CoyoteZero03 TKL
Registered User
- Joined
- Dec 28, 2024
- Messages
- 26
- Points
- 3
My name is Jennifer. I am 41 years old and I own a spa. It is not just any spa, it is a small, exclusive spa for women only. It is three blocks from my house, which allows me to walk there every morning in the fresh city air. The business is doing well, very well in fact. Well enough to keep me comfortable and to give my daughter everything she needs.
My daughter's name is Angela. She's nineteen, just started college, and is, without a doubt, the most important thing in my life. She's smart, has a face that lights up any room, and a heart of gold. She's not the type of girl who draws attention for her body; she doesn't have large breasts or pronounced hips, but her beauty is something else, more subtle, more real.
I am bisexual. I always have been. Angela's father found out many years ago, before she was born. It wasn't a pretty scene. In fact, for him, it was the perfect excuse to leave. I think he would have left anyway, but my infidelity made it easier for him. It gave me the freedom I needed to raise my daughter my way, to build my business without depending on anyone.
A year ago, Angela's life at college turned into hell. Two sisters, Daniela and Briana Marquez, decided she was their target. I don't know why. Angela says it's jealousy. Maybe it is. Jealousy that Angela gets better grades, that the teachers praise her, that, without even trying, she's more popular.
What I do know is that the abuse went from insults to shoving, and sometimes Angela comes home with a little bruise that she tries to hide.
I've done everything a mother can do. I called the university, filed complaints, spoke to the dean. Nothing. Always the same answer: “We'll look into it.” But nothing ever happens. The helplessness gets under my skin like a fever that won't break. Seeing my daughter suffer and not being able to do anything about it is devastating.
Until today...
Today, my receptionist called me. “Jenn, you have two new clients at four o'clock. They signed up for the full package. Last name Márquez.”
Márquez.
The last name kept running through my head for the rest of the afternoon. Márquez. Daniela and Briana Márquez. It couldn't be a coincidence, not in such a small town. They're sisters, they go to the same college as Angela. It had to be them.
Suddenly, the helplessness I felt turned into something else. An idea. A memory.
I remember one day, a few months ago, when Angela came home crying. It wasn't sobbing, it was silent crying, the kind that is most exhausting. She sat on the sofa and hugged a pillow. I asked her what was wrong, and between sobs she told me that Daniela and Briana had humiliated her in front of everyone in the university courtyard. They took her books and threw them into a puddle.
I saw her so broken, so helpless. At that moment, my maternal instinct mixed with my knowledge as a spa owner. “Come,” I said. "I'm going to give you a gift, a full session here at the spa in my special room. You need to relax, forget about everything for a while."
She agreed, her voice still trembling. I took her to my private room, the one I use for longer treatments. I told her to lie face down on the table, take off her clothes, and cover herself with the towel. I started with a relaxing massage, using soothing oils. My hands glided over her back, trying to erase the bad experience with every movement.
That's when it happened. I was massaging her lower back, just above her hips, and my fingers, through a simple technical movement, brushed against a spot on her side. She shuddered. A small tremor. I didn't say anything, I continued with the massage. But a spark lit up in my head. I ran my fingers over the same spot again, this time a little slower, with my fingertips.
She laughed. It was a short giggle, muffled against the pillow. “Mom, you're tickling me,” she said, with a tone of complaint, but with a smile in her voice.
“Oh, really?” I replied, and I couldn't help myself. The game had begun. I continued massaging, but now my fingers were not only pressing, they were also dancing. I tickled her back, her ribs. She squirmed, trying to escape my hands, but laughing. “Mom, stop! Hahaha, that's enough!”
I turned her over so she was lying on her back. Her face was flushed, with a huge smile. “Now it's your turn on the front,” I said conspiratorially. My hands went straight to her armpits. Her reaction was instantaneous. Laughter exploded, real laughter, the kind you can't contain. She writhed on the massage table, unable to defend herself. “No, no, no! Please, not my armpits! Hahahahaha!”
Then I moved down to her feet. She had uncovered them for the massage. They were small and delicate. My nails slid across the soles of her feet and she screamed, a mixture of laughter and panic. “That's my weak spot! Mom, no! Hahahahahahahaha!”
At that moment, as my daughter laughed hysterically, helpless under my hands, I realized something. It was so easy. It wasn't about strength, or shouting, or insults. It was about this. About tickling. About taking away someone's control in the most intimate and simple way possible. It was torture, yes, but clean torture, leaving no marks, only an unforgettable memory.
I continued for a few more minutes, until I saw tears in her eyes from laughing so hard. Then I stopped. I hugged her. She lay still in my arms, catching her breath. “That's where you leave all the bad vibes,” I whispered. She just nodded, exhausted.
