True Tickle Tales

[tklmysole]

Please note, this story contains mature themes, sexual content and is intended for an adult audience. All characters are 18+

The following is based on true events.

- - -

When I was nineteen, I met a girl named Emma. Over the course of three years, we managed to have lots of tickly fun together. I've decided to share some of those fond memories with all of you. Photos of her pretty feet from my private collection can be found within the story on DeviantArt & Wattpad.

If you're familiar with my writing, you'll recognize Emma from Wrap It Up, which was loosely based on my first actual tickling experience. If you'd care to hear the real story, and a lot more, read on. Oh, and fans of Beach Daze will be glad to hear that Kelly and Morgan make appearances as well.

- - -

Stories include mummified foot tickles, which inspired the aforementioned Wrap It Up, as well as foot worship, massage and more naughty activities. Upper body tickle enthusiasts will have something to enjoy as well. In short, no matter what sort of tickling you like, I think you'll find something to sink your teeth into.

These irl tickling experiences were immensely enjoyable to write; they're never far from my thoughts and jotting them down somehow breathed new life into to them. If, like me, you have an insatiable urge to tickle silky soles and listen to a cute blonde's girlish giggles, this is one story you simply cannot overlook.

Four Parts
M/F & F/F
Feet & Upper Body
Foot Worship
Footjob & Handjob
...plus much more.

Without further ado, please enjoy True Tickle Tales.


- Part One -


I’d recently moved back to my hometown after a year away, and took up my old job at a local pharmacy. After meeting some of the new faces that had joined the team in my absence, one stood out from the rest. A petite blonde girl with bright, expressive blue eyes. She was bubbly and cute, and we got along like a house on fire. I looked forward to working with her and hoped that we’d be paired up on every shift.

One particular evening, on her day off, she stopped by the store. She wore a black pea coat, tight blue jeans and on her feet were a pair of glossy black stilettos. Her hair was curled, tumbling over her shoulders in loose ringlets, and little dimples appeared with every smile. I didn’t know it at the time, but she’d gotten dressed up and dropped in just to see me. Being the oblivious person that I am, it really didn’t register that she’d be interested in me at all.

After a brief chat, I mentioned that I had a few other things to do before closing and excused myself. It was December, and we had a semi-trailer parked out back for overflow around the holiday season. I’d been organizing and hauling boxes of chocolate, chips and other sale items inside, when I turned around and to my surprise, there she stood.

She was framed in the doorway as cold moonlight spilled in around her, and I could see her breath turn to mist in the wintry night air as she began to walk toward me, heels clinking gently against the metal floor.

This is usually where I’d include a line or two of dialogue, but I have no earthly clue what was said. Whether I’d offered a friendly wave, or asked if she was there to help, it’s since been lost to time.

What I do know, is that within the span of several heartbeats, she’d closed the distance between us and pressed her lips to mine. And there we were, making out against the trailer wall, surrounded by stacks of paper towels and two-litre pop bottles.

That sparked a relationship that would last three years. We were both young and in love, but still living at home, so time alone together was a rare commodity, requiring effort and travel. I’m lucky enough to own a small, rustic cabin on a lake, which is a beautiful piece of paradise, but tricky to get to in the winter. Trickier still was accommodating the hour-long drive there (one way), when work ended at 9:00 and I had to get her home by midnight. That, and the subzero temperatures, made things challenging.

At the time, the logging companies were plowing the road, which was immensely beneficial. At the end of our shift, we’d jump in my old Corolla, leave town and tear up the twisty mountain road as fast (and safely) as possible. This gave us roughly an hour or so all to ourselves.

I remember one night, before we leapt directly into bed, Emma grabbed a deck of cards and asked whether I’d ever played strip poker. I had not, but was suddenly very interested in a card game. I’d played poker all my life, but tried to keep things fair so that we each lost clothing at a relatively similar rate. I’ll never forget winning those first few hands and watching her shed a few layers. First her scarf, followed by her coat and hat. Next, her boots, and then her socks. The floor was chilly, so she placed both feet on my lap.

“Your toes are cold,” I said, rubbing them with one hand while trying my best to focus on the game.

“I know,” she replied, giving them a wiggle, “maybe I should put my socks back on.”

“I’m afraid that’s not how this works.”

She laughed as I continued to rub her frozen toes. The temptation to run a finger up her bare foot was overwhelming, so I gave in. The second I made contact, “eeeeek!” She released a high-pitched shriek, followed by a loud thump. She’d banged her kneecap on the underside of the table attempting to withdraw her leg, so I apologized profusely, picked up my cards, and resumed our game.

