Po Lazarus
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- May 24, 2011
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This is the first in a series I will be writing and sharing here on the fiction forum. As the title suggests they are instances from my life that *almost* belong on the ‘True Stories’ sub-forum (My favourite TMF area), but which I cannot in good conscience put on there and claim verisimilitude: they are based on real people (Names changed) and often on real situations and conversations, but I have embellished certain details, some related to the tickling, some related to the set up or other aspects of the anecdote. Some are exaggerations of real tickling incidents, some are fantasies thrust into my brain due to real happenings which could have gone that way, if the stars had aligned more or I had had a bit less inhibition at the time. I will not reveal which to the reader, I will simply write them as I wished they had happened, and how I sometimes think of them on those lonely, sexually frustrated nights that we all experience (Which I am experiencing a deluge of at present, as due to unfortunate circumstances that I won’t go into, I am living separately from my fiancé, which has spurred me to take a renewed interest in the TMF, and in erotic writing generally. I guess if you enjoy the stories, my loss is your gain!). They will all be presented autobiographically, in short story form. I hope you enjoy them. Feel free to leave feedback of course, just remember to be as respectful to me as I would always strive to be to you!
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I was friends with Emma for a few years whilst at University, and we were romantically involved for the last few months of that time. One day she showed up at the café I worked at, in the beach town we lived in, her mascara tracing the tracks of her tears, desperately asking for my help. I gave her my house key, told her to go to my room and wait for me there. Once I got back, I learned that her engagement had broken off that same day. She had lived with the guy in question, and it ended badly, with fireworks. We discussed the breakup over multiple cups of tea, and she stayed the night, crying in my arms. I was nothing more than a friend to her at that stage; she had had problems with severe depression in the past that she had shared with me, so I felt inclined, as a friend, to be there for her and to help her through the trauma of the engagement going south. She stayed the next night, and the next, and just sort of ended up moving in with me, living in my room and becoming an honorary housemate to the friends I shared the house with. She initially felt she was imposing, but I cared about her, and although I was attracted to her, I had no motive other than ensuring she didn’t slip into a depression and do herself harm. So I was happy for her to bunk with me, as a friend in need.
Of course, being bright young things we couldn’t share a bed for *too* long without certain urges occurring. It started off awkwardly – we’d wake up spooning and I’d have a raging morning glory, or she’d clearly have hard nipples, visible through her nightclothes. That sort of thing. You know how it is, I’m sure, and you know where it’s going, too. It was after about a month where one evening, us both drunk, she looked me deeply in the eyes and said “I can’t stand this anymore. Kiss me. Please!” I was happy to do so, only on the condition that we both acknowledged – so that we weren’t kidding ourselves – that this was going to be a functional rebound thing, and we were going to be honest about that. I had no qualms about it: we weren’t cheating on anybody as I was single, and she was too, albeit recently. The way I saw it, she actually needed it, as it must have been tough to go from being engaged and living with someone, to having no sex or physical intimacy at all. A shock to the system. Her ex-fiancé might not have been happy about it if he had found out, but fuck him, he had been an asshole anyway and I was not motivated to keep him onside. Needless to say, neither was she. So we started an intense, rebound-driven romance, which ended up being fairly brief at a few summer months. But it was one of the more pleasant of such endeavours that I undertook in my youth, before meeting the woman of my dreams, who came after this.
But back to Emma. Emma was simply cute, and cute as all hell. On her depressed days she could look a little rough, but overall she was very naturally pretty. She was short, with a build somewhere between slim and fleshy; she had extremely large breasts and child-bearing hips, and this filled out her physique somewhat, but her stomach was flat and her legs nice and toned. She had a pixyish face, her Celtic roots obvious once you looked into her deep, green eyes, although she was a West London girl and spoke with a deliciously pronounced English accent, like a young Diana Rigg or Joanna Lumley, with a tiny husk brought on from being a casual smoker (Although the smell of it never seemed to linger on her: she was one of those girls that unpleasantness didn’t seem to cling to). Lush, pale skin. Mousy brown hair, which, post-breakup, she cut short, Shirley MacLaine style, so that she could “Have a fresh start”. This seems to be something that women do. Something else women do, of course, usually inadvertently, is arouse me sexually with their bare feet, and Emma was no exception.
The appropriate adjective is not exactly ‘sexy’, but ‘adorable’, which can be another form of sexy. To me it can, anyway. The size of her feet corresponded with her small frame, but she had raised, high arches, and gorgeous, longish toes, which corresponded perfectly as they paraded down the front of her feet. There was never a single spot of rough skin anywhere below her ankles, or anywhere else on her body, that I ever discovered, for that matter. I had admired them when we had been friends, and I’d sneaked a quick curious glance if they had ever been on display. But with her living with me, a whole new realm of opportunity to interact with them opened up, as organically happens when co-habiting with somebody. It was probably only a few nights in that I had – affectionately, but with an inwardly selfish motive too – instinctively pulled her feet across the bed and into my lap, pushed her back onto a pillow, removed her socks and started rubbing intensely, chatting casually all the while as she vented about her breakup. She was actually fairly upset in that first instance, so I made sure not to tickle, but I did make sure that I took in the sight before me. Holy Cow!
