Iwon'tgrowup
TMF Master
- Joined
- Jun 18, 2005
- Messages
- 643
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Putting this story into words has made it more concrete, more visceral than a mere memory could ever be. Because it has made me understand Taylor's role in that unforgettable evening. Stephanie truly is the most ticklish woman I've ever met, but it was Taylor who took control of the experience. Taylor was the spice, the one determined that I would not forget.
Taylor lay on the blanket as she was asked, grinning, her eyes daring me to follow through. I sat beside her, held her hand, traced the lines on her palm. I had never been so familiar with a woman I'd never met, but her eyes did not leave my face. We connected on some deep and adversarial level. We were challenging each other! I think I said, mocking her, that there is only one person in this room who hasn't been PROPERLY tickled this evening.
Oh God Taylor said, but the grin remained. Stephanie feared tickling, which made me worry for her, care for her. Taylor relished its edginess, its newness, and although I loved her in this moment, I wanted her to pay. I straddled her lower legs, facing her feet. Unlike Stephanie (whose feet were as perfect as Eve's in the Garden), Taylor's dark pink nail polish was chipped, her soles somewhat rough. But as I bent over them, some dark and lucky force moved my fingers to the perfect spot. I held the toes of her left foot back and tickled, lightly but persistently, just below the ball, just above the arch.
Taylor's resistance broke. The crease! she shrieked, unexpected laughter boiling over like an overheated saucepan. He's tickling right in the cre - hee - hee - hease - AH! I stopped within seconds. Even though I had found her smirk incredibly arousing, I wanted to wipe it right off. I tickled her other foot in the "crease" for a few seconds, with the same satisfying shrieks of laughter. Stephanie, sitting on the blanket beside us, applauded. Serves you right!
But once again, I was emotionally drained, embarrassed by my aggressive behavior, aroused for Taylor to observe. I collapsed on the blanket, almost fetal. We still need to help you, sweetie she said.
I reached beneath the armchair and produced an object I had placed there minutes before the escorts' arrival. Rescued from my childrens' toybox. A little battered, but very serviceable. A long yellow feather. Oh, God, do we have to, what . . . Stephanie protested.
I asked nicely Please lie down, Stephanie. I whispered the feather up the bottom of one foot. Her laughter was as fulfilling as ever. Then I handed the feather to Taylor. Would you mind doing the honors?
Taylor's expression was triumphant, Stephanie's amused and terrified as Taylor lay at Stephanie's feet. It took Taylor all of two seconds to discover the spaces between Stephanie's toes.
And I watched from the armchair. It was one of those moments a man isn't certain he will live through. Arms and legs go numb, the warmth and pulse and blood flow centered at the body's core. The orgasm gripping with sweet, agonizing slowness as Taylor tickled Stephanie's feet with the feather. My expression, Zen-like, never changed, but my liberated soul screamed with release and relief, rising above Stephanie's sweet, unbridled laughter. My eyes closed.
As they pulled on their stockings and replaced shoes, Taylor and Stephanie talked to me. My eyes remained closed as I heard This was incredible. Thank you for something so new and different. Thank you for respecting us. My eyes only opened when I heard We have to go. I wanted these two precious women to stay always. They had no idea what they had ignited in me, or what they had calmed.
Or perhaps they did. I watched them walk to their car and saw Stephanie whisper something to Taylor. Both women laughed. Oh I thought, heart sinking, are they laughing at me?
Then Taylor trotted back to the porch, heels clacking on the walk. She motioned me close. She spoke softly in my ear, the words warmed and made unforgettable by her sweet breath:
Stephanie wants you to know that she can still feel the feather between her toes. Remember.
(Thanks for your patience in indulging a new contributor. This was a favorite experience of mine, but I have numerous others.)
Taylor lay on the blanket as she was asked, grinning, her eyes daring me to follow through. I sat beside her, held her hand, traced the lines on her palm. I had never been so familiar with a woman I'd never met, but her eyes did not leave my face. We connected on some deep and adversarial level. We were challenging each other! I think I said, mocking her, that there is only one person in this room who hasn't been PROPERLY tickled this evening.
Oh God Taylor said, but the grin remained. Stephanie feared tickling, which made me worry for her, care for her. Taylor relished its edginess, its newness, and although I loved her in this moment, I wanted her to pay. I straddled her lower legs, facing her feet. Unlike Stephanie (whose feet were as perfect as Eve's in the Garden), Taylor's dark pink nail polish was chipped, her soles somewhat rough. But as I bent over them, some dark and lucky force moved my fingers to the perfect spot. I held the toes of her left foot back and tickled, lightly but persistently, just below the ball, just above the arch.
Taylor's resistance broke. The crease! she shrieked, unexpected laughter boiling over like an overheated saucepan. He's tickling right in the cre - hee - hee - hease - AH! I stopped within seconds. Even though I had found her smirk incredibly arousing, I wanted to wipe it right off. I tickled her other foot in the "crease" for a few seconds, with the same satisfying shrieks of laughter. Stephanie, sitting on the blanket beside us, applauded. Serves you right!
But once again, I was emotionally drained, embarrassed by my aggressive behavior, aroused for Taylor to observe. I collapsed on the blanket, almost fetal. We still need to help you, sweetie she said.
I reached beneath the armchair and produced an object I had placed there minutes before the escorts' arrival. Rescued from my childrens' toybox. A little battered, but very serviceable. A long yellow feather. Oh, God, do we have to, what . . . Stephanie protested.
I asked nicely Please lie down, Stephanie. I whispered the feather up the bottom of one foot. Her laughter was as fulfilling as ever. Then I handed the feather to Taylor. Would you mind doing the honors?
Taylor's expression was triumphant, Stephanie's amused and terrified as Taylor lay at Stephanie's feet. It took Taylor all of two seconds to discover the spaces between Stephanie's toes.
And I watched from the armchair. It was one of those moments a man isn't certain he will live through. Arms and legs go numb, the warmth and pulse and blood flow centered at the body's core. The orgasm gripping with sweet, agonizing slowness as Taylor tickled Stephanie's feet with the feather. My expression, Zen-like, never changed, but my liberated soul screamed with release and relief, rising above Stephanie's sweet, unbridled laughter. My eyes closed.
As they pulled on their stockings and replaced shoes, Taylor and Stephanie talked to me. My eyes remained closed as I heard This was incredible. Thank you for something so new and different. Thank you for respecting us. My eyes only opened when I heard We have to go. I wanted these two precious women to stay always. They had no idea what they had ignited in me, or what they had calmed.
Or perhaps they did. I watched them walk to their car and saw Stephanie whisper something to Taylor. Both women laughed. Oh I thought, heart sinking, are they laughing at me?
Then Taylor trotted back to the porch, heels clacking on the walk. She motioned me close. She spoke softly in my ear, the words warmed and made unforgettable by her sweet breath:
Stephanie wants you to know that she can still feel the feather between her toes. Remember.
(Thanks for your patience in indulging a new contributor. This was a favorite experience of mine, but I have numerous others.)
