Prone_To_Laugh
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So Cosquilloso
After his girl friend moved out, Rich decided that he'd HAD it with relationships AND roommates. With her gone, though, the condo didn't get cleaned and the laundry didn't get done. He wasn't a complete pig (although a pizza box occasionally lingered on the coffee table for days after a football Sunday). He just didn't want to do ANY housework. He worked enough hours at home, maintaining his website and freelancing. He was damned if he'd dust or mop or wash 'n' fold clothes, too.
He WAS glad that he had a feather duster, though, and occasionally got to use it.
That was because he had decided soon after the breakup to hire a cleaning woman to come in for a couple of hours twice a week. Thanks to that, his place didn't become a totally fetid mancave, and he got some sneaky entertainment, to boot.
Avoidng costly agencies or online marketplaces, he hired women ad hoc from index cards and sheets with tear-off tabs on supermarket and laundromat corkboards and stapled to telephone poles. There never seemed a shortage of women--probably undocumented--seeking part-time domestic work (preferably off the books) in his crowded neighborhood. He was glad there were so many, for keeping them wasn't easy.
He promised to pay weekly, but actually paid weakly. Since he presumed all were thieves, he stiffed all without remorse. He also figured that, considering his generosity in hiring them, what with their usual limited English and probable dicey immigration status, they were fair game for his foot tickling fetish. If one cried about his tight fists and tickling tricks and left, he shrugged and called the number on the next slip.
Indulging his fetish, he wasn't crude or menacing, but thought himself sly and clever. The moment a woman arrived, he insisted that, in the name of cleanliness, his was a shoes-and socks-off residence. He pointed out that he was always barefoot at home. Even the ones who hesitated a beat gave in and slipped off their shoes and socks. (He graciously let one who wore nylons keep those on.) He did enjoy looking up from his laptop and scoping the exposed feet of a woman as she busily padded around him. To his delight, even the older women had surprisingly sexy feet.
To put a barefoot cleaning woman in a ticklish situation, he would first ask her to climb a ladder or chair to clean ceiling fixtures or high shelves. He helped steady the ladder or chair, somehow allowing the handy feather duster or whisk broom he was holding to stroke her exposed soles and toes. Some barely reacted, a little toe wiggling or foot flexing was all. Others giggled a bit or even chuckled, with more wiggly toes and rubbing one foot with the other.
One notable exception was Adela from Bosnia, who squealed and violently yanked her foot up when he dusted her exposed sole; she nearly pitched over the ladder. Her evidently max ticklish bare feet had his pulse pounding, and he yearned to feather her feet at length. Seeing the tickle was no accident, she immediately got down, got her shoes, got what meager pay she could out of him and got out.
Most, though, tried to stick out the day. Some simply avoided the ladder and used the long Swiffer when he was present. Others, ticklish or not, endured the tickling as they carried on cleaning. He would then try to push his luck with another shameless gambit, one with potentially richer tickling fun. Virtually none of the women fell for that one, it was SO obvious (and one even quit when he suggested it).
But Jasmeen from Bangladesh, eager to impress, agreed to crawl under his bed to recover a lost phone battery when he claimed a bad back. Once she'd shimmied underneath so only her jeans-clad lower legs and petite bare feet were visible, he sat above her on the edge of the bed. Puzzled, she informed him that she couldn't move. Eager, he brushed her exposed soles with that feather duster. She squealed in giggly protest, but really howled when he etched the delicate wrinkles on her soles with a feather quill. Propelled by fury, she pulled herself out from under, grabbed her bag and flip-flops, and fled the condo and his employ. Her Bengali was Greek to him, but it was clear she wasn't tickled pink by his cheek.
He managed a delerious trifecta with one fortyish, well-curved woman, Blanca, who somehow lasted two hours despite his repeatedly tickling her plus-size, plus-ticklish feet. On the ladder, she endured the feathers to finish her task, gigglingly protesting all the while.
--Ohnohono senor hehheh quitate las plumas heeheehee ellos cosquillean hehheh no no.
A bit later he got the warier woman to stand on a chair to vacuum atop the kitchen cabinets, allowing him to again feather dust her big bare feet, making her gigglingly object as she teetered on one foot or the other. Somehow, after all that kitchey coo, he STILL managed to heartbreakingly persuade her (His bad back!) to help him by squeezing herself under his heavy bed to find his lost ring, which he'd inherited from his mother (who actually was very much alive in Arizona). Snugly caught, with no need of him sitting on the bed, she was then helpless before both his leisure (a lot) and his mercy (not), feathers and fingers flying upon the unprotected soles of her big tender feet.
--EEEEEESENOR POR FAVOR! No cosquille hehehheheheh por favor nohahahaha por favor hahahha no mis pies!
Amidst her hysterical laughter, she nonetheless found the strength to extricate herself, and immediately demanded her pay. When he shrugged and smiled, she gathered her things in a fury. Hopping before the front door as she slipped on her shoes, she snarled at him.
--Policia! Los tribunales te castigarán. Yo conseguire mi dinero. De una forma u otra, señor.
She slammed the door behind her. He smiled. So much tickling fun, and it didn't cost him a dime.
Mostly, though, it wasn't such fun. The women lasted a day, two at the most. A minority were demonstrably ticklish. Their cleaning was distracted and haphazard, because they were so (justly) suspicious of him. The few that lasted longer, in spite of his evident fetish, soon wearied of his gawking and games. Months of zany turnover left his place messier, and he wasn't tickling ticklish feet as much as he'd hoped. It almost made him wish his girl friend were still around, but, then, his compulsive teasing of her big, beautiful and very touchy feet (especially to awaken her in the morning) was yet another (loud) reason she left.
So, when a mature Mexican mom began her FOURTH week cleaning the condo, she'd long outlasted any others. Mercedes was dusky, dimpled and demure, and perhaps old enough to be HIS mom. She worked quickly and efficiently, and was clearly nobody's fool. She had climbed the ladder twice the first week, but had withstood his persistent "accidental" feathering of her small, neat bare feet, with a minimum of facial and foot reactions. She used the Swiffer with extension after that. And she'd given him a look when he pleaded his underbed problem, and used the Swiffer setup to deftly recover the phone battery.
Mercedes was composed and quiet. She knew that Rich had no idea that she actually understood English passably well, and, preferring it that way, usually responded to his English with Spanish, pantomime, and a practiced shy, toothy smile. When she first climbed the ladder, he, convinced she was clueless, baldly told her in English that her small feet were cute and asked if they were ticklish. She'd smiled at him as if without comprehension and began cleaning the upper window panes. When she felt the feathers dust her bare feet, she had naturally giggled, as she was more than a little ticklish, especially under her toes. This, of course, only encouraged his feathering, so she steeled herself, pressing her lips together 'til they were bloodless, commanded her toes and feet to be still and intently focused on polishing the glass. She didn't want to encourage his childish nonsense, tickling now, who knew WHAT later. She was old enough to be his mother, but his eyes were seemingly drawn to her feet, his mischievous fingers not far behind. What should she do?
The key was to dodge ticklish situations yet intrigue his interest, creepy as it was. She truly needed the job. She really needed the money. Maybe if she played along with his little tickle game, on her terms, she'd get more money out of him. What he'd promised her was simply not enough. He certainly could afford it. Though he was not much older than her college-age son, this was a nice condo, with expensive furnishings and electronics. He apparently worked here at home, in his bathrobe or workout clothes, and it clearly paid well. It was worth the risk that he might make her a nervous wreck.
What also kept her there was the sense that, despite his hiring her, that she was smarter than he. He was a good looking man (if not much taller than her and perhaps not even as strong), but he seemed immature, and not just because he thought it was OK to repeatedly try to tickle a mature, hardworking mom's feet. Surely, she could figure out a way to get reasonable money out of this irresponsible young man.
After two weeks, though, he had only paid her for two of the four days she worked, and after three weeks, she'd only seen the cash for three days, and it was actually less than he'd promised. He also was becoming a pest, hanging out where she was cleaning, him idly holding the duster or a long, white feather (The place had many of those!) as he read and pretended to work, glancing as much at her feet as his screen. When her feet left the floor, there he somehow was to tickle her, and sometimes she did jerk and twitch in obvious ticklish surprise. She wasn't sure how much longer she'd take this nonsense if he'd remain so stubbornly cheap.