I had to concentrate intently on what was being said, and my role as (still then) plutonic, caring friend, so that I didn’t get an enormous erection and give myself away. Many fellow foot appreciators have been in this position, and it can be a tightrope. I discovered that a well-placed pillow or cushion is the answer, and on getting to see and touch her feet up close and personal I realised that they were so good that they would make me explode outright if I wasn’t careful, and from that point forward I always made sure when I was on rubbing duty that I’d place her feet on a cushion or something, so that they didn’t rub against my crotch and make me straight-up blow my load. So you get the idea: physically, they were dreamy. However, the best thing about them – which I discovered fairly early on in our slightly unconventional domestic arrangement – was that they were also the most ticklish feet I had ever come across in my life.
Ironically, considering what was to come, it was actually her who initiated the tickling that led me to discover this. Her spirits had gradually improved over the first couple of weeks, and we were play-fighting over the TV remote, or something, and she began poking me in the sides to get it off me. I stubbornly refused to give it up, enjoying the flirting, and she foolishly said: “Give it here, or I’ll go for your feet!”. I needed no second invitation to counter, “What if I were to tickle your feet?!”. Her eyebrows almost shot off her head, and she simply yelped “NO!!!”. The flirtatious near-tickle fight fizzled out as I gave her the remote, but I wasn’t going to forget a reaction like that in a hurry. Later on that evening, her bare feet in my lap, I waited until she was particularly engrossed in the show we were watching, and devilishly traced a lone finger along the form of her arch. She accidentally booted me in the face as she jumped almost out of her skin with ticklish alarm, momentarily shrieked, and lay there panting. “I told you before – DON’T tickle my feet!!!”, she mock-reprimanded me, an enormous smile on her face. “I’m sorry, but I can’t just promise that…” was my sly response. We chuckled together.
What followed over the coming days and weeks was me delightfully indulging myself in the same move repeatedly, shamelessly, and gleefully. The only sitting furniture I had in the room was the double bed, and the TV was to the left of it, with the right side of the bed up against the wall. So the only position that we could watch TV together was with me with my back up against the rear wall, and her propped up against the right wall, with her feet in my lap. It was literally the only comfortable way for us to watch TV, and as we liked to smoke weed together, we watched a lot of TV when we hung out. So I had almost daily access to her hyper-ticklish feet, which I sporadically used to flirt and bond with her, by gluttonously repeating the ‘tickling whilst she’s concentrating’ move. I adored making her jump during a particularly tense episode of Lost or Dr Who, choosing the moment of the highest onscreen drama or suspense to tickle one of her feet and cause her to have the same reaction every single time, which was to jump in the air, compelled to do so by the hypersensitivity of the soles of her feet. I couldn’t overdo it, of course, as I wasn’t comfortable with telling her about my sexual interest in her feet, so I had to choose my moments, and not do it too often and blow my ‘vanilla cover’, as it were. But she was a ‘foot-friendly’ type of girl, and before long would automatically plop them into my lap whenever we were alone together, and often even when we weren’t. So I tried to tickle just as often as I imagined a vanilla guy would, and not act over-interested. But as the weeks went on, I knew that one day I was going to get her properly. I just had to wait for my chance.
It came before too long, on one legendary, perfect, day, some weeks into the arrangement. The house was empty, as all of my housemates had gone to the pub in the late afternoon. She had texted me whilst I was at work to say that they had invited her, but she’d wanted to wait for me. I thought of her waiting for me in bed, as I walked the short distance home in the pleasant warm weather. Once home, I showered the café smell off me, and came upstairs to find her in bed, waiting for me. Knowing I’d shower as soon as I got home and only be wearing a towel on coming into my room, she had waited for me in a state of similar undress. It didn’t take me long to fuck her brains out, leaving us both gasping for breath in the hot air after we had both climaxed together cacophonously. We lay there for a minute, recovering. We lit a cigarette. After we’d finished our cigs, I got the post-coital sleepiness that seems exclusively to afflict the male of the species after a big orgasm. She was awake, however and she wanted to go to the pub. “I want to go to the pub”, she said. She poked me in the side. I continued to initiate a doze. “Come on, let’s go to the pub!”, she started, this time repeatedly flickering her nails over my stomach. This was it; it was on!
