I would like to start by saying that I am not all together comfortable with conveying this story. The “lee” in question was married I was just a horny kid who let his emotions get the better of him. To say that this encounter was planned or desired would be revisionist. Despite my misgivings I feel compelled to write this, to get it off my chest, I do not expect praise. Frankly I do not know what to expect so here it is then….
The stock room. I have always wanted to tell my friends how ironic that title is, as fellow “lers” you can appreciate the implication but you surely can appreciate how the joke is only yours alone. I pass this story off to my friends under the auspicious idea of a sexual awakening on my part, with the tickling replaced by a more "accepted" act. Again I am sorry.
I remember the incident so vividly the girl, insert your own (I often do despite a story’s claim to facts) was a wonderfully vibrant woman from the Philippians. Use your imagination, but her feet were so soft, so smooth as if conditioned by the worlds hottest beaches and anticipating the touch of an eager young man, in short they were sublime. He smooth tan soles were simply stunning, her toes all in order (a longer second toe is a consummate turn off, apologies again) and ready to be tickled.
In short I wanted to tickle her so badly. To be more specific like many of you I am a foot man, though through her I found that tickling transcends a mere body part and that all can be used for primordial pleasures. In her case it was her sides, at work I would sneak up on her and tickle her sides (often exposed, though more often not) and elicit the sweetest laughter, her broken English, clear though thick, telling me to stop. I would but with such anguish, she saw I wanted more, but we could not.
I hate a lack of foot tickling, far be it from me to deprive you. I finally got to her feet (of which I had not seen, due to our work dress code, so many girls, so little feet (though I do have other stories, after more drinks maybe I will tell) still I needed to see them, to touch them, to tickle them) I remember the incident so well.
She went into the stock room, I followed. I planned on at least tickling her sides, I desired her so much. We were alone and talked about some TV show, I forget which, and all I could think about was how alone we were, how the manager was already doing paper work, how the last customers were checking out. How she was mine. I told her quite frankly that I was going to tickle her. She looked at me dumbfounded, “Really?” she asked, “Yeah” I said burning with desire. I advanced, she grabbed my arms, and smiled a smile that told me I would have to work, I was invited, but there was an admission.
I got to her sides, it was bliss, she laughed and fell to the floor, she kicked at me playfully, the motions for our “sessions”. But now things were different the store was closing, I grabbed her ankle. First the shoe. It hit the floor behind me. Then the sock, an ankle sock slid off, so easily as if that is why it was there, to be discarded. I final saw her barefoot. Perfection. Finally I had her. Perfection. I ran my index, middle, and ring finger up her silky smooth beach-worn foot. Peels of laughter, universal, the language barrier gone, the broken English replaced by universal laughter. I was in heaven. I asked her if it tickled, she laughed a yes, and that was it. My fingers knew what they were doing. Her soles were a blank canvas, and my fingers the brushes of an inspiring artist. Her toes wiggled. The space between her toes and sole the most sensitive. I had never been happier to be at work. I realized the tickling was too much (my love for feet does not transcend my love for steady employment) so I stopped. I let go, she clinched her foot in a reflexive defensive action. My heart pounded tortuously through my body. Had I crossed that unspoken line, had maybe I read to deep into her flirtation, or worse had someone heard or seen us?
No. Maybe it would have been better, but the truth held a greater burden.
She let me get a good look at her sole. She raised her foot to my face to put her sock on; I had tipped my entire hand, to put it tastefully. She put her sock back on, then her shoe, then the kiss. I had not known passion till this. We stared into each others eyes afterward, the stare said we could never do this again; the stare said we agreed to these terms. I wanted to say something, anything, but no words just silence. She left. The stockroom was now barren. Only this story remains, only my heart remembers.
The stock room. I have always wanted to tell my friends how ironic that title is, as fellow “lers” you can appreciate the implication but you surely can appreciate how the joke is only yours alone. I pass this story off to my friends under the auspicious idea of a sexual awakening on my part, with the tickling replaced by a more "accepted" act. Again I am sorry.
I remember the incident so vividly the girl, insert your own (I often do despite a story’s claim to facts) was a wonderfully vibrant woman from the Philippians. Use your imagination, but her feet were so soft, so smooth as if conditioned by the worlds hottest beaches and anticipating the touch of an eager young man, in short they were sublime. He smooth tan soles were simply stunning, her toes all in order (a longer second toe is a consummate turn off, apologies again) and ready to be tickled.
In short I wanted to tickle her so badly. To be more specific like many of you I am a foot man, though through her I found that tickling transcends a mere body part and that all can be used for primordial pleasures. In her case it was her sides, at work I would sneak up on her and tickle her sides (often exposed, though more often not) and elicit the sweetest laughter, her broken English, clear though thick, telling me to stop. I would but with such anguish, she saw I wanted more, but we could not.
I hate a lack of foot tickling, far be it from me to deprive you. I finally got to her feet (of which I had not seen, due to our work dress code, so many girls, so little feet (though I do have other stories, after more drinks maybe I will tell) still I needed to see them, to touch them, to tickle them) I remember the incident so well.
She went into the stock room, I followed. I planned on at least tickling her sides, I desired her so much. We were alone and talked about some TV show, I forget which, and all I could think about was how alone we were, how the manager was already doing paper work, how the last customers were checking out. How she was mine. I told her quite frankly that I was going to tickle her. She looked at me dumbfounded, “Really?” she asked, “Yeah” I said burning with desire. I advanced, she grabbed my arms, and smiled a smile that told me I would have to work, I was invited, but there was an admission.
I got to her sides, it was bliss, she laughed and fell to the floor, she kicked at me playfully, the motions for our “sessions”. But now things were different the store was closing, I grabbed her ankle. First the shoe. It hit the floor behind me. Then the sock, an ankle sock slid off, so easily as if that is why it was there, to be discarded. I final saw her barefoot. Perfection. Finally I had her. Perfection. I ran my index, middle, and ring finger up her silky smooth beach-worn foot. Peels of laughter, universal, the language barrier gone, the broken English replaced by universal laughter. I was in heaven. I asked her if it tickled, she laughed a yes, and that was it. My fingers knew what they were doing. Her soles were a blank canvas, and my fingers the brushes of an inspiring artist. Her toes wiggled. The space between her toes and sole the most sensitive. I had never been happier to be at work. I realized the tickling was too much (my love for feet does not transcend my love for steady employment) so I stopped. I let go, she clinched her foot in a reflexive defensive action. My heart pounded tortuously through my body. Had I crossed that unspoken line, had maybe I read to deep into her flirtation, or worse had someone heard or seen us?
No. Maybe it would have been better, but the truth held a greater burden.
She let me get a good look at her sole. She raised her foot to my face to put her sock on; I had tipped my entire hand, to put it tastefully. She put her sock back on, then her shoe, then the kiss. I had not known passion till this. We stared into each others eyes afterward, the stare said we could never do this again; the stare said we agreed to these terms. I wanted to say something, anything, but no words just silence. She left. The stockroom was now barren. Only this story remains, only my heart remembers.