To my recollection, that was the first time I tickled Emma. But it was far from the last.

Incorporating tickling into our relationship was a gradual process. I was reluctant to admit my fetish and we hadn’t been dating long at that point, so it seemed a little early to let the cat out of the bag. Still, her reaction to that quick tickle was sublime, whetting my appetite for more.

Speaking of appetites, the mutual attraction between us was undeniable. That girl’s libido was in overdrive, all the time. I’d receive text messages indicating her desires, and we’d meet up wherever we could. Timed correctly, her house or mine would be empty, otherwise plans needed to be made. I won’t go into too much detail, but suffice it to say that my parents had an old travel trailer behind their house that we used to our advantage on a regular basis.

My fondness for feet was something I always hid, as you’d imagine, but it was becoming more difficult with her. She likely caught me staring at them on occasion, like when she slipped off an UGG boot and a sock came with it, my eyes would dart downward. Or the first time she painted her toenails when I was over, I was in heaven. I wanted nothing more than to lock her ankles in the crook of my arm and tickle her silly. I was flirting with the idea of telling her, but I couldn’t handle the humiliation, so I kept it hush-hush.

I distinctly remember tickling her one evening on my bed, just fooling around. I was digging into her sides, really letting her have it, getting those deep, hearty belly laughs in return. You know, the kind of unbridled laughter where you’re wheezing and gasping for air by the end of it. I couldn’t stop myself, I just had to see how much she could take. Her words soon became garbled nonsense as she attempted to swat my hands away, trying in vain to escape my clutches, but I overpowered her with ease. Next thing you know, crack, she booted a hole right in the drywall. My dad was not impressed.

We’d spend hours chatting every night on the phone, seemingly about nothing, but the excitement of young love meant we couldn’t stand to be apart. It was during one of these calls that I revealed my secret, which seemed easier, though in truth was agonizing to say aloud. It felt like my heart was being wrenched open, like I was being held at gunpoint, forced to spill my guts. I’ve never felt more vulnerable than in that moment. But I’m getting ahead of myself, because prior to this, I’d had another opportunity to tickle her for real.

I wrote a story a few years ago entitled Wrap It Up. It’s a (mostly) true tale of what happened one afternoon in my old bedroom. I say mostly because some liberties were taken to improve upon the truth. Embellishments aside, here’s a firsthand account of tickling my eighteen-year-old girlfriend.

With an empty house in the middle of the day, I’d made my way upstairs and ended up wandering into a spare bedroom for reasons unknown. There, Emma laid down on the bed, and I had an epiphany. Gripping the large comforter beneath her, I began to roll. She said something to the effect of, “Hey, what’re you doing?!” To which I replied, “Oh, nothing really, just making you more cozy and warm.” After she was wrapped snugly and made into a cute little blonde burrito, I casually carried her into my room, placing her gently on the double bed.

Wiggling, she exclaimed, “Alright, let me outta here, I can’t move!” It was music to my ears. Watching the mummified girl squirm helplessly as I looked down upon her was amusing, but I knew my next move. Without a word, I crawled on top and used my bodyweight to pin her to the mattress below. Sticking out between my knees were a pair of socked feet. “Get off of me!” said Emma in a playful tone of voice. She was having just as much fun as I was. “I will,” came my reply, “soon enough. First, do you remember when I asked where you wanted to go for supper?”

I didn’t hear her response, I was too infatuated with those little feet flailing back and forth. “You never told me where you wanted to go,” I continued. “Do you have a place in mind yet?” I pinched the tip of the sock on her left foot and began to pull. It only took a few seconds to slide it completely off, revealing her tender heel, milky-white arch followed by five long, suckable toes. Emma was blessed with absurdly pretty, perfectly proportioned size seven soles. They were a dream; so lusciously-soft and inviting that drool must’ve been dribbling down my chin as I stared at her newly-bared foot. Its owner, on the other hand, suddenly realized what I was planning and began to twist and plead earnestly for release.

“Okay, fun’s over now. You gotta let me out!”

Did I listen? Absolutely. I put her sock back on and unwrapped her. Just kidding. I did what you want me to do, I said, “Nah, don’t think so.” At that point, my index finger found the elastic rim of her other sock, and with a tug, it was swiftly removed and tossed aside. And there, protruding from the big blanket, were two of the prettiest, most delicate-looking bare feet I’d laid eyes on in my nineteen years on this planet.