I sprang into action, leaping up and straddling her, catching her by total surprise as I pinned her arms to the mattress underneath my legs. I didn’t say anything, I just laughed as I began to wiggle my fingers all over her naked stomach, which began to rise and fall at my touch. She burst into a fit of giggles, as I rapidly flickered all over her stomach and then her sides. “I think we should go to the pub!!!” She blurted out between periods of involuntary giggling. “Do you, now? It sounds tempting, but I think I’d rather just tickle you!” I taunted. “No! Let’s go to the pub!!!” she cried, loving it, laughing at her predicament as much as at the tickling. She was ticklish elsewhere, but not as bad anywhere else as she was on her feet. I noticed her nipples getting erect underneath me and she surely noticed me begin to become hard again, but I had the excuse of bouncing around naked with her; I had no reason to fear discovery at what was actually causing me to feel as turned on as I ever had been with her. “It’s funny” I said, “I wonder if a medieval torture victim ever escaped by asking the torturer to go to the pub with them?!” (I vividly remember actually saying this and getting a good laugh from it!). She continued laughing. “Of course”, I changed my tone to be slightly less jovial, “If I really wanted to torture you, I’d tickle your feet!” She screeched, as loudly as her laughter would allow, one word – “DON’T!!!!!!!!”.
As I’d been saying it, I’d already known how I was going to restrain her. I’d noticed that with the bucking and thrashing of the upper body tickling, that the duvet had started to naturally wrap around us, at an angle. With a combination of superior strength (I was bigger than she), nimbler dexterity (I was quicker than her because I knew what I was going to do, and she didn’t) and superior stamina (because she was mildly out of breath from laughing so much) I instantly jumped off of her and swiftly started to wrap the duvet around her, so that before she realised what I was doing she was almost completely wrapped up in the duvet. She looked like a beautiful little caterpillar, with just her bunched face, still contorted in laughter, pointing forwards out of one end, and, as I had expertly designed it, her wondrous feet protruding from the other end, soles up. I knew if I moved to her feet straightaway there would be no weight on her top half, and before long she’d get her hands free, so I solved that by pulling several belts out of a nearby drawer, and securing them around her at various points, so that she was stuck fast.
I climbed off her, knowing from her increasingly panicky but gleeful protestations that she’d try and struggle out. I watched as she tried it, and I could see that she couldn’t get out. She shuffled slightly on the bed, but otherwise was going nowhere. Her feet were flapping alternately as she wiggled and wiggled to try and get out. Just to continue the jokey vibe, I rolled her about in her newfangled cocoon for a minute, causing further general giddiness as she continued to try and buck her way out of it. After she had stopped laughing at the thwarted effort, she once again exclaimed “I want to go to the pub!!! Let me out!!!”. “I don’t want to do that – I’ve told you; I need to tickle your feet first! You need a good torturing, for being so cheeky as to try and bribe me by trying to get me to go to the bloody pub!” I goaded. At that, she was still laughing, but began to moan in protest as she knew what was going to happen to her utterly helpless, ultra-ticklish feet. And I was the lucky son of a bitch possessed of the knowledge of the same certain fact, except I was going to be the one doing the tickling. I couldn’t believe my luck.
To begin, I laid across the end of the cocoon sideways, my right hand supporting my head, in an easygoing position, pushing the cocoon down into the mattress. I just laughed for a second as I watched the feet try and dance their way out of my clutches. She was obviously trying to burrow her way further into the duvet so that her feet had some protection, but it was hopeless due to the tightness of the belts around the cocoon. They were stuck. I waited a moment, to heighten the anticipation, then I dug in, scratching the fingers of my left hand up and down the tender flesh of the soles of her adorable feet. Her reaction was instantly crazed: she screamed all of the air out of her lungs, and I had a moment’s hesitation where I wondered if I had gone too far. But then the good-natured laughter flowed out of her, as it had during previous tickling, and I knew she was enjoying it, to a degree. Obviously, part of her wasn’t, and between the frenzied laughter that was forced from her she began to beg and shout in protest, still keeping up her pathetic attempts to persuade me to accompany her to the pub. As if I would, when the alternative was to stay and have the unimpeded ability to bring devastation to the most ticklish feet I had ever touched! I could feel her legs and upper body trying to buck and thrash to escape the sensation of being tickled on her feet, but such was the immobility of her body, she was unable to do anything. She just had to take it, and laugh her head off. I repositioned myself slightly, so that I could lie without having to support my head, freeing up my right hand. I then applied this too, using one hand on each sole so that ten alternatively scribbling fingers drove them to utter distraction. Emma was squealing herself almost hoarse with the physical effort of passing so much air through her lungs and throat. I was in heaven.
