Iwon'tgrowup
TMF Master
- Joined
- Jun 18, 2005
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(Several on this forum have pooh-poohed engaging escorts for tickling purposes. But I married young . . . and my then-wife didn't express her hatred for tickling until after we marched down the aisle. In those days, as long as I asked the right questions over the phone, I met a few lovely women who were more than happy to help me with my special need. And on this day in particular . . .)
"She looks just like Sigourney Weaver," the husky phone-voice said.
My jaw dropped. To me, Sigourney was unrivaled. "G-good s-sales p-p-pitch!" I stammered.
"No, really, hon," the smoky-voiced woman said. "Not exactly, but they could be sisters. Close sisters."
She went on to explain that she had known "Claire" for several years. "She's like a daughter," she said, "and I've tickled her a few times myself. If you don't have fun . . . well, trust me, you'll have fun."
The actress Sigourney Weaver was everything I revered in a woman. Tall. Hair. No-shit stare. Casual, but purposeful. I'm not sure what it says about me, but I wanted to see such a formidable woman reduced to helpless laughter.
"Tickling Sigourney" fantasies, unbeknownst to my wife, had kept me in our bed. But now, here she was, parking in my drive. Extending a high-heeled foot from her silver 4WD. When she stood in her 6'1" glory on my asphalt and studied my house, my mouth dried so quickly I could hear it.
She rang my doorbell.
I opened to her before her finger left the button.
"H-h-h," I began . . .
"I'm Claire," she said, smiling slightly (maybe just a hint of a smirk. Knowing).
"Claire" I whispered.
Claire stepped past me into the foyer, into the living room, into my life, into a memory that makes my heart race 10 years later. Long. Toned. Charcoal business suit, skirt. Black leather pumps, size 8 (I checked). Auburn hair that fell in waves, green eyes that didn't miss a thing, lips that pouted intentionally. An almost-bass voice.
Blood pounded behind my eyes.
She was Sigourney.
Claire explained her terms, I fulfilled them. Tipped, and was proclaimed very generous. We sat on the sofa in silence. She looked at me. I looked at the carpet. So she said:
"How do you want to start?"
"I . . . I'm not . . ." God I had never been rendered so dumb in the presence of a woman.
"Perhaps," she said, "you'd like to . . . take a quick test drive." And she lazily extended her stockinged left leg across my knees. I looked at it. Quivering.
"Don't you want to take my shoe off?" she teased. I removed it. Looked at the perfect foot, unpolished nails, neatly trimmed. Sheer nylon. Then: "If you're going to tickle me, you might want to hold my ankle. I'd hate to break the nose of such a handsome man."
I did. Shakily, I moved my finger toward her sole (did I feel her tense up just a little?), and lightly tickled the ball of her foot.
"AHHH! Ha ha ha ha ha!" Claire laughed, wrenching her foot away. I looked into her face, smiled at her for the first time. "You bad boy," she mock-scolded. "But you can tell I'm not faking, can't you?"
I could. Claire was for real.
She stretched out on the couch . . . I had provided a pillow (my pillow, so glad I did, oh how I inhaled her scent later) . . . and I removed her other shoe. And for the next thirty minutes, what a wonderful conversation we had! She opened me up. I tickled her lightly every 2-3 minutes, and each time she laughed beautifully. She emphasized a different ha with each tickle.
"Ha ha HA ha ha ha ha!"
"HA HA HA ha ha ha ha HA HA!"
And every possible combination. I was a Sigourney fetishist. A tickle fetishist. A Sigourney tickle fetishist. And this was tickle heaven. A different tickle-anthem laughed with every tickle.
We talked about colleges. I tickled. She laughed. We talked about her career. I tickled. She snickered. We spoke of her dog, her money, how my fetish began. At every possible interval, I tickled. She guffawed. She giggled. A couple of times, she out-and-out cracked up.
"You know," Claire said, "this isn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be. I think tickling feet is serious business."
"Oh," I said, slyly, trapping her right leg between my left arm and my body, "you mean like this?" And I tickled the sole of her right foot mercilessly. I held on like John Travolta held on to the bull in Urban Cowboy. But I tickled Claire much more effectively than he tickled Debra Winger. Her laughter became shrieking, her shrieking became gasping, silent peals of ecstasy.
After a minute or so, I stopped. She immediately sat up, red-faced. Panting. "Oh. God. You. Bad. So. Bad. God. God. Oh. Oh." As her breath returned, she began looking at my own socked feet. "I think," she said, sliding onto the floor, planting her perfect behind on my lower legs, "that I am going to have to tickle you back."
A 6'1" woman is nothing to mess with, and Claire went about her tickling with as much vigor as Sigourney had battled the mother alien. All business. Stripped my socks. Trapped my feet together and tickled my soles with the same vengeance Ellen Ripley displayed while blasting the alien out of the goddamn airlock. I laughed myself into a swollenness I'm quite sure has never been equaled.
"Now," Claire said, "now we're getting somewhere, aren't we, Mr. Bad? Bad boys need a little discipline. But only a little. Don't need much, do we, Bad?
"But a little help," she said, placing a foot on my chest, "is always appreciated.
"But tickle lightly, my darling," she almost cooed, handling me with expert pressure.
She giggled as I stroked her toes, her arch, her heel, the vulnerable ball of the foot. She wiggled her toes expertly at my little scritches. And then . . .
Oh, Sigourney . . .
She was still more formidable than I . . .
EPILOGUE
I need to let my dog out on your lawn. Okay? But if you're . . . recovered . . . enough to watch out the window, I'll give you a surprise.