Tuesday of the fourth week, before beginning, she made it clear, in Spanish sprinkled with a few English words (please, pay, now) and accompanied by clear gestures (fingers of one hand dropping together into the palm of the other), that she expected her money. After consulting Google Translate, he said, Absolutamente el Viernes. Clearly disappointed, she nonetheless set her mouth and went to work.
Later that day, working on his laptop, Rich was stretched out, ankles crossed, on his sofa, a beer and a blunt at hand, as was customary. She couldn't understand how a grown man could claim to be hard at work like that. She passed him to shake out a duster on the rear patio. On her return, somehow the duster swept across his bare feet, which he violently yanked away.
--Hey!
--Sorry. ¿Cosquilloso?
As he irritatedly tried to rub away the obviously tickly sensations from his soles, she gave in to a sly smile as she went to clean the bathroom. A tiny seed had been planted...
When she returned on Friday, he paid her for just one more day. She stared with dismay at him, settled comfortably in his bathrobe on the sofa.
--Pero me debes cuatro, sin contar hoy. Not...enough.
He smiled and shrugged, then consulted Google Translate again.
--Martes duda.
Her face hardened, but she still didn't leave, but rather went to work. He winked at her as he settled back, lighting a blunt.
It wasn't long before he indulged in his habitual mischief, sneaking into the bedroom as she was kneeling to vacuum under the bed. He dragged the eraser of a pencil along her upturned sole from heel to cute toes. She cried out, bumping into the bed as she yanked her foot away.
--Someone's ticklish, he teased, grinning around the blunt as he left the room.
Maddened by his brazenness, his cheapness, and her own stubborn willingness to clean for a guy who was exploiting her work ethic AND her ticklish feet, Mercedes angrily picked up the vacuum. Before she turned it on, she noticed a flash drive on the carpet by the bed. She toyed with the notion of sucking it into the vacuum, but growled and kicked it under the bed instead, stubbing her toe as she did so. Hopping on one foot, she hoped the drive was important and he'd go crazy looking for it.
Over an hour later, on the living room sofa, Rich needed a certain thumb drive and couldn't find it. Where the Hell was it? He upended cushions and lifted a throw rug.
He remembered using the drive last night and went to the bedroom. Cursing, head down, he surveyed the room. Dropping to all fours, flashing his phone's light under the massive, super king-sized bed, he spotted the stupid thing flush against the baseboard. Stilled crouching, he looked around for anything to reach under and snag it. Seeing nothing handy, he sighed and grumbled.
He was about to call Mercedes and her Swiffer, but, chuckling, caught himself. 'Guess I'd better not give her ANOTHER reason to quit, he thought. She really did the best job of all the women he'd hired. And it was fun to sneak up on her and tickle her cute little feet. He almost felt sorry for screwing with her pay. He shrugged and, after removing the top of his jogging outfit, leaving his tee, he inhaled and managed after much effort to crawl under the bed, awkwardly reaching for the drive.
With just his calves and feet beyond the bed, he almost got his fingertips on it, but, strained to his max, exhaled. Trying to move the few inches he needed to get the drive, he couldn't. Panicking, he inhaled and tried to shimmy back. But, it was no use. He was stuck. It was too tight a squeeze. He needed someone to lift the damned bed.
--MERCEDES!
He'd been hollering himself hoarse for minutes before Mercedes came into the room. She couldn't keep from barking a quick laugh when she saw that he was apparently stuck under the bed. She did allow herself to grin, seeing him flail his lower legs and waggle his bare feet. This serves him right, she thought. She grazed one of his soles with her toes and asked, Senor? His foot jerked.
--Aieee! Mercedes? is that you? Don't stand there like a dummy! Help me out!
He continues to treat me like a fool, she thought, even when he does something idiotic. He swore at her and waggled his feet. After that insult, she was about to leave him there and close the door. Maybe I'll just leave altogether, she thought. Seeing him flex the wrinkly soles of his helpless bare feet and wiggle his toes in frustration, though, gave Mercedes pause.
This man makes a hardworking woman work in her bare feet so he can lust after them, she thought. He keeps tickling my feet, too, deaf to my protests. Despite this, I work hard to clean his home. All that, and he STILL withholds my pay. This is not just. I should leave him like this, take my losses, and work for someone who will pay me without playing games. She lightly ran the tip of her big right toe along the middle of his bare right foot. His foot jerked.
--Jeez! Mercedes! Quit screwing around!
God is testing me, she thought. A good Catholic woman would simply help this man, sinner that he is. Or maybe it's Satan who is tempting me. He knows that I know that this man, who plots to tickle a hardworking mother's feet, has ticklish feet himself. Very ticklish feet. And he's gotten himself trapped so his helpless, very ticklish feet are here to tempt a woman he's treated unjustly.
No! she thought, biting her lip. Whether God is testing me or the Devil is tempting me, I must not sin. Surely, if I help this man now, he will feel obliged to pay me what he owes me. But, no, as usual with men like this, he has all the power. If he won't pay me, who would I go to? I'll help him now, then let him tickle my feet, and he will pay me.
Wait! That's not being a good Catholic. That's just being stupid, and being used. He doesn't have the right to leer at and play with my feet. I have a right to be paid for working hard. He needs a lesson in justice. I'll show him that tickling is not funny.
Feeling a subversive thrill, she wiggled her left toes upon his right instep. He rubbed his left toes upon his right sole.
--¿Estás tan cosquilloso como creo, señor? Are you...ticklish?
--Hey! Quit fucking around, Mercedes, and lift the bed so I can get out of here.
She wiggled her toes upon his left instep. He angrily flailed his foot and swore loudly.
She crouched by his feet, sitting on her haunches and examining his bare soles and toes, dry and dirty. She reached for her bag and pulled out a jar of sweetly aromatic oil which she religiously bought at a botanica in her neighborhood. The abuela behind the counter said it contained oil of avocado, aloe, chilies, and herbs that were her secret. The abuela had warned her to use it sparingly, as a very little quickly softened the skin and made it extremely sensitive. Mercedes was always careful to use just a few drops on her hardworking hands and feet, and even then the oil made her skin tingle. When she used it on her feet, it sometimes made her giggly, rubbing her feet together until the tickly feeling faded.
Now, she slipped on a pair of plastic gloves and poured onto her right palm a generous amount--much more than she'd ever dare use upon herself. She spread it thoroughly over both gloved palms to her fingertips. Then, as he swore in consternation, she worked it well into the skin of Rich's soles and toes.
--Jesus! Wh-what is that shit?!? It itches and burns like Hell! Get it off!
Despite his feet's frantic evasions, she patiently rubbed the oil--and more still--into his skin until all of the fragrant fluid had been absorbed. Sitting back on her haunches, she looked upon his now-glowing, babysoft pink feet with satisfaction. He was frantically scratching his itchy soles with his toes, and rubbing his tingly toes on the carpet.
--Aarrgh! Mercedes, I don't know what you think you're doing, but I can replace your little ass so fast--
Unconsciously smirking, she fluttered five trimmed-nail fingertips upon each of his upturned soles. His feet jerked, and he rubbed them together irritatedly.
--H-H-HEY! Quit fucking around, Mercy! Leave my feet alone!
She repeated the playful tickling, this time pursuing his feet for a minute while they tried to evade her teasing fingers.
--I SAID QUIT IT!!! I MEAN IT, LADY!!! Just lift the bed. Stupid bitch.
He rubbed his feet together, swearing and shaking them to deter her.
--So cosquilloso, she purred, her eyes flashing both in triumph and with anger at his last remark. She thought, I am stupid, huh? You like to tickle feet, senor? I will give YOU foot tickling. Until you pay me.
She dashed from the room, quickly located a few tools, and returned. Mercedes knelt at Rich's feet, next to which she set the fork, rubber-tipped hairbrush, bristly shaving brush, goose feather quill pen and feather duster she'd gathered. She selected the shaving brush, testing its rough yet soft bristles upon her fingertips. She smiled thinly with satisfaction.
She held down his heels with one hand as she swept the bristles in the tender pale circle formed by his insteps. He jerked his feet from under her hand.
--EEYOW! What the Hell is THAT? What the Hell are you DOING?
