Studious_Hustler
TMF Master
- Joined
- Dec 4, 2011
- Messages
- 784
- Points
- 28
As a twenty-one-year-old dude getting ready for my senior year in college, I’m mildly disappointed to report that I’ve had few experiences tickling girls—or even being tickled, for that matter—in my life so far. To be honest I’m not all that disappointed, since I plan to live for quite a while yet and I’m sure I’ll have many chances to “get” girls during that time 😉 But one particular experience from the past year stands out, and I decided it’d be a good writing exercise to record it.
Junior year I spent a semester in London. It was a great time, but required some adjustment because I was trading the full student body for a social group only a fraction of the size, those of us who were spending the semester abroad together. I had a couple of preexisting friends there with me, but it was largely a case of bonding on the go. Early on, one of the people I bonded best with was a girl we’ll call Michelle. We had that instant connection that meant we were soon comfortable sharing our issues with each other. I needed Michelle’s help with her best friend, a girl that I had developed a crush on but who hated me back. Michelle, in turn, needed my support for her own relationship with the same girl, who seemed to have a thing for her (Michelle was straight, but she didn’t want to hurt her best friend’s feelings by rejecting her outright). On top of that, Michelle had a boyfriend back in the states who had problems—he would call her up all the time and they would argue and argue. All told, we were happy to help each other out.
One of the first things I noticed about Michelle was that she had a habit of going barefoot, even more than most girls. It was cold in London at the time but that didn’t stop her, and when she did wear shoes, she seemed to prefer flip-flops that left her feet and toes exposed. Now I can’t say that I found Michelle’s feet beautiful per se; her toes were a bit smaller-proportioned than I like, and her nail polish was always peeling as if she needed a pedicure. But she was my friend, so I had plenty of affection for her, and I enjoyed seeing so much of her feet. It didn’t hurt that she was quite a looker: a tallish Mexican-American girl with a fantastic figure, billowing black hair, a beauty spot on her chin, intense eyes, and a sexy smirk. One time while chilling in her flat, I saw her best friend (the cute but grumpy lezzie) tickling Michelle’s bare feet, propped up on the chair between them. She kicked and squealed and told her friend not to tickle her. At the time, I didn’t think much of it.
Michelle and I liked to shut down the bar, which meant we sometimes wouldn’t get back to our dorm until three or four in the morning, well after most people had gone to bed. This night she had forgotten to bring her key card out with her, and was too embarrassed to knock on her flat’s door and rouse somebody to let her in. She was effectively stuck in the common room for the night, and loyal companion that I was, I was not going to abandon her in favor of my own warm bed. I was also afraid that if I went to sleep so late, I wouldn’t wake up for class in the morning. An all-nighter was the best option to pursue. Chip butties from the local snack shop got us started in style, and we were still amiably drunk, so we were quite comfortable I guess, cuddled together on the hard floor, chatting about pointless details of our hopes and fears.
All I know is that the black leather boots she would wear to the club must have come off sometime, along with her socks. Like I said, this wasn’t too surprising for Michelle, a regular shoeoffer. What’s more exceptional is that one of those exposed feet ended up in range of my fingers, and that I (perhaps inspired by what I had earlier seen her friend doing) reached out and gave it a tickle. She reacted just as I’d seen before, shrieking and laughing. “Stop!” Of course she couldn’t be too loud, considering all the students sleeping in the building. But I didn’t let that stop me from attacking her sole a second time, a minute later. “Don’t tickle me!” she giggled, pulling her leg away from my hand. After a long night of clubbing and talking, her voice was worn out, and the tickling was enough to put it over the edge into scratchy, high-pitched territory. I found her squeaky protests comically out of character for the dignified, articulate girl I knew, and couldn’t resist going after another reaction. This time I went for her toes, and hit the jackpot of hoarse squeals. I was laughing harder at her than she was from the tickling, which mortified her. “Don’t laugh at me!” she commanded, but I didn’t stop. “Sorry, you’re too funny,” I explained, “this is so entertaining!” Her opinion differed a bit—“this is terrible!”