Now, sitting at my desk, looking at the clock, that memory is more vivid than ever. Daniela and Briana Márquez. The clients of the four. Part of me, the business part, thinks I should give them the best service of their lives so they become regular customers. It's good business. But the mother in me, the one who saw her daughter cry, the one who remembers how easy it was to subdue Angela with just a few tickles, thinks otherwise.
can't resist, the opportunity is too perfect, revenge must be today, now.
The problem is that I don't have much on hand to tickle with. My hands, my nails, maybe a makeup brush, a pedicure stone. I'll have to be resourceful.
At four o'clock sharp, the doorbell rings. I take a deep breath, straighten my white work coat, and go to answer the door. When I open it, I find two young women standing there. They are identical to Angela's description.
One of them, the taller one with an air of arrogance, looks me up and down. "We're the Márquez sisters. We have an appointment at four," she says in a confident voice. It must be Daniela. She is beautiful, I can't deny it. She has a more sensual, more direct beauty than Angela; it's as if she is sexier, and Angela is more tender. Her body is athletic, firm. She looks at me with disinterest, as if I were just the employee who is going to attend to her.
The other one is shorter, hiding a little behind her sister. It's Briana. She's also attractive, but in a more shy way. She doesn't have Daniela's toned body; she's smaller, more fragile. Her gaze is downcast; she barely looks me in the eye. She seems like her sister's shadow.
A strange feeling comes over me. I feel an immediate attraction to Daniela. It's a physical attraction, almost animalistic. It's not just her beauty, it's her attitude, that confidence she radiates as if the world belongs to her. I like her, she's one of those strong women who don't let themselves be bossed around.
For a second, my mind wanders to a place it shouldn't... I imagine myself, not as the one in charge, but subjugated to her as my mistress. I imagine her dominating me, kissing me with that same arrogance, her hands on my body, making me hers. I imagine her making me come with pleasure, touching my clitoris nonstop, losing control of my body completely.
But the fantasy lasts only a moment. Reality hits me back. This is the girl who makes my daughter's life miserable. The girl who insults and mistreats her. Besides, I'm almost certain she's completely heterosexual. She would never notice a woman like me, especially under these circumstances, although I can't deny that I would like her to...
Attraction doesn't matter, the plan is the plan: “revenge for Angela”... that's all that matters now.
“Of course, come in. I'm Jennifer, the owner,” I say the latter to make it clear that I'm not just an employee, but the owner herself. “Please follow me.”
I lead them down the hallway, my white heels making a rhythmic sound on the marble floor. I take them to my special room, which is larger than the others, with two massage tables separated by a small wooden table. The yellow light is dim, which makes the atmosphere feel warmer and more welcoming. Personally, it gives me those vibes, and there is a relaxing scent of lavender and sandalwood in the air. It is a room that, in my opinion, is the most beautiful I have in my spa.
“We'll be comfortable here,” I tell them. “First, I need you to take off your clothes and put on these robes. Then, sit down in the pedicure chairs and relax. You can use your cell phones without any problem.” I hand them two white, plush robes that reach down to their knees and a pair of white slippers for each of them.
While they change, I go out and do the same in the small adjoining bathroom. I take off my underwear and put on my robe, but mine is black satin, to differentiate myself, and I also put on black slippers. I look at myself in the mirror, my eyes have an intensity I didn't recognize. I'm nervous, yes, but also excited. I don't know what was going through my mind at that moment, I don't even know why I undressed, maybe I was expecting something I didn't know what it was...
When I come out, they are already sitting in the reclining pedicure chairs, their feet submerged in the warm water tubs that my assistant has placed for them. They both have their cell phones in their hands, their thumbs moving quickly across the screens, swiping through Tik Toks. Daniela has headphones on and Brianna has pink earbuds. It was perfect; they were distracted.
I sit on the low stool in front of Daniela's tub. “We'll start with exfoliation and nail care,” I announce, although I'm not sure if she heard me. Honestly, I didn't care. But I can't start right away. I admire Daniela's feet for a few seconds, and my mind says, “I have my daughter's bully's feet here, and I can touch them.”
Her feet are beautiful, well cared for, with soft skin and an elegant shape, a pronounced arch, perfect toes, neither long nor small, without bunions. They were the feet of a goddess, now under my power.
As I clean her nails and cut her cuticles, my mind wanders... those thoughts return, that fetish I never knew I had. I had never been attracted to feet before. I imagine myself kneeling in front of her, not to give her a pedicure, but to worship her feet. To kiss them, to lick them. I'm a little embarrassed, but it excites me, the idea of being dominated by this girl, by my daughter's bully, is perversely thrilling.