Muttering curses, he again tried to rub away the obvious irritation. She waited until he was still and she brushed across the balls of his feet. He yowled again and waved his feet frantically.
--AAAAAHHHHH! Will you stop this shit and get me out?! Or I'll call the cops!
He was straining to reach his phone, on the carpet just beyond the bed. She plucked the phone away from his desperate fingers, turned it off, and tossed it onto the bed.
--Mi paga, por favor. You will pay me now.
--What are you talking about? Idiot! This isn't the time to ask for money! GET ME OUTTA HERE!
As he loudly protested and angrily jerked his feet, she proceeded to methodically test each of her tickling tools in turn. She tried skimming the tines of the fork down the middle of his soles from heels to toes. She raked his heels with the hairbrush. She twirled the soft tip of the quill upon his toe pads, and used the point of the quill to poke his arches and dragged it upon the wrinkles along his sole. They all seemed to make him yell, but she thought the fork and the quill nub produced more protest. When she teased with her fingertips, and her neat, trim nails, all over his soft soles and tender toes, though, he reacted the loudest and the most violently.
--HHHEEEEYYYYYYYYHEHHEH! DON'T DO THAT! GET OFF!
--Porque? Why?
--It TICKLES, all right?
Fingers to start with, then, she decided: they tickle the best. She wiggled her forefingers upon his insteps. He jerked his feet away.
--Mi paga! Pay me!
--LIKE HELL I WILL! Stop this shit and help me out right now, lady, or-or I'll call immigration on you.
This threat, serious or not (not), only steeled her to teach him a good lesson and make him pay her what he owed her. But, he was moving his feet around too much, making it hard for her to effectively tickle them. She rose and surveyed the room. Her eyes settled on the two ponderous hand weights that she regularly dusted--and which never seemed to change position (She doubted he used them much.)--in a corner. She dragged the small but very heavy weights beside his feet.
--What the fuck are you doing, stupid? Lift-this-bed, idiot!
Bristling at the repeated insults, she lifted one weight with all her might. She set it down over his right ankle so its crossbar pinned his upturned foot to the carpet. She was sure that it was too heavy for him, in the position he was in, to lift.
--What th--? What's that?!? Take that goddamned thing off! I can't move!
Satisfied that his foot was effectively (but not painfully) immobilized, she pinned his other foot similarly, despite his frantic, cursing efforts to evade her. Now, twelve inches apart, both of his feet were really helpless, his tender and wrinkly upturned soles and touchy toes completely at Mercedes' mercy. After all his insults and refusals to pay what he owed her for her hard work, she was not inclined to show him any. Torturing someone was a sin, she knew. But, after all, it was ONLY tickling. The worst thing that could happen is that he'd wet his J Crew pants.
Justified, she lay on her left side beside his toes, resting her head upon her left palm propped on her elbow. In this relatively comfortable position, she began to calmly and coolly tickle his provenly very ticklish bare feet with the same quiet and persistent skill she brought to cleaning. She started slowly and lightly, wiggling one forefinger across the middle of his right sole. After a few moments, she moved it to test and tease other spots. Eventually, but not too quickly, she began to purposefully flutter five strong fingertips, with her short, neat nails, all over his now super sensitive soles and toes.
--NO! Hehheh! Fuhehhehck!
Throughout this ordeal, Rich first yelled and cursed then couldn't help giggling and was all-too-soon embarrassingly incoherent with laughter, its loudness spiking when Mercedes tickled a particularly ticklish spot on his soles or between his toes. She quietly, patiently tickled him like this for long, torturous minutes.
--Bihitch! Dohon't heh tickle my feet! Hehhehheh! Please! Hehhehhehhehheh! I can't stand it! Hehhehheh!
She stopped, resting her fingers on his struggling toes.
--¿Mi dinero, señor? Pay and I stop.
He swallowed his laughter and, gasping for breath, refused and hoarsely cursed her. She took his abuse for a few moments, feeling his toes try to wiggle off her fingers.
--Mmm-hmm. Cosquillas...cosquillas...
She drummed her fingertips on his toe pads. When he cursed anew and clenched his toes, she skimmed her nails up his sole until his toes spasmed open and she tickled them again. She repeated this gentle torment until he was giggling then laughing haplessly then coughing then laughing and giggling again.
--¡Tan cosquilloso! Sooooo cosquilloso! she teased him loudly enough for him to hear over his own laughter, and this seemed to make his laughter higher. Apart from a modest smile, she was a serious and determined tickler. This, after all, was business.
She carefully varied the tickling, sometimes bringing the tickly tools to play, barely allowing him to catch his breath before resuming the terrible torture as he laughed and cursed her. She ran the brush along the outer edges of his feet, causing him to giggle haplessly. His giggles became screeches to stop when she dropped the brush, pulled back his right toes, and dug her short, clear-polished nails between them.
Still pressing his toes down, she painstakingly teased between them with the nub of the quill. This toe torture caused him to gigglingly beg for mercy. The only mercy she gave him was to drop the quill and begin fluttering her fingertips along his sole, up and down, up and down, lightly, steadily, over and over. This reduced him to hysterical incoherence.
She came from a big family, where she and her siblings had many a tickle fight. She was not the biggest or the strongest amongst her brothers and sisters. But, she had compensated with cleverness, and had learned where each sibling was ticklish, and how best to exploit that weakness. Thus, tho she was very ticklish and not very big, she tickled with purpose and more than held her own, even against her older brothers. Mercedes was a merciless tickler, and you didn't want to be as ticklish as Rich was and find your bare feet under her fingers.
As she tickled, she did succumb to unguarded smiles, which she initially worked to suppress. But he was laughing so haplessly, as she feathered his toes, scratched his arches, or brushed the balls of his feet, that she couldn't help it. She couldn't remember ever tickling a man like this. She couldn't believe a grown man could BE so ticklish, especially on his feet. It seemed so silly, she had to smile, even giggle a little. But, she had to take this seriously. If tickling could make him pay her what she'd worked hard to earn, she'd do it until he did.
Since teasing him made him even more helpless with laughter, she began to lightly sing.
--Cosquillas...cosquillas...tickle...tickle...so cosquilloso...
Mostly, though, her face was set with determination. No expression of triumph or menace crossed her face, even as he laughed and howled and begged under the bed. After a few minutes of this intense tickling, she stopped, asking, "Mi dinero?" He cursed her. Calmly, she resumed expertly tickling his feet, and he resumed laughing hysterically.
If she felt satisfaction that she was tickling silly this cerdo who liked to put defenseless, hardworking women into ticklish situations--and then NOT pay them as well--she wasn't betraying it, not by expression or word or wasted gesture. She was going to get her money if she had to practically tickle him to death.
She began to dig her trim nails into the balls of his feet. He collapsed into helpless giggles, and, giving him no rest, she persisted in this torment, dragging her nails slowly down his sole, teasing his instep one moment, stimulating just above his heel a few moments later. Under her teasing nails, he was almost choking with laughter.
--NO! HAHAHAAAA! NO, MERCEDEEEEEES AHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAA! NOOOOAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA! PLEASE! HAHAHAHAAAA! PLEASE! AHHAHAHHAHA! I can't HAHAHAHAAA I can't HAHAHHAHAAAA stand it AHHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAA!
She permitted herself a ghost of a smile before she returned to calmly, patiently, and relentlessly lightly tickling them all over the wrinkles of his oily soles. Because she was never tickling the same place on the same sole for long, and varying the number of fingers and just how lightly she was teasing with them, he was constantly lost in laughter.
She had to guiltily admit to herself much fun this was and oh! however much he deserved it. Still, she had to get home; her kids would be home soon. But, she wanted what he owed her, all of it! It was time to show this spoiled Anglo that nobody tickles like an angry Mexicana.
She began to dance her strong, teasing fingers up his bare, hairy legs to his shorts. He screamed, laughing and cursing. She lay back on her elbows and stretched her legs under the bed. Reaching as far as she could, she dug her toes into his sides.
--Cosquillas, cosquillas, señor, she teased, as her toes tickled his ribs AND her fingers tickled his feet.
He screamed, helpless to fight off her savagely tickling toes as his own toes were being toyed with. He gasped with laughter, as she hissed teases.
--Cosquillas, cosquillas. ¡A muerte! Mi paga! Pay me!
