“Give me your foot.”
I blinked, staring dumbly at him. Had I heard him right? Did I miss something? He sat there expectantly, sitting on the other side of the couch, his hand held out, palm facing up, fingers slightly curled. I continued to look at him, dumbfounded, watching his face turn into the slightest of scowls.
“Give me your foot. . . Now.”
Gulping, I did as he asked, moving myself back to the end of the sofa and lifting my left leg, turning so that my body was perpendicular to his, resting my ankle in his waiting grip.
He smiled, giving me a small nod of pleasure, and though I am slightly ashamed to admit it, I got more than a little happiness out of that small bit of unspoken praise. He moved his hand, and with it, my foot, towards his lap, his free hand moving to the inside of my ankle, where the zipper of my gray boot was. He took the zipper between his thumb and forefinger, looking into my eyes as he did so.
I fought the urge to shiver, but failed stupendously, which earned another smile, this time showing his teeth for the first time. I didn’t think it was possible for someone to look so comforting, yet so hungry all at the same time, yet somehow he pulled it off.
Slowly, very slowly, he began to unzip my boot, taking each pair of metal teeth one at a time, really drawing out my anticipation. My fingers began to ache, which is when I realized I had dug them into the fabric of the couch. I found myself growing more and more antsy. . .Bordering on impatient. . . Why wouldn’t he just do it already???
Like he always has, he seemed to be able to sense my thoughts, because he slowed down even more, staring at me, silently forcing me to calm myself down and surrender to the inevitable. I closed my eyes, willing myself to take a deep breath, though mid-inhalation, I both heard and felt the zipper being undone in one quick motion.
I opened my eyes in shock. He chuckled. I glared at him. His face turned to stone. I melted, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Sorry.”
He said nothing, giving me a simple nod, taking the heel of my boot in his hand and slowly easing it off of my foot. We both gazed at my socked foot; just barely damp from a few hours of dinner and drinks, clinging to my toes and, from the growing grin on his face, my sole. Reaching out, he ran his fingertips along my sock, ignoring my jerking and giggly gasps as he softly explored every inch of my foot. Heel, instep, sole, ball, toes. . . He even stroked both my inner and outer ankle and ran his fingers along the top of my foot. The entire journey must have only lasted 30 seconds, at most, but by the end, I was already a mess, my face contorted in a grimace / grin, my body having slid down to as close to a fetal position on the couch as I could get.
Nodding with satisfaction, he released his grip on my foot, granting me my freedom. For a moment.
“Alright then. . . Take your sock off.”
Whimpering slightly, I offered him my most pleading, “lost puppy dog in a rainstorm” face, only to be met by a stolid stare in reply. Pulling myself back up into a sitting position, I reached down, my fingers slipping into the cuff of my black sock, sliding it down and off of my foot. Tossing it on the floor, I leaned down to brush any errant fuzz off, only to find my foot once more gripped and pulled out of reach.
“Nobody told you to do that.”
I wilted, my eyes cast down, mumbling another apology, only being broken from my inner shame by his blowing a gentle puff of air across my freshly bared sole. My foot flexed back, then curled forward, toes tightly coiled as he continued to use his own lungs as a fuzz-blower, clearing off my foot for me. He stopped, inspecting his work.
“There’s still some between your toes, and I can’t get to that with your foot clenched like that.”
My jaw tightened. We both knew what he wanted me to do, and to be honest, we both wanted it to happen. . . But my mind and my body don’t always communicate clearly.
“Open. . . Your. . . Toes. . . “
With a half growl and half groan, I did as he asked, unclenching my toes and spreading them a bit, watching as the overhead light shimmered off of the dark red polish.
“Good girl,” he said, once more sending me into a little fit of submissive delight. Moving his hand off of my ankle, he slid it around, now taking hold of the foot itself, using his thumb to press into the center of my sole, which caused my toes to flex even more. Pulling my foot closer to him, he made his lips very small, sending the tiniest column of air in between the first two toes of my foot, moving his head so that it moved down the edge of one toe, along the super soft skin in between, and then up the next toe. I squealed, both from the sensitivity and from the silliness of the situation, yet that did not deter him.
One by one, the caverns between my toes were gently cleaned, adding extra pressure to his exhalations if he found a particularly stubborn bit of fuzz. Yanking the throw pillow out from behind my back, I pressed it to my face, giggling into it. It wasn’t that it was the most ticklish sensation ever, but the anticipation leading to this moment. . . The foreplay. . . Made me react to even the slightest touch. Every nerve ending in that foot was fully primed, and every one belonged to him.