After a few minutes of this, I let her have a rest. I climbed off, and walked around to the face-side of the cocoon. It took her a good few seconds to stop laughing, even though she wasn’t being tickled still. I lay on the bed in front of her, looking at her mirthful face as she started to rock the cocoon from side-to-side, again trying to get out. “Get me out of this so we can go to the pub!!!” She bartered. I feigned outrage. “Are you still trying to bribe me?!” I stormed. “I would have thought you’d have learned your lesson! I CANNOT be bought by your ridiculous pleas to get me to go to the pub, dammit!! You obviously need more torture!!” She whined her “NOOO!!!” as I walked around, back towards her feet. I couldn’t see it, but I imagined her facial expression as she realised that I hadn’t immediately straddled her back end; she must have been puzzled. But I had a wicked idea. Since we had become intimate, I had started giving Emma full-body massages, in addition to the casual fondling of her feet whilst the TV was on, of an evening. Wanting to imitate a fully-fledged masseuse as closely I could, I’d bought some massage oil to help with the job. You know what’s coming next. I knew what was coming next. The only person who didn’t was Emma, whose feet instinctively flinched at the sensation of the massage oil dripping onto her feet, and running down the crevices between her delightful toes. “What’s that?!” she stuttered, as I mounted her again, and began to rub the oil vigorously into her already soft, bare feet. She moaned in pleasure as I increased the intensity, and dreamily stammered out: “This…. Isn’t torture.”. “Oh, no?” I replied mischievously. “Well, then, let’s see how sensitive your feet are now, shall we?”.
Emma (like most regular girls, I imagine) had never been tickled on her feet after they had had massage oil applied to them, so she didn’t know what to expect, although she must have had an idea. The huge, sharp inhalation of breath once I set my fingers back to the soles of her feet gave me plentiful indication that the technique had produced the desired effect. It was as if electricity were being coursed through her body, and despite the effectiveness of the makeshift bondage and my weight holding her down, she thrashed and thrashed within the cocoon in response to the heightened tickling, lifting me slightly into the air as I strained to keep my fingers in close contact with her heels, soles, balls, and toes. All of which were equally smothered in oil and therefore equally hypersensitive. The stretch of tender flesh running from her balls down her instep produced the most maddened reaction. The laughter coming out of her mouth merged with screams, yells, and shrieks, and I was instantly glad there was no one else home as they surely would have come to investigate on hearing the absolute racket. She was in absolute tickling delirium, being driven crazy by the abhorrent sensations visited upon her feet by my expert digits.
“Still think we should go to the pub?” I asked backwards, giving her a break for long enough to shout out “YES!!!”. “HOW DARE YOU!!!” I mocked, laughing at the fact that however she had answered, I’d have carried on tickling regardless. If she’d said “No”, I’d have said “I’ll carry on then!”. She couldn’t win. All she could do was laugh, and wait for it to end. At this point, I became aware that if I tickled too long, it might look like more than a lover’s flirting or a quirky bit of ‘after play’, so I was conscious that I couldn’t carry on for too much longer. Of course, I didn’t want her to become genuinely distressed either. So I started to wind it down, and prepared for the finale. I jumped off Emma for a second, went to get something, and let her get her breath back. When she had done so, she shouted out “OH MY GOD!!!! MT FEET ARE SO TICKLISH WITH THE MASSAGE OIL ON THEM!!!” “That’s the idea….” I teased. “Now, let’s discuss this pub business, should we?”. As I raked the hairbrush she had casually left lying around the bedroom up and down her soles, she howled, cackled, and began begging me to stop. All of which was music to my ears, of course. I stopped abruptly, but continued intermittently during the following exchange:
“Now, when we get to the pub, are you getting the first round in?” I queried.
“YES!!! WHATEVER YOU WANT, JUST STOP TICKLING MY FEET!!!” She bellowed, between guffaws.
I acted indifferent. “I’m not sure actually, I’m not sure that’s going to cut it.”
“I’LL BUY ALL OF YOUR DRINKS!!! ALL NIGHT!!! JUST PLEASE, STOP!!!” More enforced roaring.
“What about a takeaway, afterwards? Don’t you think I deserve one, after my long shift today?”
“YES!!! YOU DESERVE ONE, AND I’LL BUY YOU ONE!!! STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!!!”
At that, I could sense she was getting legitimately desperate, so I did finally stop. I undid the belts, unrolled her, and held her as we laughed together. She gave me a few playful whacks. Again, we were naked, horny and physically close, so my raging, bursting hard-on didn’t arouse any suspicion. I noted that she had become wet, so when her breathing had returned to normal, I proceeded to go down on her, which led to an epic fuck which led to even bigger orgasms than before, again at exactly the same time (Don’t you just love it when you get to that point with a girl?). We were both totally spent afterwards, Emma especially. It was one of the all-time greatest tickling events of my young life (Up to that point), and I was coming down from it psychologically as much as physically.
After a breather, we showered, dressed, and headed to the pub, hand in hand. On arriving, after she had bought my cold pint (of course), we decided the time was right for the “Guys, we have something to tell you” conversation with my housemates, and the beauty of this was that it caused no raised eyebrows if I flicked an occasional quick tickle to Emma’s knee as she was sat next to me, or placed my hands in her armpits as I stood behind her in the queue for the bar, both of which I performed with relish in my new role as the now-official ‘Rebound Saviour’ (as Patriarchal as that may sound). As the summer progressed, our sex continued to be astronomically good, despite me chickening out on the tickling side of it after that, due to not wanting to be detected as a fetishist by a casual partner.