I take out the pumice stone and the exfoliator. I begin to gently rub the sole of her foot. This is my moment, with the stone in one hand, I hide the movement and with the fingers of my other hand, I brush very, very lightly against the side of her foot, just below her big toe, but there is no reaction, she remains focused on her cell phone.
I don't give up, I continue with the pedicure, cleaning and massaging. Every chance I get, I run my thumbnail over the arch of his foot, over his heel, but nothing, it's as if it were made of stone. It frustrates me a little to think that he doesn't have ticklish feet. I keep trying, scratching lightly here and there, until, finally, I get a reaction. I move my fingernail along the base of her toes and her foot twitches, her toes curling for a moment. She doesn't say anything, she doesn't look up from her phone, but her body reacted. I couldn't see if she smiled or not, because I would have had to get up and that would have been too obvious, right? But that's enough for me. It's a small victory.
“All done, miss, now, the polish,” I say, tapping her knee so she puts down her phone and pays attention to me. I look at my collection of colors. There's a bright red, a pale pink, a midnight blue. But I want another one. “I suggest a dark green, like emerald. It would highlight your skin tone and make your feet look very... sexy,” I say, leaving a little of my desire in the word “sexy.”
Daniela puts her phone down for the first time and looks at me. She raises an eyebrow, as if evaluating the suggestion. “You're the expert,” she says indifferently, and picks up her phone again. She gave in, which gives me a strange feeling of power.
As I paint her nails with the emerald green, I glance at Brianna's feet. Her feet are more neglected. Her cuticles are a little drier, a little dry. She needs the treatment more than her sister.
“For you, Brianna, what color would you like?” I ask in a softer voice.
She looks up, shyly. “French style, please,” she whispers.
“It shall be done,” I smile.
I repeat the process, cleaning, exfoliating, and again, my fingers “accidentally” find their way to sensitive places. With Brianna, the response is immediate. I run my fingernail along the arch of her foot and she lets out a short giggle, an “ow!”, and moves her foot, almost like a reflex. She keeps looking at her phone, but this time she smiles a little. She doesn't seem to mind, it's as if she doesn't care, as if the tickling is just a minor annoyance.
I become a little obsessed with her. She reminds me of Angela, how easy it is to make her laugh, how defenseless she becomes. I spend more time on her feet than I did on Daniela's, giving her longer massages, tickling her a little more insistently, eliciting more stifled giggles. I feel like I'm bothering her, so for the next phase, I was going to “pamper” her a little more.
After letting the polish dry, I tell them to rest for a while while I prepare everything for the next phase. Now comes the foot massage. I approach Brianna first, as I promised myself I would. I warm some shea butter cream between my hands and begin to massage her left foot. My fingers press her joints, her heel, the arch. She is relaxed, almost sleepy.
I reach the key moment during the massage, my fingers slide and I slowly insert my index finger between her big toe and the next toe. Then my little finger between the other toes. The contact of my skin with hers in those sensitive areas is immediate. Her foot moves forcefully, trying to escape, but I hold her ankle. She lets out another giggle, louder this time, but she doesn't say anything, she doesn't look away from her phone, but her foot tells me everything, she was a very sensitive girl.
I kept my promise to pamper her, so I stop tickling her and focus on giving her the best foot massage of her life, and I succeed. I see her put her phone down for a while and relax.
Now it's Daniela's turn. With her, I want to be careful. I don't want to upset her. I want her to feel comfortable. But part of me can't believe she's immune to tickling. So, instead of cream, I grab a bottle of almond oil. The oil makes the skin much more sensitive. I pour it over her feet, the golden liquid glistening in the dim light. I begin the massage, sliding my hands over her oily skin. It's an incredible sensation; her feet are perfect.
I massage without tickling, using only firm, relaxing movements. I do this for a few minutes, letting the oil do its work, penetrating her skin and making it more receptive. My hands move up her ankles, massaging the ankle area with circular movements. I feel her relax, her breathing deepen, and I know it's time to try.
Keeping the pressure gentle but constant, my thumbs slide toward the arch of her foot. Instead of pressing, I move them in very, very slow, almost imperceptible circles. I feel a slight tension under my thumbs, her foot tenses for a fraction of a second, it's nothing, but for me it's everything, so since I know Daniela is more sensitive, I continue, my thumbs dancing a tiny dance on her sensitive skin, and then, I get it. A tremor, an almost involuntary contraction of her toes, wrinkles the sole of her foot. She doesn't laugh, she doesn't say anything, she just lets out a little “mmm.” She is ticklish on her feet, you just have to know how to do it right.
