Sherbet Riley
Registered User
- Joined
- Nov 20, 2022
- Messages
- 13
- Points
- 3
Oliver awoke with a smile on his face. He’d had such wonderful dreams. Already they had begun to fade in the daylight that now filtered into his room through half-shut blinds. But his body remembered them well. Impeccably aroused, Oliver gently bucked his hips, rubbing his stiff cock against the mattress beneath him. He pressed his face into the pillow and let out a small mumble of pleasure. His hand slipped beneath the elastic waistband of his underwear, fingertips just grazing against his turgid member. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d had an erotic dream that potent. And it all felt so real. All he wanted was to drift off to sleep again and spend the rest of the day in bed luxuriating in his ticklish dreams. But alas, it seemed he was well and truly awake.
He languished in bed a few moments longer before reaching for his phone on the bedside table. The battery was dead. Just his luck. Oliver figured he must have forgotten to plug it in when he went to bed. But this thought gave him pause. How did he get to bed again? His memory was foggy. Surely he didn’t drink that much last night. He remembered getting McDonald’s and the cab ride back. Then he got home and…Wait, had Sarita been in his room? Oliver became aware of a dull ache in his knee. Suddenly he remembered. He’d tripped on the stairs and Sarita had helped him up. He recalled Sarita leading him to bed, her warm hand rubbing his back, her soft words lulling him to sleep. The memory was vague but undeniable.
Oliver patted himself down. He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. The fabric smelled of smoke and beer. But, curiously, his shoes and socks had been removed. It was possible that he might have kicked off his shoes while forgetting to take off anything else. But his socks? There was no way he’d have had the wherewithal to do that if he’d been as drunk as it seemed he had last night. Then that had to mean…
That’s when Oliver saw it. Lying there at the foot of his bed was a grey pigeon feather, glowing faintly in the soft light. Oliver felt a pit open in the deepest part of his stomach from which a thousand butterflies spilled forth.
“No fucking way…” he whispered aloud to himself.
Had Sarita taken off his shoes and socks and tickled his feet as he slept? It would explain why his dreams had been so vivid, and Oliver knew he hadn’t brought a feather home.
Part of Oliver was outraged. A boundary had clearly been crossed. He felt as though Sarita had taken advantage of him. The fact that she’d known exactly how to subdue him and successfully lulled him to sleep upon his return home unnerved him. Oliver had always believed himself to be smarter than the average bear, or at least savvier than most. The thought that he could be so easily manipulated and put to sleep like a fussy child bruised his ego terribly. It made him feel like an easy mark, gullible, like a Stormtrooper who could be mind tricked with little more than a hand passing before his eyes.
And yet…
And yet the idea that Sarita had been able to exert such control over him and took the opportunity to tickle his bare feet gave Oliver an intense sexual thrill. Oliver was nearly heartbroken to have slept through what was perhaps his most potent sexual fantasy: being controlled and tickled by his stern yet maternal housekeeper. His cheeks warmed at the thought of Sarita kneeling at the end of his bed and playing with his helpless feet. He could see it so clearly. The slow removal of his socks, the mischievous look she must have had on her face as she feathered his sleeping toes. Perhaps, Oliver thought, perhaps she’d even whispered a few teases under her breath, delighting in his ticklishness just as much as Oliver would have had he been awake. He wondered what how much she’d learned about his feet, what spots she’d chosen to linger on. This delectable image excited him to no end. God, he was horny. Oliver didn’t know if he’d ever been this aroused before. He could nearly feel his heartbeat through his underwear now and his stomach was aflutter with giddy excitement.
But as Oliver’s hand slipped beneath his waistband once more, a slight apprehension began to take hold. What could have prompted Sarita to do such a thing? Was it thrilling and sexy as all get out? Hell yes it was! But what had Sarita gotten out of it? Just yesterday they were sniping at each other and Oliver couldn’t imagine that their tense exchange the previous afternoon had left Sarita in a playful mood. So what would have compelled her to tickle his feet while he slept? The most appealing answer was that Sarita also had a tickle fetish and had chosen to indulge it while Oliver was in a vulnerable state. But what were the odds of that being true? The only other explanation was a bit more worrisome, that Sarita had done it for some nefarious purpose Oliver could not yet discern.
But this explanation only raised further questions. If Oliver worked off the assumption that she’d had some agenda in mind when she decided to tickle him as he slept, then that would mean that she knew about his tickle fetish. Oliver had never told a living soul about his love of tickling. It was his most closely guarded secret. One of his greatest fears (after spiders and heights) was that his tickle fetish might one day be discovered and ridiculed.
He remembered a boy at his boarding school that had made the mistake of leaving his phone out at an inopportune moment. A dorm mate snooped through it and found a stash of inflation fetish art. Word spread like wildfire through the student body and soon the whole school knew about it. The poor kid had been relentlessly bullied as a result. Oliver wasn’t proud of it, but he’d piled on with the rest of them at the time. It was preferable to be one of the crabs at the top of the bucket, he’d figured.
But there was no way Sarita could have known about his lust for tickling. Oliver racked his brain, tying himself in knots as he tried to find an answer to this riddle. The only time he’d ever articulated his desires in writing was when he’d commissioned a drawing from an artist online a few years ago. Even then he’d been careful, only communicating through a dummy email account and sending his payment anonymously. Even if Sarita had miraculously been privy to this correspondence, there was nothing in these messages that explicitly linked them to Oliver. The only possible explanation was that Sarita had somehow seen the drawing. But that…
“Oliver, can you come down here, please?” Sarita called out from downstairs.
Oliver withdrew his hand from his underwear with practiced speed. This was not the first time he’d been interrupted. But something about Sarita’s tone only excited him further, patient but amused. Confident.
“O-one second!” Oliver replied as he hastily gathered himself.
He put on a pair of comfortable flannel pajama pants and a wrinkled t-shirt he picked up off the floor. Still incredibly turned on, Oliver dawdled and tried to will his erection away. When he tried to decide whether or not to put on socks, his mind was flooded with fresh thoughts of Sarita taking them off again, which only inflamed his lust further. In the end, he elected to put them on, if only so that he may have an additional layer of armor entering what he knew would be a charged encounter.
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Oliver padded down the stairs in his socked feet and entered the living room. His jaw nearly dropped when he saw Sarita waiting there for him. She was reclining on the couch, a picture of ease, dressed in a purple silk sari. Her legs were crossed at the knee, allowing her shapely bare foot to poke out from under the hem of her garment. Wrapped around her ankle was a shiny anklet made up of tiny golden beads that softly jingled against one another with every movement of her leg. Oliver noticed that her nails were painted white, just as he’d always fantasized and had specified in his drawing. That was all the proof he needed. There was no denying it now; Sarita had seen the drawing. The very thought made Oliver draw inward with shame upon realizing that the housekeeper had discovered his secret. Yet, at the same time he desperately wanted to know what Sarita’s game was.
“Good morning sleepyhead,” Sarita smiled. “You got home awfully late last night. Did you sleep well?”
“Uh huh…” Words were hard for Oliver right now.
“You feeling alright? No hangover?” Sarita flexed her toes a little, immediately drawing Oliver’s eyes to her plump little piggies.
“No. No hangover.” His mouth was so dry. The bitter taste of adrenaline crept up the back of his tongue. “Did…did you…?” Oliver felt dumb. Years of education, acclaimed literature, vocabulary tests, and now he felt as though he only had command of ten odd words.
Sarita cocked her head to the side, as if she hadn’t quite heard him. “Did I what, honey?”
Honey? Sarita had never called Oliver honey before. In fact he couldn’t recall her ever speaking to him with any sort of affection. She’d been polite and respectful but he’d never known her to be playful or condescending like this. This was ridiculous. She was his housekeeper for Christ sake! How could he just let her reduce him to a stammering fool this easily? Oliver stood up a little straighter and cleared his throat, forcing his eyes away from Sarita’s foot to meet her amused gaze.
“Were you in my room last night?”
“Yes, I helped you to bed,” Sarita said, not missing a beat. “You were quite intoxicated last night and took a little tumble coming up the stairs. I helped you up and put you to bed.”
“What do you mean, ‘put me to bed?’” He hoped he sounded confident and tried to find his footing.
“Why just that. You were just so sleepy! As soon as your head hit the pillow you were out like a light.” Sarita giggled.
Well that’s a lie, Oliver thought. He remembered her hand on his back, gently pushing him into the mattress as her soft palm wandered up and down, ironing out any resistance.
“So I fell asleep? Just like that?” Oliver was feeling a little more confident now. If he could catch her in the lie then perhaps he could regain some kind of upper hand. “You didn’t do anything…?”
“Like what?” Sarita asked. She began to rotate her foot, arching it ever so slightly as it made tantalizing little circles in the air. “Lull you to sleep like a cranky little boy up past his bedtime? Seems a little silly, don’t you agree? You’re almost 21 years old, after all. I’d hope you wouldn’t be that susceptible to sleepy time techniques at your age. You had quite a bit to drink, after all. Is it so hard to believe you were just that tired?”
Oliver’s eyes were once again drawn to Sarita’s foot. It looked just as soft and plump as it had all those years ago when Oliver had spied on her phone call. Her nails looked freshly painted, a brilliant shock of white that stood in contrast to her skin. With each rotation of her foot she seemed to find new ways to draw him in further. She’d flex her toes and arch her foot at seemingly just the right moment, showing Oliver new wrinkles and details he’d never noticed before.
“Well?” Sarita asked, “Is it?”
Shit, what was she saying again? Oliver had totally spaced out. His brain was still waking up and his astronomical level of arousal was only muddying things further. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, hoping to hide the erection that was already stirring in his pajama pants. He forced his eyes away from her foot and cleared his throat.
“Uh, sure. Yeah.”
“Good!” Sarita chirped. “I’m glad you agree.” She looked at him now with mock concern, tsk’ing. “Is something the matter, Ollie? You seem…distracted.”
Sarita had said it so sweetly but Oliver instinctively understood that she knew exactly what she was doing. He couldn’t let on that she was getting to him but feared that ship may have already sailed. Under normal circumstances Oliver would never have tolerated being spoken to in such a manner by the help. And yet, there was a charge between them now that excited him greatly. He could sense the power balance shifting, could feel that control was slipping away from him. What scared Oliver most of all was how deeply it excited him. All he wanted to do was crawl over to Sarita on his hands and knees and rub his cheek against her soft, plush sole and give it the gentlest kiss.
But Oliver knew that the minute he admitted that he wanted this, that Sarita did in fact know what he liked, what buttons to push, there would be no way to put the genie back in the bottle. His judgment was clouded by lustful thoughts and the natural curiosity that came with what submitting to the dominant matron of his dreams might entail.
“No, uh, just not quite awake yet…” He reached into his pocket, fingers pinching the feather’s quill. “I wanted to ask about –“
“Speak up, Ollie. You’re mumbling.” Sarita said firmly, like a patient teacher at the blackboard.
Oliver swallowed and felt his ears grow hot.
“Don’t call me that.” He said. But whatever authority Oliver had tried to summon was noticeably absent in his tone. It came out as more of a whine. “Only my mama – I mean…only my mom calls me ‘Ollie.’” Shit, he sounded so pathetic. What was happening to him?
“Oh!” Sarita’s hand flew to her chest. “My mistake, honey. You said you wanted to ask me something?”