“Dave,” said the flustered girl, “I’m super serious, you have to let me out!”

“Not until you tell me what you wanna eat later.”

“I don’t know! Who cares?!”

“I care, obviously. But if you don’t, maybe I can help make up your mind.”

“No, just let me out! I swear if you don’t lemme outta this blanket I’ll—”

Suddenly she was quiet. It might’ve had something to do with the finger slowly gliding down the centre of her right foot. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “Is something bothering you?” Her struggling, writhing body beneath me spoke volumes. “Uh oh, hang on a minute. You’re not a little ticklish, are you?”

The words hadn’t escaped my lips before she shouted, “No I’m not, now let me up!”

“You’re not going anywhere until I get an answer. And since this isn’t bothering you…” My fingers were hovering just above her upturned bare soles. “…then you won’t mind if I did this.” With a mischievous grin, I grabbed both big toes, forming a pseudo set of toe cuffs, pulled them back slightly to make her precious soles taut and immobile, and proceeded to scribble a few fingers across those immaculate bare feet.

“NYEEHEHAHAA!” bellowed the hyper-ticklish girl. “D-DON’T DO THIS TO MEEHEEE!”

“Do what?” I asked. “Oh, you mean this?” I skated along her arches and dug in below her toes, all while drinking in that frantic laughter; a sweet melody that I remember all these years later.

“NOOHOO, P-PLEASE STAHAAHAAP!”

“Not until you tell me where we’re going to eat!”

Bucking and screaming like a wild woman, she belted out desperate pleas for mercy as I tickle tortured her pale bare soles. Raking my nails from toes to heels was particularly effective, causing the ballistic blonde to cry out in ticklish anguish. Afterward, I released my grip on her big toes and used both hands to tickle and tease those velvety-soft soles that I’d been dying to touch for so long.

“NOOO MORE, NO MORE, IT TICKLESS!”

Her screeching cries for freedom echoed off my bedroom walls, and for a brief moment, I thought my bed might actually collapse. “Coochie, coochie, coo!” I teased, watching as her toes scrunched up, wrinkling those achingly-flawless feet. “I think Emma’s a ticklish girl after all!”

As if in confirmation, she let out an adorable squeal as my wandering fingertips located a weak spot just below her wiggly toes. Overcome with laughter and begging me to stop tickling her, I eventually relented. I’m not cruel, after all, as much as I wanted to be. Emma lay red-faced and wheezing after I unrolled her from the ‘cocoon’.

In hindsight, I wish I’d taken my time. It was all over in a flash (she likely didn’t see it that way), but I wanted to strike while the iron was hot and get in some tickly action before she managed to escape, throw me off, or scream loud enough for the neighbours to hear. Surprisingly, she wasn’t mad afterward, and I don’t remember where we went to eat, not that it matters. That event opened a door and allowed me to divulge my predilection for tickling, which brought about good things.

As I mentioned, the truth was revealed via phone call a couple of days later. I’m not sure what she expected, since I was beating around the bush, unable to spit it out. It was awkward for sure, and she had to sort of help me through it. But once it was finally out there, she said, “Oh, is that it? That’s kinky, but normal. I’ve noticed guys staring at my feet before, it’s super common.” The immense relief I felt was indescribable.

In the days that followed, I began to receive messages that were distinctly different from the norm. I’d saved a few, but sadly they vanished over the years, what with changing phones. One in particular is burned into my brain, it read, ‘Is it wrong that I want you to tie me up and tickle the shit out of me?’

The answer to that is a resounding ‘no’, it is most definitely not wrong. In fact, I encourage it! I was in class at the time, and I just remember staring at my phone in disbelief. Not only did she accept my unique interest, but wanted to explore it with me. I’d somehow hit the jackpot.

When movie night came around, she’d snuggle next to me on the couch, beneath the warmth of a blanket, usually with her parents and sister in the room. One evening, her at one end and I at the other, she placed her bare feet in my lap, concealed by the blanket of course. My inclination to flutter a few fingers up and down and get her gigging was nigh-uncontrollable. Yet not wanting to disturb the others, or raise any eyebrows from her parents sitting nearby, stayed my hand. However, before the film had concluded I did softly rub those silky soles, shooting a glance toward my girlfriend who knowingly wiggled her toes. Always the tease.

