Po Lazarus
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This is the fifth in a series I will be writing and sharing here on the fiction forum. As the title suggests they are instances from my life that almost belong on the ‘True Stories’ sub-forum (My favourite TMF area), but which I cannot in good conscience put on there and claim verisimilitude: they are based on real people (Names changed) and often on real situations and conversations, but I have embellished certain details, some related to the tickling, some related to the set up or other aspects of the anecdote. Some are exaggerations of real tickling incidents, some are fantasies thrust into my brain due to real happenings which could have gone that way, if the stars had aligned more or I had had a bit less inhibition at the time. I will not reveal which to the reader, I will simply write them as I wished they had happened, and how I sometimes think of them on those lonely, sexually frustrated nights that we all experience (Which I am experiencing a deluge of at present, as due to unfortunate circumstances that I won’t go into, I am living separately from my fiancé, which has spurred me to take a renewed interest in the TMF, and in erotic writing generally. I guess if you enjoy the stories, my loss is your gain!). They will all be presented autobiographically, in short story form. I hope you enjoy them. Feel free to leave feedback of course, just remember to be as respectful to me as I would always strive to be to you!
January 2022 Update: I’m stuck living apart from my fiancé again (Long, pandemic related story), so have dusted the writing off and thought I might as well share it where it may be read and appreciated. I hope you enjoy it, and would appreciate any feedback – a one word review is more helpful than no review at all!
The opening part of this story is 100% true, which is why I’ve split the story into two parts, to differentiate between ‘True’ and ‘Almost’. I don’t normally do this for this reason, but since it’s such a weird thing to happen it feels remiss not to flag it up as true; I’m lucky it happened to me and want to report it in its full context. The second part is my usual M.O. for this series – my imagination allowed to run riot over a separate incident, loosely based on the truth.
(And for the British readers out there who may be wondering from the title: Yes – I have changed the name of the girl who this happened with to ‘Priti’, because she looked like Priti Patel – the most ideologically-odious-yet-simultaneously-bangable member of the Conservative Party cabinet. Perhaps the most well-known American who shares her striking ethnicity is Kamala Harris, so perhaps picture her if you hail from the other side of the pond, if you like.)
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Telekinetic Gargalesis
I was Twenty-One years old, and something was about to happen to me that had never happened to me before, and probably won’t happen to me ever again. I was about to watch a foot-tickling that I had somehow initiated through telekinesis. Scoff all you like, and believe what you will, but it happened. Even if you don’t believe me, it makes a good yarn – as hopefully you’ll come to agree…
At Twenty-One, you’re in that sweet spot of having just finished Uni (‘College’), but aren’t yet thrust into the pain-in-the-arseness of the impending responsibilities of proper adulthood. They do begin to loom ever-closer, ready to come and prick your snot-nosed bubble, but for a while, as a Postgraduate, as long as you can make rent, you can keep the party going for a year or two yet before shit gets real and you have to start thinking about actually growing up. That was the thinking of my first serious girlfriend, Marylin (now my Fiancé) and her best friend, Priti, when they decided to combine financial forces and rent an overpriced flat in a bustling City centre, with the express purpose of “Work Hard, Play Harder”. An awesome mission statement, which was easily accomplished in their year or so sharing the flat.
The two chief beneficiaries of this mission were myself, who could come and go as I pleased, and Matt, who Priti met on the first night out in the city in question, and from then on became an increasingly serious boyfriend. They made a cute couple. Matt was your typical blandly tall, dark and handsome guy, but Priti was stunning. A third generation British-born Indian chick, she had rich light-brown skin, jet-black hair, a heart-shaped face, high cheek bones, gorgeous smile, and great feet.
Being an unofficial Room Mate myself, I was privy to these whenever I was there, as for general cultural reasons South Asian people (particularly women) are almost always barefoot in the home. This did mean that sometimes they would get into a state and need pedicuring, but aesthetically, they rocked. They were a perfect size, with cute, nicely proportioned toes, but the killer was her soles. Her soles simply had a glow about them, which I perhaps can’t really describe adequately. They just looked lush; I think it was something to do with the contrast between the light-brown of the rest of Priti’s body and the paler, almost golden-brown colour of them. I couldn’t help but occasionally fantasise over them and I wondered how ticklish they were. It wouldn’t be long before I would find out.
I miss those days, viscerally. Nights out were always a riot, but I preferred our nights in, which would typically involve partaking of large quantities of beer, wine, weed, fast food and cigarettes, accompanied by video game tournaments, box set binging, movie marathons, and the usual time-wasting you get up to at that age. A lovely little bubble developed: the four of us had much in common and perfected the art of hanging out, always comfortable in each other’s company and communally smitten with the notion that the only thing on the agenda was to have a good time every night. Which was why most evenings would usually culminate in retiring to the adjacent bedrooms and competing to see who could make the most noise through the paper-thin walls. We were as close as semi-co-habiting couples could be.
Which was how I came to quickly realise that Matt was an ardent tickler. It didn’t take long before he would regularly punctuate our blissful evenings by dishing out a comprehensive tickling to Priti for the most minor of infractions, imagined or otherwise. He didn’t seem to care whether the sometimes eyebrow-raising length of the punishments indeed raised any eyebrows or not, nor was he bothered about how Marylin and I might respond to the clear, unvarnished relish he took from doing it. As long as he could outwardly justify it, he would tickle her to his heart’s content.
It didn’t help that Priti tended to bring it on herself: she was naturally a cheeky girl and this, tied in with her competitiveness when it came to gaming, led her into getting many decent penalty ticklings over the year that we shared the flat. It transpired that she had the relationship with tickling that most girls have: she didn’t like it, but tolerated it in the name of flirtation; she wasn’t one of those girls that absolutely freaked out over it. Obviously as a fellow tickler, I enjoyed being around this, even if I could never bring myself to be as brazenly extroverted with Marylin, who knew about and indulged my fetish, but respected that I only felt comfortable doing so in private.
Priti did eventually openly speculate as to whether Matt had a tickling fetish to Marylin and I, although not accusing him publicly, and as far as I’m aware, never getting a confirmation to her suspicions. We played as dumb as we could, given that Marylin was in fact complicit with me in hiding my own. Tickling her in front of other people has always just felt weird to me, tantamount to public foreplay, and I remain reticent about my sexual proclivities. Conversely, if Matt did share the kink, he didn’t share the desire that most of us have to keep other people from discovering it. I’d imagine there’s a good chance he’s on this forum, superior self-confidence and all.
As the months went by, I got to see witnessing the regular ticklings Priti got from him as just another awesome thing about sharing the flat, and appreciated every one of them. They were plentiful, and Matt excelled as a tickler, partly because he was much bigger than Priti and never had an issue overpowering her, and partly as he got to know her body, he found her worst spots and exploited them. As much as I enjoyed each one, none of them, however, compared to the first, which, for two reasons, I’ll never forget for as long as I may live.
It was probably three or four weeks after we had started hanging out regularly in the flat. Marylin was working a late shift, so it was just me, Matt and Priti in the flat, together just the three of us, for the first time. We’d had the usual evening’s indulgences: takeaway pizza, gaming, and I was making my way through a nice fat bag of weed I’d just procured – by myself, as Matt and Priti didn’t smoke. It was Marylin and I who were the stoner half of the foursome, and seeing as she was at work I was going it alone that night, wrapping up J’s the night long and going out to the front door of the flat to peacefully imbibe them in the late-night City air.
After one such trip outside – probably the fourth or fifth such sojourn – something plain weird came over me, an indescribably odd feeling, although a distantly familiar one. It wasn’t just the green, although that clearly influenced what occurred in my head, beyond question. I was suddenly aware of an otherworldly sense, near-imperceptible, that I was on some kind of other plane, and I knew what was about to happen when I returned inside. Not only that, but I was somehow able to indirectly control it.
Now, I know how this sounds. So if you’ll allow me, I’ll quickly interject on the events of that night for a moment. I’m not claiming that I’m telepathic, or psychic, or whatever. I have little knowledge or interest in any form of spirituality, telepathy, any of that stuff. With hindsight, I choose to believe that on the two occasions that this has happened to me, it’s almost certainly been purely borne of coincidence, not anything otherworldly. But this did happen, as did the first incident in my life which had provided me with some prior familiarity with the warm, disarming feeling, which I’ll quickly relay, for curiosity’s sake.
I was nine years old, and a thought flashed into my head one afternoon: “You’re going to be in a car accident tomorrow.” I was calm about it, not suffering any anxiety over it, and obviously at that age I was not a regular cannabis user (That started when I was ten – Ha-ha). It was just a random thought that popped into my head quite matter-of-factly. But I thought I’d better be on the safe side, so I thought inwardly to myself “But it’s OK, there’s no need to worry: no one will be seriously hurt” (Or some nine-year-old version thereof).
The next day, my mother and I were in a car accident. Luckily, no one was hurt. I have never forgotten that strange feeling, that popped into my head the afternoon before, which at the time I attributed blame for the accident to; I felt I was somehow responsible for it. As I said, I still can’t explain these phenomena, and I’m not sure that I care to. But it has happened to me twice in my life: when I had the car accident, and twelve years later, on the evening that our story begins. No more, no less. One was certainly preferable to the other, and I’ll continue now with the aim of contrasting why…
The hazy feeling I had had in my youth unexpectedly came over me as I stubbed out my joint, squashing it into the ground with my shoe. As I did so, I thought to myself “It would be amazing if I go back in there and he’s tickling her feet.” A pause, reflecting this. A chuckle, then: “Actually, that is going to happen when I go back inside. He’s really going to get her, too. Go for it, Matt, tickle the shit out of her!!”. I willed it to be so, and I still have no idea how or why, but I knew it was going to happen.