Her toes poked his ribs, her nails scratched his heels. He howled.
--Ninito SOOOO ticklish.
That did it. Tickled here, tickled there. Verbally teased the way he liked to tease ticklish women, he lost it.
--OKOKOK HAHAHA I'll pay you HAHAHAAAA DIDN'T YOU HEAR?!? HAHAHAAA i'LL PAY YOU! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
STOP. TICKLING. MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.
She pulled back her legs and shouted under the bed.
--¿Mi dinero? ¿Dónde? My money? Where?
Spent, breaths ragged, he moaned softly.
--Oh...oh...God...oh...shit...let...let me out first.
Still he was playing games with her, she thought. Still. No mas. No mercy.
Face set with fury, she tickled hard across the tenderness of his sweaty soles. He seemed even MORE ticklish now, completely helpless to keep from wildly screaming with profane laughter. Her skillful fingers caressed every crease, teased each toe, traced all wrinkles, and stroked his sole skin. Her nails scrabbled along the outer edges of his feet. She circled the balls of his feet with the nail of her forefinger til he begged her to stop. She tic-toc'd her finger across his sole just before his heel. She took her time, alternating fast and furious fingering with the slightest, most maddening of touches.
He screamed and laughed and cursed and laughed and barked and laughed and coughed and giggled and swore and howled, barely able to breathe, all macho pretense lost.
Realizing vicious variety might finally break him where fury failed, she tickled one sole with five determined fingers as she dusted the clenched toes of the other foot with the blade of the feather. The smile on her face was confident with a playful edge she might not admit to. It didn't flag as she assuredly went from foot to foot, using fingernails one moment, fingerpads the next, mixing tools, quill to soft brush to fork to feather to hard brush, never giving him a chance to rest or predict how and where she'd next tickle his so ticklish toes and soles.
And she verbally teased him nonstop, keeping her voice light and playful in spite of her very serious intent. Shaming him with kitchey coos in English and humiliating him with cosquillas en Espanol. His breathless hysteria told her that each tickling stroke delivered with a cruel taunt brought her closer to getting her money and putting this lousy job behind her.
--AIEEEEEEEEEEHAHASTOPSTOPOKOK Closet. Racquetball bag. Pocket. Rosin can. Cash.
Poking his soles, she made him repeat himself slowly, clearly. Again. And again.
She bounded to the closet, vowing to take his laptop and hold it for what he owed her if he was lying. He wasn't, though. There were many bills in the can, more than what he owed her. Though she was tempted to take it all, she counted out only what they'd agreed was her hourly rate. She was, after all, a devout Catholic mother. She was not a thief.
That's not to say, however, that she didn't appreciate serving him a righteous mother's dose of poetic justice. Sitting again at his feet, she teased his sole with her fingertips, lightly, persistently, from curling toes to heels. He howled in outrage.
--Wait HAHA Didn't you find it? HAHAHA No more HAHA Please HAHAHA Waiaiaiaiaiait!
--Senor, let this be a lesson. Aprende esto. A man isn't so smart.
She tickled his soles harder, faster. His words collapsed into giggles.
--Especialmente un hombre tan cosquilloso. One so cosquilloso.
She pried his clenching toes open and pressed her nails into them, and he screamed.
--En sus grandes pies malolientes.
She slapped his feet, and, extending one leg underbed a last time, toed his sides, earning one last loud shout. She was about to lift the weights off his ankles when a completely unforgiveable thought came to her.
She phoned her friend Blanca, who had worked two long hours for Rich, who'd pestered her with foot tickling until she'd angrily bolted without pay, and she had profanely warned Mercedes against him. But Mercedes needed the money and frankly thought she was shrewder than Blanca, who was always being played by men. Blanca's ticklish experience had helped Mercedes not only prepare for Rich's wicked ways, but had given her an added righteous incentive when she had him at a disadvantage.
Mercedes now sat on the bed (Rich protesting loudly) and called Blanca, telling her of an excellent opportunity to get her money.
--Obtendrás cada centavo. (All of it, with interest.)
--El esta en casa ahora? (He's home now?) Blanca asked, frankly a little skeptical.
--Si, Mercedes assured her. El te espera. (He waits for you.) Con el dinero.
--¿Es verdad?
--Si. Como El Señor es mi testigo. (As God is my witness.)
--Está atrapado bajo su camaes. (He's trapped under his bed.) Todos excepto sus pies grandes. (All except his big, stinky feet.)
--Usted está bromeando, sí?
--Uh-uh. Está atrapado.
--Huh. Hehheh.
--Oh, y Blanca, por cierto, esos pies grandes son muy muy cosquilloso. VERY ticklish.
Blanca seemed stunned into silence for a moment. Then, she chuckled, finally understanding this gift.
--Ahhaaaaaaah! Encamino. Ahora.
Both exploded with laughter before ending the call.
Mercedes made sure that all of the tickling tools she'd used were beside Rich's feet for Blanca's convenience. Standing over his still helpless feet, she had one last, horrible, mean, sinful wonderful idea.
She took a box fan out of the closet and set it on the floor facing his upturned soles. She propped the feather duster in one of his many dirty Nikes so the plumes of the feather duster grazed the wrinkly pink lengths of his soles. She stepped back and was satisfied by how right this device was.
--Adios, senor. I quit.
--Wait! Aren't you going to get me outta here?
She turned the box fan on high. Its strong breeze caused the long, tickly feathers of the duster to sweep upon Rich's sweaty sensitized soles. The feathers teased his exposed helpless soles and scrunching toes this way and that, tickling to make a ticklish man crazy.
--W-what the--? N-no! he stammered, before he began a stream of obscenity-laced chuckles and giggles.
--So cosquilloso, she purred, as she walked out, indulging finally in a perfectly wicked and triumphant grin.
A half-hour later--an eternity when being tickled--there was a knock at the front door. It opened slowly and Blanca peered around it. meekly offering, ¿Hola? She followed the stream of giggles and curses and moans to the bedroom.
She chuckled when she beheld the fan blowing tickling feathers across two trapped bare feet. She crouched beside the wriggling feet and relished Rich's desperate laughter She couldn't believe a religious woman like Mercedes could do something like this and chuckled again. After a few more satisfied moments, she turned off the fan.
--Oh, God! Oh, God! Thank you, thank you! I couldn't stand another second! Thank you! Who-who are you?
--Es Blanca, senor.
--Ah, hehheh, B-Blanca. O-OK. C-can you h-help me? I'm trapped. The bed. Lift it. Please. First, get those things off my ankles.
For emphasis, he wiggled his toes and flexed his feet as much as he could under the weights.
--Si. Yes. Sure. Mi dinero. Pay me NOW.
--Jesus! All you women want is money! Money! I'm going to get Mercedes arrested! That bitch. No, deported! And you, too, if you don't help me!
Blanca made a face and turned the fan on. The feathers resumed tickling Rich's helpless bare feet.
--HHEEEEEYNOOOO! Hehhehheh stop that!
After he sputtered and giggled and cursed for a minute, she turned the fan off.
--Mi dinero.
--OK...OK...don't...don't.
He sent her to the closet. She gleefully got the money. (She had known it was there all along. Mercedes had told her.) Unlike her religious friend, she took much more than he owed her, because, well, he owed her more, the perverted pig.
--Did you find it?
--Si. Yes.
She sat beside his feet, resting a hand on the weights.
--Great. Take those weights away and lift this damn bed off me.
She wiggled the fingers of her other hand, red polish flashing, inches above his wrinkly soles.
She pulled her phone from her snug hip pocket, thumbed on her Tejano playlist, and set the phone on the carpet beside the feather duster. She considered the duster and the other tickly things Mercedes had thoughtfully left for her. As Selena began, she started humming along, twirling the bristly shaving brush in her fingers.
--Lalalaladeedeedee. Pies cosquilleantes. Mmmhmmhmm.
--Blanca, did you hear me? Help me, or there'll be trouble. You hear? Trouble.
Blanca dreamily twirled the brush and sang.
--Cosquilleando tus pies.
--BLANCA!
Spidering her vengeful fingers upon one soft foot, and twirling the bristles upon the other, Blanca set out to tickle Rich out of his Anglo mind. She figured two hours would be a good start.