I decide to take a little more risk. My fingers stop massaging and with the tips of my nails, I trace a very light line from the base of her toes to her heel, which makes Daniela shake her foot. I thought she would be annoyed, but no, she lowers the phone an inch, gives me a quick glance, and raises it again. Intrigued, I do it again, my nails tracing the same path from her toes to her heel. This time, her foot twitches, her toes curl into a little fist, and she holds her breath for a moment.
I can't believe it, is she letting me tickle her?
I listen carefully, through the sound of the water and my own breathing, and I hear it, an almost inaudible sound, held in her throat, the sound of someone laughing but not wanting anyone to know.
My smile widens. I do it a third time, the long, slow line with my fingernails, her foot jerks again, and this time, a small gasp escapes. Almost a laugh, a fourth time, her reaction is the same, her foot pulling away, her body tensing for a second, a fifth time and now I'm sure she loves it, she likes me tickling her, but she's too proud to admit it. The control this gives me is incredible.
I decide to do it a sixth time, but this time slower, enjoying the power, my nails walking across her oiled sole, and her foot reacts as I expected. But then, just as I finish the line, she lowers the phone completely and looks at me, her face a little flushed.
“You're tickling me,” she says, her voice not a complaint, but a statement. She's tired of being tickled; maybe she doesn't like it as much as I thought she would.
“I'm sorry,” I reply, trying to sound innocent. “It's just that skin covered in oil becomes very sensitive.”
“Don't do it anymore,” she says authoritatively.
“I will,” I obey immediately, not wanting to upset her too much. Not yet, anyway. The last thing I want is for her to leave, so I go back to the professional massage, but my mind is already elsewhere. I know she's vulnerable, and I know exactly how to use that against her.
I finish the foot massage for both of them. "All done, girls. Now we'll move on to the next phase. In the meantime, I've prepared a special herbal tea to relax you even more. I'll bring you your cups," I say, and head to the small kitchen next door.
My heart is beating a little faster than normal. Here comes the point of no return. I grab two warm ceramic cups and prepare the tea. It's a blend of chamomile and lavender, very effective for relaxation, and I add a fine white powder to both that I keep in a small jar labeled “valerian extract.” It's not valerian, of course, it's a powerful sleeping pill, perfectly dissolved in the hot liquid that will leave them fast asleep, just as I had planned.
I return to the living room with the two steaming cups.
“Here you go, herbal tea from my garden.” I hand them their cups, Daniela takes hers and sips a little. “Mmm, it's good,” says Brianna, imitating her sister, taking a small sip shyly.
“Drink it all, it will help you relax for the body massage,” I say as I sit on the stool and watch them. They both drink their tea, focused on their phones again. Now all that's left to do is wait.
Ten minutes... fifteen, and I see the first effects. Brianna yawns, a big, genuine yawn, rests her head on the armrest of the chair, and Daniela blinks more than usual, her movements on her phone becoming slower, clumsier. She runs a hand through her hair, as if it were weighing her down.
“Ready, girls, let's do the full massage. Please put down your cell phones and lie face down on the massage tables, but first take off your robes and put on the towels I left in the drawers of the nightstands next to your beds,” I say in a soft, authoritative voice.
They get up slowly, almost lazily, which is the last thing I see before leaving them to their privacy to take off their robes and put on the towels. Then I return to the room and the two sisters are already lying down with the towels, their backs completely exposed.
I approach Daniela first. Her back is strong and well defined. I pour some warm oil into my hands and begin to massage her shoulders. She moans softly, a sound of pure pleasure, as my fingers work on her knots, releasing the tension. I move down her back, following the line of her spine, her muscles tingling under my touch.
“You're very tense here,” I say, applying more pressure to a spot on her lower back. “Are you always this tense?”
“Mmm... a little,” she replies, her voice slurred from the sleeping pill. “School... and my sister sometimes...”
“Don't worry, today you're going to let all this go,” I whisper.
I decide it's time to tease her a little. My hands continue the massage, but now my fingernails come into play. I run the tip of my finger over her skin, and just behind it, the tip of my fingernail, very lightly, along the side of her waist, near her hip. She shudders, a spasm, a tremor that runs through her whole body.
“Haha... what was that?” she laughs, a strange, sleepy laugh.
“Just a nerve point, relax,” I say, and I do it again, on the other side, and get another reaction. A moan escapes her lips, but this time it's a moan mixed with a silly, uncontrolled giggle. “Haha... mmm noo...”