As I opened the door, I did so quieter than usual, and was met with the sound of Priti laughing steadily. At this point I didn’t assume success on my part; she could have been laughing at the TV or just otherwise at Matt. The open plan lounge/kitchenette was at the end of a small hallway, and I slipped off my shoes and treaded lightly down it on the carpet, ensuring that if the laughter was what I thought it was (the nearer I got, the more I liked the way it sounded), I wouldn’t make a noise and rouse them from their youthful romantic bonding, which it just so happened I had a vested interest in. I wanted to witness some passive tickling, and I wanted to see if I had actually somehow done it and started a tickling through mind control, or whatever the hell it was.
I crept down the dark corridor, up to the doorway of the lounge, and peered through the gap between door and frame. I had a full view of them. What I saw was that Matt had apparently won some sort of wrestling match on the couch, and was lying on his back, with one of Priti’s legs in a scissor hold. This had positioned one of her feet on his chest, and he was holding it by the ankle with one hand, and tickling every inch of it with the other, his big fingers getting all over it as far as I could see, although I wasn’t close enough to see the intricacies of his technique, as Priti was nearest to the door I was hidden behind, her head thrown back, emanating the laughter that had gleefully greeted me as I’d walked in.
Priti was making some pathetic attempts to fight him off as she cackled, but he had her stuck fast. In between laughs, she was shouting “Matt, no!!!” and “Stop it!!!” etc; the usual protests of a ticklee. But he was absolutely not for stopping, and had a grin the size of continental Europe on his face. He was doing what good first-time ticklers do: alternating his gaze between the appendage that he was tormenting, and looking over at his victim’s face to check that he was successfully eliciting appropriate hilarity from her.
This was the first time I had seen him in action as a tickler, and I paid attention to his reaction. Even at this early stage, I had an inkling that this may be more than just a casual form of lover’s horseplay to him. The longer it went on, the more enamoured he seemed, a look of bliss coming over his face as he received first-hand confirmation that his new girlfriend had ticklish feet. I couldn’t blame him for a second – is there a more joyous discovery to be made than this? I think even for newly paired Vanilla couples, a confirmation of ticklishness is an event that is always remarked upon, and often savoured. For “Us”, of course, it’s much more. It looked to Matt like it was more than just lighted-hearted fun for him. He was overjoyed.
I switched my focus to Priti. Being inordinately attracted to him and in the early stages of falling in love, she was enjoying-but-not-enjoying the tickling too much to make any form of meaningful protest, although she was clearly being tickled proficiently. As the tickling went on, her protests developed increasingly from verbal to physical: the free leg that Matt hadn’t secured was kicking limply on the floor alongside the couch, and she waved her hands around, thumping her fists into the plush base of the couch, occasionally holding a hand to her forehead to try and mediate the tickling sensation.
Her laughter was constant and true, and she looked adorable with her eyes shut tight, helpless to do anything but endure the loving but efficient torture inflicted on her by her new man. She had that “I can’t believe this is happening” look across her face, and I think this was both to do with being rumbled over her ticklishness, and also due to a mild level of indignation that Matt was making it last so long, drawing it out perhaps longer than she considered socially acceptable.
After a few minutes, she tried doing something to get out of it – she tickled Matt’s foot, which was within reach as it was planted in the couch, all the better to hold her captive leg. He felt it, but it clearly didn’t have the effect she had hoped for.
“Nuh-Uh. It doesn’t work on me!” Smug, radiant, luminous in his newfound dominance. “But you’ll pay for that all the same!” He chuckled audibly, and I saw him appear to grip the foot harder.
Priti suddenly yelled: “NOT THE TOE-OES!!!!”
As I said, I couldn’t see Matt’s hands too well as he was on the far side of the room from the door, however it was clear he had started exploring the Northern recesses of Priti’s foot and had struck gold at her cute digits. What precisely he was doing to her toes was unclear, but her reaction was anything but. She really started to hoot and yell, shaking her fists in the air and slapping Matt’s legs with a view to getting him to alter his course. He did not do this, and Priti was soon in the throes of silent laughter, defeated.
The tickling casually petered out at that point; presumably he felt he had satisfied his curiosity as to Priti’s ticklishness, and he didn’t want it to go on too long: he had probably pushed the time as much as he dared (At least at that stage). He stopped tickling Priti’s foot, and let her loose. She theatrically slumped off the couch to the floor, adopting the foetal position and slowly getting her breath back.
My head was on fire, for three reasons. I was pretty high, I had just witnessed one of the better ticklings that I had ever seen, and beyond that: I felt that I may have somehow caused it to happen. As I said earlier, I have since strayed from that viewpoint, but at the time, in the moment, I was convinced it was all down to me and I had temporarily made Matt a man-possessed. He became unpossessed quickly however, as he swigged his beer, and looked towards the door, saying “Po’s been a while, maybe I should see if he’s OK. I hope he’s not whitied.”
For a second I was worried he’d see me, but since the corridor was so dark I was apparently camouflaged, as he was looking right at the crack I was looking through. Rapidly, I backtracked down the corridor a few paces to where the bathroom was, entering and pulling the door almost closed, so it didn’t make a noise. A quick flush of the toilet, and a mock hand-washing, and I emerged from the bathroom to find Matt stood in the hall.
“You OK, mate?”
“Yeah I’m fine, but that pizza’s already on its way out. If you need the bog, I’d leave it a minute...” (I’m a pretty decent instinctive white liar).
Matt chuckled. “No, I don’t, I was just coming to make sure you hadn’t whitied or something. You’ve had a few of those, now!”
“I’m cool. Need a beer.”
We headed back into the lounge, and of course I was obliged to feign surprise at seeing Priti on the floor, looking slightly dishevelled.
“What are you doing on the floor?” I asked her, with as much fake, casual intrigue as I could.
“She got herself tickled!” Matt said, before she could answer, beaming at me as he passed me a one of the beers he’d gotten from the fridge in
the kitchenette.
I laughed, and looked at Priti, still panting slightly “Well, sucks to be you! I’m sure you deserved it anyway”
“Fuck off, Po…”
I couldn’t help but look down and notice how cute her feet looked. I had no way of knowing it then, but I’d go on to go one better than telepathically encouraging her boyfriend to tickle her feet: I’d get a go myself.
Priti’s Pedicure Penance
About six months after the ‘telepathy’ incident, I was on the train from my city to the city Marylin and Priti’s flat was in, headed there for the weekend. The phone went, and after a brief conversation it transpired that Marylin was needed at her parent’s house for the weekend due to a family emergency, and she’d be back on Sunday. I offered to jump off the train and go back home but she said I should go anyway.
“Just hang out with Priti for the weekend. Matt’s away too, so she’s on her own. It’ll be nice for you to spend a bit of time alone together; get to know each other a bit. She knows you’re coming.” This was a fair suggestion: Priti and I liked each other, but we hadn’t spent much time together on our own, as our company was always contextualised by either Matt or Marylin’s presence. So I continued with the journey, and headed to the flat after grabbing myself and Priti a takeaway coffee from the station.
Over said coffee, we discussed what we were going to do with the weekend. We were just going to commit to the chill. We decided to head to a shopping precinct in Priti’s car to get some stuff to make dinner with, a few bottles of red wine, and rent a couple of movies (Remember doing THAT?), then she took me to pick some weed up, and we were all set to have a nice weekend. Priti even said that since Matt wasn’t around, she would smoke with me. This came as a surprise but I was happy to indulge her as I’d usually be sharing with Marylin anyway, and she had taken me to buy it. I rolled a joint in the car as soon as I’d bought it and we passed it back and forth it as she drove us back home.
Getting back to the flat, we entered the lounge and sat on the two-seater couches that framed the room, in their L-shaped formation. The TV was in the corner. We took a couch each. We started on the wine and watched the first film we had rented. We finished the first film, and I rolled another J. As were smoking it outside the front door, where I had apparently subliminally instigated the first tickling I saw her take from Matt, I nonchalantly said “Hey, at least you’re not going to get tickled this weekend!” She nodded fervently, exhaling smoke. “Yeah, thank God! A bit of a break from it! I can’t stand that shit; he does my head in with it. He’s always doing it. I think he enjoys seeing me suffer!” The subject didn’t need expanding on and moved in another direction, and we went back inside not long after.
As we put the second film in, Priti casually announced “I’m going to do my nails”. I didn’t remark, other than to say “OK.”, but of course my Spidey Sense tingled slightly, as I knew that “do my nails” actually meant “give myself a full pedicure.”. After she had been to the bathroom to grab the ‘Pedicure box’, and put it on the living room table, she asked “Are you OK to make dinner if I do this? I’ll be a bit incapacitated…” She pointed down at her feet, drawing my gaze. I said that that was fine, and privately considered it a fair trade for the show I knew I was about to get.
As I alluded to in the first half of this tale, Priti had aesthetically lovely feet, but they needed pedicuring regularly due to her culturally acquired tendency to go barefoot so regularly, both around the home, and also if we were out at a park or somewhere else that shoes/socks are often casually dispensed with. She’d always go barefoot whenever possible, and her feet did display the effects of this if she didn’t have the chance to sort them out. I won’t go into too much description about what they were like pre-pedicure – this is meant to be an erotic story, after all – but needless to say that when I stayed at the flat, in addition to privately enjoying her regular ticklings from Matt, I would also occasionally be spoiled by Priti and Marylin both getting out the pedicure box and making their feet look irresistible as I lazed around with them in the lounge.
When this happened it was particularly great afterwards, as Marylin learned of my kink early on in our relationship, and knew the effect that it had on me. We would get into a routine whereby after they had both done their feet in an evening, Marylin and I would then retire to her room, I’d lie her face down on the bed, sit on her ankles, and “Test” how smooth she had made her feet, as she held her hand over her mouth and tried not to laugh. Sometimes, to make it interesting, I’d tie her spread-eagle across the bed, with no means of holding her mouth closed, to see if she could remain silent (she never could).