Sarita was still leisurely rotating her foot. Her anklet was gleaming in the sun now, the shiny beads catching the light and reflecting it into Oliver’s eyes. He found himself blinking more and more. It was so hard to focus on anything else. He just wanted to watch her elegant foot sway this way and that, memorize every inch and digit. Oliver was unspeakably horny, his mind fogged by erotic thoughts. He desperately needed to run back upstairs, jump into bed, and finish himself off so he could think clearly. Yes, that would solve everything. The air felt so thick and his mind was swimming. The light that glinted off of Sarita’s anklet only dizzied him further, flashing away any and all critical thoughts that he tried to conjure. There was something he’d wanted to ask Sarita. God, what was it again?
“Y-uh…yes. I did…” Oliver retrieved the feather from his pajama pocket and held it up for Sarita to see. “Do you know anything about this?”
“About feathers?” Sarita chuckled. “Plenty. What do you want to know?”
“I, uh, found it in my room at the foot of my bed. I just want to know how it got there.”
“And you think I left it there?”
Oliver wished he could stand up straighter and muster his resolve, but the growing erection in his pajama bottoms had forced him to stand at a strange angle
“Yes. I do.”
Sarita sat forward and crossed her legs, tucking her feet under her, briefly giving Oliver a reprieve from the titillating distraction. She held out her hand expectantly, like a mother requesting to see what her child has hidden behind their back.
“Show me.”
Oliver crossed the room without thinking. Sarita patted the spot beside her on the couch and Oliver sat down obediently. He realized he’d been holding his breath and let out a shaky exhale as he felt his weight sink into the couch. He stared at Sarita’s open palm. It looked smooth to the touch, surprising given the nature of her work. He gently placed the feather in her hand.
“Good boy.” Sarita smiled.
A wave of pleasure rolled through Oliver’s body at her praise. If he had any qualms with being spoken to this way he did not voice them. Oliver watched, mesmerized, as Sarita pinched the feather’s quill between her fingers and held it aloft for closer inspection. She handled it delicately, as though it might shatter if mistreated.
“As a matter of fact, I do know this feather,” Sarita said with feigned surprise. Holding it by the quill, she slowly pulled the feather through her pinched fingers from base to tip. Oliver watched as the feather’s soft barbs narrowed and bloomed as it ran between her fingers, noticing for the first time just how soft and yielding it was in her experienced hand. “Yes, I remember now. I thought it might help you sleep. Not that you needed any help…”
Oliver swallowed. He was hanging on her every word. He knew she was baiting him, inviting him to ask what such a method might entail. Oliver already knew the answer, but at this moment he wanted nothing more than to hear Sarita say the words.
“And how…how would the feather help me sleep?”
“Well,” Sarita began, running the feather over her soft, open palm, “when I was a little girl, I sometimes had trouble getting to sleep. My parents tried all sorts of things: teas, lullabies, and remedies. But nothing could help me sleep. Then, my mother remembered a technique that had helped her drift off when she had been my age.”
Oliver felt something warm press against the side of his leg. He nearly jumped when he glanced down and saw that Sarita’s foot was ever so gently touching his thigh. Oliver was practically vibrating with excitement, a bead of precum already darkening the tip of the tent that was forming in his pajama pants. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Oliver crossed his legs, hoping to keep Sarita from noticing the growing situation down below.
“You see,” Sarita went on, “when my mother was little she’d had a similar problem. She couldn’t sleep.”
Sarita briefly pressed her warm toes into Oliver’s thigh before shifting her weight and uncrossing her legs. Now she braced her left foot against the raised knee of her right leg, positioning it so that her soft and supple sole was now just a few tantalizing inches away from Oliver’s face. The boy’s eyes were wide as saucers and his breathing grew shallower with every passing moment. The muscles in his thighs began to twitch from adrenaline, knees rigid.
“So to help her drift off, my grandmother would sit at the end of the bed at night and just run the tip of a feather over her foot. Like this…”
Then lightly, ever so lightly, Sarita began to run the feather over her impossibly soft looking sole. The movement was led from her wrist, a practiced gesture, just tracing over every wrinkle and slope of her sole with the soft tip of the feather. Oliver had never seen her feet up close like this before and he was astounded by the obvious care and attention they’d received. He couldn’t identify one flaw. Her toes were perfectly proportioned, dexterous stalks with plump, rounded ends. There was not a single fleck of dead skin on her heel and the ball of her foot was rosy and smooth.
“It worked like a charm. So my mother did the same for me. She’d sit at the end of my bed and just slowly drag this feather along my foot over and over and over again until I’d drift off to sleep. After only a few nights, she no longer needed the feather and I’d just fall asleep on my own. But I kept the feather, as a reminder of my mother’s love. It helps me feel close to her and my grandmother. I thought perhaps, that it might help you sleep as well…”
Sarita smiled as she saw the boy’s mouth drop open, his lips slowly parting to allow a puff of warm breath to escape. There was a faraway look in his eye now that reminded Sarita of the chickens she as her sister used to hypnotize in their youth. It isn’t hard to entrance a chicken. As it turned out it hadn’t been that much more difficult to bring Oliver to this state either.
“So I took off your shoes and socks, sat by your feet and just…did…this…”
Sarita kept the feather moving, watching with a dark glee as Oliver’s eyes closely followed the feather’s tip as it swished and swirled over her plump, immaculate sole. A Swedish Volleyball team could run naked through the house at that very moment and Oliver’s eyes would still remain fixed on the feather roaming over Sarita’s foot.
“But within seconds I knew this wouldn’t be suitable for your little feet.” Sarita purred.
“W-why not…?” Oliver’s head was swimming, his body a live wire. He felt as though he’d drunk a whole pot of coffee on an empty stomach. His rigid cock strained against his crossed leg. At this point, a strong breeze could finish him off.
“I think you know why, young man,” Sarita said, moving in for the kill. “Do you want to say it or should I?”
Oliver’s mouth was so dry his tongue may as well have been low-grade sandpaper. Words were failing him. He’d never imagined a moment such as this were possible and was woefully unprepared to be confronted with his greatest fantasy. Had he relieved himself with a few quick pumps upon waking perhaps he’d be thinking more critically, might remove himself from this situation. But he was well and truly spellbound now. Even if things progressed no further than this, Oliver would revisit this moment again and again with his preferred hand for the rest of his life. And if he did, he’d forever be haunted by the possibilities of what may have come next. There was no hope in turning away, even if he wanted to.
“Come on, Ollie.” Sarita coaxed, never once slowing the movement of the feather. “Because…”
“Because…” Oliver said, barely above a whisper, “…because I’m ticklish.” Saying it out loud gave Oliver a rush unlike any other he’d felt. He felt goose pimples raise along his neck and arms, prickling his scalp. His heart was pounding in his chest. Holy shit, this is happening.
“That’s right,” Sarita said as she pulled the feather away from her foot. She pointed it at Oliver now, twirling it between her fingers. Oliver’s eyes widened as he stared rapt at the spinning feather. “I just gave your feet the softest little tickle. And do you know what happened? You giggled in your sleep. It was the cutest little giggle. I barely had to touch you and you just melted into the mattress. I can only imagine what sort of response I would have gotten out of those soft widdle feet had you been awake. I bet you can imagine it too…”
Sarita arched an eyebrow as she glanced down at his lap. Oliver’s cheeks grew hot as he squirmed in his seat. It was all too much. The lapse into baby talk crumbled what was left of his admittedly meager defenses. He was trembling like a small dog before Sarita now. The brat who had threatened her just a day before was nowhere to be seen.
“Seems I’m getting quite a reaction already,” she smirked. “Aw, Ollie. You’re trembling. Whatsa matter? Are you scared of the tickle monster? Or…wait. Is it that you want to meet her?”
“I…I want…oh god…” he breathed as a small shudder ran through his body. This was it. “Sarita, please, I…” He could barely say the words.
“Please, what?” Sarita cooed. She had him now. She placed the fingers of her free hand under his chin, gently pushing upward so that he was forced to meet her gaze. His eyes shone with excitement and confusion. He was putty in Sarita’s hands. Her plan was working far better than she’d ever dreamed and she could no longer hide her hungry smile.
“Please…” Oliver breathed, his teeth nearly chattering from excitement. “Please tickle me.”
“Again.” Sarita commanded. “Say it again, Ollie. Ask nice.”
“Please…” he whined, “tickle me. Oh god, please tickle me!”
“Are you sure?” Sarita asked, “Because once the tickle monster gets a taste of you she’ll only want more. She’s insatiable. And she loves to tickle naughty boys like you most of all. She loves making them giggle and squirm and beg. She’ll find all your tickle spots. Every. Single. One. She’ll find spots you didn’t even know you had and exploit them until you cry and plead for her to stop. There’ll be no use keeping secrets from the tickle monster, no place in this house you can hide. It’ll be weeks before your parents get home. Are you sure you want to spend those weeks locked in the house with such a tickler? I don’t know if you could handle it…”
She was describing his fantasy to a T. Oliver couldn’t imagine anything better. If he’d had a firmer grasp of his critical faculties he may have detected that something was off and understood what he was really agreeing to. But Oliver wasn’t thinking of the consequences now.
“Yes! Yes, I’m sure.” He hoped he didn’t sound too eager. He’d all but leapt out of his seat.
Sarita grinned and put the feather down. “Then lie on the floor for me.”
Oliver slipped off the couch with alarming speed and lay on the carpeted floor. Sarita could see his shirt twitching ever so slightly from his elevated heartbeat. Oliver shimmied the top half of his body under the glass table in front of the couch. He lay on his back. From his position, Oliver could see Sarita sitting on the couch above him through the glass. If he tried to sit up now his head would hit the underside of the table. He had some leeway but would have to work at getting out from under it. All the while, he’d have an unobstructed view of his tickler.
Sarita scooted to the end of the couch and patted her legs. Oliver obediently placed his socked feet in her lap, knees bent, butt pressed against the base of the couch. Sarita then tucked her right foot under her left leg, trapping his feet in the crook of her bent knee. Her left foot, which she now swung back and forth, teased Oliver under the table. With each swing it seemed to get closer and closer to his face, but swung back each time just before it could make contact.
“Is Ollie ready for his tickle time?” Sarita cooed.
“Yes,” Oliver whispered. In a matter of minutes his world had shrunk dramatically. Everything that mattered to him now was contained within this room.
Sarita had him. Time to have her fun. She spoke to him softly as she began running her open palms up and down his socked feet. She could feel his toes twitching invitingly under her touch.
“Oh fuck…” Oliver breathed, already bucking his hips as he squirmed under Sarita’s gentle touch.
“Before we get started I just need to ask you a few questions. After all, every boy is different. I need to know how to tickle you properly, don’t I?”
Oliver nodded quickly, biting his lip. He shut his eyes, attempting to prepare himself for what he knew was coming.
“Good boy. Now, tell Sarita, who in your life would you say made you feel the most ticklish…” As she spoke, Sarita began dragging the index fingers of each hand up and down the length of their respective soles. She felt Oliver’s feet jerk away from her touch but they didn’t get far, firmly snug tight in the crook of her leg.
“W-whehen I wahahas lihihittle…” Oliver was already giggling. Why bother hiding at this point? His feet were extraordinarily sensitive. It had been years since he’d been tickled. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time it had happened. The only thing that came to mind was… “My…my aunt, shehehe used to tihihickle mehehe when she bahahabeheheeesat…”
As a little kid, Oliver’s parents hadn’t been able to take him along on their business trips. They knew better, having sat through many a baby’s tantrum on international flights. And so Oliver often found himself staying at his Aunt Maddie’s apartment while his parents went away. His grandparents had been very strict with his mother and Aunt Maddie growing up. When Oliver misbehaved, Maddie hadn’t had the heart to punish him the way her parents had punished her and her sister in their youth. And so she had resorted to tickle torture to keep the young boy in line.