She probably would have indulged me in it, if the relationship had gone further, however there was always a time limit on the ‘relationship’, such as it was. I had succeeded in making her feel better and avoiding her succumbing to depression, but I knew we would never work out in the long-term, so I used that excuse to cut things off at the end of the academic year. Other factors were that I would be returning to Uni the next year and she wouldn’t be, and most importantly and definitively, by that point I had met the girl that would go on to become my current fiancé, who I knew even then was going to be “The One” for me. So me and Emma were only ever going to be a short but pleasant thing. Short and sweet, as the cliché goes. But I’ll always have that memory of the most ticklish feet I’ve ever come across, wrapped in that duvet, at my mercy, to do with as I pleased.
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I was friends with Emma for a few years whilst at University, and we were romantically involved for the last few months of that time. One day she showed up at the café I worked at, in the beach town we lived in, her mascara tracing the tracks of her tears, desperately asking for my help. I gave her my house key, told her to go to my room and wait for me there. Once I got back, I learned that her engagement had broken off that same day. She had lived with the guy in question, and it ended badly, with fireworks. We discussed the breakup over multiple cups of tea, and she stayed the night, crying in my arms. I was nothing more than a friend to her at that stage; she had had problems with severe depression in the past that she had shared with me, so I felt inclined, as a friend, to be there for her and to help her through the trauma of the engagement going south. She stayed the next night, and the next, and just sort of ended up moving in with me, living in my room and becoming an honorary housemate to the friends I shared the house with. She initially felt she was imposing, but I cared about her, and although I was attracted to her, I had no motive other than ensuring she didn’t slip into a depression and do herself harm. So I was happy for her to bunk with me, as a friend in need.
Of course, being bright young things we couldn’t share a bed for *too* long without certain urges occurring. It started off awkwardly – we’d wake up spooning and I’d have a raging morning glory, or she’d clearly have hard nipples, visible through her nightclothes. That sort of thing. You know how it is, I’m sure, and you know where it’s going, too. It was after about a month where one evening, us both drunk, she looked me deeply in the eyes and said “I can’t stand this anymore. Kiss me. Please!” I was happy to do so, only on the condition that we both acknowledged – so that we weren’t kidding ourselves – that this was going to be a functional rebound thing, and we were going to be honest about that. I had no qualms about it: we weren’t cheating on anybody as I was single, and she was too, albeit recently. The way I saw it, she actually needed it, as it must have been tough to go from being engaged and living with someone, to having no sex or physical intimacy at all. A shock to the system. Her ex-fiancé might not have been happy about it if he had found out, but fuck him, he had been an asshole anyway and I was not motivated to keep him onside. Needless to say, neither was she. So we started an intense, rebound-driven romance, which ended up being fairly brief at a few summer months. But it was one of the more pleasant of such endeavours that I undertook in my youth, before meeting the woman of my dreams, who came after this.
But back to Emma. Emma was simply cute, and cute as all hell. On her depressed days she could look a little rough, but overall she was very naturally pretty. She was short, with a build somewhere between slim and fleshy; she had extremely large breasts and child-bearing hips, and this filled out her physique somewhat, but her stomach was flat and her legs nice and toned. She had a pixyish face, her Celtic roots obvious once you looked into her deep, green eyes, although she was a West London girl and spoke with a deliciously pronounced English accent, like a young Diana Rigg or Joanna Lumley, with a tiny husk brought on from being a casual smoker (Although the smell of it never seemed to linger on her: she was one of those girls that unpleasantness didn’t seem to cling to). Lush, pale skin. Mousy brown hair, which, post-breakup, she cut short, Shirley MacLaine style, so that she could “Have a fresh start”. This seems to be something that women do. Something else women do, of course, usually inadvertently, is arouse me sexually with their bare feet, and Emma was no exception.
The appropriate adjective is not exactly ‘sexy’, but ‘adorable’, which can be another form of sexy. To me it can, anyway. The size of her feet corresponded with her small frame, but she had raised, high arches, and gorgeous, longish toes, which corresponded perfectly as they paraded down the front of her feet. There was never a single spot of rough skin anywhere below her ankles, or anywhere else on her body, that I ever discovered, for that matter. I had admired them when we had been friends, and I’d sneaked a quick curious glance if they had ever been on display. But with her living with me, a whole new realm of opportunity to interact with them opened up, as organically happens when co-habiting with somebody. It was probably only a few nights in that I had – affectionately, but with an inwardly selfish motive too – instinctively pulled her feet across the bed and into my lap, pushed her back onto a pillow, removed her socks and started rubbing intensely, chatting casually all the while as she vented about her breakup. She was actually fairly upset in that first instance, so I made sure not to tickle, but I did make sure that I took in the sight before me. Holy Cow!
