storyteller
TMF Master
- Joined
- Aug 3, 2006
- Messages
- 672
- Points
- 0
Readers and members: Like the female character, I’m a novice to more than casual tickling and new to the forum. Not too sure about my fantasy level but like to write. Don’t know what will happen in Act II, but here’s Act I. Suggestions, comments?
Act I: The Set Up
Scene: Neighborhood pub with L-shaped bar along two walls. Dart boards on a third. Television sets sit on raised shelves around the room so patrons sitting at the mid-section tables or booths along fourth wall can watch various sporting events. A typical lull in the Saturday night activity between the dinner hour and 10. A few patrons at area tables; others playing darts. One woman, a regular, enters and walks toward the bar.
The bartender sees her approaching and reaches for a pint glass to place under the Guinness tap. He pours some Guinness into the tilted glass then shuts off the tap and puts the glass down so the foam can settle. He turns to speak to her, but she’s not there. She’s talking with some of the dart players. Disappointment strikes as he realizes she may not sit at the bar. She might decide to play darts instead. He watches to see what she’ll do and wonders where she’s been. She’s not dressed as usual for a Saturday night.
She’s wearing a simple, straight, black, sand-washed silk wrap skirt with matching, cropped, sleeveless top, the bottom of which just touches the skirt’s waistband. He’s seen her dressed for work and dates before, but he muses, something about the way she looks tonight is different. With a start he realizes, it’s the shoes.
He’s not seen her wear shoes like this before. Tennis shoes, flat sandals, conservative pumps, yes. But not shoes like this. Her feet seem to sit atop rather than within the black high-heeled pumps. Her arches are clearly visible, and even from the bar, he can see that the short tops of the shoes barely cover her toes. The foot fetishist within him is aroused. He’s waited for an opportunity to enjoy his foot and tickling interests with her ever since he’d first seen her feet. As he watches those clad feet leave the dart players and walk toward him, he thinks that tonight will be a good time to pursue this interest. He turns to pour more Guinness from the tap into the glass and decides he’ll need to determine her availability status. He pushes the lever back to let the contents settle, and turns around again.
As she nears the bar she says to him, “Hi. That Guinness for me?”
“Yeah,” he answers, “Bad dinner date?”
A confused expression crosses her face as she asks, “No. Why?”
“You usually wear jeans on Saturdays,” he states.
“Oh. Went to an alumni function,” she explains, pulling a stool out away from the bar to sit down.
He turns away once more to pour a little more Guinness into the glass. Experience has taught him that slow times can quickly become hectic. He needs to take advantage of the quiet. A plan is formulating in his mind. He tops off the Guinness, turns, and with his free hand reaches for a paper napkin. He places the napkin down in front of her and the Guinness down on top of it. Then he leans over, placing his elbows on the bar, and says conspiratorially, “I dreamed about you again last night.”
“Oh yeah,” she says as she lifts the Guinness to her lips and takes a sip. Putting the glass back down she looks into his eyes, smiles slightly and softly says, “What happened this time?”
Waiting for him to answer, she closes her eyes and slowly moves her head from side to side as though working out stiffness in her neck. Simultaneously, she leans back and shifts slightly on the stool so that her body is at a 45-degree angle to him. She opens her eyes and elegantly crosses her left leg over her right. From where he’s standing he can see her legs on the other side of the bar. His eyes become riveted to the slow, gentle swing of her left foot.
“Well?” She asks with a little laugh as she turns her head toward him. “Are you going to tell me about the latest version of your dream?”
Jolted, he realizes that he’s been so entranced by that sexily clad foot he hasn’t answered her question.
“You never really had a dream at all did you?” she barely inflects the question.
“Of course I did,” he says with feigned offense. “I have it frequently.”
The corners of her mouth lift and there’s laughter in her eyes. She takes another sip of Guinness. Still holding the drink she says, “And of course you wouldn’t lie about that? You wouldn’t use that as a pick up line? Would you? Just out of interest, does it usually work?”