His hand moved again, gently massaging my sole as his fingers moved upwards and around, gently stroking the top of my foot before curling over the tips of my toes, slowly and deliberately beginning to pull them back, stretching my sole. I found myself clenching my toes, but only enough so that I felt more contact between him and I. At this point, escape was the last thing on my mind.
Once my foot was taut enough to satisfy him, he reached into the pocket of his work shirt, removing a black Sharpie. My heart began to pound in my chest, as just like the grandmaster chess players, I could see the next few moves clearly in my mind. He sensed my discovery, offering only the slightest hint of a grin in response. Placing the Sharpie in his teeth, he uncapped it, revealing a fine point. Pulling my toes back even more, so that my foot was as stretched as it could be without being overtly painful, he began to write.
“Ticklish Trish”
Thankfully, I suppose, he told me what he was writing, for otherwise I was too busy wracked with spasms of laughter to figure it out.
The T, being the first letter of both words, was the largest and drawn first - A vertical line that ran the entire length of the inner inch of my foot, with a horizontal “line” that was scrawled across the terribly tender understems of my toes. Had it just been that single letter, just those two lines, it would have been enough to make me a giggly mess for multiple minutes. Yet that was just the opening salvo.
The rest of the first word, “icklish”, was written across the ball of my foot, which was so pronounced and exposed from my toes being held back by his strong and expert hand. Being the devious devil that he is, he even made sure the taller letters crept onto that ridge where the toes and the ball of the foot meets, a spot which could almost certainly make me laugh until I cried were it properly exploited.
The rest of my name, “rish”, was written in larger letters along the middle of my sole, with the curve and final motion of the ‘h’ right along the outer edge of my foot. That spot, as was recently discovered during a fervent act of nibbling, was quite sensitive in more ways than one, so he wanted to make sure it wasn’t ignored this time.
In fact, since both words shared common letters, he went out of his way to write the T and the ‘ish” multiple times, much to both my dismay and my growing excitement.
By the time he had finished his masterpiece, I was red in the face, my entire foot . . . No, my entire BODY tingling and my stomach just beginning to ache from the serious amounts of laughter I had done.
He stared at my sole, his canvas, for a minute, beaming with pride. He then set it down on his lap and held out his hand once more.
“Give me your other foot.”
I blinked, staring dumbly at him. Had I heard him right? Did I miss something? He sat there expectantly, sitting on the other side of the couch, his hand held out, palm facing up, fingers slightly curled. I continued to look at him, dumbfounded, watching his face turn into the slightest of scowls.
“Give me your foot. . . Now.”
Gulping, I did as he asked, moving myself back to the end of the sofa and lifting my left leg, turning so that my body was perpendicular to his, resting my ankle in his waiting grip.
He smiled, giving me a small nod of pleasure, and though I am slightly ashamed to admit it, I got more than a little happiness out of that small bit of unspoken praise. He moved his hand, and with it, my foot, towards his lap, his free hand moving to the inside of my ankle, where the zipper of my gray boot was. He took the zipper between his thumb and forefinger, looking into my eyes as he did so.
I fought the urge to shiver, but failed stupendously, which earned another smile, this time showing his teeth for the first time. I didn’t think it was possible for someone to look so comforting, yet so hungry all at the same time, yet somehow he pulled it off.
Slowly, very slowly, he began to unzip my boot, taking each pair of metal teeth one at a time, really drawing out my anticipation. My fingers began to ache, which is when I realized I had dug them into the fabric of the couch. I found myself growing more and more antsy. . .Bordering on impatient. . . Why wouldn’t he just do it already???
Like he always has, he seemed to be able to sense my thoughts, because he slowed down even more, staring at me, silently forcing me to calm myself down and surrender to the inevitable. I closed my eyes, willing myself to take a deep breath, though mid-inhalation, I both heard and felt the zipper being undone in one quick motion.
I opened my eyes in shock. He chuckled. I glared at him. His face turned to stone. I melted, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Sorry.”
He said nothing, giving me a simple nod, taking the heel of my boot in his hand and slowly easing it off of my foot. We both gazed at my socked foot; just barely damp from a few hours of dinner and drinks, clinging to my toes and, from the growing grin on his face, my sole. Reaching out, he ran his fingertips along my sock, ignoring my jerking and giggly gasps as he softly explored every inch of my foot. Heel, instep, sole, ball, toes. . . He even stroked both my inner and outer ankle and ran his fingers along the top of my foot. The entire journey must have only lasted 30 seconds, at most, but by the end, I was already a mess, my face contorted in a grimace / grin, my body having slid down to as close to a fetal position on the couch as I could get.