I had to concentrate intently on what was being said, and my role as (still then) plutonic, caring friend, so that I didn’t get an enormous erection and give myself away. Many fellow foot appreciators have been in this position, and it can be a tightrope. I discovered that a well-placed pillow or cushion is the answer, and on getting to see and touch her feet up close and personal I realised that they were so good that they would make me explode outright if I wasn’t careful, and from that point forward I always made sure when I was on rubbing duty that I’d place her feet on a cushion or something, so that they didn’t rub against my crotch and make me straight-up blow my load. So you get the idea: physically, they were dreamy. However, the best thing about them – which I discovered fairly early on in our slightly unconventional domestic arrangement – was that they were also the most ticklish feet I had ever come across in my life.
Ironically, considering what was to come, it was actually her who initiated the tickling that led me to discover this. Her spirits had gradually improved over the first couple of weeks, and we were play-fighting over the TV remote, or something, and she began poking me in the sides to get it off me. I stubbornly refused to give it up, enjoying the flirting, and she foolishly said: “Give it here, or I’ll go for your feet!”. I needed no second invitation to counter, “What if I were to tickle your feet?!”. Her eyebrows almost shot off her head, and she simply yelped “NO!!!”. The flirtatious near-tickle fight fizzled out as I gave her the remote, but I wasn’t going to forget a reaction like that in a hurry. Later on that evening, her bare feet in my lap, I waited until she was particularly engrossed in the show we were watching, and devilishly traced a lone finger along the form of her arch. She accidentally booted me in the face as she jumped almost out of her skin with ticklish alarm, momentarily shrieked, and lay there panting. “I told you before – DON’T tickle my feet!!!”, she mock-reprimanded me, an enormous smile on her face. “I’m sorry, but I can’t just promise that…” was my sly response. We chuckled together.
What followed over the coming days and weeks was me delightfully indulging myself in the same move repeatedly, shamelessly, and gleefully. The only sitting furniture I had in the room was the double bed, and the TV was to the left of it, with the right side of the bed up against the wall. So the only position that we could watch TV together was with me with my back up against the rear wall, and her propped up against the right wall, with her feet in my lap. It was literally the only comfortable way for us to watch TV, and as we liked to smoke weed together, we watched a lot of TV when we hung out. So I had almost daily access to her hyper-ticklish feet, which I sporadically used to flirt and bond with her, by gluttonously repeating the ‘tickling whilst she’s concentrating’ move. I adored making her jump during a particularly tense episode of Lost or Dr Who, choosing the moment of the highest onscreen drama or suspense to tickle one of her feet and cause her to have the same reaction every single time, which was to jump in the air, compelled to do so by the hypersensitivity of the soles of her feet. I couldn’t overdo it, of course, as I wasn’t comfortable with telling her about my sexual interest in her feet, so I had to choose my moments, and not do it too often and blow my ‘vanilla cover’, as it were. But she was a ‘foot-friendly’ type of girl, and before long would automatically plop them into my lap whenever we were alone together, and often even when we weren’t. So I tried to tickle just as often as I imagined a vanilla guy would, and not act over-interested. But as the weeks went on, I knew that one day I was going to get her properly. I just had to wait for my chance.
It came before too long, on one legendary, perfect, day, some weeks into the arrangement. The house was empty, as all of my housemates had gone to the pub in the late afternoon. She had texted me whilst I was at work to say that they had invited her, but she’d wanted to wait for me. I thought of her waiting for me in bed, as I walked the short distance home in the pleasant warm weather. Once home, I showered the café smell off me, and came upstairs to find her in bed, waiting for me. Knowing I’d shower as soon as I got home and only be wearing a towel on coming into my room, she had waited for me in a state of similar undress. It didn’t take me long to fuck her brains out, leaving us both gasping for breath in the hot air after we had both climaxed together cacophonously. We lay there for a minute, recovering. We lit a cigarette. After we’d finished our cigs, I got the post-coital sleepiness that seems exclusively to afflict the male of the species after a big orgasm. She was awake, however and she wanted to go to the pub. “I want to go to the pub”, she said. She poked me in the side. I continued to initiate a doze. “Come on, let’s go to the pub!”, she started, this time repeatedly flickering her nails over my stomach. This was it; it was on!
I sprang into action, leaping up and straddling her, catching her by total surprise as I pinned her arms to the mattress underneath my legs. I didn’t say anything, I just laughed as I began to wiggle my fingers all over her naked stomach, which began to rise and fall at my touch. She burst into a fit of giggles, as I rapidly flickered all over her stomach and then her sides. “I think we should go to the pub!!!” She blurted out between periods of involuntary giggling. “Do you, now? It sounds tempting, but I think I’d rather just tickle you!” I taunted. “No! Let’s go to the pub!!!” she cried, loving it, laughing at her predicament as much as at the tickling. She was ticklish elsewhere, but not as bad anywhere else as she was on her feet. I noticed her nipples getting erect underneath me and she surely noticed me begin to become hard again, but I had the excuse of bouncing around naked with her; I had no reason to fear discovery at what was actually causing me to feel as turned on as I ever had been with her. “It’s funny” I said, “I wonder if a medieval torture victim ever escaped by asking the torturer to go to the pub with them?!” (I vividly remember actually saying this and getting a good laugh from it!). She continued laughing. “Of course”, I changed my tone to be slightly less jovial, “If I really wanted to torture you, I’d tickle your feet!” She screeched, as loudly as her laughter would allow, one word – “DON’T!!!!!!!!”.