Another sip of Guinness before putting the glass down gives him time to ponder. He doesn’t want to lie outright. Has to cover. Concentrating is tough though. His thoughts like his eyes keep going back to that gently swinging foot.
The trance is broken as she shifts on the stool again, uncrosses her legs, and sits facing him.
He decides avoidance of “the line” question is his best course. Just dive into the dream. She doesn’t need to know that “the dream” is one of his waking-hour fantasies. It had been a R.E.M. event first.
“You were sitting in a recliner in a flimsy, pale pink robe trimmed down the fronts and around the neck with matching boa feathers. I polished your toenails.”
“I don’t polish my toenails very often,” she says.
“You didn’t. I did,” he retorts. “Then, I massaged your feet. You were very relaxed when I started stroking the underside of your right foot with the tip of an empty ballpoint pen,” he whispers, “But, then you squealed and jumped.”
“Maybe I thought you were addressing me as one does a package to be mailed,” she says playfully.
“Do you think you’d like that?” he asks.
“What? Being mailed,” she laughs.
“No, having the tip of a pen run along the soles of your feet,” he replies.
“ I don’t know. Not something I’ve experienced,” she says, taking another sip of the Guinness.
Here’s his opening and he doesn’t waste it. “Do you want to?” he asks.
“Hmmm. That might be difficult,” she responds, taking another sip of Guinness.
“Why?” he asks innocently.
“I don’t own a recliner, anything pink, or a flimsy robe trimmed in boa feathers,” she states in a matter-of-fact tone and takes another sip of Guinness.
“Need a pitcher of Shiner,” one of the dart players orders.
Two customers walk in and make their way to the bar.
The bartender starts the pitcher and takes the orders of the newcomers. He speedily fills the orders, rings them up, hands them over, and hopes the three will walk away. Is relieved when they do, but then sees more customers walking through the door. He quickly glances at her Guinness. The glass is somewhat less than half full.
“Want me to start another one for you?” he offers.
“I don’t know,” she answers.
“Tomorrow’s Sunday. You don’t have to be anywhere do you?” he asks. The newcomers are sitting at a table telling one of their party what they want to drink. He needs to keep her here a little longer.
“You’re not going to leave me so soon are you?” he intones as the latest newcomer leaves his friends and walks over to place their orders.
“Okay. One more,” she says.
He puts another pint glass under the Guinness tap, pulls the lever, watches as the liquid reaches the halfway point, and pushes the lever back to let the foam die down. This pint needs to be done quick. He turns again just as the newcomer gets to the register. He notices more customers entering. Busy filling orders, he reaches for mixer from an overhead shelf and sees her getting up from the stool. Her first Guinness isn’t quite finished.
“Save my seat?” she casually throws over her shoulder as she walks toward the restrooms.
Better damn well believe he will. Plenty of other stools and empty tables for the newbies. Her shoes have hardened his resolve that tonight is the night.
As he busies himself with the new orders, the bartender reflects on the first time he’d seen her bare feet and perceived how ticklish she was. He learned those things during their one and only brief sexual encounter more than a year before--as many as two, three years ago? He can't remember. He only knows that it was after that encounter that his dream-fantasy became a regular indulgence.
His pace to finish with the customers increases as he remembers his first sight of her long, narrow feet with long toes and wide, unpolished nails. She had apologized as one of those feet had brushed against him because they were cold. He remembers enjoying their soft coolness against his skin and how sensitive her body had been to his touch. He remains amazed that he hadn’t indulged his predilections at the time. He hadn’t expected that another opportunity would be so long in coming.
The latest arrivals are seeking tables to occupy as she returns to the bar and sits down. The second pint of Guinness awaits her next to the remnants of the first, which she finishes. She pushes the empty glass away from her and asks, “Would you get me a glass of ice water?”