Often, to keep things light, she’d make a game of it. Maddie would chase him through the house and snuggle him tight before tickling Oliver hysteric in her admittedly expansive lap. His parents had never been the touchy-feely type, and he found that he delighted in the hands-on punishment of his sweetly sadistic aunt. In time, Oliver had come to look forward to his visits.
In many ways, Oliver was closer to his Aunt than just about anyone else in the world. Nearly all of his fondest childhood memories were of Maddie tickling him to tears, cooing at him sweetly all the while. Sadly, she had passed away just before his 10th birthday and Oliver never quite recovered from her death. But now, for the first time since her passing, Oliver felt that same giddy excitement rising in his chest as Sarita slowly dragged her index fingers up and down his twitching feet.
“Aw, I bet you loved tickle time with your auntie, didn’t you?”
“Yehehehehehehessssss! I lohohohohohoved ihihihihit!”
“I’m sure you did, my little giggler. Tell me, how would she tickle you? What was it about your auntie that made you feel soooo unbearably tickawish? Come now, tell Sarita alllll your tickly little secrets…”
For the first time since he’d walked into the room, real doubts had begun to form in Oliver’s mind. There was something about the way she’d said it that briefly reminded him that this whole encounter was not exactly on the up and up. But those worries were quickly subsumed by the ticklish signals that now flooded his brain as Sarita added an additional finger to each foot, now walking two of them up and down his soles.
“Shehehehee wohohohould plahahahay gahahahames wihihith meheheheeee. Mahahahahake mehehehe feheheheelll smahahahall ahahahand hehehelplehehessss.”
Sarita gave an affirmative little hum and nodded knowingly.
“Well, of course she did! You were so much smaller than her back then. I bet your auntie had no trouble overpowering you, did she? You poor thing! I bet there was no getting away from her once she got her hands on you, was there? She’d just tickle, and tickle, and tickle…”
Sarita’s fingers yielded fresh giggles from the boy with every spot they touched. She gently drew little circles on the ball of his foot with her fingernail and experimentally swept the pad of her index finger over his arch. It seemed that she unearthed new levels of sensitivity with each stoke and scratch of her assured fingers. And she hadn’t even taken off his socks yet!
“Hehehehehehehehehehehe! Ohohohohohohohhhh gohohohohohod ihihihihit tihihihihihckles! Ihihit tihihihihickles sohohohohoooo muhuhuhuhuch!” Oliver shook his head, the laughter flowing freely now.
“Aww, does it tickle? Does widdle Ollie have tickly feet? I think he doesss! Coochie coochie coo! Oh no! Did mean ol’ Sarita find a sensitive spot? I bet your auntie used to tease you when she played tickle with you, didn’t she?”
Having now lapsed into babyish tickle talk, Sarita felt a dark thrill when she saw the immediate effect it had on the giggling boy beneath her. Oliver struggled with renewed vigor against her hold as his laughter jumped an octave.
“Ahahahahalllll thehehehehe tihihihihime! Nahahahahahahahahah!”
“And when she tickled you did she tawk to you wike disssss?”
“Yehehehehehesssss!”
Sarita’s plan was working far better than she could have ever imagined. Oliver’s defenses had crumbled without much effort. But Sarita knew she needed to be careful and, most of all, patient. The carrot needed to come before the stick. She had weeks with the brat, hours upon hours to mold him into her perfect, obedient toy. And if her tickle time with him thus far were any indication, it wouldn’t take long to get him there.
“Such sensitive little feetsies! Just look at you. All it took was a couple of fingers and some silly speak and you just fell to pieces, huh? If I knew you were this ticklish I’d have coochied you much much sooner. Who would have thought this whole time I only needed to do…this!”
Sarita brought all ten fingers to his soles now, spidering and fluttering them over all the sensitive spots that Oliver had revealed to her through her careful examination. She jumped when she heard Oliver throw his head back against the floor as his body convulsed in a spasm of hysterical laughter.
“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAOOOOOH SHIHIHIHIHIT! Ohohohohohohohoho mihihihihihihihi gahahahahahahad! Stahahahahahahahap! Wahahahahahahait! Sahahahahaharihihihitttttahahahahaha! Nohohohohohohohohoho! STAHAHAHAP IHIHIHIHIT!”
“Stawp? Stawp? But you wanted tickles! And what Ollie wants, Ollie gets. Doesn’t he? Doesn’t he? Aww, wook at the happy boy enjoying his tickle time! His cheeks are sooo wed! All from a few widdle tickles on his tootsies. You should be careful. Didn’t you know there’s a tickle monster about? Oh the things she’d do to these sensitive widdle feet! Can you imagine what would happen if Gitsy Geetha ever got a hold of you? I bet you can. Oh, you’d just laugh your silly little head off. Don’t worry, Mama will keep them safe and snug wight heeeere…”
Oliver’s dream briefly came back to him in a series of small glimpses. He remembered Gitsy Geetha’s cauldron, the warmth of her lair, the feather teasing out all his sensitive spots. For a moment he felt like he was back there again, giggling helplessly in her pot as she feathered his feet pink with her feather. Oliver pounded the floor with his fists and shook his head from side to side.
“Noooohohohohohhohooooo! Shehehehehehehe ihihihihihihsn’t rehehehehealllll!”
“Oh yes she is, sweetie! Gitsy Geetha is very real. Maybe I could introduce you to her sometime! I bet she’d love you to pieces. How’d you like that, huh? Huh?”
Oliver, for his part, was having a blast, blissfully unaware of his tickler’s true intentions. What luck, he thought, to have found such a proficient and enthusiastic tickler. It was all he’d dreamed of and more. The thought of Sarita exploiting his weakness for weeks to come was almost too good to be true. Images flashed behind his eyes of the many ways Sarita could tickle him silly in every room of the house. Sarita’s sadistic, expert technique coupled with her maternal and playful teasing was almost too much to bear. It all just tickled so much!
“Nohohohohohohohoooo Gihihihihitseeheheheeeee! Ihihihihihi dohohohohon’t wahahahahahanananahahaha meeehehehehehet heheheher! Shehehehehehe’ll tihihihihihckle meeeeeehehehehehehehe!”
“But I thought you liked being tickled, Ollie. You asked for this, wemember? I think this silly billy needs a widdle help making up his mind.”
At this, Sarita began focusing on Oliver’s arches, spidering her nails up and down with speed and precision. The tips of her white nails were making the lightest contact with the skin, but taken all at once the effect was devastating. To Oliver it felt as though dozens of little gnats were buzzing against his arches and giving them little kisses.
“Uh oh! Seems the tickle bugs have found a new trail!”
“Ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! Gohohohohddddahahahammihitt stahahahahahahahap!”
It was unbearable. In Oliver’s fantasies the tickling itself had largely been digested through aesthetics: hysterical faces, bare feet, light bondage, a clear power dynamic between the lee and the ler. But having not been tickled in some time, Oliver’s own ticklishness hadn’t really been factored into his fantasies. The real meat of it lied in giving up control; the tickling was a means to an end. Oliver thought he knew what he wanted, but now that he was here, he realized just how ticklish his feet really were. It wasn’t quite torture, not yet, but he could feel his limit would soon be reached. It didn’t seem possible, but it was as if his feet were becoming more and more sensitive with every flutter of Sarita’s fingers.
“Wooks like the tickle bugs are making a new home in Giggle Gwove! Just look at all of them scurrying about…”
Even more pressing was the situation that was developing down below. Oliver was explosively turned on. His erection was throbbing, precum now freely dribbling from the tip. Oliver’s shirt had begun to ride up, revealing the head of his penis, which now peeked out over the waistband of his pajamas. Realizing this, Oliver instinctively reached for it. As his hand moved toward his engorged member, he felt Sarita’s hands pull away from his feet.
“Huh…” Oliver mumbled, dazed. He felt lightheaded from laughter, his vision blurry from the tears that had begun to form in the corners of his eyes. He looked up at Sarita through the bottom of the glass table, noting her crossed arms and stern expression.
“No touching.” Sarita intoned
“But…but…” He was pleading with her now. Oliver had reached a nearly painful level of arousal. Desire had transmuted into need. He bucked his hips pathetically, whining as he felt the taut waistband of his PJs press against his erection, fabric moving ever so slightly against the sensitive underside of the head as he writhed.
“You can only touch yourself when I say, understand? That’s the rule from now on. If I find out that you’ve relieved yourself without my express permission, all of this goes away. No more tickle time, no more teases. You play by my rules. And if you do…”
Sarita swung her left foot back toward Oliver, resting it on his desperately leaking cock. The pressure of it alone nearly sent him over the edge. Oliver threw his head back and let out a deep, guttural moan.
“Ungh fuck…”
“Now, be a good boy and put your hands behind your back for me. Come on…”
Oliver compiled, arching his back and slipping his hands under him as if they’d be handcuffed. He let out a little grunt as his weight settled on his arms. He was trembling.
“Good boy. Now keep them there.” And with that, Sarita began to remove his socks.
Maybe it was his nervousness at what new levels of ticklishness his bare feet might reveal, perhaps it was the fact that Sarita had now seen (some of) his erect penis and was touching it with her foot, but Oliver had a sudden moment of clarity. What was happening here? How had he gotten into this position? Yes, he was having fun; in fact he was damn near blissful from living out his fantasy so exactly. Just minutes ago putting his feet in Sarita’s lap had felt like his idea, something he’d been invited to do. But now she was telling him what to do and when to do it? Giving him permission?
On the one hand, Oliver desperately wanted to see where this went. Sarita was such an expert tickler and Oliver’s mind reeled with fresh fantasies of hysterical submission. But what was the end game? Suddenly Oliver realized just how vulnerable he was. He’d revealed himself to Sarita, or at least confirmed what she already knew. At once his greatest fantasy and worst nightmare, the possibility that Sarita could legitimately use his fetish against him was now palpably real.
“H-hey, Sarita? Can I ask…?” He tried to sit up but the table kept him down. The angle was awkward and Oliver couldn’t get leverage. He tried to pull his ankles away but realized with mounting dread that they were truly secured in Sarita’s lap.
“Shhhh, quiet now…” Sarita whispered as her fingers pinched around Oliver’s ankles, searching for the elastic mouth his socks. She flexed her soft toes against his cock, forcing a small moan from the man as his eyes rolled back. Sarita bunched the elastic lip of his socks between her fingers and began to tug them away from Oliver’s tensing feet. The sock rolled down his ankle and over his heel, slowly pulled inside out as Oliver’s feet were bared an inch at a time.
“I just – I think, uh…” Oliver stammered. He knew that his sensitivity would double now his feet were bared and the reality of his exposure had caused a potent spike of anxiety in his chest. “We should talk about, you know, uh, like, what…”
“Oh, we tried talking yesterday. Don’t you remember?” Sarita spoke authoritatively now. The playful tone had abated. “And you were not very nice.”
“Yeah, listen, I’m sorry. I, uh, obviously things are different now. Right? I think, you know…” It was a long shot, but maybe he could talk his way out of his…
“Oh yes,” Sarita nodded, “things are different now.” With a final tug, the socks slipped free from Oliver’s feet. Squinting, Sarita flicked a few specks of link from his freshly bared toes and soles. Even this brief contact caused Oliver to let out a little yelp. Oh god, they were more sensitive than he’d feared.
“You threatened to get me fired, Ollie, to frame me for a crime. That’s no joke.” Her tone was gravely serious. But then Sarita considered the ticklish soles in front of her and a warm smile crept across her face. “But you’re going to laugh for me, aren’t you?” Sarita purred, now lapsing into her babying tone again.
“Oh n-AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH SHIT! SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIHIHIHIHIHIT!”