The sleeping pill is working wonders; she's not feeling any discomfort, just a strange mixture of tickling and pleasure. I continue like this for a while, a professional massage interspersed with little tickles that make her squirm and laugh halfway. Then I move my hands down to her thighs, which are fleshy and strong, and massage them hard, and she relaxes again, letting my hands dominate her.
My daughter's name is Angela. She's nineteen, just started college, and is, without a doubt, the most important thing in my life. She's smart, has a face that lights up any room, and a heart of gold. She's not the type of girl who draws attention for her body; she doesn't have large breasts or pronounced hips, but her beauty is something else, more subtle, more real.
I am bisexual. I always have been. Angela's father found out many years ago, before she was born. It wasn't a pretty scene. In fact, for him, it was the perfect excuse to leave. I think he would have left anyway, but my infidelity made it easier for him. It gave me the freedom I needed to raise my daughter my way, to build my business without depending on anyone.
A year ago, Angela's life at college turned into hell. Two sisters, Daniela and Briana Marquez, decided she was their target. I don't know why. Angela says it's jealousy. Maybe it is. Jealousy that Angela gets better grades, that the teachers praise her, that, without even trying, she's more popular.
What I do know is that the abuse went from insults to shoving, and sometimes Angela comes home with a little bruise that she tries to hide.
I've done everything a mother can do. I called the university, filed complaints, spoke to the dean. Nothing. Always the same answer: “We'll look into it.” But nothing ever happens. The helplessness gets under my skin like a fever that won't break. Seeing my daughter suffer and not being able to do anything about it is devastating.
Until today...
Today, my receptionist called me. “Jenn, you have two new clients at four o'clock. They signed up for the full package. Last name Márquez.”
Márquez.
The last name kept running through my head for the rest of the afternoon. Márquez. Daniela and Briana Márquez. It couldn't be a coincidence, not in such a small town. They're sisters, they go to the same college as Angela. It had to be them.
Suddenly, the helplessness I felt turned into something else. An idea. A memory.
I remember one day, a few months ago, when Angela came home crying. It wasn't sobbing, it was silent crying, the kind that is most exhausting. She sat on the sofa and hugged a pillow. I asked her what was wrong, and between sobs she told me that Daniela and Briana had humiliated her in front of everyone in the university courtyard. They took her books and threw them into a puddle.
I saw her so broken, so helpless. At that moment, my maternal instinct mixed with my knowledge as a spa owner. “Come,” I said. "I'm going to give you a gift, a full session here at the spa in my special room. You need to relax, forget about everything for a while."
She agreed, her voice still trembling. I took her to my private room, the one I use for longer treatments. I told her to lie face down on the table, take off her clothes, and cover herself with the towel. I started with a relaxing massage, using soothing oils. My hands glided over her back, trying to erase the bad experience with every movement.
That's when it happened. I was massaging her lower back, just above her hips, and my fingers, through a simple technical movement, brushed against a spot on her side. She shuddered. A small tremor. I didn't say anything, I continued with the massage. But a spark lit up in my head. I ran my fingers over the same spot again, this time a little slower, with my fingertips.
She laughed. It was a short giggle, muffled against the pillow. “Mom, you're tickling me,” she said, with a tone of complaint, but with a smile in her voice.
“Oh, really?” I replied, and I couldn't help myself. The game had begun. I continued massaging, but now my fingers were not only pressing, they were also dancing. I tickled her back, her ribs. She squirmed, trying to escape my hands, but laughing. “Mom, stop! Hahaha, that's enough!”
I turned her over so she was lying on her back. Her face was flushed, with a huge smile. “Now it's your turn on the front,” I said conspiratorially. My hands went straight to her armpits. Her reaction was instantaneous. Laughter exploded, real laughter, the kind you can't contain. She writhed on the massage table, unable to defend herself. “No, no, no! Please, not my armpits! Hahahahaha!”
Then I moved down to her feet. She had uncovered them for the massage. They were small and delicate. My nails slid across the soles of her feet and she screamed, a mixture of laughter and panic. “That's my weak spot! Mom, no! Hahahahahahahaha!”
At that moment, as my daughter laughed hysterically, helpless under my hands, I realized something. It was so easy. It wasn't about strength, or shouting, or insults. It was about this. About tickling. About taking away someone's control in the most intimate and simple way possible. It was torture, yes, but clean torture, leaving no marks, only an unforgettable memory.
I continued for a few more minutes, until I saw tears in her eyes from laughing so hard. Then I stopped. I hugged her. She lay still in my arms, catching her breath. “That's where you leave all the bad vibes,” I whispered. She just nodded, exhausted.