As water from the hose slides over the ice, the bartender feels the glass cooling in his hand and wonders how she might react if it were brushed over the soles of her feet, along the inner and outer sides of her legs, up the sides and down the middle of her torso... He hands her the water and decides to preempt further interruptions.
“The furniture and attire are changeable. Do you still have the polish you used for your finger nails?”
She teasingly says, “Well, I opened the bottle this afternoon and applied two coats to each nail. Yeah, I still have some left.”
“Are you ticklish,” he asks, remembering the past and feeling certain of the answer.
“Sometimes,” she evades. “Why? Do you want to bring your dream to life?”
“Yeah. Interested?” he answers.
Giving an uncomfortable laugh, she says, “I don’t think I have any dried-up ballpoints lying around. I usually throw pens away when the ink stops flowing.”
“I can take care of that,” he says.
She begins to squirm on the barstool and her eyes don’t meet his. Her cheeks take on a pinker hue. He senses that he needs to act quickly and decisively before she gives him one of her kiss-off lines he's heard her use on the many guys who’ve tried to pick her up.
He reaches out and touches her forearm. She jumps at his unexpected touch and he feels the goosebumps rise beneath his fingers. Her head comes up and she looks at him directly.
“Don’t you trust me,” he asks quietly.
“Is that a trick question?” she responds.
The bartender has seen her in action often. He knows that her get-away tactic begins by responding to all statements with a question. He decides to be direct and hopes she’ll respond in kind.
“No. No trick questions. Do you trust me?” he asks.
Her “yes” is barely audible but her eyes are locked on his.
“Well, then, why don’t I come over to your place after closing,” he suggests.
“And what happens when reality doesn’t measure up to your dream? What if I’m not ticklish tonight? What else do you have in mind?” Her eyes remain fixed.
In a firm tone he says, “First, I’m not concerned with reality not measuring up. It will. Second, if you’re not ticklish, I’ll just polish your toenails. Third, we’ll start with tickling and see where that leads.”
He knows there will be more questions. If not now, then later. He waits for her to say something. She moves her arm from under his fingers and lifts the Guinness to her lips. She takes a long sip. The bartender sees another patron approaching. If he turns away without solid arrangements, she might slip away. That isn’t part of his plan. When the feet in those shoes leave tonight, he wants to know their owner will be expecting him after closing time.
“Don’t leave,” he says urgently as he turns away to take the patron’s order, hoping no one else approaches.
The bartender is grateful the order is for a Miller Lite bottle. He uncaps one, wraps it quickly in a napkin, marks it on the patron’s tab, and returns to stand in front of her. She still holds the Guinness.
“I can be at your place within an hour after close. Between now and then you can take a nap if you want,” he urges.
“What about you, won’t you be tired?” she inquires.
“I’ll be fine,” he assures her, “but if one or both of us is tired, we can sleep and bring the dream to life in the morning.”
“Do you remember where I live?” she queries.
“Absolutely,” he states.
“Tell you what,” she begins, “let me finish this Guinness and I’ll give you a definite answer.”
The late-night crowd begins steadily to arrive. The bartender and his prey talk about other things when he isn’t taking, filling, and ringing up orders. She sips her Guinness and her water. He knows she doesn’t like crowds and if too many more people arrive she’ll leave. He’s anxious that she might do so while he’s busy working. Better not chance an indirect blow off. A slight pause in activity coincides with her near-empty Guinness.
“Is your phone number still...,” he asks.
“Yes,” she answers.
“I’ll call you when I’m in my car headed to your place,” he says. “Will you let me in?”
“Yes,” she responds then drinks the last of the Guinness and hands him the glass. “I guess I should close now.”
“Don’t worry about it. They’re on me,” he tells her.
“Thanks. Guess I’ll see you in a few hours,” she says.
“You can count on it,” he replies as she gives him a tentative smile.