Furthermore, if she’d missed any areas, or smudged her nail polish (Unintentionally or otherwise), she’d be punished, inevitably not being able to hold the laughter in and leading to us both becoming so turned on we’d culminate the experience by having passionate, furious sex. The walls of the flat were paper thin, as I’ve mentioned before, but Priti never connected the dots and cottoned on to the fact that this would happen almost every time they had a pedicure evening. Which was probably why she found it unremarkable breaking out the pedicure box now, alone with me.
I started cooking dinner in the open-plan kitchenette (just behind the couches) as Priti sat watching the second film, sorting her feet out. I had seen the film before so wasn’t too bothered, and I knew that pre-pedicure Priti’s feet weren’t too enticing: it was as it progressed that my interest would peak. The wine continued to flow and in the spirit of bonding I even agreed to bring the bottle over periodically to Priti to top her up as she asked; she didn’t want to stand up with her feet in various stages of cosmetic development. Increasingly tipsy, she was getting a bit too used to being waited on and the final time I brought her more wine she said “Cheers, Wine-Slave!” with her trademark cheek. I gave it a non-committal “Piss off!” and left it at that, thinking of it as unremarkable banter.
I carried on cooking, and I could see from afar that she’d been filing, using a pumice stone, and a cuticle pusher: not the more arousing stages of the process. As I was finishing dinner off, I noted that she was up to the moisturising stage, and began to pay more attention, as she was starting to increasingly turn me on, unwittingly of course. Even though I was busy cooking I was still being driven to distraction by the clear sight of her hot feet being made more and more physically attractive, right before my eyes. I began to wonder if there was any way I could justify tickling them, and came to the realisation that Priti was starting to be characteristically cheeky as the evening went on, and perhaps I could follow Matt’s regular M.O., if she was to keep at it…
It was at the moisturising stage of the pedicure that she did something unusual. After she had lathered her feet entirely in coconut butter, spreading the creamy substance all over her soles, rubbing it around her heels and in between her toes, she took cling film (“Saran Wrap” in New World parlance, I believe) and wrapped it repeatedly around her feet, wrapping them tight together so they were held next to each other. As I placed her dinner in front of her and topped her wine up again, I commented on it. It was hard not to, as it looked bizarre.
“What’s with the cling film?”
“It’s to hold the moisturiser onto my feet. Makes them softer.”
“How long does that need to stay on there?”
“The longer the better, really.”
“OK, well you can’t walk like that, and I was going to roll…”
“…It’s fine if you’re rolling another joint, we can smoke it in here. It’s just Matt who doesn’t like the smell, and we can air it out tomorrow. He’s not back for a few days. Go and get an ashtray, Weed-Slave!” She stuck her tongue out at me.
Shaking my head: “You’re a cheeky bitch…”
She didn’t realise it, but every time she trash-talked me, she was giving me more and more sufficient justification to tickle her. I just had to wait, and she would talk her way into it. It was the second time she had referred to me as a “Slave”, and it seemed to be becoming a thing.
We ate our dinner and finished the movie. After we had finished both I wrapped another spliff, and we smoked it in our seats as we drank our wine and chatted. We were now fairly drunk and high; in a happy place, enjoying each other’s company and mutually pleased to discover that we could have a nice time without either of our partners there. It’s nice when this happens with a new girlfriend’s best mate, or equally when it happens with a mate’s new girlfriend, and I think we hit that realisation at the same time as we finished the joint off, snickering about something daft. Our next decision was what to do next. I wanted to turn on the PS3 (Yes, I’m showing my age there, if the archaic practice of renting a movie hadn’t done that already!), whereas she wanted to watch The Hills or some other such braindead crap. We started bickering about it.
“No! You can’t make me watch that shit!”
“Oh, come on! I had planned to watch it tonight until you showed up and fucked up my weekend!”
“‘Fucked up your weekend’?! You call bringing you coffee, buying you weed, cooking you dinner and filling up your glass every time you’ve asked ‘FUCKING UP YOUR WEEKEND?!””
“Yeah, I do! I was going to have an evening to myself for once until you crashed the party! And it’s my flat! You don’t pay the rent around here!”
“Fine, one fucking episode, then! I’m going to need some more wine to get through it, though…”
She had won the mock-argument, and as I got up to clear the plates away and take them to the messy kitchenette, I heard her let out an audible, relaxed sigh. I opened another bottle of red, and brought it through to the lounge area. I saw that she had moved from being sat upright, to laying down stretched out on her stomach across the length of the couch, her chin resting atop a cushion on the armrest nearest the TV, and her cling-film covered feet dangling off the edge of the armrest nearest to me. I stole a quick glance at her soles through the clear plastic, although they were somewhat obscured by the multiple layers. She again came out with the “Thanks, Wine-Slave” crack as I topped her up. Aside from pulling a disapproving face, I ignored it, hoping this would spur her on.
We watched the (literal) shit-show, which I relentlessly interspersed with ridicule and sardonic comments, both to entertain myself and to irritate Priti, who still laughed at most of my deliberately snobby affectation. God knows how people watch that kind of horseshit without any irony helping them negate the sheer inanity of it. As the episode mercifully finished, Priti turned back to face me, a sassy look on her cute face.
“Can we have the next one on?”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”
“I want it on! I’m totally addicted to it!”
“But it’s utter shit! What am I going to do?”
“I don’t know. Not my problem!”
“I’d better do the dishes then, I guess. It’ll be better than sitting through that again, anyway…”
“Yeah, go and do the dishes, Dish-Slave!” She chuckled an intoxicated chuckle to herself, and turned to face the TV.
Bingo – she had finally given me my ‘in’. That had done it. I could get away with it.
I got up out of my seat, and made like I was heading to the kitchenette. Priti was looking forwards, messing on her phone, so she didn’t notice me position myself at the rear end of her couch, shift backwards, and stand over her cling-film wrapped feet. She did notice, however, as I sat on her ankles, her feet popping up slightly as I sank down into the squishy, absorbent leather of the armrest on the couch. She took a sharp intake of breath – perhaps already in realisation of what I had planned – and turned to face me as well as she was able.
“What are you doing?!” She exclaimed.
“I’m fucking sick of you tonight! ‘Slave this, slave that’! I’ve waited on you hand and foot since you started doing this pedicure bullshit and you’ve done nothing but give me shit all night!”
“I’m sorry! I was just messing with you! I’m just high, and I’m not used to it!” The excuse was ludicrous, and the panic in her voice was palpable. She knew she was in trouble.
“Well, I want to see if all this fucking around has been worth it! Let’s have a look at these things…” I swiped my finger across the taut cling film and she wiggled her feet receptively in response, causing the plastic to make a distinctive rustling noise. I think her toes had curled up protectively, or had tried to.
“Oh, God, don’t tickle me!!! Please, Po!!! I’m too high!!! I’m too drunk!!!” She was almost raving, her desperation heightening.
“Tickle you? Nice idea! Matt’s not here, and I think it’s bullshit that you get to have a break from being tickled this weekend! It is you, after all - you always get a good tickling when you mouth off! You deserve this…”
As I pinched the cling film where her toes were, and began to pull it apart, she started to try to buck or thrash me off with her legs, pushing her arms into the couch to try and generate some strength. But it was impossible: the armrest of the sofa was raised from the seat so high that she couldn’t get any proper purchase, and she was finding the sponginess of the upholstery on the sofa – usually such a physical comfort as you contentedly sank into it whilst sat or lay down on it – was now her mortal enemy. The harder she pushed her arms and knees down to try and lift me off her, the deeper she sank into the body of the couch. It was like trying to do press-ups on quicksand. As it dawned on her that she was absolutely trapped, she began sputtering out generic begging of increasing desperation, but I didn’t really hear her.
Because I was having a whale of a time unwrapping the cling film. Even in my inebriated state I could make the pithy comparison between unwrapping a birthday or Christmas present, and chuckling I began to sing “Happy Birthday to me…” as I steadily worked my way through the plastic protecting Priti’s anxious feet. Priti did hear this, and laughed at me even as she complained and shouted her protests. As her feet became less and less constrained by the lessening layers of plastic, they began to flap alternately, the material rustling and squeaking the more she moved her feet around. Finally I had gotten it off, and I slid the reams of it down to her ankles and wrapped it back around them, forming an improvised ankle restraint as I did so. I pulled this tight enough to hold her ankles together firmly, adding a further tier of restriction to the now flailing detainees.
I savoured the sight of the freshly pedicured soles between my thighs. As I’ve said, South Asian feet can get a little bit beaten up, but when they are cared for they have a certain look, a Je Ne Sais Quoi, which just makes them seem like they’re glowing (the beautiful Prya, from Tickle Abuse, has this quality to her feet, if you can recall her and the radiance of her gorgeous soles). The shade of brown looks like honey, or caramel, and having just been beautified Priti’s soles certainly looked as appetizing as either of those luxurious delicacies. I’d describe it as a Golden Brown, but unlike the Stranglers song, these feet did not have a texture “like sun”. They had a texture akin to that other more mysterious celestial body: Heaven!
I discovered this first-hand as I placed my fingers to the sheening flesh, just running my fingertips lightly up and down the surface of the soles, instantly swamping my fingers in coconut butter, which was abundantly pervasive; it got all over the place. I counted my blessings as I did it. My first ever serious girlfriend had been South Asian and her feet had shared the same aesthetics, but she wasn’t ticklish, and wasn’t keen on me touching them, so it had strictly been a watching brief. I was reminded of this, and felt fortunate that these were mine to do with as I pleased.
So I enjoyed just touching them for a moment, rubbing them lightly, both to build up Priti’s anticipation and tension, and to relish just how soft and buttery they felt, and how perfectly that complimented how magnificent they looked. She was already chortling just from that. I thought I should preface the torment I was about to deliver with some verbal chaffing.
“So, this is what a pedicure does, eh? This is the reason I’ve been your servant all night?!” I kept the tone theatrical and playful.