Now, sitting at my desk, looking at the clock, that memory is more vivid than ever. Daniela and Briana Márquez. The clients of the four. Part of me, the business part, thinks I should give them the best service of their lives so they become regular customers. It's good business. But the mother in me, the one who saw her daughter cry, the one who remembers how easy it was to subdue Angela with just a few tickles, thinks otherwise.
can't resist, the opportunity is too perfect, revenge must be today, now.
The problem is that I don't have much on hand to tickle with. My hands, my nails, maybe a makeup brush, a pedicure stone. I'll have to be resourceful.
At four o'clock sharp, the doorbell rings. I take a deep breath, straighten my white work coat, and go to answer the door. When I open it, I find two young women standing there. They are identical to Angela's description.
One of them, the taller one with an air of arrogance, looks me up and down. "We're the Márquez sisters. We have an appointment at four," she says in a confident voice. It must be Daniela. She is beautiful, I can't deny it. She has a more sensual, more direct beauty than Angela; it's as if she is sexier, and Angela is more tender. Her body is athletic, firm. She looks at me with disinterest, as if I were just the employee who is going to attend to her.
The other one is shorter, hiding a little behind her sister. It's Briana. She's also attractive, but in a more shy way. She doesn't have Daniela's toned body; she's smaller, more fragile. Her gaze is downcast; she barely looks me in the eye. She seems like her sister's shadow.
A strange feeling comes over me. I feel an immediate attraction to Daniela. It's a physical attraction, almost animalistic. It's not just her beauty, it's her attitude, that confidence she radiates as if the world belongs to her. I like her, she's one of those strong women who don't let themselves be bossed around.
For a second, my mind wanders to a place it shouldn't... I imagine myself, not as the one in charge, but subjugated to her as my mistress. I imagine her dominating me, kissing me with that same arrogance, her hands on my body, making me hers. I imagine her making me come with pleasure, touching my clitoris nonstop, losing control of my body completely.
But the fantasy lasts only a moment. Reality hits me back. This is the girl who makes my daughter's life miserable. The girl who insults and mistreats her. Besides, I'm almost certain she's completely heterosexual. She would never notice a woman like me, especially under these circumstances, although I can't deny that I would like her to...
Attraction doesn't matter, the plan is the plan: “revenge for Angela”... that's all that matters now.
“Of course, come in. I'm Jennifer, the owner,” I say the latter to make it clear that I'm not just an employee, but the owner herself. “Please follow me.”
I lead them down the hallway, my white heels making a rhythmic sound on the marble floor. I take them to my special room, which is larger than the others, with two massage tables separated by a small wooden table. The yellow light is dim, which makes the atmosphere feel warmer and more welcoming. Personally, it gives me those vibes, and there is a relaxing scent of lavender and sandalwood in the air. It is a room that, in my opinion, is the most beautiful I have in my spa.
“We'll be comfortable here,” I tell them. “First, I need you to take off your clothes and put on these robes. Then, sit down in the pedicure chairs and relax. You can use your cell phones without any problem.” I hand them two white, plush robes that reach down to their knees and a pair of white slippers for each of them.
While they change, I go out and do the same in the small adjoining bathroom. I take off my underwear and put on my robe, but mine is black satin, to differentiate myself, and I also put on black slippers. I look at myself in the mirror, my eyes have an intensity I didn't recognize. I'm nervous, yes, but also excited. I don't know what was going through my mind at that moment, I don't even know why I undressed, maybe I was expecting something I didn't know what it was...
When I come out, they are already sitting in the reclining pedicure chairs, their feet submerged in the warm water tubs that my assistant has placed for them. They both have their cell phones in their hands, their thumbs moving quickly across the screens, swiping through Tik Toks. Daniela has headphones on and Brianna has pink earbuds. It was perfect; they were distracted.
I sit on the low stool in front of Daniela's tub. “We'll start with exfoliation and nail care,” I announce, although I'm not sure if she heard me. Honestly, I didn't care. But I can't start right away. I admire Daniela's feet for a few seconds, and my mind says, “I have my daughter's bully's feet here, and I can touch them.”
Her feet are beautiful, well cared for, with soft skin and an elegant shape, a pronounced arch, perfect toes, neither long nor small, without bunions. They were the feet of a goddess, now under my power.
As I clean her nails and cut her cuticles, my mind wanders... those thoughts return, that fetish I never knew I had. I had never been attracted to feet before. I imagine myself kneeling in front of her, not to give her a pedicure, but to worship her feet. To kiss them, to lick them. I'm a little embarrassed, but it excites me, the idea of being dominated by this girl, by my daughter's bully, is perversely thrilling.
