Iwon'tgrowup
TMF Master
- Joined
- Jun 18, 2005
- Messages
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In my most recent story ("Dependent on Tickling"), I spoke of how I introduced the love of my life to . . . well, the love of my life 
.
I was between jobs, and even the persuasive late morning sun did little to warm me. But the little peck at my screen door drowned out all of the hammering of insistent bill collectors.
There was my goddess. The sun was muted by her hair, the sky by her eyes. And a dress, yet! And spectator pumps! Nylons! I'd forgotten. She was on her way to a job interview. And yet she was here. Whatever could she want?
Amazingly, me. We said nothing. I just pulled her inside and we slammed into the kitchen wall; lips, hands, hips, no words. Tangled like ivy, we barely made the couch when we fell.
"What about your interview?" I murmured against her neck.
She whispered back, "I'll get there . . . this is the pre-interview. Don't you want to interview me? Ask me questions? Find out . . . all about me?"
"Maybe we should conduct this interview . . . on The B-B-Boss's lap," I stammered.
"Fine," she said primly, kicking off the pumps and hiking her skirt in a very businesslike way. "Where isThe Boss?"
"Oh, Boss?" I sang, sitting upright and calling Him forth.
"Do you think He can interview me this way?" she giggled, sitting down on Him. She pulled her legs alongside mine, soles up. Nyloned soles up.
"He can try," I gasped. As she rocked, I interviewed the candidate:
Schedule? How about 24/7? she whispered.
Work attire? Hmm . . . as little as possible? she asked.
Compensation? "This'll do . . . for a START!" she yelled, her first orgasm bursting out. "Oh yeah, that's good compensation. Good compensation. Good stuff. Good. I can live with that. But . . . did you want to give me something else? Little bonus? Huh, BOSS?"
My heart nearly hammered its way through my sternum as I answered, "Yes. Yes I do. What would you think if I . . ." and I began tickling her feet. I had tickled her playfully a number of times, but this was the first serious foot tickling I'd given her (I wasn't sure how long I could hold out, either, but the temptation to tickle was too great). Her feet were long (9.5) and slender, shapely, strong but soft. I got to know them in a hurry.
"What are you doing?" she shrieked. She and The Boss began thrashing violently on my lap . . . her laughter flooded over me. "God, baby! That really t-t-t-TICKLES!" as I dug in a little harder. "You're TICKLING ME!!"
It's . . . a . . . JOB requirement . . . I panted, as she wrapped her arms around my neck to keep from falling. Only . . . the ticklish . . . need apply . . . My lame joke made her laugh even harder, and her laughter rose in pitch, became a scream, and I had one to match . . .
"You tickled my feet," she said, panting, her face on my face. "I think I should get the job."
I grinned, catching a bead of sweat from her goddess cheek. "You're hired."
We got her put back together with a little cold water, a comb, a little emergency makeup repair. Good as new. Off to the "real" interview. But I was nervous about what I'd done, how I had outed myself during such a passionate moment. That is, until she said at the door:
"Umm . . . you tickled me. I can't stand having my feet tickled, but I loved this. I loved what it did to YOU. Can this be . . . a fringe benefit, maybe?"
"I'll write it into the contract," I said.
(Even though we're no longer together, she still mentions this encounter when we talk on the telephone. Sigh.
)
.I was between jobs, and even the persuasive late morning sun did little to warm me. But the little peck at my screen door drowned out all of the hammering of insistent bill collectors.
There was my goddess. The sun was muted by her hair, the sky by her eyes. And a dress, yet! And spectator pumps! Nylons! I'd forgotten. She was on her way to a job interview. And yet she was here. Whatever could she want?
Amazingly, me. We said nothing. I just pulled her inside and we slammed into the kitchen wall; lips, hands, hips, no words. Tangled like ivy, we barely made the couch when we fell.
"What about your interview?" I murmured against her neck.
She whispered back, "I'll get there . . . this is the pre-interview. Don't you want to interview me? Ask me questions? Find out . . . all about me?"
"Maybe we should conduct this interview . . . on The B-B-Boss's lap," I stammered.
"Fine," she said primly, kicking off the pumps and hiking her skirt in a very businesslike way. "Where isThe Boss?"
"Oh, Boss?" I sang, sitting upright and calling Him forth.
"Do you think He can interview me this way?" she giggled, sitting down on Him. She pulled her legs alongside mine, soles up. Nyloned soles up.
"He can try," I gasped. As she rocked, I interviewed the candidate:
Schedule? How about 24/7? she whispered.
Work attire? Hmm . . . as little as possible? she asked.
Compensation? "This'll do . . . for a START!" she yelled, her first orgasm bursting out. "Oh yeah, that's good compensation. Good compensation. Good stuff. Good. I can live with that. But . . . did you want to give me something else? Little bonus? Huh, BOSS?"
My heart nearly hammered its way through my sternum as I answered, "Yes. Yes I do. What would you think if I . . ." and I began tickling her feet. I had tickled her playfully a number of times, but this was the first serious foot tickling I'd given her (I wasn't sure how long I could hold out, either, but the temptation to tickle was too great). Her feet were long (9.5) and slender, shapely, strong but soft. I got to know them in a hurry.
"What are you doing?" she shrieked. She and The Boss began thrashing violently on my lap . . . her laughter flooded over me. "God, baby! That really t-t-t-TICKLES!" as I dug in a little harder. "You're TICKLING ME!!"
It's . . . a . . . JOB requirement . . . I panted, as she wrapped her arms around my neck to keep from falling. Only . . . the ticklish . . . need apply . . . My lame joke made her laugh even harder, and her laughter rose in pitch, became a scream, and I had one to match . . .
"You tickled my feet," she said, panting, her face on my face. "I think I should get the job."
I grinned, catching a bead of sweat from her goddess cheek. "You're hired."
We got her put back together with a little cold water, a comb, a little emergency makeup repair. Good as new. Off to the "real" interview. But I was nervous about what I'd done, how I had outed myself during such a passionate moment. That is, until she said at the door:
"Umm . . . you tickled me. I can't stand having my feet tickled, but I loved this. I loved what it did to YOU. Can this be . . . a fringe benefit, maybe?"
"I'll write it into the contract," I said.
(Even though we're no longer together, she still mentions this encounter when we talk on the telephone. Sigh.
)