Another time, while at the theatre, I did manage to get in some tickles. We’d gone to a movie with her friends, Kelly and Morgan, and partway through she’d kicked off a sandal and rested one bare foot on her knee, pointing it in my direction. My sneaky fingers crept toward it, then skittered and crawled around, making her snicker and fidget in the seat. It was more entertaining than whatever movie we’d paid to see. Subtlety was crucial, since we weren’t alone. When it was just the two of us at the movies, that was a different story. We’d make sure to sit in the back row so that she could reposition herself and, as before, place those things I loved so dear in my lap. If it were a comedy, I’d be able to easily time my tickling with the audience’s laughter. Securing her ankles in place with a firm grip ensured she couldn’t go far, and had no choice but to sit there and laugh along with the crowd. Whether someone noticed (like the projectionist up above) is anyone’s guess.

By now, Emma was well aware that I couldn’t keep my hands off her bare feet. Finding a partner who wanted to be involved in my fetish, and appeared to enjoy it nearly as much as I did, was something I never thought possible. I considered myself lucky, and still do. She wanted to satisfy me and knew that she alone had the power to turn me on like no one else. It was exhilarating.

There came a day when Emma and her friends decided to get matching pelvic tattoos. A small dove was chosen, and shortly thereafter she asked my thoughts on a foot tattoo. I told her that it’s her body, her decision, and if anything it would only enhance the beauty, if you will. The resulting tattoo was a swirly design surrounded by a handful of colourful stars, and I loved it.

The cell phone I had at the time was basic in every sense of the word. It could take photos, but it wasn’t worth the effort.

So, one night she told me that I should use my digital camera to snap some pics, and that she’d ‘make them pretty’ for me. I was asked to leave the room, and when I returned a few minutes later, she was sitting on my bed with both feet in a gift bag. “I saw it on one of your sites,” she told me. “I thought it was cute.” That it was, and certainly a sweet gesture. I couldn’t wait to unwrap my ‘gift’.

I reached out and said, “May I?” She allowed her eyes to grant permission, and I quickly did away with the gift bag. Wrapped around her big toes was a red ribbon, tied into a bow. A silver ring adorned the second toe of her right foot, and a matching anklet, complete with little heart charms, was fastened around her ankle. Her toenails were painted candy apple red, which matched some of the stars on her left foot.

“Wow,” was all I managed to say, before untying the ribbon. Grabbing my camera, I began to shoot.

Jeans and bare feet are a lethal combo, in my opinion. I made sure to stash the photos away and, aside from sharing them with a select few people, never posted them online until now. I did manage to take a few more another night, this time with Emma in pyjamas, which I adore. All these photos will eventually be posted to my DeviantArt account, alongside a host of others, including my current gf’s soles.

https://www.deviantart.com/tklmyfeet


- PART TWO -


Kelly and Morgan also elected to get tattoos on their feet, albeit with slightly different designs. If you’ve read my story, Beach Daze, you’ll know that both girls were buried up to their necks in white sand by a pair of tickle-hungry young men. Hellbent on driving them crazy, they tickle tortured the duo until nightfall. Alas, this was entirely a fabrication, I was never able to get my hands on their soles for any significant length of time. Emma, on the other hand, snuck in a few quick tickles on different occasions.

One time, while at a house party, we needed a place to crash for the night. I was in no condition to drive, so in the wee hours of the morning, we made our way upstairs to what we believed to be an empty bedroom. Turns out, the room was occupied by Kelly and her boyfriend, both sound asleep in a queen bed. Without many options, aside from my car or the floor, we figured there was room enough to squeeze in. Quietly, we undressed (although how quiet we actually were in our tipsy state was debatable) and got ready to hit the hay. By chance, Kelly’s feet had been uncovered, which I noticed but wasn’t going to draw attention to. They were size nine and her slender toes were painted with black polish.

To my surprise, Emma knelt, glanced my direction and said, “Think she’s ticklish?” My heart was hammering but I managed to maintain a bland expression (also debatable) and replied, “One way to find out.” Without hesitation, she ran an experimental finger up the brunette’s bare foot, and I watched those long toes curl over in response. A smile crept across my girlfriend’s face as she added a few more fingers to the mix, scribbling her nails across both slumbering soles, until they finally drew back beneath the covers. I had a hard time going to sleep that night, if you catch my drift.

Emma was not a ler, it wasn’t her thing. But she knew what that would do to me, and hey, I’m not complaining.

