thing Todd had ever seen in his life. Had the image simply been frozen on the screen, the young boy could just as easily have sat transfixed for as long as it lasted. As it happens, the plot of the television serial took a turn for the exciting as the antagonist who held the young woman proceeded to threaten the woman with tickling, should she not volunteer the information her captor sought.
Tickling. The notion struck Todd like a physical blow. Sure, he’d been tickled now and again in the past by his parents. But on those random occasions, the “mock-attacks” had been born out of love and simple joviality. There was nothing carnal in those actions, nor should there have been. But, from where Todd sat, in the basement, away from the boring hubbub carrying on upstairs by so many adults and distant relatives either too young or too old to be interested in him; the actions appearing before the young lad proved vastly more fascinating than any good-natured play between him and his parents had ever been. What Todd was witnessing at that moment so many years ago would forever shape the route he would take along life’s path. From that brief moment, somewhere deep inside of him, Todd knew that he would forever be in love with female feet and, even more-so than that, he would be obsessed with tickling those feet in any way, shape, or form that he could muster…
Shaking himself from his musings, Todd’s attention swam back to the present, and back to the presence of his stepsister's beautiful feet, bared to all who cared to see them. Raising a hand to brush his sleep-strewn hair from where it hung before his eyes, he crept forward just enough to find himself a suitable perch in the dining-area of the loft, while still keeping himself from his sibling’s line of sight. Setting himself gently, so as not to announce his presence to the lounging woman before him, he chided himself on being overly precautious. There was no way that his entrance would have been detected over the barrage of sounds that emanated from the oversized stereo speakers about the room. After having lived a life for so many years that required him to keep his “interests” under wraps, however, the clandestine –and perhaps even furtive- behavior was almost second nature to him. Leaning back in the dining room chair, he sat in awe at the show that was unwittingly being performed before him:
They were perfect. That was all there was to it. Size 13 be damned, the feet that his stepsister had been blessed with were the most perfect pair he’d ever had the chance to lay eyes upon. Right knee cocked, her left calf rested over its thigh, giving Todd a view to die for. Meg’s fair complexion was apparent everywhere, it seemed, as the bare foot that now was now facing him was that perfectly pale, creamy hue that models on the idiot-box always seemed to strive for, yet could barely accomplish even after so many trips to the pedicurist’s. Narrow, but not too thin, the heel grew wider, veering out as Todd’s eyes traveled along the arch to the base of his sister’s toes. Her toes were long, but not so long that they seemed gangly or out of proportion to the rest of her foot. The pads of her toes looked soft as they leaned sleepily towards the ball of her foot. The ball of her foot, as well as all along the base of her toes bore a slight rouge, just as did her delicate heel, as though she’d been padding about the apartment barefoot earlier, and decided to rest her tired feet for awhile, while the faint reddish tint faded back to the near alabaster that colored her sole.
Her sole was what captivated Todd the most. It had to have been the most wrinkly foot bottom he’d ever seen in his life. Flexing her bare foot before him, as though she’d sensed his awe at it’s beauty, Meg alternately scrunched and stretched her toes in an incredibly provocative manner, showing off just how wrinkled the soft skin could be, only to iron it back taut and smooth with a quick flick of her adorable digits. There was no denying it, Todd was in love with his stepsister’s feet, plain and simple. Clean and well-cared for, it didn’t even bother the young tickle-hound that Meg’s toenails were adorned with a deep brown lacquer. In fact, the contrast between her skin tone and the dark nail color seemed to make her foot seem all the more sensual as it danced before his transfixed eyes. The only question that remained in his lust-addled mind was that of how to get at the vision of beauty before him? How would he be able to tickle Meg’s perfect feet..?
While I have enjoyed nearly all of these lengthy tales, I have often harbored the notion that I might, one day, contribute something of my own. The kicker is, because I am a bit bisexual, my own literary-excursion would invariably have to include some instances of Male-on-Male tickling, with a good bit of sexuality through in, to boot.
Because I really don't want to scare anyone off with this forward, allow me to preface this, and all of my future posts, with a guarantee that all of my story segements (chapters?) will, of course, have a gender/gender indicator in their titles. While I hope to remain consistent with each volume that I "send to press", so to speak, certain storylines will be self-contained, so as to keep up the reader's enjoyment without leaving any gaps because I went all "cumulative" on ya'll.