“Yes, but don’t tickle them!!! I’ll go mad!!!” I didn’t doubt that had the potential to be true.
“Why, does it make them more ticklish, or something? I didn’t know that.” Feigning ignorance, pretending I didn’t know this from my regular post-pedicure play with Marylin. As far as Priti knew, I was doing this due to a mixture of having a bone to pick with her, and out of curiosity.
“Yes!!! They go much more sensitive!!! I think th---OH MY GOOOOOOOOOOD!!!!!!!!!”
She bellowed the final exclamation out, before crescendoing into cacophonous laughter as her senses attuned her to the fact that I had begun the assault. For I had placed my left hand underneath the tops of her feet, which, combined with the plastic wrapped around her ankles, served to hold them properly still. Then I had begun to spider-tickle across both of her soles with the fingertips of my right hand. I spread the attention around, making sure not to miss a single millimetre of velvety flesh as I randomly probed, taking in arch, ball, instep and heel, and nuzzling into the smooth toe-pads, digging into the crevasses. This I kept up for several minutes, going over each area more than once with aim of discovering the spot that elicited the most hysterical reaction from my increasingly subjugated victim.
All zones were equally effective, and I wasn’t sure there was a definitive epicentre to the ticklishness until I stumbled upon a particular sweet spot in the middle of the insteps of both feet, which caused her to scream and cackle louder than she already had been, and made her toes twitch convulsively. It was a convenient, central spot and I could hit it repeatedly on both feet with just the one hand, and I held the tops more firmly to compensate for the additional floundering her feet were attempting in a futile effort to escape the tickling sensations I was incessantly visiting on them.
I would use my left hand to hold a foot at a time, and wreak havoc with my right hand, scraping my fingers arrhythmically as I traced tickle paths across the lush, brown planes of the middle of the soles. I laughed to myself as I heard Priti losing it, realising that she had had a point: being high and slightly drunk would absolutely be exacerbating the effect of the tickling for her. This was also true for me, and I let out some stonery s******ing as my enthusiasm for the torture grew apace. I felt mildly light-headed, a combination of the dreamlike luck I had had at getting to do this, and also because I was pretty solidly baked.
I don’t smoke weed any more. Due to anxiety issues, my relationship with the plant (if you can still call it that, given the fact it’s makeup is 99% chemical nowadays) eventually soured. That being said, I used to love tickling whilst high, and I miss it terribly. I’d perhaps go as far as to say that tickling isn’t quite the same without it, now that I’m sober. The effect that it has on you as a ‘Ler is that it – somewhat inexplicably – concentrates you on the task at hand, and bizarrely your fine-motor skills become sharper than they usually are. Think about stoner musicians, who often feel they play better due to being high, especially in Jazz. It’s the same thing when you’re tickling stoned.
Watching my own fingers as they relentlessly tickled Priti’s defenceless soles was an almost out of body experience, as if I was sat at my leisure, spectating, enjoying watching someone else deliver the devastation on my behalf. As a ‘Ler, both the swell of erotica I glean from tickle-torturing someone, and the sense of amusement one naturally obtains from more benign forms of tickling, is artificially heightened by being high. It’s as close to bliss as tickling gets.
Of course, there is also the effect being stoned has on the ‘Lee, if they are equally intoxicated. It goes without saying that people who have imbibed tend to be more predisposed towards laughter, and this is naturally drawn from the victim of a tickling with more ease than it would be otherwise, even with someone as ticklish as Priti was. She was demonstrating this theatrically. She wasn’t a regular smoker, and her intoxication was causing her response – which was already a joy to witness – to intensify inordinately, probably beyond her initial imagining.
She had given up on trying to beg me to stop, and had fully accepted that all she could do was just laugh her head off, and slap her fists into the leather covered foam of the sofa, for some momentary sensory release from what was happening to her feet. I briefly regretted that I hadn’t been able to tie her hands behind her back, but that would have set alarm bells off. Plus, the respite she gained was inconsequential now that I had found her worst spot, and her sense of alarm echoed around the room as I homed in on it. As I exploited it her laughs became cries and screams of increasing volume.
Since I had discovered the nuclear button, I saw no reason to deviate from it. I really wanted to give her what-for, and I knew she had a tolerance for it after seeing her tickled so frequently. I planted my feet to the floor, and pushed my knees together, which propped her feet up just that bit more on my thighs, bringing them nearer to me and holding them fast in position, so they couldn’t flap. This freed up my left hand, the fingers of which I put to use immediately, adding them to the fray. I turned my hands into an efficient tickling apparatus, by placing my knuckles together, facing my palms outwards, and holding my alternately wiggling fingers to the spots on her insteps, fingering the spot again, and again, and again with ten devious digits. I kept this up for several more minutes, before giving her a much-needed breather. I picked up the repartee, when she had gotten her breath back enough to be able to reply.
“Wow, just wow! Pedicures must make you really ticklish, you’re screaming the roof off!” She was still panting, and couldn’t respond. “So… I’m still a slave then, am I?”
“NO!!! I’M SORRY I TOOK THE PISS OUT OF YOU!!!” She was wild, completely knocked off her previously lofty perch.
“OK, but just so we’re clear – I’m not a slave, because you’re my Tickle-Slave now?” I flicked my fingers up and down the soles, quick as a flash.
“ARGH!!!!! STOP TICKLING ME, YOU FUCKING PRICK!!!” This was yelled noisily at me, but I could tell she was ‘mad’, not genuinely angry or upset. We were still cool. But her continued insolence had given me a devious idea. I raised an eyebrow, and reached behind me.
“OK, OK. I’ll stop intentionally tickling you.” I said matter-of-factly, as I began to pull the pedicure box across the table, towards me.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” She had heard the scraping sound of the box travelling across the table, and turned around to look.
“I’m going to stop intentionally tickling you, but I don’t think you’ve finished your pedicure, so I’d better finish it off. It might tickle a bit still: just let me know if it does…”
“WHAT?! NO, DON’T!!!” The panic rising again…
I lifted the pumice stone out of the pedicure box, examining it and rubbing it against the palm of my hand. It felt grainy. “How’s this shit work, anyway?...”
She screamed: “YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO-AGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!”
I never found out what I wasn’t supposed to do, as Priti’s protests were forced aside by the shrieking that was escaping from her throat, newly emergent in response to me drawing the pumice stone slowly up and down her instep, catching her weak spot on each pass as it did so. Her laughter was absolutely guttural, a force of nature, and I could see why. As I dragged the stone up and back down, I could feel the subtle resistance of it against the grain of her skin, and knew that every one of the 200,000 plantar nerves in the bottom of her feet was in absolute ticklish overload.
I tried to imagine how the coarse surface of the stone must have felt against her silky-soft soles, settling on the fact that it was probably comparable to a cat’s tongue. I almost felt sorry for Priti. But she had just called me a “Fucking Prick”, so there was that. And for that I continued, teaching her a profound lesson through the ultimate torture of her ill-fated appendages. I ran the stone all over the upturned soles, making sure to revisit the wonder-spot as often as possible, driving her before long into despairing, silent laughter. She couldn’t even vocalise her discomfort anymore.
I thought I’d capitalise on the newfound quiet in the room, and began to invent imaginary imperfections in her pedicure technique, justifying the continuation of the torment. “This needs topping up here…”; “You’ve missed a bit there…” and so on. We both knew it wasn’t true – she had spent the evening getting her feet into flawless condition – but it was a convenient excuse to utilise the ultimate tickling tool to its maximum possible effect. Priti felt this effect, and was suffering as a consequence. She was losing the energy to buck her legs or slap the couch as much as she had been, the prolonged tickling draining physical stamina from her.
I gave her a brief break, and reached in the box, to see what else I could find. I took out a couple of items. She didn’t even have the power to protest, or query what they were, but found out quickly. She hadn’t painted her nails yet, but the foam toe-separators were near the top of the box, and I slid them between her toes. “I don’t think you did your toes properly at all…” I said, as I systematically rubbed each individual newly-isolated toe with the stone, drawing further ticklish dismay from Priti, who could only feebly stammer out a “…not the toes!...”, her voice having all but abandoned her.
It only took one hand to do this, and I put the other to use by sliding my fingers through the hand-hold of the plastic nailbrush, and scrubbing up and down her arches at the same time, popping down to her heels occasionally, but ultimately always heading back to the spot in her instep, which I had come to love. I gave it a good brushing, for good measure, and laughed to myself; happy I’d scaffolded the tickling even further through ambidextrous, multi-sensory assault. Priti just silently laughed away, her lungs heaving. I could feel that she had gone limp. She was completely bested. She had had enough. I stopped.
“Alright, pedicure over. But that’s the last time you call me a Slave, right?”
“Yes…” she croaked, her face pushed into the leather of the couch, eyes shut “…just no more tickling, please!!!”
I hopped off her, and headed straight for the kitchenette, whistling as I washed the coconut butter off my hands, before filling the sink. As the sink bubbled, I looked back at Priti. She hadn’t moved, and I was worried for a moment I had gone too far and legitimately traumatised her. “You OK over there, Tickle-Slave?” I chided. This prompted her to roll over, sit herself up on the couch, with her legs stretched out, and take a long swig of wine. Then she took hold of her feet in front of her, caressing them as if to assure them it was over. She looked at me with an impish, sulky stare. She had gotten her voice back and it had returned to normal levels.
“Fuck, I’ve never been tickled so bad in my life! I couldn’t handle it! Fuck you!”
“What? Matt tickles you all the time!”
“Not like that! Not on my feet, straight after a pedicure, when they’re so sensitive! Oh my God, Po, it was so intense!”
“Well, maybe next time don’t mouth off to me when you’ve just done yourself a pedicure? You totally brought that on yourself! I didn’t know it was going to tickle worse than normal!”
“I wouldn’t have mouthed off so much if I knew you’d end up doing that to me!”
“Well, you won’t do it again, will you? So I can leave the tickling to Matt from now on! He’ll love hearing about this!”
