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The First Idea (F/F)

Studious_Hustler

Verified
Joined
Dec 4, 2011
Messages
716
Points
18
I'm starting out a new series, partly to exercise my fiction-writing skills, partly for my own fetishistic enjoyment :) But of course I'd love it if one or two other people got some pleasure out of the deal. I'd also be up for suggestions, since I've got other stories coming up including at least one true event.


The First Idea

Marion Dominique cast a glance at her raised feet, and felt the butterflies in her stomach grow into birds. The leather of her reclining chair felt cold and clammy, and the radio from the next room sounded hopelessly distant. There, two girls Marion’s age were tittering away, bathed in the afternoon sun that shone through the storefront window. Their happiness was beyond her. On the window, in decal letters that faced the outside, were the words “TICKLISH TIFFNEY’S SPA AND BEAUTY SALON.” The double-f in “TIFFNEY” was represented by the bare soles of a cartoon bikini blonde, mouth agape in cheerful laughter. Marion averted her gaze.

She muttered under her breath. Right now she would rather be anywhere else. She pressed her toes against her platform flip-flops to feel their protection. Her feet were large, with high arches and somewhat short, wriggly toes. They were attractive but neglected—pale, dirty, with unpolished nails, callouses, and bruises. This was what came of always wearing high heels, avoiding the sun, and never getting a pedicure. With winter ending and spring on the way, she would not be able to keep these feet out of the public eye any longer. Especially not at her college, where pretty feet were suddenly so chic.

She had an invitation tomorrow to hang out at a friend’s beach house, and there were sure to be guys there. As she went to a private all-girls school, that made it a chance she couldn’t pass up. Now she was here, to get her feet scrubbed back to fairy-princess condition.

“It’s five minutes to four,” announced the radio DJ. The birds in Marion’s stomach became furry fruit bats. She snatched the nearest magazine off a waiting table. Five minutes till my appointment, she thought. I’m about become a kicking, ticklish mess.

Why did she have to be so ticklish? She was the only one in her family with that problem, as far as she knew. Not that she had ever asked. The only tickling in her life was from pedicures, so no one knew how bad she was. Of course she never brought it up, and neither did anybody else. Maybe she was the only one. When the pop diva Miami Lopez had released a song called “Just Too Ticklish” the year before, Marion had ruefully considered it her own private theme song. And to prove life’s twisted sense of humor, the most popular student at her school, Amanda Lauren Lowman, had recently signed a lucrative foot-modeling deal and started a fad among the girls for showing off their feet. Marion, needless to say, was left out.

What I wouldn’t give to have Amanda Lauren’s feet, Marion thought. All the attention and none of the embarrassing torture. Amanda Lauren’s were the feet of every fetishist’s dreams: a delicate size six, white soles flushed with a rosy tinge, and perfectly proportioned toes always painted a signature shade of pink. Amanda Lauren took the least opportunity to casually prop up her model feet in public view.

The taunting jingle of the spa’s front door startled Marion and made her drop her magazine. A second pair of young women was joining those already in the foyer. One of them was Brittany Fern, the employee with whom Marion had made her appointment, and who had a habit of calling over her coworkers to get in on the fun once Marion started laughing. For a second, Marion considered forgetting the beach trip and saving her feet.

“Hi Marion!” chirped the other new arrival, and Marion was even more startled. It was Amanda Lauren Lowman, light-brown hair done up in a pair of pretty braids, a fresh layer of red lipstick contrasting her blue eyes. What the hell is she doing here? thought Marion, and almost said it.

“Hi Amanda Lauren,” she returned coolly. Inside, she was reeling. She didn’t come here to watch…?!

“Marion, I’m sorry,” said Brittany, stepping forward. Marion pulled her feet away and grasped her flip-flops tightly. “I think Penny made a mistake with the scheduling. She has me doing you at four and doing Amanda Lauren also at four. I bumped into Amanda Lauren when we were both on our way here, and realized what was going on.”

“I can wait,” offered Amanda Lauren. “It’s no big deal, I don’t have anything planned until five thirty. I can just read a magazine while—”

“NO,” asserted Marion, maybe a little too strongly. “No that’s fine! I’m in no rush either, Amanda Lauren why don’t you go first, I was really enjoying reading this magazine”—snatching it off the floor—“and waiting.”

Apparently her outburst did not strike the other girls as odd, because they quickly acquiesced. Brittany and Amanda Lauren navigated around Marion’s recliner and disappeared through a door marked “QUIET ROOM.”