It wouldn’t have been hard for Michelle to guard her feet so that I couldn’t get at them, but for whatever reason, she didn’t. We continued our buzzed conversations about life, hip-hop music, and whatever struck our fancy. But from time to time I would restrain her nearest ankle with one hand and use the other hand to extract a variety of hilarious behaviors from her. Like anyone in my position would, I offered her a traditional foot rub at one point, but she was too ticklish and I was too devious for that to work out. Instead I would dig into her soft arch or scrabble my fingers all over the ball of her foot, and laugh myself silly at her hoarse fits of giggles. It was great how she would curl all her toes up for protection when my fingertips approached them, only to discover that I could still tickle the hell out of every part of her toes simultaneously, or overpower them with my hand and ruthlessly titillate whichever part she was trying to defend. Poor Michelle was completely out of her depth that night. “How did you get so ticklish?” I asked, hardly believing my luck. Her answer, between fits of high-pitched laughter, wasn’t enlightening. “I’m just a very ticklish person!” Of course I mocked her for this faulty explanation and tickled her bare feet and toes all the more.
What I really had a hard time understanding was her claim not to be able to handle getting her feet tickled. To demonstrate how tickling was supposed to be enjoyed, I gave her my feet and told her to tickle them. Oh my goodness! Even I wasn’t anticipating how good it felt when she started to stimulate my tired feet. My slow sighs of pleasure and relaxation probably didn’t make her feel any better about her contrastingly spastic reactions, but I didn’t care. I was lost in the sleepy, comforting world of having my feet tickled by a beautiful friend. “I do not understand how you can not love this,” I murmured. “I do not understand how you can’t love being tickled on your feet, it’s the most wonderful, relaxing thing.”
That night wasn’t the last time I tickled Michelle’s feet, but it was the last time we shared that level of intimacy. Later on I thought she had caught on about my foot fetish, but I never bothered to ask her. It didn’t seem to matter anymore once we started to drift apart in the next months, the result of her escalating fights and breakup with her boyfriend, and of a fight between myself and a mutual friend. I doubt I’ll ever talk to or even see Michelle again. I hope she’s doing well.
Junior year I spent a semester in London. It was a great time, but required some adjustment because I was trading the full student body for a social group only a fraction of the size, those of us who were spending the semester abroad together. I had a couple of preexisting friends there with me, but it was largely a case of bonding on the go. Early on, one of the people I bonded best with was a girl we’ll call Michelle. We had that instant connection that meant we were soon comfortable sharing our issues with each other. I needed Michelle’s help with her best friend, a girl that I had developed a crush on but who hated me back. Michelle, in turn, needed my support for her own relationship with the same girl, who seemed to have a thing for her (Michelle was straight, but she didn’t want to hurt her best friend’s feelings by rejecting her outright). On top of that, Michelle had a boyfriend back in the states who had problems—he would call her up all the time and they would argue and argue. All told, we were happy to help each other out.
One of the first things I noticed about Michelle was that she had a habit of going barefoot, even more than most girls. It was cold in London at the time but that didn’t stop her, and when she did wear shoes, she seemed to prefer flip-flops that left her feet and toes exposed. Now I can’t say that I found Michelle’s feet beautiful per se; her toes were a bit smaller-proportioned than I like, and her nail polish was always peeling as if she needed a pedicure. But she was my friend, so I had plenty of affection for her, and I enjoyed seeing so much of her feet. It didn’t hurt that she was quite a looker: a tallish Mexican-American girl with a fantastic figure, billowing black hair, a beauty spot on her chin, intense eyes, and a sexy smirk. One time while chilling in her flat, I saw her best friend (the cute but grumpy lezzie) tickling Michelle’s bare feet, propped up on the chair between them. She kicked and squealed and told her friend not to tickle her. At the time, I didn’t think much of it.
