Working in retail affords an enterprising ler with many opportunities. As hopefully my first story established I am such a ler and with that then comes the requisite stories. I often read this forum and say “that cannot be true” or “that is simply absurd”. Then a moment of introspection occurs and I see the great efforts I put into making an experience happen. I am then in no position to judge or question anyone’s validity and I hope I am afforded the same leniency. I often think to myself lers want to tickle; they want to tickle feet, sides, tummies, all matter of body parts. Lers want to make it happen. I submit to you the more outlandish the story the stronger the validity. That said my story is not outlandish, nor am I preemptively claiming a defense of my story. I submit this episode as an example of wanting it and going for it. I do not want to get to preachy or ramble so I’ll tell my story.
tl;dr: Lers make it happen and this reinforces the age old maxim “Truth is stranger than fiction”
However nothing to strange here except maybe the lee, in that she was exponentially out of my league. My goodness she was a gem of a girl but I am a sucker for exposition, feel free to skip ahead.
My work day started off early in the morning, I was ready to stock shelves and sweep the floors while listening to my Ipod as this was the normal routine while the manager did the early paper work and assorted number crunching. Much to my surprise the most unquestionably gorgeous girl was opening with me on this foggy September morning. We had a good working relationship and she was the kind of girl that knew every guy wanted her; even your mild mannered author was no exception. The point is some people simply know they are desirable. I submit you to fill in your own girl, I do when reading true stories, but here she is. Short, crystal blue eyes, straight blond hair in a pony tail, high cheek bones, a warm and inviting smile, and…well I never got to see her feet, so silly is a dress code that deprives a man of his voyeuristic proclivities. This, of course, made me want to see them all the more.
We were stocking various merchandise. I saw that we were virtually alone. My heart pounded in my ears around her. I kept telling myself not to read into her casual flirtations, but then she mentioned a tanning booth incident.
“Could you look at my arms?” she timidly asked while walking to me.
“Of course,” I blushed, I was confused but far be it from me to turn down a lady’s most modest request. “What am I looking for?”
“Red spots,” she explained how a tanning both left a series of red spots on her arm, my mind raced and kicked in to high gear, I had a fool proof idea. I asked what tanning establishment she frequented and told her (a lie of course) that one of my lady friend also went there, but guess where my friend’s red spots were?
I know I lost several points from the gentlemen column with that one, but here it is. Firstly saying “feet” in front of such a striking girl as this caused me to blush with a fury. I thought the game lost at the mere mention of the word. She eyed me and said, my god I love this part, “Better check my feet too!”
She sat down on the floor and untied her sneakers, first her left then her right. She kicked off both shoes revealing thin ankle socks. She pulled off both socks in unison and there were, finally after two years, her feet. Small (I won’t pretend to know shoe sizes), her toes close together but with French tips, a high arch, rounded though somewhat flat heel, and soles that looked like clouds.
“Well?” she held up her right foot first. I gently held her ankle and traced my index and middle finger up her sole in a series of quick motions. To say “smooth” is a disservice, it is almost as if the laws of resistance did not apply to her sole. She giggled and said she was incredibly ticklish on her feet, “Stop being such a boy, any red spots?” I stammered a no. She then held up her left, I grabbed it, she reminded me that she was ticklish. I repeated the same tickle technique. She laughed again, only louder. I really let her foot have it running my whole hand up and down her foot, a flurry of “spider” tickles and a careful exploration of the ever so sensitive place where the toes meet the foot. She was rolling and laughing like a girl half her age. I found it to be so cute.
“More ticklish on this foot?” I asked, pausing the tickling, thankfully she could not get a look at me that would be compromising. She then asked for me to stop, I obliged and informed her that there were no spots, I then went for the gold, and “Maybe I should check the other one again, just to be sure?” She laughed and said that I would just tickle her again. She put on her shoes and socks, thanked me for the inspection.
Making it happen, it seems to be the only way it happens at all.
tl;dr: Lers make it happen and this reinforces the age old maxim “Truth is stranger than fiction”
However nothing to strange here except maybe the lee, in that she was exponentially out of my league. My goodness she was a gem of a girl but I am a sucker for exposition, feel free to skip ahead.
My work day started off early in the morning, I was ready to stock shelves and sweep the floors while listening to my Ipod as this was the normal routine while the manager did the early paper work and assorted number crunching. Much to my surprise the most unquestionably gorgeous girl was opening with me on this foggy September morning. We had a good working relationship and she was the kind of girl that knew every guy wanted her; even your mild mannered author was no exception. The point is some people simply know they are desirable. I submit you to fill in your own girl, I do when reading true stories, but here she is. Short, crystal blue eyes, straight blond hair in a pony tail, high cheek bones, a warm and inviting smile, and…well I never got to see her feet, so silly is a dress code that deprives a man of his voyeuristic proclivities. This, of course, made me want to see them all the more.
We were stocking various merchandise. I saw that we were virtually alone. My heart pounded in my ears around her. I kept telling myself not to read into her casual flirtations, but then she mentioned a tanning booth incident.
“Could you look at my arms?” she timidly asked while walking to me.
“Of course,” I blushed, I was confused but far be it from me to turn down a lady’s most modest request. “What am I looking for?”
“Red spots,” she explained how a tanning both left a series of red spots on her arm, my mind raced and kicked in to high gear, I had a fool proof idea. I asked what tanning establishment she frequented and told her (a lie of course) that one of my lady friend also went there, but guess where my friend’s red spots were?
I know I lost several points from the gentlemen column with that one, but here it is. Firstly saying “feet” in front of such a striking girl as this caused me to blush with a fury. I thought the game lost at the mere mention of the word. She eyed me and said, my god I love this part, “Better check my feet too!”
She sat down on the floor and untied her sneakers, first her left then her right. She kicked off both shoes revealing thin ankle socks. She pulled off both socks in unison and there were, finally after two years, her feet. Small (I won’t pretend to know shoe sizes), her toes close together but with French tips, a high arch, rounded though somewhat flat heel, and soles that looked like clouds.
“Well?” she held up her right foot first. I gently held her ankle and traced my index and middle finger up her sole in a series of quick motions. To say “smooth” is a disservice, it is almost as if the laws of resistance did not apply to her sole. She giggled and said she was incredibly ticklish on her feet, “Stop being such a boy, any red spots?” I stammered a no. She then held up her left, I grabbed it, she reminded me that she was ticklish. I repeated the same tickle technique. She laughed again, only louder. I really let her foot have it running my whole hand up and down her foot, a flurry of “spider” tickles and a careful exploration of the ever so sensitive place where the toes meet the foot. She was rolling and laughing like a girl half her age. I found it to be so cute.
“More ticklish on this foot?” I asked, pausing the tickling, thankfully she could not get a look at me that would be compromising. She then asked for me to stop, I obliged and informed her that there were no spots, I then went for the gold, and “Maybe I should check the other one again, just to be sure?” She laughed and said that I would just tickle her again. She put on her shoes and socks, thanked me for the inspection.
Making it happen, it seems to be the only way it happens at all.