As I’d been saying it, I’d already known how I was going to restrain her. I’d noticed that with the bucking and thrashing of the upper body tickling, that the duvet had started to naturally wrap around us, at an angle. With a combination of superior strength (I was bigger than she), nimbler dexterity (I was quicker than her because I knew what I was going to do, and she didn’t) and superior stamina (because she was mildly out of breath from laughing so much) I instantly jumped off of her and swiftly started to wrap the duvet around her, so that before she realised what I was doing she was almost completely wrapped up in the duvet. She looked like a beautiful little caterpillar, with just her bunched face, still contorted in laughter, pointing forwards out of one end, and, as I had expertly designed it, her wondrous feet protruding from the other end, soles up. I knew if I moved to her feet straightaway there would be no weight on her top half, and before long she’d get her hands free, so I solved that by pulling several belts out of a nearby drawer, and securing them around her at various points, so that she was stuck fast.
I climbed off her, knowing from her increasingly panicky but gleeful protestations that she’d try and struggle out. I watched as she tried it, and I could see that she couldn’t get out. She shuffled slightly on the bed, but otherwise was going nowhere. Her feet were flapping alternately as she wiggled and wiggled to try and get out. Just to continue the jokey vibe, I rolled her about in her newfangled cocoon for a minute, causing further general giddiness as she continued to try and buck her way out of it. After she had stopped laughing at the thwarted effort, she once again exclaimed “I want to go to the pub!!! Let me out!!!”. “I don’t want to do that – I’ve told you; I need to tickle your feet first! You need a good torturing, for being so cheeky as to try and bribe me by trying to get me to go to the bloody pub!” I goaded. At that, she was still laughing, but began to moan in protest as she knew what was going to happen to her utterly helpless, ultra-ticklish feet. And I was the lucky son of a bitch possessed of the knowledge of the same certain fact, except I was going to be the one doing the tickling. I couldn’t believe my luck.
To begin, I laid across the end of the cocoon sideways, my right hand supporting my head, in an easygoing position, pushing the cocoon down into the mattress. I just laughed for a second as I watched the feet try and dance their way out of my clutches. She was obviously trying to burrow her way further into the duvet so that her feet had some protection, but it was hopeless due to the tightness of the belts around the cocoon. They were stuck. I waited a moment, to heighten the anticipation, then I dug in, scratching the fingers of my left hand up and down the tender flesh of the soles of her adorable feet. Her reaction was instantly crazed: she screamed all of the air out of her lungs, and I had a moment’s hesitation where I wondered if I had gone too far. But then the good-natured laughter flowed out of her, as it had during previous tickling, and I knew she was enjoying it, to a degree. Obviously, part of her wasn’t, and between the frenzied laughter that was forced from her she began to beg and shout in protest, still keeping up her pathetic attempts to persuade me to accompany her to the pub. As if I would, when the alternative was to stay and have the unimpeded ability to bring devastation to the most ticklish feet I had ever touched! I could feel her legs and upper body trying to buck and thrash to escape the sensation of being tickled on her feet, but such was the immobility of her body, she was unable to do anything. She just had to take it, and laugh her head off. I repositioned myself slightly, so that I could lie without having to support my head, freeing up my right hand. I then applied this too, using one hand on each sole so that ten alternatively scribbling fingers drove them to utter distraction. Emma was squealing herself almost hoarse with the physical effort of passing so much air through her lungs and throat. I was in heaven.
After a few minutes of this, I let her have a rest. I climbed off, and walked around to the face-side of the cocoon. It took her a good few seconds to stop laughing, even though she wasn’t being tickled still. I lay on the bed in front of her, looking at her mirthful face as she started to rock the cocoon from side-to-side, again trying to get out. “Get me out of this so we can go to the pub!!!” She bartered. I feigned outrage. “Are you still trying to bribe me?!” I stormed. “I would have thought you’d have learned your lesson! I CANNOT be bought by your ridiculous pleas to get me to go to the pub, dammit!! You obviously need more torture!!” She whined her “NOOO!!!” as I walked around, back towards her feet. I couldn’t see it, but I imagined her facial expression as she realised that I hadn’t immediately straddled her back end; she must have been puzzled. But I had a wicked idea. Since we had become intimate, I had started giving Emma full-body massages, in addition to the casual fondling of her feet whilst the TV was on, of an evening. Wanting to imitate a fully-fledged masseuse as closely I could, I’d bought some massage oil to help with the job. You know what’s coming next. I knew what was coming next. The only person who didn’t was Emma, whose feet instinctively flinched at the sensation of the massage oil dripping onto her feet, and running down the crevices between her delightful toes. “What’s that?!” she stuttered, as I mounted her again, and began to rub the oil vigorously into her already soft, bare feet. She moaned in pleasure as I increased the intensity, and dreamily stammered out: “This…. Isn’t torture.”. “Oh, no?” I replied mischievously. “Well, then, let’s see how sensitive your feet are now, shall we?”.