So, with (ALL) that being said, I submit to whomever should partake of this post the introduction to my own tickle-epic. I hope you like it and that any and all who do give it a go feel compelled to comment as such feedback will make or break my decision to continue on posting here and not just writing for myself...
The first thing that really told Todd he wasn’t back home in Virginia was the ceiling. Opening one heavy-lidded eye to stare up from his bed, he silently cursed to himself. He knew that opening the other eye, despite adding a bit of depth to the rough plastered surface above him, would only serve to confirm the fact that the ceiling above him was indeed an alien sight. It just wasn’t the sight he’d grown accustomed to waking up to over the last twenty years of his life. There was no denying it: he was miles away from where he grew up, from the place he could really call “home.” He wasn’t in Kansas anymore, hell, he wasn’t even south of the Mason-Dixon line.
“The least she could’ve done is paint the walls,” he muttered while rolling off the bed. Nimbly stepping around the haphazardly strewn contents of his duffle bag, he prayed for safe passage into the hallway –and through it to the bathroom- before Meg caught wind that he was, once again, amongst the living. This hope was shattered in almost as little time as it took for him to reach the knob and free the latch from the doorjamb…
Instantly deafened by the roar of electronic music -Sasha’s Ibiza mix as it happens- Todd shook his head to both try to regain some sense of place and equilibrium, and also in partial amazement that anyone could live with in such cacophony. To say the least, it was a wonder that anyone could do so without running the risk of being thrown out on one’s -deafened- ear by the tenant's association.
Peering around the corner of the tiny alcove that separated his makeshift bedroom from the rest of the studio-esque apartment -one hand to the wall while the other rubbed at his travel-weary eyes- he gazed out over the gloriously lit interior of his sister’s abode. Having come in late last night -or would it have been early this morning?- he was amazed at how the looming shadows he’d been ushered hastily through at that late hour had transformed, and now really seemed to resemble a rather nice living space in the light of day.
Situated in a southern suburb of Pittsburgh, the Tremane Towers apartment complex was erected in the mid-1940s with privacy in mind. Entering the building’s parking lot from Shannon Boulevard, one was privy to not one, but five security cameras adorning the ivy-covered walls that made up the facade of the main entrance square. Were one to take note of the parking spaces available, the total would equal roughly that of one and a half times the number of apartments housed in the building, itself. Basically, there were just enough spots to accommodate the tenants (nearly all single-occupancies), the staff and caretakers, and the occasional guest now and again.
Double security doors proved the only way in or out of the building, having been retrofitted in the late ‘80’s so that one would need both a standard key and an electronic badge to get in “after hours.” Some thought this to be a tad bit excessive, but when it came to keeping out solicitors and “the riff raff that plagued the South Hills,” a majority of the tenants (aged 60 and up, mind you) were amply sated by the precautions.
What really appealed to those who lived at Tremane, though, was the soundproofing. Built in an era where wild, all-night parties we hardly uncommon, the architects had constructed the building from top to bottom with sound-dampening, cinderblock supports. Between each apartment, wall and floor, was sandwiched a triple layer of stone, air, and stone, allowing for better noise control than could be sought in the most professional recording studio.
It was this particular feature of the apartments that originally sealed the deal for Megan, Todd’s stepsister, when she signed the lease about 4 years ago. She was an analyst for USX in the city who moonlighted in her spare time as what her friends and fans lovingly referred to as a “bedroom DJ”. All too happy to be able to escape the, fast-paced, socially-devoid Mecca that was her work world, the rather lengthy commute in and out of the city to the ‘burbs each day was well worth it, allowing her some much needed “alone time” in the car. “Anything to keep the ol’ sanity in check”, she often used to say upon first moving in. Also, considering that her free time usually consisted of loud and frequently lengthy music mixing, the relative privacy and security of Tremane proved the distance from work to home even more bearable.
Any hopes that Todd had harbored about making it into the bathroom unseen were eliminated almost instantly as he fully took stock of the sight before him. He hadn’t been caught by any watchful eye, nor had he even given himself away by stumbling over one of the many stacks of albums that littered the floor. No, what had halted his progress was his sister, well step-sister really, and the position she’d placed herself in, halfway across the room.