While watching her walk out of the pub the bartender calculates how quickly he can accomplish his closing tasks, drive to his place to take care of a few things, and then drive to hers. He has several tickling ideas he hasn’t divulged to her....
Act I: The Set Up
Scene: Neighborhood pub with L-shaped bar along two walls. Dart boards on a third. Television sets sit on raised shelves around the room so patrons sitting at the mid-section tables or booths along fourth wall can watch various sporting events. A typical lull in the Saturday night activity between the dinner hour and 10. A few patrons at area tables; others playing darts. One woman, a regular, enters and walks toward the bar.
The bartender sees her approaching and reaches for a pint glass to place under the Guinness tap. He pours some Guinness into the tilted glass then shuts off the tap and puts the glass down so the foam can settle. He turns to speak to her, but she’s not there. She’s talking with some of the dart players. Disappointment strikes as he realizes she may not sit at the bar. She might decide to play darts instead. He watches to see what she’ll do and wonders where she’s been. She’s not dressed as usual for a Saturday night.
She’s wearing a simple, straight, black, sand-washed silk wrap skirt with matching, cropped, sleeveless top, the bottom of which just touches the skirt’s waistband. He’s seen her dressed for work and dates before, but he muses, something about the way she looks tonight is different. With a start he realizes, it’s the shoes.
He’s not seen her wear shoes like this before. Tennis shoes, flat sandals, conservative pumps, yes. But not shoes like this. Her feet seem to sit atop rather than within the black high-heeled pumps. Her arches are clearly visible, and even from the bar, he can see that the short tops of the shoes barely cover her toes. The foot fetishist within him is aroused. He’s waited for an opportunity to enjoy his foot and tickling interests with her ever since he’d first seen her feet. As he watches those clad feet leave the dart players and walk toward him, he thinks that tonight will be a good time to pursue this interest. He turns to pour more Guinness from the tap into the glass and decides he’ll need to determine her availability status. He pushes the lever back to let the contents settle, and turns around again.
As she nears the bar she says to him, “Hi. That Guinness for me?”
“Yeah,” he answers, “Bad dinner date?”
A confused expression crosses her face as she asks, “No. Why?”
“You usually wear jeans on Saturdays,” he states.
“Oh. Went to an alumni function,” she explains, pulling a stool out away from the bar to sit down.
He turns away once more to pour a little more Guinness into the glass. Experience has taught him that slow times can quickly become hectic. He needs to take advantage of the quiet. A plan is formulating in his mind. He tops off the Guinness, turns, and with his free hand reaches for a paper napkin. He places the napkin down in front of her and the Guinness down on top of it. Then he leans over, placing his elbows on the bar, and says conspiratorially, “I dreamed about you again last night.”
“Oh yeah,” she says as she lifts the Guinness to her lips and takes a sip. Putting the glass back down she looks into his eyes, smiles slightly and softly says, “What happened this time?”
Waiting for him to answer, she closes her eyes and slowly moves her head from side to side as though working out stiffness in her neck. Simultaneously, she leans back and shifts slightly on the stool so that her body is at a 45-degree angle to him. She opens her eyes and elegantly crosses her left leg over her right. From where he’s standing he can see her legs on the other side of the bar. His eyes become riveted to the slow, gentle swing of her left foot.
“Well?” She asks with a little laugh as she turns her head toward him. “Are you going to tell me about the latest version of your dream?”
Jolted, he realizes that he’s been so entranced by that sexily clad foot he hasn’t answered her question.
“You never really had a dream at all did you?” she barely inflects the question.
“Of course I did,” he says with feigned offense. “I have it frequently.”
The corners of her mouth lift and there’s laughter in her eyes. She takes another sip of Guinness. Still holding the drink she says, “And of course you wouldn’t lie about that? You wouldn’t use that as a pick up line? Would you? Just out of interest, does it usually work?”
Another sip of Guinness before putting the glass down gives him time to ponder. He doesn’t want to lie outright. Has to cover. Concentrating is tough though. His thoughts like his eyes keep going back to that gently swinging foot.
