My worst kept Secret (M/F foot)
It would appear that my drinking has provided the opportunity to experience and relate a rather fortuitous story on my part. However like most of my stories on here the reader is to be included on a rather self-serving preamble. The topic here is secrecy. Like many here I give my fetish a wide berth, the talk of feet and tickling is usually met with a silence from me that would rival the most stalwart of monks. Still I have found myself in need of the occasional confidant, someone on whom to let loose with my tales of socially befuddling depravity. To exist in only the moment would be bliss but I had confided in many and often at the wrong time. What I told someone seven years ago may damage me a day from now and that is what this story largely comes down too. While I intend to relate the actually story soon enough I want to leave with a word of caution, take care if secrecy is a concern. To let the urge to tell become so great that you meet it could cause trouble. True friends will always understand you, less than that could be met with intimidation and exploitation.
As for the story itself. This past Fourth of July I was generously indulging on spirituous beverages at a friend’s party. I found the conversation with my friends to be worth while and the games to be increasingly more challenging as the day progressed. Alcohol was my friend in horseshoes, I won at least three games, but alcohol in regards to other shoes is surely the point of interest. The girl in question is undoubtedly “hot” my friends and I often converse about her. Of course while they are concerned about her breast and butt my concerns are wholly southward. Southward is her true perfection. Words I can type would fail to describe her feet. Size ten, wholly smooth, I implore you to use your own imagination (I would) and then make them a little better. The toes a little straighter, the soles a little smoother, the heel a little rounder, and more importantly a little more ticklish. I try not to exaggerate here; I’m not going to tell you she or every girl I ever tickled was wearing nylons and then wanted to get my number or was totally cool with my actions. I am seeking to relay the truth. The truth here, on this forum, is the life blood, I have no reason to dilute or deprecate it.
So maybe it was the drink or maybe it was me demanding to seek what I wanted but it was tonight I ordered myself to finally get a hand or two on those feet. As I continued the night finally gave me the opportunity I asked for. I sat down at a table having lit up my second cigar, it was then when she sat across form me and, hand to God, put her flip-flopped foot in my lap. Never being one to question miracles I immediately removed the flip-flop and began to rub her perfect size ten. It is here where the story must take two paths as the drunken memory is so much sweeter than the truth of sobriety. So as I rubbed her foot I knew what I had to do, what makes this story worthy of posting. I dropped my cigar (89 rated and to be missed, but you’ll thank me) and held her ankle to my thigh and went to town. I began to scribble my fingers all over her sole. Her peels of laughter conveyed surprise but no resistance. She began to giggle out sentences like “no tickling” or “stop tickling” but I was entrenched in my own mirth and continued. After my quick tickles I started again with the rub. I was sure to sneak in a few tickles whenever I could; I was completely enamored by this barefoot in my hands. I remember lastly picking up my cigar from the ground, and moving on…I remember waking up
It would be two days later when I talked to my friend, the host of the party. He asked me if I remembered what I did with the girl. My friend knows about my proclivities and even shares some so I was not shy in enumerating my actions. What I described as harmless foot tickling fun my friend described as something infinitely more, well embarrassing. Apparently the set-up was true, cigar, foot in lap. However the girl had actually had an agenda. My friend said the whole party saw me going to town on her foot, but she had made requests. Apparently she wanted to retrieve from me liquor for her friends and exploited my fetish. My advantage: She thought it was foot only. Apparently my tickling threw her off completely and my friend had heard her say to her friends: “I don’t care about his Jack I’m not getting tickled for it!” I was amused but surprised. I asked my good friend how could she possibly know? He replied: “I love you man, but that foot stuff, it’s your worst kept secret, everyone knows.”
Everyone knows. The words still echo in my head, hell if they didn’t I wouldn’t be posting this new story here. At least here everyone knows on my own terms.
It would appear that my drinking has provided the opportunity to experience and relate a rather fortuitous story on my part. However like most of my stories on here the reader is to be included on a rather self-serving preamble. The topic here is secrecy. Like many here I give my fetish a wide berth, the talk of feet and tickling is usually met with a silence from me that would rival the most stalwart of monks. Still I have found myself in need of the occasional confidant, someone on whom to let loose with my tales of socially befuddling depravity. To exist in only the moment would be bliss but I had confided in many and often at the wrong time. What I told someone seven years ago may damage me a day from now and that is what this story largely comes down too. While I intend to relate the actually story soon enough I want to leave with a word of caution, take care if secrecy is a concern. To let the urge to tell become so great that you meet it could cause trouble. True friends will always understand you, less than that could be met with intimidation and exploitation.
As for the story itself. This past Fourth of July I was generously indulging on spirituous beverages at a friend’s party. I found the conversation with my friends to be worth while and the games to be increasingly more challenging as the day progressed. Alcohol was my friend in horseshoes, I won at least three games, but alcohol in regards to other shoes is surely the point of interest. The girl in question is undoubtedly “hot” my friends and I often converse about her. Of course while they are concerned about her breast and butt my concerns are wholly southward. Southward is her true perfection. Words I can type would fail to describe her feet. Size ten, wholly smooth, I implore you to use your own imagination (I would) and then make them a little better. The toes a little straighter, the soles a little smoother, the heel a little rounder, and more importantly a little more ticklish. I try not to exaggerate here; I’m not going to tell you she or every girl I ever tickled was wearing nylons and then wanted to get my number or was totally cool with my actions. I am seeking to relay the truth. The truth here, on this forum, is the life blood, I have no reason to dilute or deprecate it.
So maybe it was the drink or maybe it was me demanding to seek what I wanted but it was tonight I ordered myself to finally get a hand or two on those feet. As I continued the night finally gave me the opportunity I asked for. I sat down at a table having lit up my second cigar, it was then when she sat across form me and, hand to God, put her flip-flopped foot in my lap. Never being one to question miracles I immediately removed the flip-flop and began to rub her perfect size ten. It is here where the story must take two paths as the drunken memory is so much sweeter than the truth of sobriety. So as I rubbed her foot I knew what I had to do, what makes this story worthy of posting. I dropped my cigar (89 rated and to be missed, but you’ll thank me) and held her ankle to my thigh and went to town. I began to scribble my fingers all over her sole. Her peels of laughter conveyed surprise but no resistance. She began to giggle out sentences like “no tickling” or “stop tickling” but I was entrenched in my own mirth and continued. After my quick tickles I started again with the rub. I was sure to sneak in a few tickles whenever I could; I was completely enamored by this barefoot in my hands. I remember lastly picking up my cigar from the ground, and moving on…I remember waking up
It would be two days later when I talked to my friend, the host of the party. He asked me if I remembered what I did with the girl. My friend knows about my proclivities and even shares some so I was not shy in enumerating my actions. What I described as harmless foot tickling fun my friend described as something infinitely more, well embarrassing. Apparently the set-up was true, cigar, foot in lap. However the girl had actually had an agenda. My friend said the whole party saw me going to town on her foot, but she had made requests. Apparently she wanted to retrieve from me liquor for her friends and exploited my fetish. My advantage: She thought it was foot only. Apparently my tickling threw her off completely and my friend had heard her say to her friends: “I don’t care about his Jack I’m not getting tickled for it!” I was amused but surprised. I asked my good friend how could she possibly know? He replied: “I love you man, but that foot stuff, it’s your worst kept secret, everyone knows.”
Everyone knows. The words still echo in my head, hell if they didn’t I wouldn’t be posting this new story here. At least here everyone knows on my own terms.