Facing away from him, Meg was reclined on a padded chaise that might once have looked to be at home in an ancient Roman flat. Dressed in a pair of formal business slacks and a light-colored, unbuttoned sport jacket that revealed a soft teal blouse beneath, she faced away from him on the cream-colored piece of furniture. Able to see just the top of her head from where he stood, Todd noticed that her deep auburn hair was marred only by the thick plastic band that belied a pair of Sony studio-cans. Normally -if one could call any history between the stepsiblings normal- this would have struck Todd as seeming odd- his music-obsessed sister wearing headphones whilst progressive house filled the room from a multitude of speakers. However, it wasn’t Meg’s chosen headgear that held Todd’s attention in sway. Instead, half-“dead to the world” as he was, he found himself rooted to the spot, stock-still, clutching the wall, fully engrossed in that which was -or rather wasn’t- adorning his older sibling’s feet…
At 5’11” and 165 lb., Meg was, to say the least, hardly a dainty gal in her own right. However, the build that she carried was a stature attained through tireless training at the gym 4 to 5 times a week without fail. With pale, glowing skin and rich auburn hair, Meg was frequently on the minds of the many men in her workplace. It didn’t help matters that she was one of the few women –much less overly-competent women- in her workplace either. In true misogynistic fashion, Meg had often found herself the unwilling victim of so many advances from her myriad, male co-workers Their attentions were for naught, however, as Meg was a dyed-in-the-wool lesbian who had, some time ago, given up on finding love altogether and focused instead on living life her way. Where some women would seem almost butch and intimidating at Megan’s height, this career gal was neither, and nor did she carry with her the persona of “man-hating-dyke” either. A laid back kinda girl, her lithe physique and pert breast gave her the ability to both woo who needed to be wooed, and command respect form those who sensed that she wasn’t one to be manipulated either. In short, Megan was one tough son of a bitch.
In fact, the only thing which could be considered a chink in this valkyrie’s armor, a trait she personally considered to be her only “character flaw”, was that of Meg’s lowest extremities: her size 13 (in men's, mind you) feet. Meg’s feet had been, for as long as she could remember, the only criticism she had of herself with regard to her body. This was, of course, because she wasn’t the one who'd initially found fault with them, nor even the first. Rather, said fate was in the hands of those around her. In her younger years, even before puberty had hit, Meg had been forced to wear “older girl” shoes to cover up the fact that she had abnormally large peds. Being teased at school by the other children, the “boats” she came with “would probably work as water-skis if she was ever out at the lake”. Even after she had gone through her own, natural, stage of feminine maturity, where all her girlfriends complained about their breasts not being big enough, Meg, not yet knowing she wasn’t interested in boys, blamed her feet for being too big, believing them to be what scared off every guy, from the jocks all the way to the nerds.
In time, Megan had learned to cope with her uniqueness and even enjoyed looking for hiking boots and jogging shoes in the men’s department, mainly because shoe shopping for women was such a big deal, while the end result usually produced a minimal product for an outrageous price. Indeed, Megan certainly got the most for her money when she sought to camouflage her larger-than-average feet. But now, in spite of all her surreptitiously enacted behavior, she was bare to the world… well, she was bare to the world inside her apartment, at any rate. And that meant she was bare to her still-hidden stepbrother, Todd…
Todd, for as long as he could remember, had harbored an intense love for feet, mainly of the female persuasion. Having been on this earth and aware of his sexuality for but a short time now, he had been attracted to the form of the female foot in manners that, even before he’d ambled his way through puberty, had made him feel like everything in the world would be all right if the gal by his side had a nice pair of peds. Having harbored his odd fascination with the less-than-popular body part, he quietly secreted away his “fetish” from the world around him, never more adamantly than when his closest friends -those with whom he’d grown up and matured beside- made it abundantly clear that their own interests dwelled slightly northward. To Todd, however, there was nothing more attractive that the sensitive duo that lay at the “ground-floor” of a woman’s stature.
Having looked back on his obsession with feet, Todd had frequently found himself wondering just what the attraction was all about. Where the typical influence of a woman’s “T&A” to most other guys seemed logical -as they were synonymously-tied with a person’s sexuality and virility- Todd’s own interests were seemed rather unorthodox to even him.
