Well, here's my not-at-all eagerly awaited second story. My plan had been to write a lot more, but...sorry.
This is quite long, and mainly set up, but I promise there is tickling, and the prospect of much more to come. There's some of it right at the begining.
I decided to do this in a vaguely gotic style for..no particular reason. Could be a series, who knows..it's meant as a part 1.
So, I hope you enjoy.
I await your feedback..
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He paused for mere seconds before he was back at it, the tips of his fingers moving interminably, as if conducting an orchestra of hilarity upon the sensitive soles, accompanied only by her frenzied laughter. She loved it, he knew, though anyone watching could have been forgiven for thinking otherwise.
Jack had been tickling her for hours, the bright, pure red covering every inch of her lithe, naked body enticing him like an enraged bull. Each stroking of her sensitive areas brought with it laughter that was beautiful in its repetitiveness, music to his ears and appreciated as much by other parts of his body.
She was deliciously ticklish, something he’d known before he’d even talked to her, and this was the key to him being there right now. Jack reflected on the ceaseless laughter of this beautiful woman, the arousal he knew they both shared, and the promise of many nights like this to come. And not for the first time in the middle of one of his tickle sessions, he found himself briefly turning his face heavenward and offering a brief prayer to a God he didn’t believe in. It was short, and it was just as he had repeated every night during his brief but action-packed career as a rampant tickler. He didn’t thank God for ticklish flesh, or the beautiful woman who it was attached to, or even the gift of being able to enjoy it in such a way. His prayer was simple – Thank God for the Post Office.
Oh yes, he thought, it had all begun with the mail. Scarcely a fortnight earlier, though the pale masturbator he had been then was as different to the man he saw in the mirror now as Michael Jackson 1977 to the 2002 model.
Jack was a student, and not a very good one, living quietly in a university hall of residence populated by himself and almost an entire building full of beautiful, similarly aged female students who he almost entirely failed to get off with.
Jack’s sex life, despite the attractive scenery and his rare chance at actually observing the rare beast, the student female, in her native habitat had remained as empty and unfulfilling as the endless conversations he had with all of them under that dreaded catchphrase of all failed Casanovas – ‘Just friends.’
Jack was 19, plain but not entirely unattractive, and it had to be said quite dense, but he had one natural talent – he was an observer, a listener – and as such he was sought out to be the willing ear of every girl with boyfriend trouble, or some other conversational low, in the whole building. He was, in short, thought of by every girl in the building as a lovely, attentive guy who could be trusted to have problems unloaded on him almost ceaselessly, but not even remotely dateable.
This was perhaps not surprising, Jack was one of nature’s born listeners, but he was quite shy himself and certainly the last person to muster up the courage to suggest even dates he longed for, let alone anything further.
But Jack’s shyness was linked not only to his nature, but to his own anxieties about his sexual orientation. For Jack was, and had been since he had started noticing, a born ticklephile, and an equally committed, if much more discerning lover of female feet, something that caused both incredible worries and even shame. Living in student accommodation with a host of beautiful girls, in one of Australia’s barmiest cities led to the footwear favoured by most of his female contemporaries being bare feet. And not a day passed when Jack didn’t admire them, lusting silently whilst in the throes of some huge discussion or peering at them from the corner of his eye whilst pretending to read in the student lounge.
Thoughts of tickling were never far from his mind, and he longed for the tickles he never quite worked up the balls to deliver. Each day he was frustrated by his own inadequacy, as he fraternised platonically with what must be surely all manner of ticklish young female. He fantasised about it, he obsessed over it. Even the thought of asking ‘are you ticklish?’ in a conversation filled him with excitement and longing, but he knew he never could. And so he suffered in silence, all manner of tickling related fulfilment barred from him.
Until one day, when an unexpected package entered his life.
He’d been on his way back to his room after another empty physics lecture, to enjoy a few quiet moments of masturbatory glee before what was bound to be yet another equally empty heart-to-heart with Kim, the twenty-year old temptress from across the hall, when he saw the package placed carefully in front of his door. It bore no return address, only his name in heavy printed letters, and was so official it frightened him.