And as I watched, still getting my breath back, she held her dog's leash with one hand. Held her truck's mirror with the other.
Slipped her foot out of her shoe and wiggled her toes goodbye . . .
"She looks just like Sigourney Weaver," the husky phone-voice said.
My jaw dropped. To me, Sigourney was unrivaled. "G-good s-sales p-p-pitch!" I stammered.
"No, really, hon," the smoky-voiced woman said. "Not exactly, but they could be sisters. Close sisters."
She went on to explain that she had known "Claire" for several years. "She's like a daughter," she said, "and I've tickled her a few times myself. If you don't have fun . . . well, trust me, you'll have fun."
The actress Sigourney Weaver was everything I revered in a woman. Tall. Hair. No-shit stare. Casual, but purposeful. I'm not sure what it says about me, but I wanted to see such a formidable woman reduced to helpless laughter.
"Tickling Sigourney" fantasies, unbeknownst to my wife, had kept me in our bed. But now, here she was, parking in my drive. Extending a high-heeled foot from her silver 4WD. When she stood in her 6'1" glory on my asphalt and studied my house, my mouth dried so quickly I could hear it.
She rang my doorbell.
I opened to her before her finger left the button.
"H-h-h," I began . . .
"I'm Claire," she said, smiling slightly (maybe just a hint of a smirk. Knowing).
"Claire" I whispered.
Claire stepped past me into the foyer, into the living room, into my life, into a memory that makes my heart race 10 years later. Long. Toned. Charcoal business suit, skirt. Black leather pumps, size 8 (I checked). Auburn hair that fell in waves, green eyes that didn't miss a thing, lips that pouted intentionally. An almost-bass voice.
Blood pounded behind my eyes.
She was Sigourney.
Claire explained her terms, I fulfilled them. Tipped, and was proclaimed very generous. We sat on the sofa in silence. She looked at me. I looked at the carpet. So she said:
"How do you want to start?"
"I . . . I'm not . . ." God I had never been rendered so dumb in the presence of a woman.
"Perhaps," she said, "you'd like to . . . take a quick test drive." And she lazily extended her stockinged left leg across my knees. I looked at it. Quivering.
"Don't you want to take my shoe off?" she teased. I removed it. Looked at the perfect foot, unpolished nails, neatly trimmed. Sheer nylon. Then: "If you're going to tickle me, you might want to hold my ankle. I'd hate to break the nose of such a handsome man."
I did. Shakily, I moved my finger toward her sole (did I feel her tense up just a little?), and lightly tickled the ball of her foot.
"AHHH! Ha ha ha ha ha!" Claire laughed, wrenching her foot away. I looked into her face, smiled at her for the first time. "You bad boy," she mock-scolded. "But you can tell I'm not faking, can't you?"
I could. Claire was for real.
She stretched out on the couch . . . I had provided a pillow (my pillow, so glad I did, oh how I inhaled her scent later) . . . and I removed her other shoe. And for the next thirty minutes, what a wonderful conversation we had! She opened me up. I tickled her lightly every 2-3 minutes, and each time she laughed beautifully. She emphasized a different ha with each tickle.
"Ha ha HA ha ha ha ha!"
"HA HA HA ha ha ha ha HA HA!"
And every possible combination. I was a Sigourney fetishist. A tickle fetishist. A Sigourney tickle fetishist. And this was tickle heaven. A different tickle-anthem laughed with every tickle.
We talked about colleges. I tickled. She laughed. We talked about her career. I tickled. She snickered. We spoke of her dog, her money, how my fetish began. At every possible interval, I tickled. She guffawed. She giggled. A couple of times, she out-and-out cracked up.
"You know," Claire said, "this isn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be. I think tickling feet is serious business."
"Oh," I said, slyly, trapping her right leg between my left arm and my body, "you mean like this?" And I tickled the sole of her right foot mercilessly. I held on like John Travolta held on to the bull in Urban Cowboy. But I tickled Claire much more effectively than he tickled Debra Winger. Her laughter became shrieking, her shrieking became gasping, silent peals of ecstasy.
After a minute or so, I stopped. She immediately sat up, red-faced. Panting. "Oh. God. You. Bad. So. Bad. God. God. Oh. Oh." As her breath returned, she began looking at my own socked feet. "I think," she said, sliding onto the floor, planting her perfect behind on my lower legs, "that I am going to have to tickle you back."
A 6'1" woman is nothing to mess with, and Claire went about her tickling with as much vigor as Sigourney had battled the mother alien. All business. Stripped my socks. Trapped my feet together and tickled my soles with the same vengeance Ellen Ripley displayed while blasting the alien out of the goddamn airlock. I laughed myself into a swollenness I'm quite sure has never been equaled.
"Now," Claire said, "now we're getting somewhere, aren't we, Mr. Bad? Bad boys need a little discipline. But only a little. Don't need much, do we, Bad?
"But a little help," she said, placing a foot on my chest, "is always appreciated.
"But tickle lightly, my darling," she almost cooed, handling me with expert pressure.
She giggled as I stroked her toes, her arch, her heel, the vulnerable ball of the foot. She wiggled her toes expertly at my little scritches. And then . . .
Oh, Sigourney . . .
She was still more formidable than I . . .
EPILOGUE
I need to let my dog out on your lawn. Okay? But if you're . . . recovered . . . enough to watch out the window, I'll give you a surprise.
And as I watched, still getting my breath back, she held her dog's leash with one hand. Held her truck's mirror with the other.
Slipped her foot out of her shoe and wiggled her toes goodbye . . .