--So cosquilloso, she purred, grinning.
After his girl friend moved out, Rich decided that he'd HAD it with relationships AND roommates. With her gone, though, the condo didn't get cleaned and the laundry didn't get done. He wasn't a complete pig (although a pizza box occasionally lingered on the coffee table for days after a football Sunday). He just didn't want to do ANY housework. He worked enough hours at home, maintaining his website and freelancing. He was damned if he'd dust or mop or wash 'n' fold clothes, too.
He WAS glad that he had a feather duster, though, and occasionally got to use it.
That was because he had decided soon after the breakup to hire a cleaning woman to come in for a couple of hours twice a week. Thanks to that, his place didn't become a totally fetid mancave, and he got some sneaky entertainment, to boot.
Avoidng costly agencies or online marketplaces, he hired women ad hoc from index cards and sheets with tear-off tabs on supermarket and laundromat corkboards and stapled to telephone poles. There never seemed a shortage of women--probably undocumented--seeking part-time domestic work (preferably off the books) in his crowded neighborhood. He was glad there were so many, for keeping them wasn't easy.
He promised to pay weekly, but actually paid weakly. Since he presumed all were thieves, he stiffed all without remorse. He also figured that, considering his generosity in hiring them, what with their usual limited English and probable dicey immigration status, they were fair game for his foot tickling fetish. If one cried about his tight fists and tickling tricks and left, he shrugged and called the number on the next slip.
Indulging his fetish, he wasn't crude or menacing, but thought himself sly and clever. The moment a woman arrived, he insisted that, in the name of cleanliness, his was a shoes-and socks-off residence. He pointed out that he was always barefoot at home. Even the ones who hesitated a beat gave in and slipped off their shoes and socks. (He graciously let one who wore nylons keep those on.) He did enjoy looking up from his laptop and scoping the exposed feet of a woman as she busily padded around him. To his delight, even the older women had surprisingly sexy feet.
To put a barefoot cleaning woman in a ticklish situation, he would first ask her to climb a ladder or chair to clean ceiling fixtures or high shelves. He helped steady the ladder or chair, somehow allowing the handy feather duster or whisk broom he was holding to stroke her exposed soles and toes. Some barely reacted, a little toe wiggling or foot flexing was all. Others giggled a bit or even chuckled, with more wiggly toes and rubbing one foot with the other.
One notable exception was Adela from Bosnia, who squealed and violently yanked her foot up when he dusted her exposed sole; she nearly pitched over the ladder. Her evidently max ticklish bare feet had his pulse pounding, and he yearned to feather her feet at length. Seeing the tickle was no accident, she immediately got down, got her shoes, got what meager pay she could out of him and got out.
Most, though, tried to stick out the day. Some simply avoided the ladder and used the long Swiffer when he was present. Others, ticklish or not, endured the tickling as they carried on cleaning. He would then try to push his luck with another shameless gambit, one with potentially richer tickling fun. Virtually none of the women fell for that one, it was SO obvious (and one even quit when he suggested it).
But Jasmeen from Bangladesh, eager to impress, agreed to crawl under his bed to recover a lost phone battery when he claimed a bad back. Once she'd shimmied underneath so only her jeans-clad lower legs and petite bare feet were visible, he sat above her on the edge of the bed. Puzzled, she informed him that she couldn't move. Eager, he brushed her exposed soles with that feather duster. She squealed in giggly protest, but really howled when he etched the delicate wrinkles on her soles with a feather quill. Propelled by fury, she pulled herself out from under, grabbed her bag and flip-flops, and fled the condo and his employ. Her Bengali was Greek to him, but it was clear she wasn't tickled pink by his cheek.
He managed a delerious trifecta with one fortyish, well-curved woman, Blanca, who somehow lasted two hours despite his repeatedly tickling her plus-size, plus-ticklish feet. On the ladder, she endured the feathers to finish her task, gigglingly protesting all the while.
--Ohnohono senor hehheh quitate las plumas heeheehee ellos cosquillean hehheh no no.
A bit later he got the warier woman to stand on a chair to vacuum atop the kitchen cabinets, allowing him to again feather dust her big bare feet, making her gigglingly object as she teetered on one foot or the other. Somehow, after all that kitchey coo, he STILL managed to heartbreakingly persuade her (His bad back!) to help him by squeezing herself under his heavy bed to find his lost ring, which he'd inherited from his mother (who actually was very much alive in Arizona). Snugly caught, with no need of him sitting on the bed, she was then helpless before both his leisure (a lot) and his mercy (not), feathers and fingers flying upon the unprotected soles of her big tender feet.
--EEEEEESENOR POR FAVOR! No cosquille hehehheheheh por favor nohahahaha por favor hahahha no mis pies!
Amidst her hysterical laughter, she nonetheless found the strength to extricate herself, and immediately demanded her pay. When he shrugged and smiled, she gathered her things in a fury. Hopping before the front door as she slipped on her shoes, she snarled at him.
--Policia! Los tribunales te castigarán. Yo conseguire mi dinero. De una forma u otra, señor.
She slammed the door behind her. He smiled. So much tickling fun, and it didn't cost him a dime.
Mostly, though, it wasn't such fun. The women lasted a day, two at the most. A minority were demonstrably ticklish. Their cleaning was distracted and haphazard, because they were so (justly) suspicious of him. The few that lasted longer, in spite of his evident fetish, soon wearied of his gawking and games. Months of zany turnover left his place messier, and he wasn't tickling ticklish feet as much as he'd hoped. It almost made him wish his girl friend were still around, but, then, his compulsive teasing of her big, beautiful and very touchy feet (especially to awaken her in the morning) was yet another (loud) reason she left.
So, when a mature Mexican mom began her FOURTH week cleaning the condo, she'd long outlasted any others. Mercedes was dusky, dimpled and demure, and perhaps old enough to be HIS mom. She worked quickly and efficiently, and was clearly nobody's fool. She had climbed the ladder twice the first week, but had withstood his persistent "accidental" feathering of her small, neat bare feet, with a minimum of facial and foot reactions. She used the Swiffer with extension after that. And she'd given him a look when he pleaded his underbed problem, and used the Swiffer setup to deftly recover the phone battery.
Mercedes was composed and quiet. She knew that Rich had no idea that she actually understood English passably well, and, preferring it that way, usually responded to his English with Spanish, pantomime, and a practiced shy, toothy smile. When she first climbed the ladder, he, convinced she was clueless, baldly told her in English that her small feet were cute and asked if they were ticklish. She'd smiled at him as if without comprehension and began cleaning the upper window panes. When she felt the feathers dust her bare feet, she had naturally giggled, as she was more than a little ticklish, especially under her toes. This, of course, only encouraged his feathering, so she steeled herself, pressing her lips together 'til they were bloodless, commanded her toes and feet to be still and intently focused on polishing the glass. She didn't want to encourage his childish nonsense, tickling now, who knew WHAT later. She was old enough to be his mother, but his eyes were seemingly drawn to her feet, his mischievous fingers not far behind. What should she do?
The key was to dodge ticklish situations yet intrigue his interest, creepy as it was. She truly needed the job. She really needed the money. Maybe if she played along with his little tickle game, on her terms, she'd get more money out of him. What he'd promised her was simply not enough. He certainly could afford it. Though he was not much older than her college-age son, this was a nice condo, with expensive furnishings and electronics. He apparently worked here at home, in his bathrobe or workout clothes, and it clearly paid well. It was worth the risk that he might make her a nervous wreck.
What also kept her there was the sense that, despite his hiring her, that she was smarter than he. He was a good looking man (if not much taller than her and perhaps not even as strong), but he seemed immature, and not just because he thought it was OK to repeatedly try to tickle a mature, hardworking mom's feet. Surely, she could figure out a way to get reasonable money out of this irresponsible young man.
After two weeks, though, he had only paid her for two of the four days she worked, and after three weeks, she'd only seen the cash for three days, and it was actually less than he'd promised. He also was becoming a pest, hanging out where she was cleaning, him idly holding the duster or a long, white feather (The place had many of those!) as he read and pretended to work, glancing as much at her feet as his screen. When her feet left the floor, there he somehow was to tickle her, and sometimes she did jerk and twitch in obvious ticklish surprise. She wasn't sure how much longer she'd take this nonsense if he'd remain so stubbornly cheap.