Reflecting for a moment while standing in his stepsister’s apartment, transfixed, Todd recalled the first time he’d experienced the drive to admire said appendages. It seemed that the seminal discovery lay with a cartoon he’d chanced upon while in the basement of his aunt’s house during some family function years ago. The cartoon was your average beat-‘em-up drivel, interspersed with lewd action and thinly-veiled misogyny. Only half-watching the program, Todd’s attention had suddenly become fixated on the ancient television set when a scene appeared that depicted the program’s heroine tied up and blindfolded, with on bare foot extended forward towards her captor.
For some unknown reason, the very sight of the animated woman with her sole bared to the world was the most interesting thing Todd had ever seen in his life. Had the image simply been frozen on the screen, the young boy could just as easily have sat transfixed for as long as it lasted. As it happens, the plot of the television serial took a turn for the exciting as the antagonist who held the young woman proceeded to threaten the woman with tickling, should she not volunteer the information her captor sought.
Tickling. The notion struck Todd like a physical blow. Sure, he’d been tickled now and again in the past by his parents. But on those random occasions, the “mock-attacks” had been born out of love and simple joviality. There was nothing carnal in those actions, nor should there have been. But, from where Todd sat, in the basement, away from the boring hubbub carrying on upstairs by so many adults and distant relatives either too young or too old to be interested in him; the actions appearing before the young lad proved vastly more fascinating than any good-natured play between him and his parents had ever been. What Todd was witnessing at that moment so many years ago would forever shape the route he would take along life’s path. From that brief moment, somewhere deep inside of him, Todd knew that he would forever be in love with female feet and, even more-so than that, he would be obsessed with tickling those feet in any way, shape, or form that he could muster…
Shaking himself from his musings, Todd’s attention swam back to the present, and back to the presence of his stepsister's beautiful feet, bared to all who cared to see them. Raising a hand to brush his sleep-strewn hair from where it hung before his eyes, he crept forward just enough to find himself a suitable perch in the dining-area of the loft, while still keeping himself from his sibling’s line of sight. Setting himself gently, so as not to announce his presence to the lounging woman before him, he chided himself on being overly precautious. There was no way that his entrance would have been detected over the barrage of sounds that emanated from the oversized stereo speakers about the room. After having lived a life for so many years that required him to keep his “interests” under wraps, however, the clandestine –and perhaps even furtive- behavior was almost second nature to him. Leaning back in the dining room chair, he sat in awe at the show that was unwittingly being performed before him:
They were perfect. That was all there was to it. Size 13 be damned, the feet that his stepsister had been blessed with were the most perfect pair he’d ever had the chance to lay eyes upon. Right knee cocked, her left calf rested over its thigh, giving Todd a view to die for. Meg’s fair complexion was apparent everywhere, it seemed, as the bare foot that now was now facing him was that perfectly pale, creamy hue that models on the idiot-box always seemed to strive for, yet could barely accomplish even after so many trips to the pedicurist’s. Narrow, but not too thin, the heel grew wider, veering out as Todd’s eyes traveled along the arch to the base of his sister’s toes. Her toes were long, but not so long that they seemed gangly or out of proportion to the rest of her foot. The pads of her toes looked soft as they leaned sleepily towards the ball of her foot. The ball of her foot, as well as all along the base of her toes bore a slight rouge, just as did her delicate heel, as though she’d been padding about the apartment barefoot earlier, and decided to rest her tired feet for awhile, while the faint reddish tint faded back to the near alabaster that colored her sole.
Her sole was what captivated Todd the most. It had to have been the most wrinkly foot bottom he’d ever seen in his life. Flexing her bare foot before him, as though she’d sensed his awe at it’s beauty, Meg alternately scrunched and stretched her toes in an incredibly provocative manner, showing off just how wrinkled the soft skin could be, only to iron it back taut and smooth with a quick flick of her adorable digits. There was no denying it, Todd was in love with his stepsister’s feet, plain and simple. Clean and well-cared for, it didn’t even bother the young tickle-hound that Meg’s toenails were adorned with a deep brown lacquer. In fact, the contrast between her skin tone and the dark nail color seemed to make her foot seem all the more sensual as it danced before his transfixed eyes. The only question that remained in his lust-addled mind was that of how to get at the vision of beauty before him? How would he be able to tickle Meg’s perfect feet..?