Sarita went full on now, dancing all ten fingers up and down his writhing feet. She dug the fingertips of one hand into his toes and wiggled them about, being sure to drag the tips of her fingernails along the sensitive crevices between his toes. Sarita brought the fingers of her other hand into a small claw-like shape and scratched feverishly at the heel of his opposite foot. The reaction was explosive and immediate, his frenzied laughter spiking further as Sarita doubled down on the tickle talk.
“How lucky that the naughty boy has such tickawish widdle feetsies for mama to play with! It’s the only way you’ll learn, because that’s what happens to bad widdle boys wike you. They get tickled, and tickled, and tickled until they’re well behaved little gentlemen. Would you like that? Would you like to be a good boy for me?”
Oliver screeched, rolling this way and that on his back as he tried to pull his feet away from his maternal captor. His bare feet were ridiculously ticklish. Oliver could now recall just how quickly he’d folded in his youth when Aunt Maddie had gone for his bare feet. He’d never lasted long under her nimble fingers and would make all sorts of promises to make her stop. Though Maddie would be sure to have her fun, she’d respect his wishes before too long, never pushing their tickle time beyond the point of “funishment.” But this was different. Oliver knew he was in serious trouble now.
“You bihihihitch!” he shrieked from under the table, tears leaking from his eyes as his face turned a darker shade of red. “You bihihihitch!”
Sarita tsk’d and shook her head solemnly as she itched her thumbs up and down the center of his soles to devastating effect.
“Such naughty language from a naughty boy! Looks like it’ll take a few more hours of tickles to put you in your place. But don’t you worry little one, you’re going to be so well behaved for me by the time the tickle monster is done with you. Oh yes you will! Yes you will! Just you wait and see…”
A few more HOURS? Oliver didn’t think he could even last one more minute. Sarita was relentless, her fingers knew just how much pressure to apply and exactly how long to linger on each and every spot. He could feel his limit rising up to meet him fast. The sensations had begun to blur together, his feet radiating with a singular, violent sensitivity. The worst part was that despite Oliver’s predicament, he could still feel himself growing more and more turned on with every touch of her hand and sugary sweet tease. His giggles had turned to laughter and now his laughter had escalated into shrieks.
“EEEEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHAHAHAHAHAHA! Lehehehet mehehehehe gohohohohohoooo! Gehehehehehahahahahaha stahahahahahahahp ihihihihit! Ihihihihihihi’ll teheheheheheehllll ohohohohon yohohohohou! Ihihihihihihihi’ll tehehehehell eheheheheheveryohohohohohone whahahahat youhohohoho dihihihihihid!”
Sarita seemed totally unbothered, the pads of her fingers now teasing the bulbous ends of his toes, causing Oliver to arch his back in renewed hysterical torment.
“Awww, you’re gonna tell on me? Go wight ahead, Ollie. You can tell everyone how your mean ol’ housekeeper tickled your widdle piggies until you cwied. Are you gonna them how you asked me, begged me for tickle time but couldn’t handle it because you’re just too tickawish? In fact, I technically work for you, don’t I? How do you think that would that look? Why, I only tickled the naughty boy because he wanted me to. And given the power dynamics at play, perhaps I feared he’d retaliate against me if I said no and take away my livelihood. It’s the twooth! If anything heeeeee took advantage of meeeeeeeee. I had no choice but to gitchy him over, and over and over again until he agreed to a good widdle boy. Isn’t that right?”
Oliver was at war with himself. He was in heaven but it tickled like hell, at once desperate for Sarita to stop but excited by the possibilities of further tickling in the future. Knowing Sarita was right only added to his sense of helplessness, which in turn made him ever hornier. It was a vicious cycle of laughter and lust. Oliver had very little recourse. Really, what could he do? He’d looked up tickle videos on the family computer when he was young; his parents definitely had an inkling of what he was into. If he did tell them what happened, it was highly likely that his parents would believe Sarita’s version of events. As it stood, she likely had more credibility with them than he currently did, especially once they found out about his college suspension. He was screwed.
“IHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHI’M SOHOHOHOHORRRREEEEE! IHIHIHIHHI’M SOHOHOHOHOHOOOO SHOHOHOHORRRRRRYYYYYYEEEHEHEHEEE! JUHUHUHUHST STAHAHAHAHAHAHAP! IHIHIHIHIHIHI CAHAHAHAHAN’T TAHAHAHAHAHAHAKE IHIHIHIHIHIHIHIT AHAHAHAHANYYYYYMOHOHOHORE!”
He was clawing at the carpet now, desperately trying to kick his feet free from Sarita’s lap. This only amused Sarita further, leading her to laugh at his futile attempts to wriggle free from her ticklish hold.
“Oh! Look at the naughty boy kick! Kick! Kick! Kick! Awww, just like a tickawwy widdle bunny wabbit! Are you Mama’s tickly widdle bunny? Huh? Are you? Are you my happy little bun bun? I think you arrrrre!” Sarita was having more fun than she’d anticipated. She’d always known that this stage of her plan would be the thorniest to execute, but Oliver’s susceptibility to her particular brand of tickle torture had exceeded her expectations. Everything was going according to plan.
“NAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
Oliver was approaching the edge of delirium now. His high-pitched shrieks had devolved into helpless babbling. He grabbed on to the legs of the glass table, which were thick and sturdy, hoping he might get the leverage needed to pull away from Sarita’s maddening tease. But Oliver was exhausted – both from his night out as well as his current ordeal – and couldn’t muster the strength. He was still dehydrated from last night and hadn’t taken a sip of water since he’d woken up. A headache was brewing behind his eyes, which were pinched shut from forced laughter. Even with his eyes closed he could see Sarita so clearly in his mind: his motherly captor smiling down at him knowingly as her fingers expertly extracted every last giggle and squeal she could from his wriggling soles. He bucked and kicked and squirmed desperately upon the ground. But try as he might, Oliver could not pull his feet away from Sarita.
“EHEHEHEHEHEHEAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” He didn’t even bother trying to form words anymore. All he could do was lay there and laugh until Sarita decided he’d had enough. Oliver’s neck had turned crimson, his throat hoarse from laughter and squeals.
Sarita could feel Oliver’s aching cock pulsing against the bottom of her foot. He was going to explode any minute now but she needed it to happen on her terms to really cement the association in his mind between her tickles and this potent mix of arousal and submission.
“Do you want me to stawppppp?”
“YEHEHEHEHEHEHESSSSS! IHIHIHIHHIHIHI’LL DOHOHOHOHOOOO AHAHAHAHANYTHIHIHIHING!”
“Aaaaaannnnnnything?” Sarita cooed, her fingernails scraping rapidly along his arches.
“YEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHSSSSS!”
“Then repeat after me…” Sarita slowed down now, softening her touch as well as her tone. She actually needed Oliver to be capable of saying the words. “I’m a naughty little bunny…”
“Ihihihihihhihi’m ahahahahaha nahahahahahaughteeeheeeee lihihihihittle buhuhuhuhunnnyyyy!” Oliver didn’t even blink. Had his cheeks not already been cherry red they’d have flushed with embarrassment. This was humiliating. But Oliver was beyond that now. He didn’t care. He just needed a break.
“And I deserve to be tickled…”
A moment’s hesitation from Oliver led to renewed aggression from Sarita’s fingers. She bent back the toes of his right foot and began raking her fingernails up and down his taut sole, leaning in so close that he could feel her hot breath against it. This was all the motivation he needed.
“GAHAHAHA! Ahahahahand Ihiihihihihiihihi….Ihihihihihihi deserveeeheeeeehehehehehe tohohohohoho beheheheheeee tihihihihihckled!”
Feeling his cock throb beneath her foot once again, Sarita eased up, now lightly scratching at his heels again. She wanted to show that she could be merciful when Oliver behaved.
“Good boy! Keep going. Come on, baby. ‘I love being tickled. My soles belong to Sarita…’”
Oliver bit his lip and grunted in pleasure at her praise. Now that the tickles had lessened in their intensity the pendulum had swung back from the torturous to the erotic. If all he had to do to feel this good was just do what Sarita said…
“I lohohohohohove beheheheheing tihihihihickled! Mihihihihi shohohoholes behehehelohohohong tohohohoho Sahahaharihihita!”
“She tickles me when I’m good…”
“Shehehehehe tihihihihickles meheheheeee whehehen Ihihihi’m gohohohood…”
“And she tickles me when I’m bad…”
“Ahahahahand shehehehehe tihihihickles mehehehehe whehehehen Ihihihihi’m bahahahahad!”
“So I always do what she says…”
“Sohohohohoho I ahahahahalwahahahays dohohohohooo whahahahat sheheheheee sahahahahys!”
“Because what Sarita says is best!”
“Beheheheehcahahahahause whahahahahat Sahahahahrihihihita sahahahays ihihihihis behehehehest! Ahahahahahahahahahahahaha!”
Sarita smiled down at her babbling charge. He was a mess, reduced to nothing more than a helpless puddle of giggles beneath the table below. There was no more fight left in him and Sarita knew it. It was time. She lightened her touch even further now, just lightly kissing Oliver’s trembling soles with her fingertips.
“Do you pwomisssssse?”
Oliver sucked air into his lungs, giggles still tumbling from his open mouth as if they’d been running for the exit. He was delirious, sweaty and breathless. No thoughts remained, no pride, no ego, and certainly no dignity. Oliver just giggled helplessly under her touch, desperate to do whatever Sarita asked of him.
“Ye-hehehehe-yehehehesss. I prohohohomise! Plehehehease…”
“Good boy! You’re such a good little bunny for Mama, aren’t you?”
Oliver nodded lamely, a small whine escaping him as Sarita began moving her soft foot in a circle, massaging his dribbling cock through his pajama pants. Oliver threw his head back, and took a deep, desperate breath in through his nose, bucking against her circling sole.
“Then let’s sign on the dotted line…”
With that Sarita picked up the feather, which had been resting beside her on the couch, and turned the quill toward his pinkened soles. She dragged the quill along each foot in a long looping motion, signing her property.
“Mama…Sarita’s…ticklish…widdle…bunny…” She said aloud haltingly to herself as she signed each foot, making sure to take her time to really drive it home.
Oliver was set off again by the ticklish signature but had no more energy to thrash about. He just lay there and took it like the naughty boy he was.
“Neehehehee…ehehehehehehehehe…unfff!”
Sarita’s foot kept moving in a steady circle. She flexed her toes against his cock through his PJs as she slowly built the orgasm he’d been aching for this whole time.
“Do you want to cum?” Sarita sing-songed.
Oliver’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. Was she kidding? Of course he did!
“Yuh – ungh, fuck - yes!” he groaned.
“The beg me. Beg Sarita nice.”
“Please – gah! – please Sarita, please…” he whimpered, “please let me cum. Please, oh please, oh please…”
With that, Sarita began to massage his feet, humming approvingly as she pressed her thumbs into his soles and rubbed against his arch, applying just the right amount of pressure to elicit another grunt of pleasure from the broken boy.
“Then come for me,” Sarita coaxed, “come for Mama…”
It happened before she could even finish the sentence. Oliver bucked hard, his back arching off the floor. His head lolled to one side and his eyes rolled back in his skull, letting out a guttural cry that melted into a moan. There was the eruption, which was almost too intense, followed by the warm pulsing trickle that pooled on his stomach. Like most things worth waiting for, it was over very quickly.
“That’s it…that’s my good boy. Being so good for me…” Sarita smiled, victorious. He belonged to her now. Sure, he needed a few more sessions with the tickle monster before he could be properly conditioned to her touch, but that was as great a start as any. She patted his feet and was satisfied by the way they jumped even at this brief touch.