“Don’t tell him! It’ll give him ideas!”
“OK, fine, I’ll not say anything. You watch your shitty programme and recover, and I’ll do the dishes.”
She suddenly got a mischievous glint in her eye, and I could tell what she was thinking of saying. Even after all that, her instinct to give me cheek had automatically returned. I gave her a stern look, and let my gaze fall to her soles, which were facing me from their new position on the couch. For some reason, this caused her to reconsider what she was going to say.
“Thank You.” She grinned, and I turned around, throwing the dishes into the sink.
January 2022 Update: I’m stuck living apart from my fiancé again (Long, pandemic related story), so have dusted the writing off and thought I might as well share it where it may be read and appreciated. I hope you enjoy it, and would appreciate any feedback – a one word review is more helpful than no review at all!
The opening part of this story is 100% true, which is why I’ve split the story into two parts, to differentiate between ‘True’ and ‘Almost’. I don’t normally do this for this reason, but since it’s such a weird thing to happen it feels remiss not to flag it up as true; I’m lucky it happened to me and want to report it in its full context. The second part is my usual M.O. for this series – my imagination allowed to run riot over a separate incident, loosely based on the truth.
(And for the British readers out there who may be wondering from the title: Yes – I have changed the name of the girl who this happened with to ‘Priti’, because she looked like Priti Patel – the most ideologically-odious-yet-simultaneously-bangable member of the Conservative Party cabinet. Perhaps the most well-known American who shares her striking ethnicity is Kamala Harris, so perhaps picture her if you hail from the other side of the pond, if you like.)
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Telekinetic Gargalesis
I was Twenty-One years old, and something was about to happen to me that had never happened to me before, and probably won’t happen to me ever again. I was about to watch a foot-tickling that I had somehow initiated through telekinesis. Scoff all you like, and believe what you will, but it happened. Even if you don’t believe me, it makes a good yarn – as hopefully you’ll come to agree…
At Twenty-One, you’re in that sweet spot of having just finished Uni (‘College’), but aren’t yet thrust into the pain-in-the-arseness of the impending responsibilities of proper adulthood. They do begin to loom ever-closer, ready to come and prick your snot-nosed bubble, but for a while, as a Postgraduate, as long as you can make rent, you can keep the party going for a year or two yet before shit gets real and you have to start thinking about actually growing up. That was the thinking of my first serious girlfriend, Marylin (now my Fiancé) and her best friend, Priti, when they decided to combine financial forces and rent an overpriced flat in a bustling City centre, with the express purpose of “Work Hard, Play Harder”. An awesome mission statement, which was easily accomplished in their year or so sharing the flat.
The two chief beneficiaries of this mission were myself, who could come and go as I pleased, and Matt, who Priti met on the first night out in the city in question, and from then on became an increasingly serious boyfriend. They made a cute couple. Matt was your typical blandly tall, dark and handsome guy, but Priti was stunning. A third generation British-born Indian chick, she had rich light-brown skin, jet-black hair, a heart-shaped face, high cheek bones, gorgeous smile, and great feet.
Being an unofficial Room Mate myself, I was privy to these whenever I was there, as for general cultural reasons South Asian people (particularly women) are almost always barefoot in the home. This did mean that sometimes they would get into a state and need pedicuring, but aesthetically, they rocked. They were a perfect size, with cute, nicely proportioned toes, but the killer was her soles. Her soles simply had a glow about them, which I perhaps can’t really describe adequately. They just looked lush; I think it was something to do with the contrast between the light-brown of the rest of Priti’s body and the paler, almost golden-brown colour of them. I couldn’t help but occasionally fantasise over them and I wondered how ticklish they were. It wouldn’t be long before I would find out.
I miss those days, viscerally. Nights out were always a riot, but I preferred our nights in, which would typically involve partaking of large quantities of beer, wine, weed, fast food and cigarettes, accompanied by video game tournaments, box set binging, movie marathons, and the usual time-wasting you get up to at that age. A lovely little bubble developed: the four of us had much in common and perfected the art of hanging out, always comfortable in each other’s company and communally smitten with the notion that the only thing on the agenda was to have a good time every night. Which was why most evenings would usually culminate in retiring to the adjacent bedrooms and competing to see who could make the most noise through the paper-thin walls. We were as close as semi-co-habiting couples could be.
Which was how I came to quickly realise that Matt was an ardent tickler. It didn’t take long before he would regularly punctuate our blissful evenings by dishing out a comprehensive tickling to Priti for the most minor of infractions, imagined or otherwise. He didn’t seem to care whether the sometimes eyebrow-raising length of the punishments indeed raised any eyebrows or not, nor was he bothered about how Marylin and I might respond to the clear, unvarnished relish he took from doing it. As long as he could outwardly justify it, he would tickle her to his heart’s content.
It didn’t help that Priti tended to bring it on herself: she was naturally a cheeky girl and this, tied in with her competitiveness when it came to gaming, led her into getting many decent penalty ticklings over the year that we shared the flat. It transpired that she had the relationship with tickling that most girls have: she didn’t like it, but tolerated it in the name of flirtation; she wasn’t one of those girls that absolutely freaked out over it. Obviously as a fellow tickler, I enjoyed being around this, even if I could never bring myself to be as brazenly extroverted with Marylin, who knew about and indulged my fetish, but respected that I only felt comfortable doing so in private.
Priti did eventually openly speculate as to whether Matt had a tickling fetish to Marylin and I, although not accusing him publicly, and as far as I’m aware, never getting a confirmation to her suspicions. We played as dumb as we could, given that Marylin was in fact complicit with me in hiding my own. Tickling her in front of other people has always just felt weird to me, tantamount to public foreplay, and I remain reticent about my sexual proclivities. Conversely, if Matt did share the kink, he didn’t share the desire that most of us have to keep other people from discovering it. I’d imagine there’s a good chance he’s on this forum, superior self-confidence and all.
As the months went by, I got to see witnessing the regular ticklings Priti got from him as just another awesome thing about sharing the flat, and appreciated every one of them. They were plentiful, and Matt excelled as a tickler, partly because he was much bigger than Priti and never had an issue overpowering her, and partly as he got to know her body, he found her worst spots and exploited them. As much as I enjoyed each one, none of them, however, compared to the first, which, for two reasons, I’ll never forget for as long as I may live.
It was probably three or four weeks after we had started hanging out regularly in the flat. Marylin was working a late shift, so it was just me, Matt and Priti in the flat, together just the three of us, for the first time. We’d had the usual evening’s indulgences: takeaway pizza, gaming, and I was making my way through a nice fat bag of weed I’d just procured – by myself, as Matt and Priti didn’t smoke. It was Marylin and I who were the stoner half of the foursome, and seeing as she was at work I was going it alone that night, wrapping up J’s the night long and going out to the front door of the flat to peacefully imbibe them in the late-night City air.
After one such trip outside – probably the fourth or fifth such sojourn – something plain weird came over me, an indescribably odd feeling, although a distantly familiar one. It wasn’t just the green, although that clearly influenced what occurred in my head, beyond question. I was suddenly aware of an otherworldly sense, near-imperceptible, that I was on some kind of other plane, and I knew what was about to happen when I returned inside. Not only that, but I was somehow able to indirectly control it.
Now, I know how this sounds. So if you’ll allow me, I’ll quickly interject on the events of that night for a moment. I’m not claiming that I’m telepathic, or psychic, or whatever. I have little knowledge or interest in any form of spirituality, telepathy, any of that stuff. With hindsight, I choose to believe that on the two occasions that this has happened to me, it’s almost certainly been purely borne of coincidence, not anything otherworldly. But this did happen, as did the first incident in my life which had provided me with some prior familiarity with the warm, disarming feeling, which I’ll quickly relay, for curiosity’s sake.
I was nine years old, and a thought flashed into my head one afternoon: “You’re going to be in a car accident tomorrow.” I was calm about it, not suffering any anxiety over it, and obviously at that age I was not a regular cannabis user (That started when I was ten – Ha-ha). It was just a random thought that popped into my head quite matter-of-factly. But I thought I’d better be on the safe side, so I thought inwardly to myself “But it’s OK, there’s no need to worry: no one will be seriously hurt” (Or some nine-year-old version thereof).
The next day, my mother and I were in a car accident. Luckily, no one was hurt. I have never forgotten that strange feeling, that popped into my head the afternoon before, which at the time I attributed blame for the accident to; I felt I was somehow responsible for it. As I said, I still can’t explain these phenomena, and I’m not sure that I care to. But it has happened to me twice in my life: when I had the car accident, and twelve years later, on the evening that our story begins. No more, no less. One was certainly preferable to the other, and I’ll continue now with the aim of contrasting why…
The hazy feeling I had had in my youth unexpectedly came over me as I stubbed out my joint, squashing it into the ground with my shoe. As I did so, I thought to myself “It would be amazing if I go back in there and he’s tickling her feet.” A pause, reflecting this. A chuckle, then: “Actually, that is going to happen when I go back inside. He’s really going to get her, too. Go for it, Matt, tickle the shit out of her!!”. I willed it to be so, and I still have no idea how or why, but I knew it was going to happen.
As I opened the door, I did so quieter than usual, and was met with the sound of Priti laughing steadily. At this point I didn’t assume success on my part; she could have been laughing at the TV or just otherwise at Matt. The open plan lounge/kitchenette was at the end of a small hallway, and I slipped off my shoes and treaded lightly down it on the carpet, ensuring that if the laughter was what I thought it was (the nearer I got, the more I liked the way it sounded), I wouldn’t make a noise and rouse them from their youthful romantic bonding, which it just so happened I had a vested interest in. I wanted to witness some passive tickling, and I wanted to see if I had actually somehow done it and started a tickling through mind control, or whatever the hell it was.