Emma (like most regular girls, I imagine) had never been tickled on her feet after they had had massage oil applied to them, so she didn’t know what to expect, although she must have had an idea. The huge, sharp inhalation of breath once I set my fingers back to the soles of her feet gave me plentiful indication that the technique had produced the desired effect. It was as if electricity were being coursed through her body, and despite the effectiveness of the makeshift bondage and my weight holding her down, she thrashed and thrashed within the cocoon in response to the heightened tickling, lifting me slightly into the air as I strained to keep my fingers in close contact with her heels, soles, balls, and toes. All of which were equally smothered in oil and therefore equally hypersensitive. The stretch of tender flesh running from her balls down her instep produced the most maddened reaction. The laughter coming out of her mouth merged with screams, yells, and shrieks, and I was instantly glad there was no one else home as they surely would have come to investigate on hearing the absolute racket. She was in absolute tickling delirium, being driven crazy by the abhorrent sensations visited upon her feet by my expert digits.
“Still think we should go to the pub?” I asked backwards, giving her a break for long enough to shout out “YES!!!”. “HOW DARE YOU!!!” I mocked, laughing at the fact that however she had answered, I’d have carried on tickling regardless. If she’d said “No”, I’d have said “I’ll carry on then!”. She couldn’t win. All she could do was laugh, and wait for it to end. At this point, I became aware that if I tickled too long, it might look like more than a lover’s flirting or a quirky bit of ‘after play’, so I was conscious that I couldn’t carry on for too much longer. Of course, I didn’t want her to become genuinely distressed either. So I started to wind it down, and prepared for the finale. I jumped off Emma for a second, went to get something, and let her get her breath back. When she had done so, she shouted out “OH MY GOD!!!! MT FEET ARE SO TICKLISH WITH THE MASSAGE OIL ON THEM!!!” “That’s the idea….” I teased. “Now, let’s discuss this pub business, should we?”. As I raked the hairbrush she had casually left lying around the bedroom up and down her soles, she howled, cackled, and began begging me to stop. All of which was music to my ears, of course. I stopped abruptly, but continued intermittently during the following exchange:
“Now, when we get to the pub, are you getting the first round in?” I queried.
“YES!!! WHATEVER YOU WANT, JUST STOP TICKLING MY FEET!!!” She bellowed, between guffaws.
I acted indifferent. “I’m not sure actually, I’m not sure that’s going to cut it.”
“I’LL BUY ALL OF YOUR DRINKS!!! ALL NIGHT!!! JUST PLEASE, STOP!!!” More enforced roaring.
“What about a takeaway, afterwards? Don’t you think I deserve one, after my long shift today?”
“YES!!! YOU DESERVE ONE, AND I’LL BUY YOU ONE!!! STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!!!”
At that, I could sense she was getting legitimately desperate, so I did finally stop. I undid the belts, unrolled her, and held her as we laughed together. She gave me a few playful whacks. Again, we were naked, horny and physically close, so my raging, bursting hard-on didn’t arouse any suspicion. I noted that she had become wet, so when her breathing had returned to normal, I proceeded to go down on her, which led to an epic fuck which led to even bigger orgasms than before, again at exactly the same time (Don’t you just love it when you get to that point with a girl?). We were both totally spent afterwards, Emma especially. It was one of the all-time greatest tickling events of my young life (Up to that point), and I was coming down from it psychologically as much as physically.
After a breather, we showered, dressed, and headed to the pub, hand in hand. On arriving, after she had bought my cold pint (of course), we decided the time was right for the “Guys, we have something to tell you” conversation with my housemates, and the beauty of this was that it caused no raised eyebrows if I flicked an occasional quick tickle to Emma’s knee as she was sat next to me, or placed my hands in her armpits as I stood behind her in the queue for the bar, both of which I performed with relish in my new role as the now-official ‘Rebound Saviour’ (as Patriarchal as that may sound). As the summer progressed, our sex continued to be astronomically good, despite me chickening out on the tickling side of it after that, due to not wanting to be detected as a fetishist by a casual partner.
She probably would have indulged me in it, if the relationship had gone further, however there was always a time limit on the ‘relationship’, such as it was. I had succeeded in making her feel better and avoiding her succumbing to depression, but I knew we would never work out in the long-term, so I used that excuse to cut things off at the end of the academic year. Other factors were that I would be returning to Uni the next year and she wouldn’t be, and most importantly and definitively, by that point I had met the girl that would go on to become my current fiancé, who I knew even then was going to be “The One” for me. So me and Emma were only ever going to be a short but pleasant thing. Short and sweet, as the cliché goes. But I’ll always have that memory of the most ticklish feet I’ve ever come across, wrapped in that duvet, at my mercy, to do with as I pleased.