Tuesday of the fourth week, before beginning, she made it clear, in Spanish sprinkled with a few English words (please, pay, now) and accompanied by clear gestures (fingers of one hand dropping together into the palm of the other), that she expected her money. After consulting Google Translate, he said, Absolutamente el Viernes. Clearly disappointed, she nonetheless set her mouth and went to work.
Later that day, working on his laptop, Rich was stretched out, ankles crossed, on his sofa, a beer and a blunt at hand, as was customary. She couldn't understand how a grown man could claim to be hard at work like that. She passed him to shake out a duster on the rear patio. On her return, somehow the duster swept across his bare feet, which he violently yanked away.
--Hey!
--Sorry. ¿Cosquilloso?
As he irritatedly tried to rub away the obviously tickly sensations from his soles, she gave in to a sly smile as she went to clean the bathroom. A tiny seed had been planted...
When she returned on Friday, he paid her for just one more day. She stared with dismay at him, settled comfortably in his bathrobe on the sofa.
--Pero me debes cuatro, sin contar hoy. Not...enough.
He smiled and shrugged, then consulted Google Translate again.
--Martes duda.
Her face hardened, but she still didn't leave, but rather went to work. He winked at her as he settled back, lighting a blunt.
It wasn't long before he indulged in his habitual mischief, sneaking into the bedroom as she was kneeling to vacuum under the bed. He dragged the eraser of a pencil along her upturned sole from heel to cute toes. She cried out, bumping into the bed as she yanked her foot away.
--Someone's ticklish, he teased, grinning around the blunt as he left the room.
Maddened by his brazenness, his cheapness, and her own stubborn willingness to clean for a guy who was exploiting her work ethic AND her ticklish feet, Mercedes angrily picked up the vacuum. Before she turned it on, she noticed a flash drive on the carpet by the bed. She toyed with the notion of sucking it into the vacuum, but growled and kicked it under the bed instead, stubbing her toe as she did so. Hopping on one foot, she hoped the drive was important and he'd go crazy looking for it.
Over an hour later, on the living room sofa, Rich needed a certain thumb drive and couldn't find it. Where the Hell was it? He upended cushions and lifted a throw rug.
He remembered using the drive last night and went to the bedroom. Cursing, head down, he surveyed the room. Dropping to all fours, flashing his phone's light under the massive, super king-sized bed, he spotted the stupid thing flush against the baseboard. Stilled crouching, he looked around for anything to reach under and snag it. Seeing nothing handy, he sighed and grumbled.
He was about to call Mercedes and her Swiffer, but, chuckling, caught himself. 'Guess I'd better not give her ANOTHER reason to quit, he thought. She really did the best job of all the women he'd hired. And it was fun to sneak up on her and tickle her cute little feet. He almost felt sorry for screwing with her pay. He shrugged and, after removing the top of his jogging outfit, leaving his tee, he inhaled and managed after much effort to crawl under the bed, awkwardly reaching for the drive.
With just his calves and feet beyond the bed, he almost got his fingertips on it, but, strained to his max, exhaled. Trying to move the few inches he needed to get the drive, he couldn't. Panicking, he inhaled and tried to shimmy back. But, it was no use. He was stuck. It was too tight a squeeze. He needed someone to lift the damned bed.
--MERCEDES!
He'd been hollering himself hoarse for minutes before Mercedes came into the room. She couldn't keep from barking a quick laugh when she saw that he was apparently stuck under the bed. She did allow herself to grin, seeing him flail his lower legs and waggle his bare feet. This serves him right, she thought. She grazed one of his soles with her toes and asked, Senor? His foot jerked.
--Aieee! Mercedes? is that you? Don't stand there like a dummy! Help me out!
He continues to treat me like a fool, she thought, even when he does something idiotic. He swore at her and waggled his feet. After that insult, she was about to leave him there and close the door. Maybe I'll just leave altogether, she thought. Seeing him flex the wrinkly soles of his helpless bare feet and wiggle his toes in frustration, though, gave Mercedes pause.
This man makes a hardworking woman work in her bare feet so he can lust after them, she thought. He keeps tickling my feet, too, deaf to my protests. Despite this, I work hard to clean his home. All that, and he STILL withholds my pay. This is not just. I should leave him like this, take my losses, and work for someone who will pay me without playing games. She lightly ran the tip of her big right toe along the middle of his bare right foot. His foot jerked.
--Jeez! Mercedes! Quit screwing around!
God is testing me, she thought. A good Catholic woman would simply help this man, sinner that he is. Or maybe it's Satan who is tempting me. He knows that I know that this man, who plots to tickle a hardworking mother's feet, has ticklish feet himself. Very ticklish feet. And he's gotten himself trapped so his helpless, very ticklish feet are here to tempt a woman he's treated unjustly.
No! she thought, biting her lip. Whether God is testing me or the Devil is tempting me, I must not sin. Surely, if I help this man now, he will feel obliged to pay me what he owes me. But, no, as usual with men like this, he has all the power. If he won't pay me, who would I go to? I'll help him now, then let him tickle my feet, and he will pay me.
Wait! That's not being a good Catholic. That's just being stupid, and being used. He doesn't have the right to leer at and play with my feet. I have a right to be paid for working hard. He needs a lesson in justice. I'll show him that tickling is not funny.
Feeling a subversive thrill, she wiggled her left toes upon his right instep. He rubbed his left toes upon his right sole.
--¿Estás tan cosquilloso como creo, señor? Are you...ticklish?
--Hey! Quit fucking around, Mercedes, and lift the bed so I can get out of here.
She wiggled her toes upon his left instep. He angrily flailed his foot and swore loudly.
She crouched by his feet, sitting on her haunches and examining his bare soles and toes, dry and dirty. She reached for her bag and pulled out a jar of sweetly aromatic oil which she religiously bought at a botanica in her neighborhood. The abuela behind the counter said it contained oil of avocado, aloe, chilies, and herbs that were her secret. The abuela had warned her to use it sparingly, as a very little quickly softened the skin and made it extremely sensitive. Mercedes was always careful to use just a few drops on her hardworking hands and feet, and even then the oil made her skin tingle. When she used it on her feet, it sometimes made her giggly, rubbing her feet together until the tickly feeling faded.
Now, she slipped on a pair of plastic gloves and poured onto her right palm a generous amount--much more than she'd ever dare use upon herself. She spread it thoroughly over both gloved palms to her fingertips. Then, as he swore in consternation, she worked it well into the skin of Rich's soles and toes.
--Jesus! Wh-what is that shit?!? It itches and burns like Hell! Get it off!
Despite his feet's frantic evasions, she patiently rubbed the oil--and more still--into his skin until all of the fragrant fluid had been absorbed. Sitting back on her haunches, she looked upon his now-glowing, babysoft pink feet with satisfaction. He was frantically scratching his itchy soles with his toes, and rubbing his tingly toes on the carpet.
--Aarrgh! Mercedes, I don't know what you think you're doing, but I can replace your little ass so fast--
Unconsciously smirking, she fluttered five trimmed-nail fingertips upon each of his upturned soles. His feet jerked, and he rubbed them together irritatedly.
--H-H-HEY! Quit fucking around, Mercy! Leave my feet alone!
She repeated the playful tickling, this time pursuing his feet for a minute while they tried to evade her teasing fingers.
--I SAID QUIT IT!!! I MEAN IT, LADY!!! Just lift the bed. Stupid bitch.
He rubbed his feet together, swearing and shaking them to deter her.
--So cosquilloso, she purred, her eyes flashing both in triumph and with anger at his last remark. She thought, I am stupid, huh? You like to tickle feet, senor? I will give YOU foot tickling. Until you pay me.
She dashed from the room, quickly located a few tools, and returned. Mercedes knelt at Rich's feet, next to which she set the fork, rubber-tipped hairbrush, bristly shaving brush, goose feather quill pen and feather duster she'd gathered. She selected the shaving brush, testing its rough yet soft bristles upon her fingertips. She smiled thinly with satisfaction.
She held down his heels with one hand as she swept the bristles in the tender pale circle formed by his insteps. He jerked his feet from under her hand.
--EEYOW! What the Hell is THAT? What the Hell are you DOING?