I crept down the dark corridor, up to the doorway of the lounge, and peered through the gap between door and frame. I had a full view of them. What I saw was that Matt had apparently won some sort of wrestling match on the couch, and was lying on his back, with one of Priti’s legs in a scissor hold. This had positioned one of her feet on his chest, and he was holding it by the ankle with one hand, and tickling every inch of it with the other, his big fingers getting all over it as far as I could see, although I wasn’t close enough to see the intricacies of his technique, as Priti was nearest to the door I was hidden behind, her head thrown back, emanating the laughter that had gleefully greeted me as I’d walked in.
Priti was making some pathetic attempts to fight him off as she cackled, but he had her stuck fast. In between laughs, she was shouting “Matt, no!!!” and “Stop it!!!” etc; the usual protests of a ticklee. But he was absolutely not for stopping, and had a grin the size of continental Europe on his face. He was doing what good first-time ticklers do: alternating his gaze between the appendage that he was tormenting, and looking over at his victim’s face to check that he was successfully eliciting appropriate hilarity from her.
This was the first time I had seen him in action as a tickler, and I paid attention to his reaction. Even at this early stage, I had an inkling that this may be more than just a casual form of lover’s horseplay to him. The longer it went on, the more enamoured he seemed, a look of bliss coming over his face as he received first-hand confirmation that his new girlfriend had ticklish feet. I couldn’t blame him for a second – is there a more joyous discovery to be made than this? I think even for newly paired Vanilla couples, a confirmation of ticklishness is an event that is always remarked upon, and often savoured. For “Us”, of course, it’s much more. It looked to Matt like it was more than just lighted-hearted fun for him. He was overjoyed.
I switched my focus to Priti. Being inordinately attracted to him and in the early stages of falling in love, she was enjoying-but-not-enjoying the tickling too much to make any form of meaningful protest, although she was clearly being tickled proficiently. As the tickling went on, her protests developed increasingly from verbal to physical: the free leg that Matt hadn’t secured was kicking limply on the floor alongside the couch, and she waved her hands around, thumping her fists into the plush base of the couch, occasionally holding a hand to her forehead to try and mediate the tickling sensation.
Her laughter was constant and true, and she looked adorable with her eyes shut tight, helpless to do anything but endure the loving but efficient torture inflicted on her by her new man. She had that “I can’t believe this is happening” look across her face, and I think this was both to do with being rumbled over her ticklishness, and also due to a mild level of indignation that Matt was making it last so long, drawing it out perhaps longer than she considered socially acceptable.
After a few minutes, she tried doing something to get out of it – she tickled Matt’s foot, which was within reach as it was planted in the couch, all the better to hold her captive leg. He felt it, but it clearly didn’t have the effect she had hoped for.
“Nuh-Uh. It doesn’t work on me!” Smug, radiant, luminous in his newfound dominance. “But you’ll pay for that all the same!” He chuckled audibly, and I saw him appear to grip the foot harder.
Priti suddenly yelled: “NOT THE TOE-OES!!!!”
As I said, I couldn’t see Matt’s hands too well as he was on the far side of the room from the door, however it was clear he had started exploring the Northern recesses of Priti’s foot and had struck gold at her cute digits. What precisely he was doing to her toes was unclear, but her reaction was anything but. She really started to hoot and yell, shaking her fists in the air and slapping Matt’s legs with a view to getting him to alter his course. He did not do this, and Priti was soon in the throes of silent laughter, defeated.
The tickling casually petered out at that point; presumably he felt he had satisfied his curiosity as to Priti’s ticklishness, and he didn’t want it to go on too long: he had probably pushed the time as much as he dared (At least at that stage). He stopped tickling Priti’s foot, and let her loose. She theatrically slumped off the couch to the floor, adopting the foetal position and slowly getting her breath back.
My head was on fire, for three reasons. I was pretty high, I had just witnessed one of the better ticklings that I had ever seen, and beyond that: I felt that I may have somehow caused it to happen. As I said earlier, I have since strayed from that viewpoint, but at the time, in the moment, I was convinced it was all down to me and I had temporarily made Matt a man-possessed. He became unpossessed quickly however, as he swigged his beer, and looked towards the door, saying “Po’s been a while, maybe I should see if he’s OK. I hope he’s not whitied.”
For a second I was worried he’d see me, but since the corridor was so dark I was apparently camouflaged, as he was looking right at the crack I was looking through. Rapidly, I backtracked down the corridor a few paces to where the bathroom was, entering and pulling the door almost closed, so it didn’t make a noise. A quick flush of the toilet, and a mock hand-washing, and I emerged from the bathroom to find Matt stood in the hall.
“You OK, mate?”
“Yeah I’m fine, but that pizza’s already on its way out. If you need the bog, I’d leave it a minute...” (I’m a pretty decent instinctive white liar).
Matt chuckled. “No, I don’t, I was just coming to make sure you hadn’t whitied or something. You’ve had a few of those, now!”
“I’m cool. Need a beer.”
We headed back into the lounge, and of course I was obliged to feign surprise at seeing Priti on the floor, looking slightly dishevelled.
“What are you doing on the floor?” I asked her, with as much fake, casual intrigue as I could.
“She got herself tickled!” Matt said, before she could answer, beaming at me as he passed me a one of the beers he’d gotten from the fridge in
the kitchenette.
I laughed, and looked at Priti, still panting slightly “Well, sucks to be you! I’m sure you deserved it anyway”
“Fuck off, Po…”
I couldn’t help but look down and notice how cute her feet looked. I had no way of knowing it then, but I’d go on to go one better than telepathically encouraging her boyfriend to tickle her feet: I’d get a go myself.
Priti’s Pedicure Penance
About six months after the ‘telepathy’ incident, I was on the train from my city to the city Marylin and Priti’s flat was in, headed there for the weekend. The phone went, and after a brief conversation it transpired that Marylin was needed at her parent’s house for the weekend due to a family emergency, and she’d be back on Sunday. I offered to jump off the train and go back home but she said I should go anyway.
“Just hang out with Priti for the weekend. Matt’s away too, so she’s on her own. It’ll be nice for you to spend a bit of time alone together; get to know each other a bit. She knows you’re coming.” This was a fair suggestion: Priti and I liked each other, but we hadn’t spent much time together on our own, as our company was always contextualised by either Matt or Marylin’s presence. So I continued with the journey, and headed to the flat after grabbing myself and Priti a takeaway coffee from the station.
Over said coffee, we discussed what we were going to do with the weekend. We were just going to commit to the chill. We decided to head to a shopping precinct in Priti’s car to get some stuff to make dinner with, a few bottles of red wine, and rent a couple of movies (Remember doing THAT?), then she took me to pick some weed up, and we were all set to have a nice weekend. Priti even said that since Matt wasn’t around, she would smoke with me. This came as a surprise but I was happy to indulge her as I’d usually be sharing with Marylin anyway, and she had taken me to buy it. I rolled a joint in the car as soon as I’d bought it and we passed it back and forth it as she drove us back home.
Getting back to the flat, we entered the lounge and sat on the two-seater couches that framed the room, in their L-shaped formation. The TV was in the corner. We took a couch each. We started on the wine and watched the first film we had rented. We finished the first film, and I rolled another J. As were smoking it outside the front door, where I had apparently subliminally instigated the first tickling I saw her take from Matt, I nonchalantly said “Hey, at least you’re not going to get tickled this weekend!” She nodded fervently, exhaling smoke. “Yeah, thank God! A bit of a break from it! I can’t stand that shit; he does my head in with it. He’s always doing it. I think he enjoys seeing me suffer!” The subject didn’t need expanding on and moved in another direction, and we went back inside not long after.
As we put the second film in, Priti casually announced “I’m going to do my nails”. I didn’t remark, other than to say “OK.”, but of course my Spidey Sense tingled slightly, as I knew that “do my nails” actually meant “give myself a full pedicure.”. After she had been to the bathroom to grab the ‘Pedicure box’, and put it on the living room table, she asked “Are you OK to make dinner if I do this? I’ll be a bit incapacitated…” She pointed down at her feet, drawing my gaze. I said that that was fine, and privately considered it a fair trade for the show I knew I was about to get.
As I alluded to in the first half of this tale, Priti had aesthetically lovely feet, but they needed pedicuring regularly due to her culturally acquired tendency to go barefoot so regularly, both around the home, and also if we were out at a park or somewhere else that shoes/socks are often casually dispensed with. She’d always go barefoot whenever possible, and her feet did display the effects of this if she didn’t have the chance to sort them out. I won’t go into too much description about what they were like pre-pedicure – this is meant to be an erotic story, after all – but needless to say that when I stayed at the flat, in addition to privately enjoying her regular ticklings from Matt, I would also occasionally be spoiled by Priti and Marylin both getting out the pedicure box and making their feet look irresistible as I lazed around with them in the lounge.
When this happened it was particularly great afterwards, as Marylin learned of my kink early on in our relationship, and knew the effect that it had on me. We would get into a routine whereby after they had both done their feet in an evening, Marylin and I would then retire to her room, I’d lie her face down on the bed, sit on her ankles, and “Test” how smooth she had made her feet, as she held her hand over her mouth and tried not to laugh. Sometimes, to make it interesting, I’d tie her spread-eagle across the bed, with no means of holding her mouth closed, to see if she could remain silent (she never could).
Furthermore, if she’d missed any areas, or smudged her nail polish (Unintentionally or otherwise), she’d be punished, inevitably not being able to hold the laughter in and leading to us both becoming so turned on we’d culminate the experience by having passionate, furious sex. The walls of the flat were paper thin, as I’ve mentioned before, but Priti never connected the dots and cottoned on to the fact that this would happen almost every time they had a pedicure evening. Which was probably why she found it unremarkable breaking out the pedicure box now, alone with me.