The trance is broken as she shifts on the stool again, uncrosses her legs, and sits facing him.
He decides avoidance of “the line” question is his best course. Just dive into the dream. She doesn’t need to know that “the dream” is one of his waking-hour fantasies. It had been a R.E.M. event first.
“You were sitting in a recliner in a flimsy, pale pink robe trimmed down the fronts and around the neck with matching boa feathers. I polished your toenails.”
“I don’t polish my toenails very often,” she says.
“You didn’t. I did,” he retorts. “Then, I massaged your feet. You were very relaxed when I started stroking the underside of your right foot with the tip of an empty ballpoint pen,” he whispers, “But, then you squealed and jumped.”
“Maybe I thought you were addressing me as one does a package to be mailed,” she says playfully.
“Do you think you’d like that?” he asks.
“What? Being mailed,” she laughs.
“No, having the tip of a pen run along the soles of your feet,” he replies.
“ I don’t know. Not something I’ve experienced,” she says, taking another sip of the Guinness.
Here’s his opening and he doesn’t waste it. “Do you want to?” he asks.
“Hmmm. That might be difficult,” she responds, taking another sip of Guinness.
“Why?” he asks innocently.
“I don’t own a recliner, anything pink, or a flimsy robe trimmed in boa feathers,” she states in a matter-of-fact tone and takes another sip of Guinness.
“Need a pitcher of Shiner,” one of the dart players orders.
Two customers walk in and make their way to the bar.
The bartender starts the pitcher and takes the orders of the newcomers. He speedily fills the orders, rings them up, hands them over, and hopes the three will walk away. Is relieved when they do, but then sees more customers walking through the door. He quickly glances at her Guinness. The glass is somewhat less than half full.
“Want me to start another one for you?” he offers.
“I don’t know,” she answers.
“Tomorrow’s Sunday. You don’t have to be anywhere do you?” he asks. The newcomers are sitting at a table telling one of their party what they want to drink. He needs to keep her here a little longer.
“You’re not going to leave me so soon are you?” he intones as the latest newcomer leaves his friends and walks over to place their orders.
“Okay. One more,” she says.
He puts another pint glass under the Guinness tap, pulls the lever, watches as the liquid reaches the halfway point, and pushes the lever back to let the foam die down. This pint needs to be done quick. He turns again just as the newcomer gets to the register. He notices more customers entering. Busy filling orders, he reaches for mixer from an overhead shelf and sees her getting up from the stool. Her first Guinness isn’t quite finished.
“Save my seat?” she casually throws over her shoulder as she walks toward the restrooms.
Better damn well believe he will. Plenty of other stools and empty tables for the newbies. Her shoes have hardened his resolve that tonight is the night.
As he busies himself with the new orders, the bartender reflects on the first time he’d seen her bare feet and perceived how ticklish she was. He learned those things during their one and only brief sexual encounter more than a year before--as many as two, three years ago? He can't remember. He only knows that it was after that encounter that his dream-fantasy became a regular indulgence.
His pace to finish with the customers increases as he remembers his first sight of her long, narrow feet with long toes and wide, unpolished nails. She had apologized as one of those feet had brushed against him because they were cold. He remembers enjoying their soft coolness against his skin and how sensitive her body had been to his touch. He remains amazed that he hadn’t indulged his predilections at the time. He hadn’t expected that another opportunity would be so long in coming.
The latest arrivals are seeking tables to occupy as she returns to the bar and sits down. The second pint of Guinness awaits her next to the remnants of the first, which she finishes. She pushes the empty glass away from her and asks, “Would you get me a glass of ice water?”
As water from the hose slides over the ice, the bartender feels the glass cooling in his hand and wonders how she might react if it were brushed over the soles of her feet, along the inner and outer sides of her legs, up the sides and down the middle of her torso... He hands her the water and decides to preempt further interruptions.