Muttering curses, he again tried to rub away the obvious irritation. She waited until he was still and she brushed across the balls of his feet. He yowled again and waved his feet frantically.
--AAAAAHHHHH! Will you stop this shit and get me out?! Or I'll call the cops!
He was straining to reach his phone, on the carpet just beyond the bed. She plucked the phone away from his desperate fingers, turned it off, and tossed it onto the bed.
--Mi paga, por favor. You will pay me now.
--What are you talking about? Idiot! This isn't the time to ask for money! GET ME OUTTA HERE!
As he loudly protested and angrily jerked his feet, she proceeded to methodically test each of her tickling tools in turn. She tried skimming the tines of the fork down the middle of his soles from heels to toes. She raked his heels with the hairbrush. She twirled the soft tip of the quill upon his toe pads, and used the point of the quill to poke his arches and dragged it upon the wrinkles along his sole. They all seemed to make him yell, but she thought the fork and the quill nub produced more protest. When she teased with her fingertips, and her neat, trim nails, all over his soft soles and tender toes, though, he reacted the loudest and the most violently.
--HHHEEEEYYYYYYYYHEHHEH! DON'T DO THAT! GET OFF!
--Porque? Why?
--It TICKLES, all right?
Fingers to start with, then, she decided: they tickle the best. She wiggled her forefingers upon his insteps. He jerked his feet away.
--Mi paga! Pay me!
--LIKE HELL I WILL! Stop this shit and help me out right now, lady, or-or I'll call immigration on you.
This threat, serious or not (not), only steeled her to teach him a good lesson and make him pay her what he owed her. But, he was moving his feet around too much, making it hard for her to effectively tickle them. She rose and surveyed the room. Her eyes settled on the two ponderous hand weights that she regularly dusted--and which never seemed to change position (She doubted he used them much.)--in a corner. She dragged the small but very heavy weights beside his feet.
--What the fuck are you doing, stupid? Lift-this-bed, idiot!
Bristling at the repeated insults, she lifted one weight with all her might. She set it down over his right ankle so its crossbar pinned his upturned foot to the carpet. She was sure that it was too heavy for him, in the position he was in, to lift.
--What th--? What's that?!? Take that goddamned thing off! I can't move!
Satisfied that his foot was effectively (but not painfully) immobilized, she pinned his other foot similarly, despite his frantic, cursing efforts to evade her. Now, twelve inches apart, both of his feet were really helpless, his tender and wrinkly upturned soles and touchy toes completely at Mercedes' mercy. After all his insults and refusals to pay what he owed her for her hard work, she was not inclined to show him any. Torturing someone was a sin, she knew. But, after all, it was ONLY tickling. The worst thing that could happen is that he'd wet his J Crew pants.
Justified, she lay on her left side beside his toes, resting her head upon her left palm propped on her elbow. In this relatively comfortable position, she began to calmly and coolly tickle his provenly very ticklish bare feet with the same quiet and persistent skill she brought to cleaning. She started slowly and lightly, wiggling one forefinger across the middle of his right sole. After a few moments, she moved it to test and tease other spots. Eventually, but not too quickly, she began to purposefully flutter five strong fingertips, with her short, neat nails, all over his now super sensitive soles and toes.
--NO! Hehheh! Fuhehhehck!
Throughout this ordeal, Rich first yelled and cursed then couldn't help giggling and was all-too-soon embarrassingly incoherent with laughter, its loudness spiking when Mercedes tickled a particularly ticklish spot on his soles or between his toes. She quietly, patiently tickled him like this for long, torturous minutes.
--Bihitch! Dohon't heh tickle my feet! Hehhehheh! Please! Hehhehhehhehheh! I can't stand it! Hehhehheh!
She stopped, resting her fingers on his struggling toes.
--¿Mi dinero, señor? Pay and I stop.
He swallowed his laughter and, gasping for breath, refused and hoarsely cursed her. She took his abuse for a few moments, feeling his toes try to wiggle off her fingers.
--Mmm-hmm. Cosquillas...cosquillas...
She drummed her fingertips on his toe pads. When he cursed anew and clenched his toes, she skimmed her nails up his sole until his toes spasmed open and she tickled them again. She repeated this gentle torment until he was giggling then laughing haplessly then coughing then laughing and giggling again.
--¡Tan cosquilloso! Sooooo cosquilloso! she teased him loudly enough for him to hear over his own laughter, and this seemed to make his laughter higher. Apart from a modest smile, she was a serious and determined tickler. This, after all, was business.
She carefully varied the tickling, sometimes bringing the tickly tools to play, barely allowing him to catch his breath before resuming the terrible torture as he laughed and cursed her. She ran the brush along the outer edges of his feet, causing him to giggle haplessly. His giggles became screeches to stop when she dropped the brush, pulled back his right toes, and dug her short, clear-polished nails between them.
Still pressing his toes down, she painstakingly teased between them with the nub of the quill. This toe torture caused him to gigglingly beg for mercy. The only mercy she gave him was to drop the quill and begin fluttering her fingertips along his sole, up and down, up and down, lightly, steadily, over and over. This reduced him to hysterical incoherence.
She came from a big family, where she and her siblings had many a tickle fight. She was not the biggest or the strongest amongst her brothers and sisters. But, she had compensated with cleverness, and had learned where each sibling was ticklish, and how best to exploit that weakness. Thus, tho she was very ticklish and not very big, she tickled with purpose and more than held her own, even against her older brothers. Mercedes was a merciless tickler, and you didn't want to be as ticklish as Rich was and find your bare feet under her fingers.
As she tickled, she did succumb to unguarded smiles, which she initially worked to suppress. But he was laughing so haplessly, as she feathered his toes, scratched his arches, or brushed the balls of his feet, that she couldn't help it. She couldn't remember ever tickling a man like this. She couldn't believe a grown man could BE so ticklish, especially on his feet. It seemed so silly, she had to smile, even giggle a little. But, she had to take this seriously. If tickling could make him pay her what she'd worked hard to earn, she'd do it until he did.
Since teasing him made him even more helpless with laughter, she began to lightly sing.
--Cosquillas...cosquillas...tickle...tickle...so cosquilloso...
Mostly, though, her face was set with determination. No expression of triumph or menace crossed her face, even as he laughed and howled and begged under the bed. After a few minutes of this intense tickling, she stopped, asking, "Mi dinero?" He cursed her. Calmly, she resumed expertly tickling his feet, and he resumed laughing hysterically.
If she felt satisfaction that she was tickling silly this cerdo who liked to put defenseless, hardworking women into ticklish situations--and then NOT pay them as well--she wasn't betraying it, not by expression or word or wasted gesture. She was going to get her money if she had to practically tickle him to death.
She began to dig her trim nails into the balls of his feet. He collapsed into helpless giggles, and, giving him no rest, she persisted in this torment, dragging her nails slowly down his sole, teasing his instep one moment, stimulating just above his heel a few moments later. Under her teasing nails, he was almost choking with laughter.
--NO! HAHAHAAAA! NO, MERCEDEEEEEES AHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAA! NOOOOAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA! PLEASE! HAHAHAHAAAA! PLEASE! AHHAHAHHAHA! I can't HAHAHAHAAA I can't HAHAHHAHAAAA stand it AHHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAA!
She permitted herself a ghost of a smile before she returned to calmly, patiently, and relentlessly lightly tickling them all over the wrinkles of his oily soles. Because she was never tickling the same place on the same sole for long, and varying the number of fingers and just how lightly she was teasing with them, he was constantly lost in laughter.
She had to guiltily admit to herself much fun this was and oh! however much he deserved it. Still, she had to get home; her kids would be home soon. But, she wanted what he owed her, all of it! It was time to show this spoiled Anglo that nobody tickles like an angry Mexicana.
She began to dance her strong, teasing fingers up his bare, hairy legs to his shorts. He screamed, laughing and cursing. She lay back on her elbows and stretched her legs under the bed. Reaching as far as she could, she dug her toes into his sides.
--Cosquillas, cosquillas, señor, she teased, as her toes tickled his ribs AND her fingers tickled his feet.
He screamed, helpless to fight off her savagely tickling toes as his own toes were being toyed with. He gasped with laughter, as she hissed teases.
--Cosquillas, cosquillas. ¡A muerte! Mi paga! Pay me!