I started cooking dinner in the open-plan kitchenette (just behind the couches) as Priti sat watching the second film, sorting her feet out. I had seen the film before so wasn’t too bothered, and I knew that pre-pedicure Priti’s feet weren’t too enticing: it was as it progressed that my interest would peak. The wine continued to flow and in the spirit of bonding I even agreed to bring the bottle over periodically to Priti to top her up as she asked; she didn’t want to stand up with her feet in various stages of cosmetic development. Increasingly tipsy, she was getting a bit too used to being waited on and the final time I brought her more wine she said “Cheers, Wine-Slave!” with her trademark cheek. I gave it a non-committal “Piss off!” and left it at that, thinking of it as unremarkable banter.
I carried on cooking, and I could see from afar that she’d been filing, using a pumice stone, and a cuticle pusher: not the more arousing stages of the process. As I was finishing dinner off, I noted that she was up to the moisturising stage, and began to pay more attention, as she was starting to increasingly turn me on, unwittingly of course. Even though I was busy cooking I was still being driven to distraction by the clear sight of her hot feet being made more and more physically attractive, right before my eyes. I began to wonder if there was any way I could justify tickling them, and came to the realisation that Priti was starting to be characteristically cheeky as the evening went on, and perhaps I could follow Matt’s regular M.O., if she was to keep at it…
It was at the moisturising stage of the pedicure that she did something unusual. After she had lathered her feet entirely in coconut butter, spreading the creamy substance all over her soles, rubbing it around her heels and in between her toes, she took cling film (“Saran Wrap” in New World parlance, I believe) and wrapped it repeatedly around her feet, wrapping them tight together so they were held next to each other. As I placed her dinner in front of her and topped her wine up again, I commented on it. It was hard not to, as it looked bizarre.
“What’s with the cling film?”
“It’s to hold the moisturiser onto my feet. Makes them softer.”
“How long does that need to stay on there?”
“The longer the better, really.”
“OK, well you can’t walk like that, and I was going to roll…”
“…It’s fine if you’re rolling another joint, we can smoke it in here. It’s just Matt who doesn’t like the smell, and we can air it out tomorrow. He’s not back for a few days. Go and get an ashtray, Weed-Slave!” She stuck her tongue out at me.
Shaking my head: “You’re a cheeky bitch…”
She didn’t realise it, but every time she trash-talked me, she was giving me more and more sufficient justification to tickle her. I just had to wait, and she would talk her way into it. It was the second time she had referred to me as a “Slave”, and it seemed to be becoming a thing.
We ate our dinner and finished the movie. After we had finished both I wrapped another spliff, and we smoked it in our seats as we drank our wine and chatted. We were now fairly drunk and high; in a happy place, enjoying each other’s company and mutually pleased to discover that we could have a nice time without either of our partners there. It’s nice when this happens with a new girlfriend’s best mate, or equally when it happens with a mate’s new girlfriend, and I think we hit that realisation at the same time as we finished the joint off, snickering about something daft. Our next decision was what to do next. I wanted to turn on the PS3 (Yes, I’m showing my age there, if the archaic practice of renting a movie hadn’t done that already!), whereas she wanted to watch The Hills or some other such braindead crap. We started bickering about it.
“No! You can’t make me watch that shit!”
“Oh, come on! I had planned to watch it tonight until you showed up and fucked up my weekend!”
“‘Fucked up your weekend’?! You call bringing you coffee, buying you weed, cooking you dinner and filling up your glass every time you’ve asked ‘FUCKING UP YOUR WEEKEND?!””
“Yeah, I do! I was going to have an evening to myself for once until you crashed the party! And it’s my flat! You don’t pay the rent around here!”
“Fine, one fucking episode, then! I’m going to need some more wine to get through it, though…”
She had won the mock-argument, and as I got up to clear the plates away and take them to the messy kitchenette, I heard her let out an audible, relaxed sigh. I opened another bottle of red, and brought it through to the lounge area. I saw that she had moved from being sat upright, to laying down stretched out on her stomach across the length of the couch, her chin resting atop a cushion on the armrest nearest the TV, and her cling-film covered feet dangling off the edge of the armrest nearest to me. I stole a quick glance at her soles through the clear plastic, although they were somewhat obscured by the multiple layers. She again came out with the “Thanks, Wine-Slave” crack as I topped her up. Aside from pulling a disapproving face, I ignored it, hoping this would spur her on.
We watched the (literal) shit-show, which I relentlessly interspersed with ridicule and sardonic comments, both to entertain myself and to irritate Priti, who still laughed at most of my deliberately snobby affectation. God knows how people watch that kind of horseshit without any irony helping them negate the sheer inanity of it. As the episode mercifully finished, Priti turned back to face me, a sassy look on her cute face.
“Can we have the next one on?”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”
“I want it on! I’m totally addicted to it!”
“But it’s utter shit! What am I going to do?”
“I don’t know. Not my problem!”
“I’d better do the dishes then, I guess. It’ll be better than sitting through that again, anyway…”
“Yeah, go and do the dishes, Dish-Slave!” She chuckled an intoxicated chuckle to herself, and turned to face the TV.
Bingo – she had finally given me my ‘in’. That had done it. I could get away with it.
I got up out of my seat, and made like I was heading to the kitchenette. Priti was looking forwards, messing on her phone, so she didn’t notice me position myself at the rear end of her couch, shift backwards, and stand over her cling-film wrapped feet. She did notice, however, as I sat on her ankles, her feet popping up slightly as I sank down into the squishy, absorbent leather of the armrest on the couch. She took a sharp intake of breath – perhaps already in realisation of what I had planned – and turned to face me as well as she was able.
“What are you doing?!” She exclaimed.
“I’m fucking sick of you tonight! ‘Slave this, slave that’! I’ve waited on you hand and foot since you started doing this pedicure bullshit and you’ve done nothing but give me shit all night!”
“I’m sorry! I was just messing with you! I’m just high, and I’m not used to it!” The excuse was ludicrous, and the panic in her voice was palpable. She knew she was in trouble.
“Well, I want to see if all this fucking around has been worth it! Let’s have a look at these things…” I swiped my finger across the taut cling film and she wiggled her feet receptively in response, causing the plastic to make a distinctive rustling noise. I think her toes had curled up protectively, or had tried to.
“Oh, God, don’t tickle me!!! Please, Po!!! I’m too high!!! I’m too drunk!!!” She was almost raving, her desperation heightening.
“Tickle you? Nice idea! Matt’s not here, and I think it’s bullshit that you get to have a break from being tickled this weekend! It is you, after all - you always get a good tickling when you mouth off! You deserve this…”
As I pinched the cling film where her toes were, and began to pull it apart, she started to try to buck or thrash me off with her legs, pushing her arms into the couch to try and generate some strength. But it was impossible: the armrest of the sofa was raised from the seat so high that she couldn’t get any proper purchase, and she was finding the sponginess of the upholstery on the sofa – usually such a physical comfort as you contentedly sank into it whilst sat or lay down on it – was now her mortal enemy. The harder she pushed her arms and knees down to try and lift me off her, the deeper she sank into the body of the couch. It was like trying to do press-ups on quicksand. As it dawned on her that she was absolutely trapped, she began sputtering out generic begging of increasing desperation, but I didn’t really hear her.
Because I was having a whale of a time unwrapping the cling film. Even in my inebriated state I could make the pithy comparison between unwrapping a birthday or Christmas present, and chuckling I began to sing “Happy Birthday to me…” as I steadily worked my way through the plastic protecting Priti’s anxious feet. Priti did hear this, and laughed at me even as she complained and shouted her protests. As her feet became less and less constrained by the lessening layers of plastic, they began to flap alternately, the material rustling and squeaking the more she moved her feet around. Finally I had gotten it off, and I slid the reams of it down to her ankles and wrapped it back around them, forming an improvised ankle restraint as I did so. I pulled this tight enough to hold her ankles together firmly, adding a further tier of restriction to the now flailing detainees.
I savoured the sight of the freshly pedicured soles between my thighs. As I’ve said, South Asian feet can get a little bit beaten up, but when they are cared for they have a certain look, a Je Ne Sais Quoi, which just makes them seem like they’re glowing (the beautiful Prya, from Tickle Abuse, has this quality to her feet, if you can recall her and the radiance of her gorgeous soles). The shade of brown looks like honey, or caramel, and having just been beautified Priti’s soles certainly looked as appetizing as either of those luxurious delicacies. I’d describe it as a Golden Brown, but unlike the Stranglers song, these feet did not have a texture “like sun”. They had a texture akin to that other more mysterious celestial body: Heaven!
I discovered this first-hand as I placed my fingers to the sheening flesh, just running my fingertips lightly up and down the surface of the soles, instantly swamping my fingers in coconut butter, which was abundantly pervasive; it got all over the place. I counted my blessings as I did it. My first ever serious girlfriend had been South Asian and her feet had shared the same aesthetics, but she wasn’t ticklish, and wasn’t keen on me touching them, so it had strictly been a watching brief. I was reminded of this, and felt fortunate that these were mine to do with as I pleased.
So I enjoyed just touching them for a moment, rubbing them lightly, both to build up Priti’s anticipation and tension, and to relish just how soft and buttery they felt, and how perfectly that complimented how magnificent they looked. She was already chortling just from that. I thought I should preface the torment I was about to deliver with some verbal chaffing.
“So, this is what a pedicure does, eh? This is the reason I’ve been your servant all night?!” I kept the tone theatrical and playful.
“Yes, but don’t tickle them!!! I’ll go mad!!!” I didn’t doubt that had the potential to be true.
“Why, does it make them more ticklish, or something? I didn’t know that.” Feigning ignorance, pretending I didn’t know this from my regular post-pedicure play with Marylin. As far as Priti knew, I was doing this due to a mixture of having a bone to pick with her, and out of curiosity.
“Yes!!! They go much more sensitive!!! I think th---OH MY GOOOOOOOOOOD!!!!!!!!!”