I take out the pumice stone and the exfoliator. I begin to gently rub the sole of her foot. This is my moment, with the stone in one hand, I hide the movement and with the fingers of my other hand, I brush very, very lightly against the side of her foot, just below her big toe, but there is no reaction, she remains focused on her cell phone.
I don't give up, I continue with the pedicure, cleaning and massaging. Every chance I get, I run my thumbnail over the arch of his foot, over his heel, but nothing, it's as if it were made of stone. It frustrates me a little to think that he doesn't have ticklish feet. I keep trying, scratching lightly here and there, until, finally, I get a reaction. I move my fingernail along the base of her toes and her foot twitches, her toes curling for a moment. She doesn't say anything, she doesn't look up from her phone, but her body reacted. I couldn't see if she smiled or not, because I would have had to get up and that would have been too obvious, right? But that's enough for me. It's a small victory.
“All done, miss, now, the polish,” I say, tapping her knee so she puts down her phone and pays attention to me. I look at my collection of colors. There's a bright red, a pale pink, a midnight blue. But I want another one. “I suggest a dark green, like emerald. It would highlight your skin tone and make your feet look very... sexy,” I say, leaving a little of my desire in the word “sexy.”
Daniela puts her phone down for the first time and looks at me. She raises an eyebrow, as if evaluating the suggestion. “You're the expert,” she says indifferently, and picks up her phone again. She gave in, which gives me a strange feeling of power.
As I paint her nails with the emerald green, I glance at Brianna's feet. Her feet are more neglected. Her cuticles are a little drier, a little dry. She needs the treatment more than her sister.
“For you, Brianna, what color would you like?” I ask in a softer voice.
She looks up, shyly. “French style, please,” she whispers.
“It shall be done,” I smile.
I repeat the process, cleaning, exfoliating, and again, my fingers “accidentally” find their way to sensitive places. With Brianna, the response is immediate. I run my fingernail along the arch of her foot and she lets out a short giggle, an “ow!”, and moves her foot, almost like a reflex. She keeps looking at her phone, but this time she smiles a little. She doesn't seem to mind, it's as if she doesn't care, as if the tickling is just a minor annoyance.
I become a little obsessed with her. She reminds me of Angela, how easy it is to make her laugh, how defenseless she becomes. I spend more time on her feet than I did on Daniela's, giving her longer massages, tickling her a little more insistently, eliciting more stifled giggles. I feel like I'm bothering her, so for the next phase, I was going to “pamper” her a little more.
After letting the polish dry, I tell them to rest for a while while I prepare everything for the next phase. Now comes the foot massage. I approach Brianna first, as I promised myself I would. I warm some shea butter cream between my hands and begin to massage her left foot. My fingers press her joints, her heel, the arch. She is relaxed, almost sleepy.
I reach the key moment during the massage, my fingers slide and I slowly insert my index finger between her big toe and the next toe. Then my little finger between the other toes. The contact of my skin with hers in those sensitive areas is immediate. Her foot moves forcefully, trying to escape, but I hold her ankle. She lets out another giggle, louder this time, but she doesn't say anything, she doesn't look away from her phone, but her foot tells me everything, she was a very sensitive girl.
I kept my promise to pamper her, so I stop tickling her and focus on giving her the best foot massage of her life, and I succeed. I see her put her phone down for a while and relax.
Now it's Daniela's turn. With her, I want to be careful. I don't want to upset her. I want her to feel comfortable. But part of me can't believe she's immune to tickling. So, instead of cream, I grab a bottle of almond oil. The oil makes the skin much more sensitive. I pour it over her feet, the golden liquid glistening in the dim light. I begin the massage, sliding my hands over her oily skin. It's an incredible sensation; her feet are perfect.
I massage without tickling, using only firm, relaxing movements. I do this for a few minutes, letting the oil do its work, penetrating her skin and making it more receptive. My hands move up her ankles, massaging the ankle area with circular movements. I feel her relax, her breathing deepen, and I know it's time to try.
Keeping the pressure gentle but constant, my thumbs slide toward the arch of her foot. Instead of pressing, I move them in very, very slow, almost imperceptible circles. I feel a slight tension under my thumbs, her foot tenses for a fraction of a second, it's nothing, but for me it's everything, so since I know Daniela is more sensitive, I continue, my thumbs dancing a tiny dance on her sensitive skin, and then, I get it. A tremor, an almost involuntary contraction of her toes, wrinkles the sole of her foot. She doesn't laugh, she doesn't say anything, she just lets out a little “mmm.” She is ticklish on her feet, you just have to know how to do it right.