Her toes poked his ribs, her nails scratched his heels. He howled.
--Ninito SOOOO ticklish.
That did it. Tickled here, tickled there. Verbally teased the way he liked to tease ticklish women, he lost it.
--OKOKOK HAHAHA I'll pay you HAHAHAAAA DIDN'T YOU HEAR?!? HAHAHAAA i'LL PAY YOU! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
STOP. TICKLING. MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.
She pulled back her legs and shouted under the bed.
--¿Mi dinero? ¿Dónde? My money? Where?
Spent, breaths ragged, he moaned softly.
--Oh...oh...God...oh...shit...let...let me out first.
Still he was playing games with her, she thought. Still. No mas. No mercy.
Face set with fury, she tickled hard across the tenderness of his sweaty soles. He seemed even MORE ticklish now, completely helpless to keep from wildly screaming with profane laughter. Her skillful fingers caressed every crease, teased each toe, traced all wrinkles, and stroked his sole skin. Her nails scrabbled along the outer edges of his feet. She circled the balls of his feet with the nail of her forefinger til he begged her to stop. She tic-toc'd her finger across his sole just before his heel. She took her time, alternating fast and furious fingering with the slightest, most maddening of touches.
He screamed and laughed and cursed and laughed and barked and laughed and coughed and giggled and swore and howled, barely able to breathe, all macho pretense lost.
Realizing vicious variety might finally break him where fury failed, she tickled one sole with five determined fingers as she dusted the clenched toes of the other foot with the blade of the feather. The smile on her face was confident with a playful edge she might not admit to. It didn't flag as she assuredly went from foot to foot, using fingernails one moment, fingerpads the next, mixing tools, quill to soft brush to fork to feather to hard brush, never giving him a chance to rest or predict how and where she'd next tickle his so ticklish toes and soles.
And she verbally teased him nonstop, keeping her voice light and playful in spite of her very serious intent. Shaming him with kitchey coos in English and humiliating him with cosquillas en Espanol. His breathless hysteria told her that each tickling stroke delivered with a cruel taunt brought her closer to getting her money and putting this lousy job behind her.
--AIEEEEEEEEEEHAHASTOPSTOPOKOK Closet. Racquetball bag. Pocket. Rosin can. Cash.
Poking his soles, she made him repeat himself slowly, clearly. Again. And again.
She bounded to the closet, vowing to take his laptop and hold it for what he owed her if he was lying. He wasn't, though. There were many bills in the can, more than what he owed her. Though she was tempted to take it all, she counted out only what they'd agreed was her hourly rate. She was, after all, a devout Catholic mother. She was not a thief.
That's not to say, however, that she didn't appreciate serving him a righteous mother's dose of poetic justice. Sitting again at his feet, she teased his sole with her fingertips, lightly, persistently, from curling toes to heels. He howled in outrage.
--Wait HAHA Didn't you find it? HAHAHA No more HAHA Please HAHAHA Waiaiaiaiaiait!
--Senor, let this be a lesson. Aprende esto. A man isn't so smart.
She tickled his soles harder, faster. His words collapsed into giggles.
--Especialmente un hombre tan cosquilloso. One so cosquilloso.
She pried his clenching toes open and pressed her nails into them, and he screamed.
--En sus grandes pies malolientes.
She slapped his feet, and, extending one leg underbed a last time, toed his sides, earning one last loud shout. She was about to lift the weights off his ankles when a completely unforgiveable thought came to her.
She phoned her friend Blanca, who had worked two long hours for Rich, who'd pestered her with foot tickling until she'd angrily bolted without pay, and she had profanely warned Mercedes against him. But Mercedes needed the money and frankly thought she was shrewder than Blanca, who was always being played by men. Blanca's ticklish experience had helped Mercedes not only prepare for Rich's wicked ways, but had given her an added righteous incentive when she had him at a disadvantage.
Mercedes now sat on the bed (Rich protesting loudly) and called Blanca, telling her of an excellent opportunity to get her money.
--Obtendrás cada centavo. (All of it, with interest.)
--El esta en casa ahora? (He's home now?) Blanca asked, frankly a little skeptical.
--Si, Mercedes assured her. El te espera. (He waits for you.) Con el dinero.
--¿Es verdad?
--Si. Como El Señor es mi testigo. (As God is my witness.)
--Está atrapado bajo su camaes. (He's trapped under his bed.) Todos excepto sus pies grandes. (All except his big, stinky feet.)
--Usted está bromeando, sí?
--Uh-uh. Está atrapado.
--Huh. Hehheh.
--Oh, y Blanca, por cierto, esos pies grandes son muy muy cosquilloso. VERY ticklish.
Blanca seemed stunned into silence for a moment. Then, she chuckled, finally understanding this gift.
--Ahhaaaaaaah! Encamino. Ahora.
Both exploded with laughter before ending the call.
Mercedes made sure that all of the tickling tools she'd used were beside Rich's feet for Blanca's convenience. Standing over his still helpless feet, she had one last, horrible, mean, sinful wonderful idea.
She took a box fan out of the closet and set it on the floor facing his upturned soles. She propped the feather duster in one of his many dirty Nikes so the plumes of the feather duster grazed the wrinkly pink lengths of his soles. She stepped back and was satisfied by how right this device was.
--Adios, senor. I quit.
--Wait! Aren't you going to get me outta here?
She turned the box fan on high. Its strong breeze caused the long, tickly feathers of the duster to sweep upon Rich's sweaty sensitized soles. The feathers teased his exposed helpless soles and scrunching toes this way and that, tickling to make a ticklish man crazy.
--W-what the--? N-no! he stammered, before he began a stream of obscenity-laced chuckles and giggles.
--So cosquilloso, she purred, as she walked out, indulging finally in a perfectly wicked and triumphant grin.
A half-hour later--an eternity when being tickled--there was a knock at the front door. It opened slowly and Blanca peered around it. meekly offering, ¿Hola? She followed the stream of giggles and curses and moans to the bedroom.
She chuckled when she beheld the fan blowing tickling feathers across two trapped bare feet. She crouched beside the wriggling feet and relished Rich's desperate laughter She couldn't believe a religious woman like Mercedes could do something like this and chuckled again. After a few more satisfied moments, she turned off the fan.
--Oh, God! Oh, God! Thank you, thank you! I couldn't stand another second! Thank you! Who-who are you?
--Es Blanca, senor.
--Ah, hehheh, B-Blanca. O-OK. C-can you h-help me? I'm trapped. The bed. Lift it. Please. First, get those things off my ankles.
For emphasis, he wiggled his toes and flexed his feet as much as he could under the weights.
--Si. Yes. Sure. Mi dinero. Pay me NOW.
--Jesus! All you women want is money! Money! I'm going to get Mercedes arrested! That bitch. No, deported! And you, too, if you don't help me!
Blanca made a face and turned the fan on. The feathers resumed tickling Rich's helpless bare feet.
--HHEEEEEYNOOOO! Hehhehheh stop that!
After he sputtered and giggled and cursed for a minute, she turned the fan off.
--Mi dinero.
--OK...OK...don't...don't.
He sent her to the closet. She gleefully got the money. (She had known it was there all along. Mercedes had told her.) Unlike her religious friend, she took much more than he owed her, because, well, he owed her more, the perverted pig.
--Did you find it?
--Si. Yes.
She sat beside his feet, resting a hand on the weights.
--Great. Take those weights away and lift this damn bed off me.
She wiggled the fingers of her other hand, red polish flashing, inches above his wrinkly soles.
She pulled her phone from her snug hip pocket, thumbed on her Tejano playlist, and set the phone on the carpet beside the feather duster. She considered the duster and the other tickly things Mercedes had thoughtfully left for her. As Selena began, she started humming along, twirling the bristly shaving brush in her fingers.
--Lalalaladeedeedee. Pies cosquilleantes. Mmmhmmhmm.
--Blanca, did you hear me? Help me, or there'll be trouble. You hear? Trouble.
Blanca dreamily twirled the brush and sang.
--Cosquilleando tus pies.
--BLANCA!
Spidering her vengeful fingers upon one soft foot, and twirling the bristles upon the other, Blanca set out to tickle Rich out of his Anglo mind. She figured two hours would be a good start.
--So cosquilloso, she purred, grinning.
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