She bellowed the final exclamation out, before crescendoing into cacophonous laughter as her senses attuned her to the fact that I had begun the assault. For I had placed my left hand underneath the tops of her feet, which, combined with the plastic wrapped around her ankles, served to hold them properly still. Then I had begun to spider-tickle across both of her soles with the fingertips of my right hand. I spread the attention around, making sure not to miss a single millimetre of velvety flesh as I randomly probed, taking in arch, ball, instep and heel, and nuzzling into the smooth toe-pads, digging into the crevasses. This I kept up for several minutes, going over each area more than once with aim of discovering the spot that elicited the most hysterical reaction from my increasingly subjugated victim.
All zones were equally effective, and I wasn’t sure there was a definitive epicentre to the ticklishness until I stumbled upon a particular sweet spot in the middle of the insteps of both feet, which caused her to scream and cackle louder than she already had been, and made her toes twitch convulsively. It was a convenient, central spot and I could hit it repeatedly on both feet with just the one hand, and I held the tops more firmly to compensate for the additional floundering her feet were attempting in a futile effort to escape the tickling sensations I was incessantly visiting on them.
I would use my left hand to hold a foot at a time, and wreak havoc with my right hand, scraping my fingers arrhythmically as I traced tickle paths across the lush, brown planes of the middle of the soles. I laughed to myself as I heard Priti losing it, realising that she had had a point: being high and slightly drunk would absolutely be exacerbating the effect of the tickling for her. This was also true for me, and I let out some stonery s******ing as my enthusiasm for the torture grew apace. I felt mildly light-headed, a combination of the dreamlike luck I had had at getting to do this, and also because I was pretty solidly baked.
I don’t smoke weed any more. Due to anxiety issues, my relationship with the plant (if you can still call it that, given the fact it’s makeup is 99% chemical nowadays) eventually soured. That being said, I used to love tickling whilst high, and I miss it terribly. I’d perhaps go as far as to say that tickling isn’t quite the same without it, now that I’m sober. The effect that it has on you as a ‘Ler is that it – somewhat inexplicably – concentrates you on the task at hand, and bizarrely your fine-motor skills become sharper than they usually are. Think about stoner musicians, who often feel they play better due to being high, especially in Jazz. It’s the same thing when you’re tickling stoned.
Watching my own fingers as they relentlessly tickled Priti’s defenceless soles was an almost out of body experience, as if I was sat at my leisure, spectating, enjoying watching someone else deliver the devastation on my behalf. As a ‘Ler, both the swell of erotica I glean from tickle-torturing someone, and the sense of amusement one naturally obtains from more benign forms of tickling, is artificially heightened by being high. It’s as close to bliss as tickling gets.
Of course, there is also the effect being stoned has on the ‘Lee, if they are equally intoxicated. It goes without saying that people who have imbibed tend to be more predisposed towards laughter, and this is naturally drawn from the victim of a tickling with more ease than it would be otherwise, even with someone as ticklish as Priti was. She was demonstrating this theatrically. She wasn’t a regular smoker, and her intoxication was causing her response – which was already a joy to witness – to intensify inordinately, probably beyond her initial imagining.
She had given up on trying to beg me to stop, and had fully accepted that all she could do was just laugh her head off, and slap her fists into the leather covered foam of the sofa, for some momentary sensory release from what was happening to her feet. I briefly regretted that I hadn’t been able to tie her hands behind her back, but that would have set alarm bells off. Plus, the respite she gained was inconsequential now that I had found her worst spot, and her sense of alarm echoed around the room as I homed in on it. As I exploited it her laughs became cries and screams of increasing volume.
Since I had discovered the nuclear button, I saw no reason to deviate from it. I really wanted to give her what-for, and I knew she had a tolerance for it after seeing her tickled so frequently. I planted my feet to the floor, and pushed my knees together, which propped her feet up just that bit more on my thighs, bringing them nearer to me and holding them fast in position, so they couldn’t flap. This freed up my left hand, the fingers of which I put to use immediately, adding them to the fray. I turned my hands into an efficient tickling apparatus, by placing my knuckles together, facing my palms outwards, and holding my alternately wiggling fingers to the spots on her insteps, fingering the spot again, and again, and again with ten devious digits. I kept this up for several more minutes, before giving her a much-needed breather. I picked up the repartee, when she had gotten her breath back enough to be able to reply.
“Wow, just wow! Pedicures must make you really ticklish, you’re screaming the roof off!” She was still panting, and couldn’t respond. “So… I’m still a slave then, am I?”
“NO!!! I’M SORRY I TOOK THE PISS OUT OF YOU!!!” She was wild, completely knocked off her previously lofty perch.
“OK, but just so we’re clear – I’m not a slave, because you’re my Tickle-Slave now?” I flicked my fingers up and down the soles, quick as a flash.
“ARGH!!!!! STOP TICKLING ME, YOU FUCKING PRICK!!!” This was yelled noisily at me, but I could tell she was ‘mad’, not genuinely angry or upset. We were still cool. But her continued insolence had given me a devious idea. I raised an eyebrow, and reached behind me.
“OK, OK. I’ll stop intentionally tickling you.” I said matter-of-factly, as I began to pull the pedicure box across the table, towards me.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” She had heard the scraping sound of the box travelling across the table, and turned around to look.
“I’m going to stop intentionally tickling you, but I don’t think you’ve finished your pedicure, so I’d better finish it off. It might tickle a bit still: just let me know if it does…”
“WHAT?! NO, DON’T!!!” The panic rising again…
I lifted the pumice stone out of the pedicure box, examining it and rubbing it against the palm of my hand. It felt grainy. “How’s this shit work, anyway?...”
She screamed: “YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO-AGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!”
I never found out what I wasn’t supposed to do, as Priti’s protests were forced aside by the shrieking that was escaping from her throat, newly emergent in response to me drawing the pumice stone slowly up and down her instep, catching her weak spot on each pass as it did so. Her laughter was absolutely guttural, a force of nature, and I could see why. As I dragged the stone up and back down, I could feel the subtle resistance of it against the grain of her skin, and knew that every one of the 200,000 plantar nerves in the bottom of her feet was in absolute ticklish overload.
I tried to imagine how the coarse surface of the stone must have felt against her silky-soft soles, settling on the fact that it was probably comparable to a cat’s tongue. I almost felt sorry for Priti. But she had just called me a “Fucking Prick”, so there was that. And for that I continued, teaching her a profound lesson through the ultimate torture of her ill-fated appendages. I ran the stone all over the upturned soles, making sure to revisit the wonder-spot as often as possible, driving her before long into despairing, silent laughter. She couldn’t even vocalise her discomfort anymore.
I thought I’d capitalise on the newfound quiet in the room, and began to invent imaginary imperfections in her pedicure technique, justifying the continuation of the torment. “This needs topping up here…”; “You’ve missed a bit there…” and so on. We both knew it wasn’t true – she had spent the evening getting her feet into flawless condition – but it was a convenient excuse to utilise the ultimate tickling tool to its maximum possible effect. Priti felt this effect, and was suffering as a consequence. She was losing the energy to buck her legs or slap the couch as much as she had been, the prolonged tickling draining physical stamina from her.
I gave her a brief break, and reached in the box, to see what else I could find. I took out a couple of items. She didn’t even have the power to protest, or query what they were, but found out quickly. She hadn’t painted her nails yet, but the foam toe-separators were near the top of the box, and I slid them between her toes. “I don’t think you did your toes properly at all…” I said, as I systematically rubbed each individual newly-isolated toe with the stone, drawing further ticklish dismay from Priti, who could only feebly stammer out a “…not the toes!...”, her voice having all but abandoned her.
It only took one hand to do this, and I put the other to use by sliding my fingers through the hand-hold of the plastic nailbrush, and scrubbing up and down her arches at the same time, popping down to her heels occasionally, but ultimately always heading back to the spot in her instep, which I had come to love. I gave it a good brushing, for good measure, and laughed to myself; happy I’d scaffolded the tickling even further through ambidextrous, multi-sensory assault. Priti just silently laughed away, her lungs heaving. I could feel that she had gone limp. She was completely bested. She had had enough. I stopped.
“Alright, pedicure over. But that’s the last time you call me a Slave, right?”
“Yes…” she croaked, her face pushed into the leather of the couch, eyes shut “…just no more tickling, please!!!”
I hopped off her, and headed straight for the kitchenette, whistling as I washed the coconut butter off my hands, before filling the sink. As the sink bubbled, I looked back at Priti. She hadn’t moved, and I was worried for a moment I had gone too far and legitimately traumatised her. “You OK over there, Tickle-Slave?” I chided. This prompted her to roll over, sit herself up on the couch, with her legs stretched out, and take a long swig of wine. Then she took hold of her feet in front of her, caressing them as if to assure them it was over. She looked at me with an impish, sulky stare. She had gotten her voice back and it had returned to normal levels.
“Fuck, I’ve never been tickled so bad in my life! I couldn’t handle it! Fuck you!”
“What? Matt tickles you all the time!”
“Not like that! Not on my feet, straight after a pedicure, when they’re so sensitive! Oh my God, Po, it was so intense!”
“Well, maybe next time don’t mouth off to me when you’ve just done yourself a pedicure? You totally brought that on yourself! I didn’t know it was going to tickle worse than normal!”
“I wouldn’t have mouthed off so much if I knew you’d end up doing that to me!”
“Well, you won’t do it again, will you? So I can leave the tickling to Matt from now on! He’ll love hearing about this!”
“Don’t tell him! It’ll give him ideas!”
“OK, fine, I’ll not say anything. You watch your shitty programme and recover, and I’ll do the dishes.”
She suddenly got a mischievous glint in her eye, and I could tell what she was thinking of saying. Even after all that, her instinct to give me cheek had automatically returned. I gave her a stern look, and let my gaze fall to her soles, which were facing me from their new position on the couch. For some reason, this caused her to reconsider what she was going to say.
“Thank You.” She grinned, and I turned around, throwing the dishes into the sink.
This is a fine series. 
