When GuitarPeteTklr and I had our first conversation about a year ago, we talked on line and then on the phone for about five hours altogether, in the middle of the night. We talked about many things, but of course a great deal of the talk was about tickling. I believed I wasn’t ticklish. I had never been broken, or even laughed since I was a kid. I took great pride in the fact that when people had tried to tickle me, even on the feet, all they ever got for their trouble was a dirty look. He explained the relinquishing of power to me and it made sense, but somehow, I could only imagine being tickled would annoy me.
“One day, we’ll be in a restaurant, your bare feet will be in my lap and I will tickle them while you are forced to maintain your composure enough to order your dinner”.
“Yeah, imagine that,” I thought, but I replied, “Wow, that would be intense”. I was guessing he would be pretty disappointed when his efforts didn’t ruffle me at all. Still, we seemed to have a lot in common and agreed to meet. I suspected I could fake being a little ticklish if I had to.
We met and things went well, but to my surprise, under his hands I was ticklish! The first time he touched my feet, the only thing I was worried about was whether or not I should fake a reaction. I should have been worried about how I would keep from falling off the seat in his van in my struggles to free my foot from his iron grip. I was so shocked, I admitted to having had thoughts of faking it. For the longest time, I just struggled but after a few minutes, I started to giggle and then it was like a landslide. I laughed, begged, and bargained, all to no avail. “Ticklish tonight, Karen?” he asked with a note of sarcasm. How I’ve come to detest that phrase.
We continued to see each other and I discovered I was maddeningly ticklish under his skilled hands, and what ever he chose to put in them. I became unscrupulous in my efforts to bargain, beg and demand release from the torture he inflicted on me. Lying about what I would do to get out of being tickled became second nature for me. Unfortunately he is either too smart or too evil to let me off the hook for false promises.
We had been together for about a month the night we agreed to meet at the truckstop diner for dinner. I came from work, still dressed in my sleeveless summer print dress and black high heeled slides. My toenails were polished his favorite shade of cherry red. We arrived at the same time and he gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, accompanied by a brief tickle in the sensitive crease where my upper arm rests near my body. I shivered involuntarily. We approached a booth and just before we sat opposite each other, he ran a feather-light finger over my exposed collar bone. I blushed furiously and he just gave me that evil grin of his.
I couldn’t get the thought of his description of a restaurant tickle out of my head. In the booth across from us, two truckers chatted loudly and rapidly in French with a strong Canadian accent. The devil and angel in me were having a battle of wills. Should I call his bluff and offer him my foot? He couldn’t really be serious about the scene he had described so vividly. The devil won. I slipped my right foot out of my shoe and laid it gently on the seat along side his left leg. That wicked eyebrow of his raised and I knew I had made a mistake, but I was too proud to withdraw my foot. “Maybe he just wants to scare me,” I hoped. I couldn’t have been more wrong. “Be nice,” I pleaded.
“Can’t do it,” he responded, grinning widely. He began to tickle, slowly at first, scribbling his fingers over the ball of my foot. I clenched my toes and clenched my jaw. “Tickle, Karen?”, he inquired.
“Of course it does!”. I replied from behind my teeth. The waitress approached and I felt like I couldn’t draw a breath. “Oh my God, she’s coming. Please stop!”
“What’s wrong, Karen? Is your mouth writing checks your foot can’t cash?” He asked gleefully. He continued to drag his fingers around the outside of my heel and then under my toes. He couldn’t resist fluttering over my sensitive ankle bones. My entire body was stiff. I had to focus all my willpower on ordering my dinner. I was dying for the waitress to get the order and leave but he hesitated with his choice, asked questions, and did everything he could to keep the waitress at our table. I thought I’d pass out from hyperventilating if she didn’t leave soon. Something around me seemed different but I couldn’t spare any conscious effort to think about it without risking losing control. Blessed relief. She finally left. It was then I was able to realize, the volume and rate of conversation at the booth across from us had dropped dramatically. The two truckers had a clear view of what he was doing to me under the table and were commenting quietly to each other, punctuating their conversation with soft laughter. Our food arrived and he stopped tickling. The instant I tried to withdraw my foot, he said sternly, “No, Karen. Leave it right where it is.
As he finished his meal, he reached for the key to his van. I relaxed thinking we were ready to go. I couldn’t have been more wrong. His key is very long and is the instrument of the devil. He began to rake it lazily up and down my arch. He signaled the waitress for more coffee, never missing a stroke. The truckers continued to stare and snicker as he tortured my poor foot. He picked up his fork and held it in front of him, as if to inspect it. He put the key away, all the while examining that fork. “Having a tough time, Karen?"
“You know I am! Can’t you give me a little break?”, I begged.
"Sucks to be you, doesn't it, Karen?" Another one of his phrases I've come to detest. “Hmmm, let me see…..naw”. He gripped the fork in his strong left hand and dragged it with agonizing, slow strokes up and down my soft, bare sole. My heart was pounding. I gripped the edge of the bench with white knuckles. Every muscle in my body was so tense, I quivered. My jaw ached from clenching my teeth. The softest groan escaped from behind my teeth. One of the truckers gave him a wink, the other a thumbs up. Satisfied that he had imparted unbearable tickle torture for an appreciative audience, he said, “You’ve been such a good girl, Karen. Put your shoe on and smile at the nice men on your way out.” He stood up, tossed the truckers a nod and a half salute, and strode off to the cashier
“One day, we’ll be in a restaurant, your bare feet will be in my lap and I will tickle them while you are forced to maintain your composure enough to order your dinner”.
