Things I Do - M/F Feet

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Things I Do

So I have this bad habit; oh, right, hi. I guess you don’t necessarily know me. Well, you may refer to me as Phil, and no, before you ask, it’s not my real name. Don’t worry about it. Actually, you don’t really need to know anything about me, so let’s chase to the cut. Cut to the chase. Something like that.

So, the habit. I –Love- to tickle girls, right? Except, they usually aren’t so big on it. Well, it is creepy. I guess just saying, you know, hi, let me tickle your feet, doesn’t fly so well with them. You know, girls.

Here’s what I do; I’ll go to some shoe place – big one usually, it’s easier that way – and spot some pretty young thing working there. I’ll say, you know, hey, excuse me, I’m trying to get some shoes for my girl as a surprise, but I want to make sure they’ll fit adequately well. Then I’ll ask what shoe size she is. Usually, at this point, they’re a little weirded out, but most of the time they’ll comply – what’s the big deal, right? – but enough of them will just say, you know, if they don’t fit, return them. Honestly, a little coaxing gets those ones to tell me anyway.

Either way, I’ll say something like, yeah, hey, that’s perfect, then I’ll grab a pair of that size and ask the clerk to try them on for me. If I’m lucky, and they are bored or free, they’ll do it, assuming they aren’t too weirded out by now. I’ll sit them down hurriedly, before they can complain, take their shoes off for them, though I do that slowly so as to savor the moment, and make sure to ask if they’re ticklish while I do it. You can guess what I do after that, but even if you do, I’ll tell you anyway. I bathe their feet in honey and sit, watching for hours. Yeah that’s a lie; actually, I tickle their socked feet – never once are they bare, sadly – but not much, though; too much and it’ll back fire.

Some like it and some don’t; a lot pretend to not like it – and you can totally tell if you pay attention – in a sort of flirty way. You know, they giggle lightly, say stooopp in one of those voices, but they don’t pull away and let you keep doing it for a while. Well, I can’t just, you know, do this and then leave; I let them try on the shoes, I say ok, thanks, and they go off before I make my way out of the store. That is, of course, the ones who don’t get super pissed at the violation of their bodies’, but either way, this isn’t all that relevant. I’m setting up the story, here. Pay attention now, this is where it gets good.

Point of story; I’m at this mall the other day, and I see this small sneaker place off in a corner. It seems that there is only one person working, and she is drop dead gorgeous despite that ugly as hell vertically striped black and white shirt, so I figure, what the hell, right? I’ll pull my usual antics.

She sits her thin self down, and kicks off a shoe. Damn, I’m thinking, she’s so cute I feel almost bad about doing this. Almost.

I drag a finger up that small, white sock and she giggles. Feeling a little bold – we were alone after all – I comment on her being ticklish, something like (I don’t remember) “Oh, a bit ticklish, are you?” before moving my fingers across that socked foot the way a spiders legs dance when it flitters across a floor. She giggles more; ah man, heavenly little giggles, you know? Wished I could get at her bare flesh so badly. She had really small feet; adorable little things, really. I noticed, though, she didn’t seem too creeped out; looking back, right at that moment, I was probably looking too deeply at it. After all, it means something to me, but probably not to her. Still, she pushed her shoed foot behind her socked, as if to hold it in place for the tickling, which struck me as peculiar since it’s almost always the other way around.

As far as I could tell, she didn’t seem to mind. Playfully I asked if her other foot was ticklish, and didn’t wait for an answer, just ripped her shoe off fast and dug into the cloth where her arches were hiding. Oh man, did she guffaw; started to pull away but – I forgot myself – I put her feet into a vice of a grip with my left arm, straddled over her ankles, and really began. Quick splashes of fingers against the socked soles of her feet; rocks in that current of giggles, struggling against the inescapable earth of my arms. But she never asked me to stop.

Eh, at this point, I figured there was nothing to lose, that I was already in very deep, so I tugged a sock off, paying homage to the newly bared foot. It had had some lint on it, but otherwise was soft and slightly moist from her sneakers, to the point that it felt as if it were butter to my finger tips; that it would melt away with the slightest of touches. It was a very tiny, very beautiful foot. Like before, she protected the foot with more clothing rather than the defenseless one.

I had just attacked her toes – man did that get a reaction – when a phone rang at the front desk. She cursed, quickly pulled her shoes on, and ran to answer it; I pocketed the sock as a souvenir.

Came back and sat down again, quickly kicked the shoe off her bared foot, and we continued our game for a bit.

All good things come to an end; five minutes or so later she stopped me, said she had to get back to work. Told me to stop by again sometime while she slipped on her shoes, not noticing or maybe not caring about her missing sock. She did stop while she was walking off, and turned to say to me, Oh, yeah, that she had had an ex into this years ago, and kick of missed it, in case I was wondering why she let me do it for so long.

Pity, though; she was never there again when I stopped by. Ah well, I still have this sock to remember the time by.