As he tore open the box and went through layers of packing paper, his anxiety mounted, and he was rather disappointed in the end to find that the box contained only a new pair of glasses. Nice glasses, it had to be said though, and he discarded his old frames and put them on, realising not only how much nicer they were than his old jar-bottomed spectacles, with their thin frames and almost invisible lenses, but also that they were his exact prescription. He could see perfectly, perhaps even better than through his old ones. This was great news, a free and superior pair turning up in the mail, but the event bothered him.
Who would send him a pair of new and obviously expensive glasses unsolicited in the mail? Why was there no return address? How was he expected to pay for them?
Jack puzzled as he often did, but his reverie was ended by an impatient knock at his door, which was opened just as abruptly, and Kim entered his room.
She was quite pretty, Jack thought then as he had often during quiet moments in front of the bathroom mirror. Kind of like a young, sultry Judy Garland, with immaculately straight brown hair, and deep brown eyes that a man could happily drown in. She was 5’5”, thin but not too thin, and perhaps not quite as shrewishly aware of her charms as many of the other girls there. Jack mused that standing there, even in the dowdy green cargo pants and t-shirt she wore, innocently barefoot, she was suddenly the most wonderfully feminine thing he had ever seen. If it hadn’t been for the large coloured shapes that seemed to cling to her person, she would have been at home in a magazine, he thought. And then he realised, and took in the great sheathes of colour that seemed to be hanging from her almost imperceptibly. He moved forward.
“Hi,” began Kim, smiling, but speaking hurriedly like she really wanted to get down to her purpose for being there. “I really need to talk to someone, John.”
“What have you got on you?” Jack spluttered, in the kind of sing song nervous voice he always adopted when talking to girls, not noticing that she had called him by an incorrect name but preoccupied with the colours that seemed to follow her into the room – separate, but also on her – like a sort of overlay.
She looked at him strangely, as usually only half-listening to what he was saying and understanding even less. “What?”
“This” he gestured to the red patch that covered her stomach, and seemed to extend back across her arms. “It looks like paint or…something.”
She absently looked down, vaguely taking in what he was pointing at but anxious as always to talk. “What do you mean? Mike’s gone again and–“
She paused only because Jack, in his effort to determine just what the hell was going on, had reached out a hand gingerly feel the red shape that covered her torso- to prove to himself that he wasn’t going crazy. He felt only the t-shirt she was wearing, and Kim flinched and backed away, unsure of what he was doing and not at all interested. She had come to talk about her, and she was going to, regardless of how Jack seemed to be enjoying some kind of uncharacteristic acid trip. Whirling colours that only he could see were not her problem, cheating boyfriends were. She sat down in the room’s only chair, propping up her legs on the end of Jack’s bed.
In the meantime, Jack had steadied himself enough to remove his glasses and rub his eyes, and it was then he noticed that although things were much blurrier, the colours were gone. He put the glasses on. The colours were back. Kim’s chest and around under her arms were clearly red, hips a faded orange, knees a similarly washed out looking yellow, and the soles of her feet he now noticed were an even stronger shade of red.
He could still see Kim as normal underneath, the colours just hovered over her, opaque, like a subtle form of colour coding for her anatomy. But to what purpose he could only guess. Intrigued though he was, he had convinced himself that he was not mad, and this was his immediate concern.
Kim shifted in her relaxed pose, and he even without mysterious colour-coding he could tell she was getting impatient. The inner Jack rose up, and he was compelled to obey. She had taken the only chair, so he had no choice to sit down adjacent to her on the bed. This position afforded him a clear view of her immaculate feet, soft and un-calloused, and so close he could almost touch them if he were not himself. They were also, as he had noted, even redder in hue the closer he got, but he had already knuckled under and wasn’t about to talk to Kim further about it right then.
She launched into a long monologue about her cheating boyfriend, and the events of last night, and how she still loved him and everything else that usually made up the story Jack had heard nearly a hundred times before. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to force down his growing erection and trying to stop his mind from wandering to thoughts of tickling the bare feet positioned just within reach. They were so alluring, so…red. Red.
He thought about this, the significance of the fact that her feet were red, whilst the rest of her legs alternated in colour. If these glasses were some sort of reader for a secret code, what was it?
He almost hadn’t realised it, but as he thought this he’d inched his right hand closer to the tantalising soles, and as he drank in the unusually red pair before him he did something he’d wanted to do since the day he met Kim, all those days earlier. And as he reached out, and lightly stroked the feet before him, he justified it to himself as being in the interest of science.