Oliver just lay beneath the table and let out a shaky breath, almost at the point of tears. His brain was overloaded with pleasurable signals, unsure of what to do with all these good chemicals that now flooded his body and his mind. And so as he lay there, overwhelmed and thoroughly broken, Oliver did the only thing that made sense to him in the moment. He just laid his head back against the carpet and laughed.
It was going to be a long three weeks.
He languished in bed a few moments longer before reaching for his phone on the bedside table. The battery was dead. Just his luck. Oliver figured he must have forgotten to plug it in when he went to bed. But this thought gave him pause. How did he get to bed again? His memory was foggy. Surely he didn’t drink that much last night. He remembered getting McDonald’s and the cab ride back. Then he got home and…Wait, had Sarita been in his room? Oliver became aware of a dull ache in his knee. Suddenly he remembered. He’d tripped on the stairs and Sarita had helped him up. He recalled Sarita leading him to bed, her warm hand rubbing his back, her soft words lulling him to sleep. The memory was vague but undeniable.
Oliver patted himself down. He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. The fabric smelled of smoke and beer. But, curiously, his shoes and socks had been removed. It was possible that he might have kicked off his shoes while forgetting to take off anything else. But his socks? There was no way he’d have had the wherewithal to do that if he’d been as drunk as it seemed he had last night. Then that had to mean…
That’s when Oliver saw it. Lying there at the foot of his bed was a grey pigeon feather, glowing faintly in the soft light. Oliver felt a pit open in the deepest part of his stomach from which a thousand butterflies spilled forth.
“No fucking way…” he whispered aloud to himself.
Had Sarita taken off his shoes and socks and tickled his feet as he slept? It would explain why his dreams had been so vivid, and Oliver knew he hadn’t brought a feather home.
Part of Oliver was outraged. A boundary had clearly been crossed. He felt as though Sarita had taken advantage of him. The fact that she’d known exactly how to subdue him and successfully lulled him to sleep upon his return home unnerved him. Oliver had always believed himself to be smarter than the average bear, or at least savvier than most. The thought that he could be so easily manipulated and put to sleep like a fussy child bruised his ego terribly. It made him feel like an easy mark, gullible, like a Stormtrooper who could be mind tricked with little more than a hand passing before his eyes.
And yet…
And yet the idea that Sarita had been able to exert such control over him and took the opportunity to tickle his bare feet gave Oliver an intense sexual thrill. Oliver was nearly heartbroken to have slept through what was perhaps his most potent sexual fantasy: being controlled and tickled by his stern yet maternal housekeeper. His cheeks warmed at the thought of Sarita kneeling at the end of his bed and playing with his helpless feet. He could see it so clearly. The slow removal of his socks, the mischievous look she must have had on her face as she feathered his sleeping toes. Perhaps, Oliver thought, perhaps she’d even whispered a few teases under her breath, delighting in his ticklishness just as much as Oliver would have had he been awake. He wondered what how much she’d learned about his feet, what spots she’d chosen to linger on. This delectable image excited him to no end. God, he was horny. Oliver didn’t know if he’d ever been this aroused before. He could nearly feel his heartbeat through his underwear now and his stomach was aflutter with giddy excitement.
But as Oliver’s hand slipped beneath his waistband once more, a slight apprehension began to take hold. What could have prompted Sarita to do such a thing? Was it thrilling and sexy as all get out? Hell yes it was! But what had Sarita gotten out of it? Just yesterday they were sniping at each other and Oliver couldn’t imagine that their tense exchange the previous afternoon had left Sarita in a playful mood. So what would have compelled her to tickle his feet while he slept? The most appealing answer was that Sarita also had a tickle fetish and had chosen to indulge it while Oliver was in a vulnerable state. But what were the odds of that being true? The only other explanation was a bit more worrisome, that Sarita had done it for some nefarious purpose Oliver could not yet discern.
But this explanation only raised further questions. If Oliver worked off the assumption that she’d had some agenda in mind when she decided to tickle him as he slept, then that would mean that she knew about his tickle fetish. Oliver had never told a living soul about his love of tickling. It was his most closely guarded secret. One of his greatest fears (after spiders and heights) was that his tickle fetish might one day be discovered and ridiculed.
He remembered a boy at his boarding school that had made the mistake of leaving his phone out at an inopportune moment. A dorm mate snooped through it and found a stash of inflation fetish art. Word spread like wildfire through the student body and soon the whole school knew about it. The poor kid had been relentlessly bullied as a result. Oliver wasn’t proud of it, but he’d piled on with the rest of them at the time. It was preferable to be one of the crabs at the top of the bucket, he’d figured.
But there was no way Sarita could have known about his lust for tickling. Oliver racked his brain, tying himself in knots as he tried to find an answer to this riddle. The only time he’d ever articulated his desires in writing was when he’d commissioned a drawing from an artist online a few years ago. Even then he’d been careful, only communicating through a dummy email account and sending his payment anonymously. Even if Sarita had miraculously been privy to this correspondence, there was nothing in these messages that explicitly linked them to Oliver. The only possible explanation was that Sarita had somehow seen the drawing. But that…
“Oliver, can you come down here, please?” Sarita called out from downstairs.
Oliver withdrew his hand from his underwear with practiced speed. This was not the first time he’d been interrupted. But something about Sarita’s tone only excited him further, patient but amused. Confident.
“O-one second!” Oliver replied as he hastily gathered himself.
He put on a pair of comfortable flannel pajama pants and a wrinkled t-shirt he picked up off the floor. Still incredibly turned on, Oliver dawdled and tried to will his erection away. When he tried to decide whether or not to put on socks, his mind was flooded with fresh thoughts of Sarita taking them off again, which only inflamed his lust further. In the end, he elected to put them on, if only so that he may have an additional layer of armor entering what he knew would be a charged encounter.
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Oliver padded down the stairs in his socked feet and entered the living room. His jaw nearly dropped when he saw Sarita waiting there for him. She was reclining on the couch, a picture of ease, dressed in a purple silk sari. Her legs were crossed at the knee, allowing her shapely bare foot to poke out from under the hem of her garment. Wrapped around her ankle was a shiny anklet made up of tiny golden beads that softly jingled against one another with every movement of her leg. Oliver noticed that her nails were painted white, just as he’d always fantasized and had specified in his drawing. That was all the proof he needed. There was no denying it now; Sarita had seen the drawing. The very thought made Oliver draw inward with shame upon realizing that the housekeeper had discovered his secret. Yet, at the same time he desperately wanted to know what Sarita’s game was.
“Good morning sleepyhead,” Sarita smiled. “You got home awfully late last night. Did you sleep well?”
“Uh huh…” Words were hard for Oliver right now.
“You feeling alright? No hangover?” Sarita flexed her toes a little, immediately drawing Oliver’s eyes to her plump little piggies.
“No. No hangover.” His mouth was so dry. The bitter taste of adrenaline crept up the back of his tongue. “Did…did you…?” Oliver felt dumb. Years of education, acclaimed literature, vocabulary tests, and now he felt as though he only had command of ten odd words.
Sarita cocked her head to the side, as if she hadn’t quite heard him. “Did I what, honey?”
Honey? Sarita had never called Oliver honey before. In fact he couldn’t recall her ever speaking to him with any sort of affection. She’d been polite and respectful but he’d never known her to be playful or condescending like this. This was ridiculous. She was his housekeeper for Christ sake! How could he just let her reduce him to a stammering fool this easily? Oliver stood up a little straighter and cleared his throat, forcing his eyes away from Sarita’s foot to meet her amused gaze.
“Were you in my room last night?”
“Yes, I helped you to bed,” Sarita said, not missing a beat. “You were quite intoxicated last night and took a little tumble coming up the stairs. I helped you up and put you to bed.”
“What do you mean, ‘put me to bed?’” He hoped he sounded confident and tried to find his footing.
“Why just that. You were just so sleepy! As soon as your head hit the pillow you were out like a light.” Sarita giggled.
Well that’s a lie, Oliver thought. He remembered her hand on his back, gently pushing him into the mattress as her soft palm wandered up and down, ironing out any resistance.
“So I fell asleep? Just like that?” Oliver was feeling a little more confident now. If he could catch her in the lie then perhaps he could regain some kind of upper hand. “You didn’t do anything…?”
“Like what?” Sarita asked. She began to rotate her foot, arching it ever so slightly as it made tantalizing little circles in the air. “Lull you to sleep like a cranky little boy up past his bedtime? Seems a little silly, don’t you agree? You’re almost 21 years old, after all. I’d hope you wouldn’t be that susceptible to sleepy time techniques at your age. You had quite a bit to drink, after all. Is it so hard to believe you were just that tired?”
Oliver’s eyes were once again drawn to Sarita’s foot. It looked just as soft and plump as it had all those years ago when Oliver had spied on her phone call. Her nails looked freshly painted, a brilliant shock of white that stood in contrast to her skin. With each rotation of her foot she seemed to find new ways to draw him in further. She’d flex her toes and arch her foot at seemingly just the right moment, showing Oliver new wrinkles and details he’d never noticed before.
“Well?” Sarita asked, “Is it?”
Shit, what was she saying again? Oliver had totally spaced out. His brain was still waking up and his astronomical level of arousal was only muddying things further. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, hoping to hide the erection that was already stirring in his pajama pants. He forced his eyes away from her foot and cleared his throat.
“Uh, sure. Yeah.”
“Good!” Sarita chirped. “I’m glad you agree.” She looked at him now with mock concern, tsk’ing. “Is something the matter, Ollie? You seem…distracted.”
Sarita had said it so sweetly but Oliver instinctively understood that she knew exactly what she was doing. He couldn’t let on that she was getting to him but feared that ship may have already sailed. Under normal circumstances Oliver would never have tolerated being spoken to in such a manner by the help. And yet, there was a charge between them now that excited him greatly. He could sense the power balance shifting, could feel that control was slipping away from him. What scared Oliver most of all was how deeply it excited him. All he wanted to do was crawl over to Sarita on his hands and knees and rub his cheek against her soft, plush sole and give it the gentlest kiss.
But Oliver knew that the minute he admitted that he wanted this, that Sarita did in fact know what he liked, what buttons to push, there would be no way to put the genie back in the bottle. His judgment was clouded by lustful thoughts and the natural curiosity that came with what submitting to the dominant matron of his dreams might entail.
“No, uh, just not quite awake yet…” He reached into his pocket, fingers pinching the feather’s quill. “I wanted to ask about –“
“Speak up, Ollie. You’re mumbling.” Sarita said firmly, like a patient teacher at the blackboard.
Oliver swallowed and felt his ears grow hot.
“Don’t call me that.” He said. But whatever authority Oliver had tried to summon was noticeably absent in his tone. It came out as more of a whine. “Only my mama – I mean…only my mom calls me ‘Ollie.’” Shit, he sounded so pathetic. What was happening to him?
“Oh!” Sarita’s hand flew to her chest. “My mistake, honey. You said you wanted to ask me something?”
Sarita was still leisurely rotating her foot. Her anklet was gleaming in the sun now, the shiny beads catching the light and reflecting it into Oliver’s eyes. He found himself blinking more and more. It was so hard to focus on anything else. He just wanted to watch her elegant foot sway this way and that, memorize every inch and digit. Oliver was unspeakably horny, his mind fogged by erotic thoughts. He desperately needed to run back upstairs, jump into bed, and finish himself off so he could think clearly. Yes, that would solve everything. The air felt so thick and his mind was swimming. The light that glinted off of Sarita’s anklet only dizzied him further, flashing away any and all critical thoughts that he tried to conjure. There was something he’d wanted to ask Sarita. God, what was it again?