I decide to take a little more risk. My fingers stop massaging and with the tips of my nails, I trace a very light line from the base of her toes to her heel, which makes Daniela shake her foot. I thought she would be annoyed, but no, she lowers the phone an inch, gives me a quick glance, and raises it again. Intrigued, I do it again, my nails tracing the same path from her toes to her heel. This time, her foot twitches, her toes curl into a little fist, and she holds her breath for a moment.
I can't believe it, is she letting me tickle her?
I listen carefully, through the sound of the water and my own breathing, and I hear it, an almost inaudible sound, held in her throat, the sound of someone laughing but not wanting anyone to know.
My smile widens. I do it a third time, the long, slow line with my fingernails, her foot jerks again, and this time, a small gasp escapes. Almost a laugh, a fourth time, her reaction is the same, her foot pulling away, her body tensing for a second, a fifth time and now I'm sure she loves it, she likes me tickling her, but she's too proud to admit it. The control this gives me is incredible.
I decide to do it a sixth time, but this time slower, enjoying the power, my nails walking across her oiled sole, and her foot reacts as I expected. But then, just as I finish the line, she lowers the phone completely and looks at me, her face a little flushed.
“You're tickling me,” she says, her voice not a complaint, but a statement. She's tired of being tickled; maybe she doesn't like it as much as I thought she would.
“I'm sorry,” I reply, trying to sound innocent. “It's just that skin covered in oil becomes very sensitive.”
“Don't do it anymore,” she says authoritatively.
“I will,” I obey immediately, not wanting to upset her too much. Not yet, anyway. The last thing I want is for her to leave, so I go back to the professional massage, but my mind is already elsewhere. I know she's vulnerable, and I know exactly how to use that against her.
I finish the foot massage for both of them. "All done, girls. Now we'll move on to the next phase. In the meantime, I've prepared a special herbal tea to relax you even more. I'll bring you your cups," I say, and head to the small kitchen next door.
My heart is beating a little faster than normal. Here comes the point of no return. I grab two warm ceramic cups and prepare the tea. It's a blend of chamomile and lavender, very effective for relaxation, and I add a fine white powder to both that I keep in a small jar labeled “valerian extract.” It's not valerian, of course, it's a powerful sleeping pill, perfectly dissolved in the hot liquid that will leave them fast asleep, just as I had planned.
I return to the living room with the two steaming cups.
“Here you go, herbal tea from my garden.” I hand them their cups, Daniela takes hers and sips a little. “Mmm, it's good,” says Brianna, imitating her sister, taking a small sip shyly.
“Drink it all, it will help you relax for the body massage,” I say as I sit on the stool and watch them. They both drink their tea, focused on their phones again. Now all that's left to do is wait.
Ten minutes... fifteen, and I see the first effects. Brianna yawns, a big, genuine yawn, rests her head on the armrest of the chair, and Daniela blinks more than usual, her movements on her phone becoming slower, clumsier. She runs a hand through her hair, as if it were weighing her down.
“Ready, girls, let's do the full massage. Please put down your cell phones and lie face down on the massage tables, but first take off your robes and put on the towels I left in the drawers of the nightstands next to your beds,” I say in a soft, authoritative voice.
They get up slowly, almost lazily, which is the last thing I see before leaving them to their privacy to take off their robes and put on the towels. Then I return to the room and the two sisters are already lying down with the towels, their backs completely exposed.
I approach Daniela first. Her back is strong and well defined. I pour some warm oil into my hands and begin to massage her shoulders. She moans softly, a sound of pure pleasure, as my fingers work on her knots, releasing the tension. I move down her back, following the line of her spine, her muscles tingling under my touch.
“You're very tense here,” I say, applying more pressure to a spot on her lower back. “Are you always this tense?”
“Mmm... a little,” she replies, her voice slurred from the sleeping pill. “School... and my sister sometimes...”
“Don't worry, today you're going to let all this go,” I whisper.
I decide it's time to tease her a little. My hands continue the massage, but now my fingernails come into play. I run the tip of my finger over her skin, and just behind it, the tip of my fingernail, very lightly, along the side of her waist, near her hip. She shudders, a spasm, a tremor that runs through her whole body.
“Haha... what was that?” she laughs, a strange, sleepy laugh.
“Just a nerve point, relax,” I say, and I do it again, on the other side, and get another reaction. A moan escapes her lips, but this time it's a moan mixed with a silly, uncontrolled giggle. “Haha... mmm noo...”
The sleeping pill is working wonders; she's not feeling any discomfort, just a strange mixture of tickling and pleasure. I continue like this for a while, a professional massage interspersed with little tickles that make her squirm and laugh halfway. Then I move my hands down to her thighs, which are fleshy and strong, and massage them hard, and she relaxes again, letting my hands dominate her.