Kim, of course, hadn’t noticed his interest and it wasn’t until she burst into a flurry of unsuppressed giggles as soon as he tickled her soft feet, mid-sentence, that she even registered.
Jack gasped – she was obviously quite ticklish there, and in an instant years of suppressed longing welled up, and he commenced tickling both her feet as she laughed good-naturedly and tried – though not too hard – to pull her delicate peds away. Her whole foot, both of them, were as ticklish as they were red, every inch of colour a veritable feast of sensitive flesh.
“Jack, hehehehe, stop! It hahahaha-tickles!” Kim managed, and Jack very reluctantly did so.
Kim, strangely, didn’t seem as irritated as Jack had thought she would be, and was still smiling as she told him off. “Don’t, you know how ticklish I am.”
“No, no…I didn’t.” Jack spluttered, almost without thinking.
“Well, I am. Especially on my feet, but under my arms and my stomach..” she giggled in..was that a flirtatious way? “and most other places, a little bit.”
And Jack gasped in a way that had little to do with how she said it, and everything to do with what she said.
Her arms, feet, stomach…he recounted. Every part that was now red through his new glasses.
Kim launched back into her tale of woe, but for once in his life Jack wasn’t listening, but looking. For now, he half-hoped and knew it to be true. The colour codes that hung over his vision like a suddenly welcome stranger were indicators, and he had just cracked the code. They were it seemed, and he almost wet himself with excitement as he turned this over in his mind, a visual guide as to how ticklish the person he looked at through them was. They were, quite simply, able to show him how much and how ticklish a person was just by looking at them.
Jack felt his heart pound, but even as he sat there in the throes of his unlikely discovery he felt the inner pessimist in him rearing its head, and telling him it was a fluke, an accident, some weird coincidence.
Standing up, he left a flustered Kim sitting on the bed and darted out into the corridor. He had to check, he thought. He had to prove it. He bounded through the empty hall and sprinted to the common room. A stranger to physical exercise, he felt awful by the time he got there, but the sight he saw there was enough to lift his spirits.
For the common room, full of the reclining girls he knew he would find there, was a sea of coloured body parts, orange, yellow, and red as far as he could see.
Things were looking up.
(To be continued?)
This is quite long, and mainly set up, but I promise there is tickling, and the prospect of much more to come. There's some of it right at the begining.
I decided to do this in a vaguely gotic style for..no particular reason. Could be a series, who knows..it's meant as a part 1.
So, I hope you enjoy.
I await your feedback..
------------------------------------------------------------
He paused for mere seconds before he was back at it, the tips of his fingers moving interminably, as if conducting an orchestra of hilarity upon the sensitive soles, accompanied only by her frenzied laughter. She loved it, he knew, though anyone watching could have been forgiven for thinking otherwise.
Jack had been tickling her for hours, the bright, pure red covering every inch of her lithe, naked body enticing him like an enraged bull. Each stroking of her sensitive areas brought with it laughter that was beautiful in its repetitiveness, music to his ears and appreciated as much by other parts of his body.
She was deliciously ticklish, something he’d known before he’d even talked to her, and this was the key to him being there right now. Jack reflected on the ceaseless laughter of this beautiful woman, the arousal he knew they both shared, and the promise of many nights like this to come. And not for the first time in the middle of one of his tickle sessions, he found himself briefly turning his face heavenward and offering a brief prayer to a God he didn’t believe in. It was short, and it was just as he had repeated every night during his brief but action-packed career as a rampant tickler. He didn’t thank God for ticklish flesh, or the beautiful woman who it was attached to, or even the gift of being able to enjoy it in such a way. His prayer was simple – Thank God for the Post Office.
Oh yes, he thought, it had all begun with the mail. Scarcely a fortnight earlier, though the pale masturbator he had been then was as different to the man he saw in the mirror now as Michael Jackson 1977 to the 2002 model.
Jack was a student, and not a very good one, living quietly in a university hall of residence populated by himself and almost an entire building full of beautiful, similarly aged female students who he almost entirely failed to get off with.
Jack’s sex life, despite the attractive scenery and his rare chance at actually observing the rare beast, the student female, in her native habitat had remained as empty and unfulfilling as the endless conversations he had with all of them under that dreaded catchphrase of all failed Casanovas – ‘Just friends.’