“Y-uh…yes. I did…” Oliver retrieved the feather from his pajama pocket and held it up for Sarita to see. “Do you know anything about this?”
“About feathers?” Sarita chuckled. “Plenty. What do you want to know?”
“I, uh, found it in my room at the foot of my bed. I just want to know how it got there.”
“And you think I left it there?”
Oliver wished he could stand up straighter and muster his resolve, but the growing erection in his pajama bottoms had forced him to stand at a strange angle
“Yes. I do.”
Sarita sat forward and crossed her legs, tucking her feet under her, briefly giving Oliver a reprieve from the titillating distraction. She held out her hand expectantly, like a mother requesting to see what her child has hidden behind their back.
“Show me.”
Oliver crossed the room without thinking. Sarita patted the spot beside her on the couch and Oliver sat down obediently. He realized he’d been holding his breath and let out a shaky exhale as he felt his weight sink into the couch. He stared at Sarita’s open palm. It looked smooth to the touch, surprising given the nature of her work. He gently placed the feather in her hand.
“Good boy.” Sarita smiled.
A wave of pleasure rolled through Oliver’s body at her praise. If he had any qualms with being spoken to this way he did not voice them. Oliver watched, mesmerized, as Sarita pinched the feather’s quill between her fingers and held it aloft for closer inspection. She handled it delicately, as though it might shatter if mistreated.
“As a matter of fact, I do know this feather,” Sarita said with feigned surprise. Holding it by the quill, she slowly pulled the feather through her pinched fingers from base to tip. Oliver watched as the feather’s soft barbs narrowed and bloomed as it ran between her fingers, noticing for the first time just how soft and yielding it was in her experienced hand. “Yes, I remember now. I thought it might help you sleep. Not that you needed any help…”
Oliver swallowed. He was hanging on her every word. He knew she was baiting him, inviting him to ask what such a method might entail. Oliver already knew the answer, but at this moment he wanted nothing more than to hear Sarita say the words.
“And how…how would the feather help me sleep?”
“Well,” Sarita began, running the feather over her soft, open palm, “when I was a little girl, I sometimes had trouble getting to sleep. My parents tried all sorts of things: teas, lullabies, and remedies. But nothing could help me sleep. Then, my mother remembered a technique that had helped her drift off when she had been my age.”
Oliver felt something warm press against the side of his leg. He nearly jumped when he glanced down and saw that Sarita’s foot was ever so gently touching his thigh. Oliver was practically vibrating with excitement, a bead of precum already darkening the tip of the tent that was forming in his pajama pants. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Oliver crossed his legs, hoping to keep Sarita from noticing the growing situation down below.
“You see,” Sarita went on, “when my mother was little she’d had a similar problem. She couldn’t sleep.”
Sarita briefly pressed her warm toes into Oliver’s thigh before shifting her weight and uncrossing her legs. Now she braced her left foot against the raised knee of her right leg, positioning it so that her soft and supple sole was now just a few tantalizing inches away from Oliver’s face. The boy’s eyes were wide as saucers and his breathing grew shallower with every passing moment. The muscles in his thighs began to twitch from adrenaline, knees rigid.
“So to help her drift off, my grandmother would sit at the end of the bed at night and just run the tip of a feather over her foot. Like this…”
Then lightly, ever so lightly, Sarita began to run the feather over her impossibly soft looking sole. The movement was led from her wrist, a practiced gesture, just tracing over every wrinkle and slope of her sole with the soft tip of the feather. Oliver had never seen her feet up close like this before and he was astounded by the obvious care and attention they’d received. He couldn’t identify one flaw. Her toes were perfectly proportioned, dexterous stalks with plump, rounded ends. There was not a single fleck of dead skin on her heel and the ball of her foot was rosy and smooth.
“It worked like a charm. So my mother did the same for me. She’d sit at the end of my bed and just slowly drag this feather along my foot over and over and over again until I’d drift off to sleep. After only a few nights, she no longer needed the feather and I’d just fall asleep on my own. But I kept the feather, as a reminder of my mother’s love. It helps me feel close to her and my grandmother. I thought perhaps, that it might help you sleep as well…”
Sarita smiled as she saw the boy’s mouth drop open, his lips slowly parting to allow a puff of warm breath to escape. There was a faraway look in his eye now that reminded Sarita of the chickens she as her sister used to hypnotize in their youth. It isn’t hard to entrance a chicken. As it turned out it hadn’t been that much more difficult to bring Oliver to this state either.
“So I took off your shoes and socks, sat by your feet and just…did…this…”
Sarita kept the feather moving, watching with a dark glee as Oliver’s eyes closely followed the feather’s tip as it swished and swirled over her plump, immaculate sole. A Swedish Volleyball team could run naked through the house at that very moment and Oliver’s eyes would still remain fixed on the feather roaming over Sarita’s foot.
“But within seconds I knew this wouldn’t be suitable for your little feet.” Sarita purred.
“W-why not…?” Oliver’s head was swimming, his body a live wire. He felt as though he’d drunk a whole pot of coffee on an empty stomach. His rigid cock strained against his crossed leg. At this point, a strong breeze could finish him off.
“I think you know why, young man,” Sarita said, moving in for the kill. “Do you want to say it or should I?”
Oliver’s mouth was so dry his tongue may as well have been low-grade sandpaper. Words were failing him. He’d never imagined a moment such as this were possible and was woefully unprepared to be confronted with his greatest fantasy. Had he relieved himself with a few quick pumps upon waking perhaps he’d be thinking more critically, might remove himself from this situation. But he was well and truly spellbound now. Even if things progressed no further than this, Oliver would revisit this moment again and again with his preferred hand for the rest of his life. And if he did, he’d forever be haunted by the possibilities of what may have come next. There was no hope in turning away, even if he wanted to.
“Come on, Ollie.” Sarita coaxed, never once slowing the movement of the feather. “Because…”
“Because…” Oliver said, barely above a whisper, “…because I’m ticklish.” Saying it out loud gave Oliver a rush unlike any other he’d felt. He felt goose pimples raise along his neck and arms, prickling his scalp. His heart was pounding in his chest. Holy shit, this is happening.
“That’s right,” Sarita said as she pulled the feather away from her foot. She pointed it at Oliver now, twirling it between her fingers. Oliver’s eyes widened as he stared rapt at the spinning feather. “I just gave your feet the softest little tickle. And do you know what happened? You giggled in your sleep. It was the cutest little giggle. I barely had to touch you and you just melted into the mattress. I can only imagine what sort of response I would have gotten out of those soft widdle feet had you been awake. I bet you can imagine it too…”
Sarita arched an eyebrow as she glanced down at his lap. Oliver’s cheeks grew hot as he squirmed in his seat. It was all too much. The lapse into baby talk crumbled what was left of his admittedly meager defenses. He was trembling like a small dog before Sarita now. The brat who had threatened her just a day before was nowhere to be seen.
“Seems I’m getting quite a reaction already,” she smirked. “Aw, Ollie. You’re trembling. Whatsa matter? Are you scared of the tickle monster? Or…wait. Is it that you want to meet her?”
“I…I want…oh god…” he breathed as a small shudder ran through his body. This was it. “Sarita, please, I…” He could barely say the words.
“Please, what?” Sarita cooed. She had him now. She placed the fingers of her free hand under his chin, gently pushing upward so that he was forced to meet her gaze. His eyes shone with excitement and confusion. He was putty in Sarita’s hands. Her plan was working far better than she’d ever dreamed and she could no longer hide her hungry smile.
“Please…” Oliver breathed, his teeth nearly chattering from excitement. “Please tickle me.”
“Again.” Sarita commanded. “Say it again, Ollie. Ask nice.”
“Please…” he whined, “tickle me. Oh god, please tickle me!”
“Are you sure?” Sarita asked, “Because once the tickle monster gets a taste of you she’ll only want more. She’s insatiable. And she loves to tickle naughty boys like you most of all. She loves making them giggle and squirm and beg. She’ll find all your tickle spots. Every. Single. One. She’ll find spots you didn’t even know you had and exploit them until you cry and plead for her to stop. There’ll be no use keeping secrets from the tickle monster, no place in this house you can hide. It’ll be weeks before your parents get home. Are you sure you want to spend those weeks locked in the house with such a tickler? I don’t know if you could handle it…”
She was describing his fantasy to a T. Oliver couldn’t imagine anything better. If he’d had a firmer grasp of his critical faculties he may have detected that something was off and understood what he was really agreeing to. But Oliver wasn’t thinking of the consequences now.
“Yes! Yes, I’m sure.” He hoped he didn’t sound too eager. He’d all but leapt out of his seat.
Sarita grinned and put the feather down. “Then lie on the floor for me.”
Oliver slipped off the couch with alarming speed and lay on the carpeted floor. Sarita could see his shirt twitching ever so slightly from his elevated heartbeat. Oliver shimmied the top half of his body under the glass table in front of the couch. He lay on his back. From his position, Oliver could see Sarita sitting on the couch above him through the glass. If he tried to sit up now his head would hit the underside of the table. He had some leeway but would have to work at getting out from under it. All the while, he’d have an unobstructed view of his tickler.
Sarita scooted to the end of the couch and patted her legs. Oliver obediently placed his socked feet in her lap, knees bent, butt pressed against the base of the couch. Sarita then tucked her right foot under her left leg, trapping his feet in the crook of her bent knee. Her left foot, which she now swung back and forth, teased Oliver under the table. With each swing it seemed to get closer and closer to his face, but swung back each time just before it could make contact.
“Is Ollie ready for his tickle time?” Sarita cooed.
“Yes,” Oliver whispered. In a matter of minutes his world had shrunk dramatically. Everything that mattered to him now was contained within this room.
Sarita had him. Time to have her fun. She spoke to him softly as she began running her open palms up and down his socked feet. She could feel his toes twitching invitingly under her touch.
“Oh fuck…” Oliver breathed, already bucking his hips as he squirmed under Sarita’s gentle touch.
“Before we get started I just need to ask you a few questions. After all, every boy is different. I need to know how to tickle you properly, don’t I?”
Oliver nodded quickly, biting his lip. He shut his eyes, attempting to prepare himself for what he knew was coming.
“Good boy. Now, tell Sarita, who in your life would you say made you feel the most ticklish…” As she spoke, Sarita began dragging the index fingers of each hand up and down the length of their respective soles. She felt Oliver’s feet jerk away from her touch but they didn’t get far, firmly snug tight in the crook of her leg.
“W-whehen I wahahas lihihittle…” Oliver was already giggling. Why bother hiding at this point? His feet were extraordinarily sensitive. It had been years since he’d been tickled. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time it had happened. The only thing that came to mind was… “My…my aunt, shehehe used to tihihickle mehehe when she bahahabeheheeesat…”
As a little kid, Oliver’s parents hadn’t been able to take him along on their business trips. They knew better, having sat through many a baby’s tantrum on international flights. And so Oliver often found himself staying at his Aunt Maddie’s apartment while his parents went away. His grandparents had been very strict with his mother and Aunt Maddie growing up. When Oliver misbehaved, Maddie hadn’t had the heart to punish him the way her parents had punished her and her sister in their youth. And so she had resorted to tickle torture to keep the young boy in line.
Often, to keep things light, she’d make a game of it. Maddie would chase him through the house and snuggle him tight before tickling Oliver hysteric in her admittedly expansive lap. His parents had never been the touchy-feely type, and he found that he delighted in the hands-on punishment of his sweetly sadistic aunt. In time, Oliver had come to look forward to his visits.