“Yeah, imagine that,” I thought, but I replied, “Wow, that would be intense”. I was guessing he would be pretty disappointed when his efforts didn’t ruffle me at all. Still, we seemed to have a lot in common and agreed to meet. I suspected I could fake being a little ticklish if I had to.
We met and things went well, but to my surprise, under his hands I was ticklish! The first time he touched my feet, the only thing I was worried about was whether or not I should fake a reaction. I should have been worried about how I would keep from falling off the seat in his van in my struggles to free my foot from his iron grip. I was so shocked, I admitted to having had thoughts of faking it. For the longest time, I just struggled but after a few minutes, I started to giggle and then it was like a landslide. I laughed, begged, and bargained, all to no avail. “Ticklish tonight, Karen?” he asked with a note of sarcasm. How I’ve come to detest that phrase.
We continued to see each other and I discovered I was maddeningly ticklish under his skilled hands, and what ever he chose to put in them. I became unscrupulous in my efforts to bargain, beg and demand release from the torture he inflicted on me. Lying about what I would do to get out of being tickled became second nature for me. Unfortunately he is either too smart or too evil to let me off the hook for false promises.
We had been together for about a month the night we agreed to meet at the truckstop diner for dinner. I came from work, still dressed in my sleeveless summer print dress and black high heeled slides. My toenails were polished his favorite shade of cherry red. We arrived at the same time and he gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, accompanied by a brief tickle in the sensitive crease where my upper arm rests near my body. I shivered involuntarily. We approached a booth and just before we sat opposite each other, he ran a feather-light finger over my exposed collar bone. I blushed furiously and he just gave me that evil grin of his.
I couldn’t get the thought of his description of a restaurant tickle out of my head. In the booth across from us, two truckers chatted loudly and rapidly in French with a strong Canadian accent. The devil and angel in me were having a battle of wills. Should I call his bluff and offer him my foot? He couldn’t really be serious about the scene he had described so vividly. The devil won. I slipped my right foot out of my shoe and laid it gently on the seat along side his left leg. That wicked eyebrow of his raised and I knew I had made a mistake, but I was too proud to withdraw my foot. “Maybe he just wants to scare me,” I hoped. I couldn’t have been more wrong. “Be nice,” I pleaded.
“Can’t do it,” he responded, grinning widely. He began to tickle, slowly at first, scribbling his fingers over the ball of my foot. I clenched my toes and clenched my jaw. “Tickle, Karen?”, he inquired.
“Of course it does!”. I replied from behind my teeth. The waitress approached and I felt like I couldn’t draw a breath. “Oh my God, she’s coming. Please stop!”
“What’s wrong, Karen? Is your mouth writing checks your foot can’t cash?” He asked gleefully. He continued to drag his fingers around the outside of my heel and then under my toes. He couldn’t resist fluttering over my sensitive ankle bones. My entire body was stiff. I had to focus all my willpower on ordering my dinner. I was dying for the waitress to get the order and leave but he hesitated with his choice, asked questions, and did everything he could to keep the waitress at our table. I thought I’d pass out from hyperventilating if she didn’t leave soon. Something around me seemed different but I couldn’t spare any conscious effort to think about it without risking losing control. Blessed relief. She finally left. It was then I was able to realize, the volume and rate of conversation at the booth across from us had dropped dramatically. The two truckers had a clear view of what he was doing to me under the table and were commenting quietly to each other, punctuating their conversation with soft laughter. Our food arrived and he stopped tickling. The instant I tried to withdraw my foot, he said sternly, “No, Karen. Leave it right where it is.
As he finished his meal, he reached for the key to his van. I relaxed thinking we were ready to go. I couldn’t have been more wrong. His key is very long and is the instrument of the devil. He began to rake it lazily up and down my arch. He signaled the waitress for more coffee, never missing a stroke. The truckers continued to stare and snicker as he tortured my poor foot. He picked up his fork and held it in front of him, as if to inspect it. He put the key away, all the while examining that fork. “Having a tough time, Karen?"
“You know I am! Can’t you give me a little break?”, I begged.
"Sucks to be you, doesn't it, Karen?" Another one of his phrases I've come to detest. “Hmmm, let me see…..naw”. He gripped the fork in his strong left hand and dragged it with agonizing, slow strokes up and down my soft, bare sole. My heart was pounding. I gripped the edge of the bench with white knuckles. Every muscle in my body was so tense, I quivered. My jaw ached from clenching my teeth. The softest groan escaped from behind my teeth. One of the truckers gave him a wink, the other a thumbs up. Satisfied that he had imparted unbearable tickle torture for an appreciative audience, he said, “You’ve been such a good girl, Karen. Put your shoe on and smile at the nice men on your way out.” He stood up, tossed the truckers a nod and a half salute, and strode off to the cashier
Last edited:
just what is it, makes a foot so extreemly ticklish anyway..?