Jack was 19, plain but not entirely unattractive, and it had to be said quite dense, but he had one natural talent – he was an observer, a listener – and as such he was sought out to be the willing ear of every girl with boyfriend trouble, or some other conversational low, in the whole building. He was, in short, thought of by every girl in the building as a lovely, attentive guy who could be trusted to have problems unloaded on him almost ceaselessly, but not even remotely dateable.
This was perhaps not surprising, Jack was one of nature’s born listeners, but he was quite shy himself and certainly the last person to muster up the courage to suggest even dates he longed for, let alone anything further.
But Jack’s shyness was linked not only to his nature, but to his own anxieties about his sexual orientation. For Jack was, and had been since he had started noticing, a born ticklephile, and an equally committed, if much more discerning lover of female feet, something that caused both incredible worries and even shame. Living in student accommodation with a host of beautiful girls, in one of Australia’s barmiest cities led to the footwear favoured by most of his female contemporaries being bare feet. And not a day passed when Jack didn’t admire them, lusting silently whilst in the throes of some huge discussion or peering at them from the corner of his eye whilst pretending to read in the student lounge.
Thoughts of tickling were never far from his mind, and he longed for the tickles he never quite worked up the balls to deliver. Each day he was frustrated by his own inadequacy, as he fraternised platonically with what must be surely all manner of ticklish young female. He fantasised about it, he obsessed over it. Even the thought of asking ‘are you ticklish?’ in a conversation filled him with excitement and longing, but he knew he never could. And so he suffered in silence, all manner of tickling related fulfilment barred from him.
Until one day, when an unexpected package entered his life.
He’d been on his way back to his room after another empty physics lecture, to enjoy a few quiet moments of masturbatory glee before what was bound to be yet another equally empty heart-to-heart with Kim, the twenty-year old temptress from across the hall, when he saw the package placed carefully in front of his door. It bore no return address, only his name in heavy printed letters, and was so official it frightened him.
As he tore open the box and went through layers of packing paper, his anxiety mounted, and he was rather disappointed in the end to find that the box contained only a new pair of glasses. Nice glasses, it had to be said though, and he discarded his old frames and put them on, realising not only how much nicer they were than his old jar-bottomed spectacles, with their thin frames and almost invisible lenses, but also that they were his exact prescription. He could see perfectly, perhaps even better than through his old ones. This was great news, a free and superior pair turning up in the mail, but the event bothered him.
Who would send him a pair of new and obviously expensive glasses unsolicited in the mail? Why was there no return address? How was he expected to pay for them?
Jack puzzled as he often did, but his reverie was ended by an impatient knock at his door, which was opened just as abruptly, and Kim entered his room.
She was quite pretty, Jack thought then as he had often during quiet moments in front of the bathroom mirror. Kind of like a young, sultry Judy Garland, with immaculately straight brown hair, and deep brown eyes that a man could happily drown in. She was 5’5”, thin but not too thin, and perhaps not quite as shrewishly aware of her charms as many of the other girls there. Jack mused that standing there, even in the dowdy green cargo pants and t-shirt she wore, innocently barefoot, she was suddenly the most wonderfully feminine thing he had ever seen. If it hadn’t been for the large coloured shapes that seemed to cling to her person, she would have been at home in a magazine, he thought. And then he realised, and took in the great sheathes of colour that seemed to be hanging from her almost imperceptibly. He moved forward.
“Hi,” began Kim, smiling, but speaking hurriedly like she really wanted to get down to her purpose for being there. “I really need to talk to someone, John.”
“What have you got on you?” Jack spluttered, in the kind of sing song nervous voice he always adopted when talking to girls, not noticing that she had called him by an incorrect name but preoccupied with the colours that seemed to follow her into the room – separate, but also on her – like a sort of overlay.
She looked at him strangely, as usually only half-listening to what he was saying and understanding even less. “What?”
“This” he gestured to the red patch that covered her stomach, and seemed to extend back across her arms. “It looks like paint or…something.”
She absently looked down, vaguely taking in what he was pointing at but anxious as always to talk. “What do you mean? Mike’s gone again and–“
She paused only because Jack, in his effort to determine just what the hell was going on, had reached out a hand gingerly feel the red shape that covered her torso- to prove to himself that he wasn’t going crazy. He felt only the t-shirt she was wearing, and Kim flinched and backed away, unsure of what he was doing and not at all interested. She had come to talk about her, and she was going to, regardless of how Jack seemed to be enjoying some kind of uncharacteristic acid trip. Whirling colours that only he could see were not her problem, cheating boyfriends were. She sat down in the room’s only chair, propping up her legs on the end of Jack’s bed.