In many ways, Oliver was closer to his Aunt than just about anyone else in the world. Nearly all of his fondest childhood memories were of Maddie tickling him to tears, cooing at him sweetly all the while. Sadly, she had passed away just before his 10th birthday and Oliver never quite recovered from her death. But now, for the first time since her passing, Oliver felt that same giddy excitement rising in his chest as Sarita slowly dragged her index fingers up and down his twitching feet.
“Aw, I bet you loved tickle time with your auntie, didn’t you?”
“Yehehehehehehessssss! I lohohohohohoved ihihihihit!”
“I’m sure you did, my little giggler. Tell me, how would she tickle you? What was it about your auntie that made you feel soooo unbearably tickawish? Come now, tell Sarita alllll your tickly little secrets…”
For the first time since he’d walked into the room, real doubts had begun to form in Oliver’s mind. There was something about the way she’d said it that briefly reminded him that this whole encounter was not exactly on the up and up. But those worries were quickly subsumed by the ticklish signals that now flooded his brain as Sarita added an additional finger to each foot, now walking two of them up and down his soles.
“Shehehehee wohohohould plahahahay gahahahames wihihith meheheheeee. Mahahahahake mehehehe feheheheelll smahahahall ahahahand hehehelplehehessss.”
Sarita gave an affirmative little hum and nodded knowingly.
“Well, of course she did! You were so much smaller than her back then. I bet your auntie had no trouble overpowering you, did she? You poor thing! I bet there was no getting away from her once she got her hands on you, was there? She’d just tickle, and tickle, and tickle…”
Sarita’s fingers yielded fresh giggles from the boy with every spot they touched. She gently drew little circles on the ball of his foot with her fingernail and experimentally swept the pad of her index finger over his arch. It seemed that she unearthed new levels of sensitivity with each stoke and scratch of her assured fingers. And she hadn’t even taken off his socks yet!
“Hehehehehehehehehehehe! Ohohohohohohohhhh gohohohohohod ihihihihit tihihihihihckles! Ihihit tihihihihickles sohohohohoooo muhuhuhuhuch!” Oliver shook his head, the laughter flowing freely now.
“Aww, does it tickle? Does widdle Ollie have tickly feet? I think he doesss! Coochie coochie coo! Oh no! Did mean ol’ Sarita find a sensitive spot? I bet your auntie used to tease you when she played tickle with you, didn’t she?”
Having now lapsed into babyish tickle talk, Sarita felt a dark thrill when she saw the immediate effect it had on the giggling boy beneath her. Oliver struggled with renewed vigor against her hold as his laughter jumped an octave.
“Ahahahahalllll thehehehehe tihihihihime! Nahahahahahahahahah!”
“And when she tickled you did she tawk to you wike disssss?”
“Yehehehehehesssss!”
Sarita’s plan was working far better than she could have ever imagined. Oliver’s defenses had crumbled without much effort. But Sarita knew she needed to be careful and, most of all, patient. The carrot needed to come before the stick. She had weeks with the brat, hours upon hours to mold him into her perfect, obedient toy. And if her tickle time with him thus far were any indication, it wouldn’t take long to get him there.
“Such sensitive little feetsies! Just look at you. All it took was a couple of fingers and some silly speak and you just fell to pieces, huh? If I knew you were this ticklish I’d have coochied you much much sooner. Who would have thought this whole time I only needed to do…this!”
Sarita brought all ten fingers to his soles now, spidering and fluttering them over all the sensitive spots that Oliver had revealed to her through her careful examination. She jumped when she heard Oliver throw his head back against the floor as his body convulsed in a spasm of hysterical laughter.
“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAOOOOOH SHIHIHIHIHIT! Ohohohohohohohoho mihihihihihihihi gahahahahahahad! Stahahahahahahahap! Wahahahahahahait! Sahahahahaharihihihitttttahahahahaha! Nohohohohohohohohoho! STAHAHAHAP IHIHIHIHIT!”
“Stawp? Stawp? But you wanted tickles! And what Ollie wants, Ollie gets. Doesn’t he? Doesn’t he? Aww, wook at the happy boy enjoying his tickle time! His cheeks are sooo wed! All from a few widdle tickles on his tootsies. You should be careful. Didn’t you know there’s a tickle monster about? Oh the things she’d do to these sensitive widdle feet! Can you imagine what would happen if Gitsy Geetha ever got a hold of you? I bet you can. Oh, you’d just laugh your silly little head off. Don’t worry, Mama will keep them safe and snug wight heeeere…”
Oliver’s dream briefly came back to him in a series of small glimpses. He remembered Gitsy Geetha’s cauldron, the warmth of her lair, the feather teasing out all his sensitive spots. For a moment he felt like he was back there again, giggling helplessly in her pot as she feathered his feet pink with her feather. Oliver pounded the floor with his fists and shook his head from side to side.
“Noooohohohohohhohooooo! Shehehehehehehe ihihihihihihsn’t rehehehehealllll!”
“Oh yes she is, sweetie! Gitsy Geetha is very real. Maybe I could introduce you to her sometime! I bet she’d love you to pieces. How’d you like that, huh? Huh?”
Oliver, for his part, was having a blast, blissfully unaware of his tickler’s true intentions. What luck, he thought, to have found such a proficient and enthusiastic tickler. It was all he’d dreamed of and more. The thought of Sarita exploiting his weakness for weeks to come was almost too good to be true. Images flashed behind his eyes of the many ways Sarita could tickle him silly in every room of the house. Sarita’s sadistic, expert technique coupled with her maternal and playful teasing was almost too much to bear. It all just tickled so much!
“Nohohohohohohohoooo Gihihihihitseeheheheeeee! Ihihihihihi dohohohohon’t wahahahahahanananahahaha meeehehehehehet heheheher! Shehehehehehe’ll tihihihihihckle meeeeeehehehehehehehe!”
“But I thought you liked being tickled, Ollie. You asked for this, wemember? I think this silly billy needs a widdle help making up his mind.”
At this, Sarita began focusing on Oliver’s arches, spidering her nails up and down with speed and precision. The tips of her white nails were making the lightest contact with the skin, but taken all at once the effect was devastating. To Oliver it felt as though dozens of little gnats were buzzing against his arches and giving them little kisses.
“Uh oh! Seems the tickle bugs have found a new trail!”
“Ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! Gohohohohddddahahahammihitt stahahahahahahahap!”
It was unbearable. In Oliver’s fantasies the tickling itself had largely been digested through aesthetics: hysterical faces, bare feet, light bondage, a clear power dynamic between the lee and the ler. But having not been tickled in some time, Oliver’s own ticklishness hadn’t really been factored into his fantasies. The real meat of it lied in giving up control; the tickling was a means to an end. Oliver thought he knew what he wanted, but now that he was here, he realized just how ticklish his feet really were. It wasn’t quite torture, not yet, but he could feel his limit would soon be reached. It didn’t seem possible, but it was as if his feet were becoming more and more sensitive with every flutter of Sarita’s fingers.
“Wooks like the tickle bugs are making a new home in Giggle Gwove! Just look at all of them scurrying about…”
Even more pressing was the situation that was developing down below. Oliver was explosively turned on. His erection was throbbing, precum now freely dribbling from the tip. Oliver’s shirt had begun to ride up, revealing the head of his penis, which now peeked out over the waistband of his pajamas. Realizing this, Oliver instinctively reached for it. As his hand moved toward his engorged member, he felt Sarita’s hands pull away from his feet.
“Huh…” Oliver mumbled, dazed. He felt lightheaded from laughter, his vision blurry from the tears that had begun to form in the corners of his eyes. He looked up at Sarita through the bottom of the glass table, noting her crossed arms and stern expression.
“No touching.” Sarita intoned
“But…but…” He was pleading with her now. Oliver had reached a nearly painful level of arousal. Desire had transmuted into need. He bucked his hips pathetically, whining as he felt the taut waistband of his PJs press against his erection, fabric moving ever so slightly against the sensitive underside of the head as he writhed.
“You can only touch yourself when I say, understand? That’s the rule from now on. If I find out that you’ve relieved yourself without my express permission, all of this goes away. No more tickle time, no more teases. You play by my rules. And if you do…”
Sarita swung her left foot back toward Oliver, resting it on his desperately leaking cock. The pressure of it alone nearly sent him over the edge. Oliver threw his head back and let out a deep, guttural moan.
“Ungh fuck…”
“Now, be a good boy and put your hands behind your back for me. Come on…”
Oliver compiled, arching his back and slipping his hands under him as if they’d be handcuffed. He let out a little grunt as his weight settled on his arms. He was trembling.
“Good boy. Now keep them there.” And with that, Sarita began to remove his socks.
Maybe it was his nervousness at what new levels of ticklishness his bare feet might reveal, perhaps it was the fact that Sarita had now seen (some of) his erect penis and was touching it with her foot, but Oliver had a sudden moment of clarity. What was happening here? How had he gotten into this position? Yes, he was having fun; in fact he was damn near blissful from living out his fantasy so exactly. Just minutes ago putting his feet in Sarita’s lap had felt like his idea, something he’d been invited to do. But now she was telling him what to do and when to do it? Giving him permission?
On the one hand, Oliver desperately wanted to see where this went. Sarita was such an expert tickler and Oliver’s mind reeled with fresh fantasies of hysterical submission. But what was the end game? Suddenly Oliver realized just how vulnerable he was. He’d revealed himself to Sarita, or at least confirmed what she already knew. At once his greatest fantasy and worst nightmare, the possibility that Sarita could legitimately use his fetish against him was now palpably real.
“H-hey, Sarita? Can I ask…?” He tried to sit up but the table kept him down. The angle was awkward and Oliver couldn’t get leverage. He tried to pull his ankles away but realized with mounting dread that they were truly secured in Sarita’s lap.
“Shhhh, quiet now…” Sarita whispered as her fingers pinched around Oliver’s ankles, searching for the elastic mouth his socks. She flexed her soft toes against his cock, forcing a small moan from the man as his eyes rolled back. Sarita bunched the elastic lip of his socks between her fingers and began to tug them away from Oliver’s tensing feet. The sock rolled down his ankle and over his heel, slowly pulled inside out as Oliver’s feet were bared an inch at a time.
“I just – I think, uh…” Oliver stammered. He knew that his sensitivity would double now his feet were bared and the reality of his exposure had caused a potent spike of anxiety in his chest. “We should talk about, you know, uh, like, what…”
“Oh, we tried talking yesterday. Don’t you remember?” Sarita spoke authoritatively now. The playful tone had abated. “And you were not very nice.”
“Yeah, listen, I’m sorry. I, uh, obviously things are different now. Right? I think, you know…” It was a long shot, but maybe he could talk his way out of his…
“Oh yes,” Sarita nodded, “things are different now.” With a final tug, the socks slipped free from Oliver’s feet. Squinting, Sarita flicked a few specks of link from his freshly bared toes and soles. Even this brief contact caused Oliver to let out a little yelp. Oh god, they were more sensitive than he’d feared.
“You threatened to get me fired, Ollie, to frame me for a crime. That’s no joke.” Her tone was gravely serious. But then Sarita considered the ticklish soles in front of her and a warm smile crept across her face. “But you’re going to laugh for me, aren’t you?” Sarita purred, now lapsing into her babying tone again.
“Oh n-AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH SHIT! SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIHIHIHIHIHIT!”
Sarita went full on now, dancing all ten fingers up and down his writhing feet. She dug the fingertips of one hand into his toes and wiggled them about, being sure to drag the tips of her fingernails along the sensitive crevices between his toes. Sarita brought the fingers of her other hand into a small claw-like shape and scratched feverishly at the heel of his opposite foot. The reaction was explosive and immediate, his frenzied laughter spiking further as Sarita doubled down on the tickle talk.