Michelle and I liked to shut down the bar, which meant we sometimes wouldn’t get back to our dorm until three or four in the morning, well after most people had gone to bed. This night she had forgotten to bring her key card out with her, and was too embarrassed to knock on her flat’s door and rouse somebody to let her in. She was effectively stuck in the common room for the night, and loyal companion that I was, I was not going to abandon her in favor of my own warm bed. I was also afraid that if I went to sleep so late, I wouldn’t wake up for class in the morning. An all-nighter was the best option to pursue. Chip butties from the local snack shop got us started in style, and we were still amiably drunk, so we were quite comfortable I guess, cuddled together on the hard floor, chatting about pointless details of our hopes and fears.
All I know is that the black leather boots she would wear to the club must have come off sometime, along with her socks. Like I said, this wasn’t too surprising for Michelle, a regular shoeoffer. What’s more exceptional is that one of those exposed feet ended up in range of my fingers, and that I (perhaps inspired by what I had earlier seen her friend doing) reached out and gave it a tickle. She reacted just as I’d seen before, shrieking and laughing. “Stop!” Of course she couldn’t be too loud, considering all the students sleeping in the building. But I didn’t let that stop me from attacking her sole a second time, a minute later. “Don’t tickle me!” she giggled, pulling her leg away from my hand. After a long night of clubbing and talking, her voice was worn out, and the tickling was enough to put it over the edge into scratchy, high-pitched territory. I found her squeaky protests comically out of character for the dignified, articulate girl I knew, and couldn’t resist going after another reaction. This time I went for her toes, and hit the jackpot of hoarse squeals. I was laughing harder at her than she was from the tickling, which mortified her. “Don’t laugh at me!” she commanded, but I didn’t stop. “Sorry, you’re too funny,” I explained, “this is so entertaining!” Her opinion differed a bit—“this is terrible!”
It wouldn’t have been hard for Michelle to guard her feet so that I couldn’t get at them, but for whatever reason, she didn’t. We continued our buzzed conversations about life, hip-hop music, and whatever struck our fancy. But from time to time I would restrain her nearest ankle with one hand and use the other hand to extract a variety of hilarious behaviors from her. Like anyone in my position would, I offered her a traditional foot rub at one point, but she was too ticklish and I was too devious for that to work out. Instead I would dig into her soft arch or scrabble my fingers all over the ball of her foot, and laugh myself silly at her hoarse fits of giggles. It was great how she would curl all her toes up for protection when my fingertips approached them, only to discover that I could still tickle the hell out of every part of her toes simultaneously, or overpower them with my hand and ruthlessly titillate whichever part she was trying to defend. Poor Michelle was completely out of her depth that night. “How did you get so ticklish?” I asked, hardly believing my luck. Her answer, between fits of high-pitched laughter, wasn’t enlightening. “I’m just a very ticklish person!” Of course I mocked her for this faulty explanation and tickled her bare feet and toes all the more.
What I really had a hard time understanding was her claim not to be able to handle getting her feet tickled. To demonstrate how tickling was supposed to be enjoyed, I gave her my feet and told her to tickle them. Oh my goodness! Even I wasn’t anticipating how good it felt when she started to stimulate my tired feet. My slow sighs of pleasure and relaxation probably didn’t make her feel any better about her contrastingly spastic reactions, but I didn’t care. I was lost in the sleepy, comforting world of having my feet tickled by a beautiful friend. “I do not understand how you can not love this,” I murmured. “I do not understand how you can’t love being tickled on your feet, it’s the most wonderful, relaxing thing.”
That night wasn’t the last time I tickled Michelle’s feet, but it was the last time we shared that level of intimacy. Later on I thought she had caught on about my foot fetish, but I never bothered to ask her. It didn’t seem to matter anymore once we started to drift apart in the next months, the result of her escalating fights and breakup with her boyfriend, and of a fight between myself and a mutual friend. I doubt I’ll ever talk to or even see Michelle again. I hope she’s doing well.
Thanks for sharing it here. 