In the meantime, Jack had steadied himself enough to remove his glasses and rub his eyes, and it was then he noticed that although things were much blurrier, the colours were gone. He put the glasses on. The colours were back. Kim’s chest and around under her arms were clearly red, hips a faded orange, knees a similarly washed out looking yellow, and the soles of her feet he now noticed were an even stronger shade of red.
He could still see Kim as normal underneath, the colours just hovered over her, opaque, like a subtle form of colour coding for her anatomy. But to what purpose he could only guess. Intrigued though he was, he had convinced himself that he was not mad, and this was his immediate concern.
Kim shifted in her relaxed pose, and he even without mysterious colour-coding he could tell she was getting impatient. The inner Jack rose up, and he was compelled to obey. She had taken the only chair, so he had no choice to sit down adjacent to her on the bed. This position afforded him a clear view of her immaculate feet, soft and un-calloused, and so close he could almost touch them if he were not himself. They were also, as he had noted, even redder in hue the closer he got, but he had already knuckled under and wasn’t about to talk to Kim further about it right then.
She launched into a long monologue about her cheating boyfriend, and the events of last night, and how she still loved him and everything else that usually made up the story Jack had heard nearly a hundred times before. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to force down his growing erection and trying to stop his mind from wandering to thoughts of tickling the bare feet positioned just within reach. They were so alluring, so…red. Red.
He thought about this, the significance of the fact that her feet were red, whilst the rest of her legs alternated in colour. If these glasses were some sort of reader for a secret code, what was it?
He almost hadn’t realised it, but as he thought this he’d inched his right hand closer to the tantalising soles, and as he drank in the unusually red pair before him he did something he’d wanted to do since the day he met Kim, all those days earlier. And as he reached out, and lightly stroked the feet before him, he justified it to himself as being in the interest of science.
Kim, of course, hadn’t noticed his interest and it wasn’t until she burst into a flurry of unsuppressed giggles as soon as he tickled her soft feet, mid-sentence, that she even registered.
Jack gasped – she was obviously quite ticklish there, and in an instant years of suppressed longing welled up, and he commenced tickling both her feet as she laughed good-naturedly and tried – though not too hard – to pull her delicate peds away. Her whole foot, both of them, were as ticklish as they were red, every inch of colour a veritable feast of sensitive flesh.
“Jack, hehehehe, stop! It hahahaha-tickles!” Kim managed, and Jack very reluctantly did so.
Kim, strangely, didn’t seem as irritated as Jack had thought she would be, and was still smiling as she told him off. “Don’t, you know how ticklish I am.”
“No, no…I didn’t.” Jack spluttered, almost without thinking.
“Well, I am. Especially on my feet, but under my arms and my stomach..” she giggled in..was that a flirtatious way? “and most other places, a little bit.”
And Jack gasped in a way that had little to do with how she said it, and everything to do with what she said.
Her arms, feet, stomach…he recounted. Every part that was now red through his new glasses.
Kim launched back into her tale of woe, but for once in his life Jack wasn’t listening, but looking. For now, he half-hoped and knew it to be true. The colour codes that hung over his vision like a suddenly welcome stranger were indicators, and he had just cracked the code. They were it seemed, and he almost wet himself with excitement as he turned this over in his mind, a visual guide as to how ticklish the person he looked at through them was. They were, quite simply, able to show him how much and how ticklish a person was just by looking at them.
Jack felt his heart pound, but even as he sat there in the throes of his unlikely discovery he felt the inner pessimist in him rearing its head, and telling him it was a fluke, an accident, some weird coincidence.
Standing up, he left a flustered Kim sitting on the bed and darted out into the corridor. He had to check, he thought. He had to prove it. He bounded through the empty hall and sprinted to the common room. A stranger to physical exercise, he felt awful by the time he got there, but the sight he saw there was enough to lift his spirits.
For the common room, full of the reclining girls he knew he would find there, was a sea of coloured body parts, orange, yellow, and red as far as he could see.
Things were looking up.
(To be continued?)
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