Nodding with satisfaction, he released his grip on my foot, granting me my freedom. For a moment.
“Alright then. . . Take your sock off.”
Whimpering slightly, I offered him my most pleading, “lost puppy dog in a rainstorm” face, only to be met by a stolid stare in reply. Pulling myself back up into a sitting position, I reached down, my fingers slipping into the cuff of my black sock, sliding it down and off of my foot. Tossing it on the floor, I leaned down to brush any errant fuzz off, only to find my foot once more gripped and pulled out of reach.
“Nobody told you to do that.”
I wilted, my eyes cast down, mumbling another apology, only being broken from my inner shame by his blowing a gentle puff of air across my freshly bared sole. My foot flexed back, then curled forward, toes tightly coiled as he continued to use his own lungs as a fuzz-blower, clearing off my foot for me. He stopped, inspecting his work.
“There’s still some between your toes, and I can’t get to that with your foot clenched like that.”
My jaw tightened. We both knew what he wanted me to do, and to be honest, we both wanted it to happen. . . But my mind and my body don’t always communicate clearly.
“Open. . . Your. . . Toes. . . “
With a half growl and half groan, I did as he asked, unclenching my toes and spreading them a bit, watching as the overhead light shimmered off of the dark red polish.
“Good girl,” he said, once more sending me into a little fit of submissive delight. Moving his hand off of my ankle, he slid it around, now taking hold of the foot itself, using his thumb to press into the center of my sole, which caused my toes to flex even more. Pulling my foot closer to him, he made his lips very small, sending the tiniest column of air in between the first two toes of my foot, moving his head so that it moved down the edge of one toe, along the super soft skin in between, and then up the next toe. I squealed, both from the sensitivity and from the silliness of the situation, yet that did not deter him.
One by one, the caverns between my toes were gently cleaned, adding extra pressure to his exhalations if he found a particularly stubborn bit of fuzz. Yanking the throw pillow out from behind my back, I pressed it to my face, giggling into it. It wasn’t that it was the most ticklish sensation ever, but the anticipation leading to this moment. . . The foreplay. . . Made me react to even the slightest touch. Every nerve ending in that foot was fully primed, and every one belonged to him.
His hand moved again, gently massaging my sole as his fingers moved upwards and around, gently stroking the top of my foot before curling over the tips of my toes, slowly and deliberately beginning to pull them back, stretching my sole. I found myself clenching my toes, but only enough so that I felt more contact between him and I. At this point, escape was the last thing on my mind.
Once my foot was taut enough to satisfy him, he reached into the pocket of his work shirt, removing a black Sharpie. My heart began to pound in my chest, as just like the grandmaster chess players, I could see the next few moves clearly in my mind. He sensed my discovery, offering only the slightest hint of a grin in response. Placing the Sharpie in his teeth, he uncapped it, revealing a fine point. Pulling my toes back even more, so that my foot was as stretched as it could be without being overtly painful, he began to write.
“Ticklish Trish”
Thankfully, I suppose, he told me what he was writing, for otherwise I was too busy wracked with spasms of laughter to figure it out.
The T, being the first letter of both words, was the largest and drawn first - A vertical line that ran the entire length of the inner inch of my foot, with a horizontal “line” that was scrawled across the terribly tender understems of my toes. Had it just been that single letter, just those two lines, it would have been enough to make me a giggly mess for multiple minutes. Yet that was just the opening salvo.
The rest of the first word, “icklish”, was written across the ball of my foot, which was so pronounced and exposed from my toes being held back by his strong and expert hand. Being the devious devil that he is, he even made sure the taller letters crept onto that ridge where the toes and the ball of the foot meets, a spot which could almost certainly make me laugh until I cried were it properly exploited.
The rest of my name, “rish”, was written in larger letters along the middle of my sole, with the curve and final motion of the ‘h’ right along the outer edge of my foot. That spot, as was recently discovered during a fervent act of nibbling, was quite sensitive in more ways than one, so he wanted to make sure it wasn’t ignored this time.
In fact, since both words shared common letters, he went out of his way to write the T and the ‘ish” multiple times, much to both my dismay and my growing excitement.
By the time he had finished his masterpiece, I was red in the face, my entire foot . . . No, my entire BODY tingling and my stomach just beginning to ache from the serious amounts of laughter I had done.
He stared at my sole, his canvas, for a minute, beaming with pride. He then set it down on his lap and held out his hand once more.
“Give me your other foot.”