“The furniture and attire are changeable. Do you still have the polish you used for your finger nails?”
She teasingly says, “Well, I opened the bottle this afternoon and applied two coats to each nail. Yeah, I still have some left.”
“Are you ticklish,” he asks, remembering the past and feeling certain of the answer.
“Sometimes,” she evades. “Why? Do you want to bring your dream to life?”
“Yeah. Interested?” he answers.
Giving an uncomfortable laugh, she says, “I don’t think I have any dried-up ballpoints lying around. I usually throw pens away when the ink stops flowing.”
“I can take care of that,” he says.
She begins to squirm on the barstool and her eyes don’t meet his. Her cheeks take on a pinker hue. He senses that he needs to act quickly and decisively before she gives him one of her kiss-off lines he's heard her use on the many guys who’ve tried to pick her up.
He reaches out and touches her forearm. She jumps at his unexpected touch and he feels the goosebumps rise beneath his fingers. Her head comes up and she looks at him directly.
“Don’t you trust me,” he asks quietly.
“Is that a trick question?” she responds.
The bartender has seen her in action often. He knows that her get-away tactic begins by responding to all statements with a question. He decides to be direct and hopes she’ll respond in kind.
“No. No trick questions. Do you trust me?” he asks.
Her “yes” is barely audible but her eyes are locked on his.
“Well, then, why don’t I come over to your place after closing,” he suggests.
“And what happens when reality doesn’t measure up to your dream? What if I’m not ticklish tonight? What else do you have in mind?” Her eyes remain fixed.
In a firm tone he says, “First, I’m not concerned with reality not measuring up. It will. Second, if you’re not ticklish, I’ll just polish your toenails. Third, we’ll start with tickling and see where that leads.”
He knows there will be more questions. If not now, then later. He waits for her to say something. She moves her arm from under his fingers and lifts the Guinness to her lips. She takes a long sip. The bartender sees another patron approaching. If he turns away without solid arrangements, she might slip away. That isn’t part of his plan. When the feet in those shoes leave tonight, he wants to know their owner will be expecting him after closing time.
“Don’t leave,” he says urgently as he turns away to take the patron’s order, hoping no one else approaches.
The bartender is grateful the order is for a Miller Lite bottle. He uncaps one, wraps it quickly in a napkin, marks it on the patron’s tab, and returns to stand in front of her. She still holds the Guinness.
“I can be at your place within an hour after close. Between now and then you can take a nap if you want,” he urges.
“What about you, won’t you be tired?” she inquires.
“I’ll be fine,” he assures her, “but if one or both of us is tired, we can sleep and bring the dream to life in the morning.”
“Do you remember where I live?” she queries.
“Absolutely,” he states.
“Tell you what,” she begins, “let me finish this Guinness and I’ll give you a definite answer.”
The late-night crowd begins steadily to arrive. The bartender and his prey talk about other things when he isn’t taking, filling, and ringing up orders. She sips her Guinness and her water. He knows she doesn’t like crowds and if too many more people arrive she’ll leave. He’s anxious that she might do so while he’s busy working. Better not chance an indirect blow off. A slight pause in activity coincides with her near-empty Guinness.
“Is your phone number still...,” he asks.
“Yes,” she answers.
“I’ll call you when I’m in my car headed to your place,” he says. “Will you let me in?”
“Yes,” she responds then drinks the last of the Guinness and hands him the glass. “I guess I should close now.”
“Don’t worry about it. They’re on me,” he tells her.
“Thanks. Guess I’ll see you in a few hours,” she says.
“You can count on it,” he replies as she gives him a tentative smile.
While watching her walk out of the pub the bartender calculates how quickly he can accomplish his closing tasks, drive to his place to take care of a few things, and then drive to hers. He has several tickling ideas he hasn’t divulged to her....
Last edited:
This is a wonderful place, have fun here. 