“How lucky that the naughty boy has such tickawish widdle feetsies for mama to play with! It’s the only way you’ll learn, because that’s what happens to bad widdle boys wike you. They get tickled, and tickled, and tickled until they’re well behaved little gentlemen. Would you like that? Would you like to be a good boy for me?”
Oliver screeched, rolling this way and that on his back as he tried to pull his feet away from his maternal captor. His bare feet were ridiculously ticklish. Oliver could now recall just how quickly he’d folded in his youth when Aunt Maddie had gone for his bare feet. He’d never lasted long under her nimble fingers and would make all sorts of promises to make her stop. Though Maddie would be sure to have her fun, she’d respect his wishes before too long, never pushing their tickle time beyond the point of “funishment.” But this was different. Oliver knew he was in serious trouble now.
“You bihihihitch!” he shrieked from under the table, tears leaking from his eyes as his face turned a darker shade of red. “You bihihihitch!”
Sarita tsk’d and shook her head solemnly as she itched her thumbs up and down the center of his soles to devastating effect.
“Such naughty language from a naughty boy! Looks like it’ll take a few more hours of tickles to put you in your place. But don’t you worry little one, you’re going to be so well behaved for me by the time the tickle monster is done with you. Oh yes you will! Yes you will! Just you wait and see…”
A few more HOURS? Oliver didn’t think he could even last one more minute. Sarita was relentless, her fingers knew just how much pressure to apply and exactly how long to linger on each and every spot. He could feel his limit rising up to meet him fast. The sensations had begun to blur together, his feet radiating with a singular, violent sensitivity. The worst part was that despite Oliver’s predicament, he could still feel himself growing more and more turned on with every touch of her hand and sugary sweet tease. His giggles had turned to laughter and now his laughter had escalated into shrieks.
“EEEEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHAHAHAHAHAHA! Lehehehet mehehehehe gohohohohohoooo! Gehehehehehahahahahaha stahahahahahahahp ihihihihit! Ihihihihihihi’ll teheheheheheehllll ohohohohon yohohohohou! Ihihihihihihihi’ll tehehehehell eheheheheheveryohohohohohone whahahahat youhohohoho dihihihihihid!”
Sarita seemed totally unbothered, the pads of her fingers now teasing the bulbous ends of his toes, causing Oliver to arch his back in renewed hysterical torment.
“Awww, you’re gonna tell on me? Go wight ahead, Ollie. You can tell everyone how your mean ol’ housekeeper tickled your widdle piggies until you cwied. Are you gonna them how you asked me, begged me for tickle time but couldn’t handle it because you’re just too tickawish? In fact, I technically work for you, don’t I? How do you think that would that look? Why, I only tickled the naughty boy because he wanted me to. And given the power dynamics at play, perhaps I feared he’d retaliate against me if I said no and take away my livelihood. It’s the twooth! If anything heeeeee took advantage of meeeeeeeee. I had no choice but to gitchy him over, and over and over again until he agreed to a good widdle boy. Isn’t that right?”
Oliver was at war with himself. He was in heaven but it tickled like hell, at once desperate for Sarita to stop but excited by the possibilities of further tickling in the future. Knowing Sarita was right only added to his sense of helplessness, which in turn made him ever hornier. It was a vicious cycle of laughter and lust. Oliver had very little recourse. Really, what could he do? He’d looked up tickle videos on the family computer when he was young; his parents definitely had an inkling of what he was into. If he did tell them what happened, it was highly likely that his parents would believe Sarita’s version of events. As it stood, she likely had more credibility with them than he currently did, especially once they found out about his college suspension. He was screwed.
“IHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHI’M SOHOHOHOHORRRREEEEE! IHIHIHIHHI’M SOHOHOHOHOHOOOO SHOHOHOHORRRRRRYYYYYYEEEHEHEHEEE! JUHUHUHUHST STAHAHAHAHAHAHAP! IHIHIHIHIHIHI CAHAHAHAHAN’T TAHAHAHAHAHAHAKE IHIHIHIHIHIHIHIT AHAHAHAHANYYYYYMOHOHOHORE!”
He was clawing at the carpet now, desperately trying to kick his feet free from Sarita’s lap. This only amused Sarita further, leading her to laugh at his futile attempts to wriggle free from her ticklish hold.
“Oh! Look at the naughty boy kick! Kick! Kick! Kick! Awww, just like a tickawwy widdle bunny wabbit! Are you Mama’s tickly widdle bunny? Huh? Are you? Are you my happy little bun bun? I think you arrrrre!” Sarita was having more fun than she’d anticipated. She’d always known that this stage of her plan would be the thorniest to execute, but Oliver’s susceptibility to her particular brand of tickle torture had exceeded her expectations. Everything was going according to plan.
“NAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
Oliver was approaching the edge of delirium now. His high-pitched shrieks had devolved into helpless babbling. He grabbed on to the legs of the glass table, which were thick and sturdy, hoping he might get the leverage needed to pull away from Sarita’s maddening tease. But Oliver was exhausted – both from his night out as well as his current ordeal – and couldn’t muster the strength. He was still dehydrated from last night and hadn’t taken a sip of water since he’d woken up. A headache was brewing behind his eyes, which were pinched shut from forced laughter. Even with his eyes closed he could see Sarita so clearly in his mind: his motherly captor smiling down at him knowingly as her fingers expertly extracted every last giggle and squeal she could from his wriggling soles. He bucked and kicked and squirmed desperately upon the ground. But try as he might, Oliver could not pull his feet away from Sarita.
“EHEHEHEHEHEHEAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” He didn’t even bother trying to form words anymore. All he could do was lay there and laugh until Sarita decided he’d had enough. Oliver’s neck had turned crimson, his throat hoarse from laughter and squeals.
Sarita could feel Oliver’s aching cock pulsing against the bottom of her foot. He was going to explode any minute now but she needed it to happen on her terms to really cement the association in his mind between her tickles and this potent mix of arousal and submission.
“Do you want me to stawppppp?”
“YEHEHEHEHEHEHESSSSS! IHIHIHIHHIHIHI’LL DOHOHOHOHOOOO AHAHAHAHANYTHIHIHIHING!”
“Aaaaaannnnnnything?” Sarita cooed, her fingernails scraping rapidly along his arches.
“YEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHSSSSS!”
“Then repeat after me…” Sarita slowed down now, softening her touch as well as her tone. She actually needed Oliver to be capable of saying the words. “I’m a naughty little bunny…”
“Ihihihihihhihi’m ahahahahaha nahahahahahaughteeeheeeee lihihihihittle buhuhuhuhunnnyyyy!” Oliver didn’t even blink. Had his cheeks not already been cherry red they’d have flushed with embarrassment. This was humiliating. But Oliver was beyond that now. He didn’t care. He just needed a break.
“And I deserve to be tickled…”
A moment’s hesitation from Oliver led to renewed aggression from Sarita’s fingers. She bent back the toes of his right foot and began raking her fingernails up and down his taut sole, leaning in so close that he could feel her hot breath against it. This was all the motivation he needed.
“GAHAHAHA! Ahahahahand Ihiihihihihiihihi….Ihihihihihihi deserveeeheeeeehehehehehe tohohohohoho beheheheheeee tihihihihihckled!”
Feeling his cock throb beneath her foot once again, Sarita eased up, now lightly scratching at his heels again. She wanted to show that she could be merciful when Oliver behaved.
“Good boy! Keep going. Come on, baby. ‘I love being tickled. My soles belong to Sarita…’”
Oliver bit his lip and grunted in pleasure at her praise. Now that the tickles had lessened in their intensity the pendulum had swung back from the torturous to the erotic. If all he had to do to feel this good was just do what Sarita said…
“I lohohohohohove beheheheheing tihihihihickled! Mihihihihi shohohoholes behehehelohohohong tohohohoho Sahahaharihihita!”
“She tickles me when I’m good…”
“Shehehehehe tihihihihickles meheheheeee whehehen Ihihihi’m gohohohood…”
“And she tickles me when I’m bad…”
“Ahahahahand shehehehehe tihihihickles mehehehehe whehehehen Ihihihihi’m bahahahahad!”
“So I always do what she says…”
“Sohohohohoho I ahahahahalwahahahays dohohohohooo whahahahat sheheheheee sahahahahys!”
“Because what Sarita says is best!”
“Beheheheehcahahahahause whahahahahat Sahahahahrihihihita sahahahays ihihihihis behehehehest! Ahahahahahahahahahahahaha!”
Sarita smiled down at her babbling charge. He was a mess, reduced to nothing more than a helpless puddle of giggles beneath the table below. There was no more fight left in him and Sarita knew it. It was time. She lightened her touch even further now, just lightly kissing Oliver’s trembling soles with her fingertips.
“Do you pwomisssssse?”
Oliver sucked air into his lungs, giggles still tumbling from his open mouth as if they’d been running for the exit. He was delirious, sweaty and breathless. No thoughts remained, no pride, no ego, and certainly no dignity. Oliver just giggled helplessly under her touch, desperate to do whatever Sarita asked of him.
“Ye-hehehehe-yehehehesss. I prohohohomise! Plehehehease…”
“Good boy! You’re such a good little bunny for Mama, aren’t you?”
Oliver nodded lamely, a small whine escaping him as Sarita began moving her soft foot in a circle, massaging his dribbling cock through his pajama pants. Oliver threw his head back, and took a deep, desperate breath in through his nose, bucking against her circling sole.
“Then let’s sign on the dotted line…”
With that Sarita picked up the feather, which had been resting beside her on the couch, and turned the quill toward his pinkened soles. She dragged the quill along each foot in a long looping motion, signing her property.
“Mama…Sarita’s…ticklish…widdle…bunny…” She said aloud haltingly to herself as she signed each foot, making sure to take her time to really drive it home.
Oliver was set off again by the ticklish signature but had no more energy to thrash about. He just lay there and took it like the naughty boy he was.
“Neehehehee…ehehehehehehehehe…unfff!”
Sarita’s foot kept moving in a steady circle. She flexed her toes against his cock through his PJs as she slowly built the orgasm he’d been aching for this whole time.
“Do you want to cum?” Sarita sing-songed.
Oliver’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. Was she kidding? Of course he did!
“Yuh – ungh, fuck - yes!” he groaned.
“The beg me. Beg Sarita nice.”
“Please – gah! – please Sarita, please…” he whimpered, “please let me cum. Please, oh please, oh please…”
With that, Sarita began to massage his feet, humming approvingly as she pressed her thumbs into his soles and rubbed against his arch, applying just the right amount of pressure to elicit another grunt of pleasure from the broken boy.
“Then come for me,” Sarita coaxed, “come for Mama…”
It happened before she could even finish the sentence. Oliver bucked hard, his back arching off the floor. His head lolled to one side and his eyes rolled back in his skull, letting out a guttural cry that melted into a moan. There was the eruption, which was almost too intense, followed by the warm pulsing trickle that pooled on his stomach. Like most things worth waiting for, it was over very quickly.
“That’s it…that’s my good boy. Being so good for me…” Sarita smiled, victorious. He belonged to her now. Sure, he needed a few more sessions with the tickle monster before he could be properly conditioned to her touch, but that was as great a start as any. She patted his feet and was satisfied by the way they jumped even at this brief touch.
Oliver just lay beneath the table and let out a shaky breath, almost at the point of tears. His brain was overloaded with pleasurable signals, unsure of what to do with all these good chemicals that now flooded his body and his mind. And so as he lay there, overwhelmed and thoroughly broken, Oliver did the only thing that made sense to him in the moment. He just laid his head back against the carpet and laughed.
It was going to be a long three weeks.