It was two minutes before Marion’s body relaxed enough for her feet to slide back down to the end of the recliner. Weird. Amanda Lauren, here? Even models must need touch-ups from time to time, and Amanda Lauren probably owed some of her success to especially frequent ones. But Marion would have expected her at the glitzier Four Kohr Pedi-Palace, which disdained downtown businesses like Tiffney’s. It was almost unthinkable that awkward, ticklish Marion shared the same beauty parlor with Amanda Lauren.

The noise of the radio dropped abruptly before a commercial break, and Marion’s ears picked up a dull sound from the direction of the “Quiet Room.” A strange sound. Then the advertisement started, and she could no longer hear it.

Inexplicably, Marion was fascinated. She slipped off the recliner and pushed the foyer door closed so no one would see her. What about the sound had caught her interest? Or was it the Quiet Room? She had never spotted it before. What had Amanda Lauren done to deserve her own secret room? Was it a luxury spa for models only?

Marion bent down and peered through the door’s slit window.

Stretched out in the room’s only chair, strapped down by plastic restraints at the shoulders, wrists, legs, and ankles, was Amanda Lauren. At her feet, lightly spritzing them with a bottle of moisturizer, was Brittany. Amanda Lauren’s mouth was wide open in an expression of decimated, ticklish laughter.

Marion slipped faintly to her knees. The Quiet Room’s insulation let through only the slightest sound of Amanda Lauren’s laughs, but they were unmistakably laughs. Amanda Lauren was ticklish. She was ticklish on those famous feet. From the look of it, at least as ticklish as Marion.

Brittany set down the spritzer, and Amanda Lauren relaxed. Her blue eyes dripped with tears of hilarity. Her pretty braids were ruined, drenched in perspiration and undone by thrashing against the headrest. Her red lipstick was smudged on the leather, her slack mouth drooling at the corner. Brittany reached for a tiny sponge and Amanda Lauren tensed up, overcome with preemptive, uncontrollable cackles and protests. Her arms and legs strained against the bands that held them in place. Each foot squirmed away from Brittany’s reach, able to move only an inch or so. Brittany’s long fingers gripped the sponge and lowered it to Amanda Lauren’s right heel, alighting on the skin. The girl shivered violently and opened her mouth wider than ever, almost in a seizure of ticklishness. Her eyes bulged in an ecstasy of disbelief, lashes pressed against her sweaty forehead. Brittany smirked and ran the sponge quickly up Amanda Lauren’s pink arch. The untouched left foot spasmed, while the right foot froze, perfect toes writhing madly in response to the sensation. Grinning fully, Brittany threw away the sponge and aggressively tickled the undersides of Amanda Lauren’s toes. Marion fell to a sitting position, losing her view, mind cloudy and body tingling.

For the next twenty minutes her head spun with new thoughts and images. Marion would later reflect that there was nothing groundbreaking about the knowledge that Amanda Lauren Lowman had ticklish feet. Many people were ticklish, and just because a girl liked to show off her freshly pedicured toes did not mean that the pedicure itself was easy. Amanda Lauren deserved respect for her dedication through suffering. But at that time, Marion felt she had received a revelation. She was no longer alone in being ticklish. Who knew how many other girls at her school had the same experiences? Who knew how many visited the Quiet Room? Marion might have been grateful to discover a ticklish sisterhood with the supremely popular Amanda Lauren, and reached out to her as a new friend. I know people who say that this is what she should have done. But it is not what Marion did. By the end of twenty minutes, when her mental cloud had coalesced into the first idea, she had a different plan. Life’s twisted sense of humor was finally in her favor.

Just before five thirty, the Quiet Room door opened and Brittany stepped out, followed by a very different Amanda Lauren from the one who had entered the spa. This Amanda Lauren was wet through her clothes. Her posture was exhaustion, but her face was victorious. Her feet were perfect.

“Same time next week, then?” she asked Brittany. “Unless that’s your usual time, Marion?”

“No—,” stammered Marion. “You can have next week.”

“Alright then, see you!” said Amanda Lauren, and went to pay in the foyer.

“Now it’s your turn,” said Brittany, turning her attention to Marion. “Thanks for waiting. I’ll give you an extra good one to make up for it.”

The fruit bats were dragons, swooping in Marion’s gut. A new song started to play on the radio. It was Miami Lopez’ “Just Too Ticklish.”

Life had a twisted sense of humor.
 
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