Another fond memory involves Morgan who, at the time, had joined us on a road trip. Since it was summertime, both girls were wearing neon flip-flops decorated with floral patterns. At some point, Morgan, who’d been sitting in the middle portion of the back seat, stretched her legs out, crossed her ankles and placed her cute feet on the centre armrest. I soon felt eyes on me from the passenger seat, so I turned to see Emma giving me a knowing look. “What?” I asked, to which she replied, “Nothing.” Before long, the redhead had nodded off. I took the odd peek to my right, but mostly I watched them with my peripheral vision. Not being able to touch them was killing me, but I wasn’t about to piss off my girlfriend. As our destination grew nearer, Emma decided it was time for a wake-up call. She was out cold, and repeating her name a few times didn’t have much effect, so I watched with wide-eyed wonder as Emma slid off one of the girl’s sandals while she snoozed, and gave me a smirk.

Morgan’s little toes were painted bright pink, which closely matched the colour of her flip-flops. With one removed, Emma gave her finger a quick flick up her friend’s bare foot. Focusing on the road while my girlfriend happily tickled our tired travel companion was a supreme challenge, but somehow I managed. “Time to get up, Morg,” said Emma in a sing-songy voice. “Wakey, wakey, we’re almost there.” I noticed the sleepy girl’s toes twitch each time her pale, satiny-soft sole was touched, but she didn’t stir. More tickly fingers were gradually added and I found myself silently observing, awestruck as Emma’s nimble fingers caressed the top and bottom of Morgan’s naked foot. It was a feast for the eyes; that dainty little thing was propped up and within reach, like it sat upon a pedestal for the sole (ha) purpose of being fondled, teased and tickled.

I’m telling you, there’s no limit to the amount of money I would pay to watch Emma properly tickle Morgan’s feet. Those manicured nails would work their magic and she’d be breathless and bawling in no time flat. What I would’ve given to see those puppies trapped in the headrest of my car, watching as my girlfriend went to town on them. In reality, when her roaming fingers came to rest, I decided to capitalize on this golden opportunity. “Want me to try?” I asked, trying not to appear too eager. “Go for it,” was the response. I was in disbelief, never thinking I’d get the go-ahead. Without delay, my hands left the wheel and my knees took over. Wrapping my thumb and forefinger around her big toe, I pulled it back, drawing taut that ivory arch, then raked my nails across her sole.

“WHAHAAA, WHAT THE FUCK?!”

The roar she let loose drowned out the radio. Morgan awoke immediately and ripped her foot from my grasp. “Hey, sleepyhead,” I said with a chuckle, “have a good nap?” I distinctly remember her response, it was, “I was dead asleep you fuckin’ idiot, and I’m super ticklish so don’t do that again.” I apologized, winked at Emma and moved on. It was short-lived, but made for the most memorable drive I’d had up to that point.

It seemed like no matter where we were, there was a high likelihood of seeing some feet. Girls would compare the shoes they were wearing, which would lead to talk of pedicures and the choice of nail polish for the given season or upcoming holiday. Next thing you know, they’re up on the coffee table for my viewing pleasure. They’d ditch their heels in favour of more comfortable flats after a night at the bar, but not before rubbing their sore feet for a bit. There were Halloween parties where a few girls had chosen costumes like Wilma from The Flintstones, Rapunzel, Pocahontas, Tinker Bell and even the creepy chick from The Ring. And if they weren’t traipsing around barefoot, they’d likely just be wearing something skimpy and revealing, so it’s a win-win. Nearly every girl in Emma’s graduating class kicked off their shoes and took photos outside in the pose, akin to the more modern ‘Bugs Bunny Challenge’. I don’t know why, but I was so grateful.

And, since I’m thinking of Emma’s two besties, I once witnessed Kelly tickle Morgan’s exposed sides and belly as the redhead attempted to hold up a curtain rod. She was stomping her feet and shouting expletives while Kelly pawed at her sensitive skin, twisting in the opposite direction to try to get away. There was some part of me that assumed Kelly had done it for my benefit, as if she wanted me to watch, but that could just be wishful thinking.

Whether or not her two closest friends knew about my fetish remains a mystery. Although I’d say they likely had a hunch, especially since girls are prone to oversharing. Likewise, Emma’s younger sister, Taylor, might’ve had some inkling.

I pulled in the driveway one sunny summer afternoon, only to find Taylor on the back porch tanning in a bikini. I said hello and went inside. Emma was in college at this point and wasn’t home from class yet. A short time later, while grabbing a drink from the fridge, I heard Taylor shout, “Can you help me?” I stepped outside to find her handing me a bottle of sunscreen. “Can you get my back?” she asked. Happy to oblige, I rubbed the stuff on liberally, making sure to get her shoulders and even the backs of her legs. Assuming my task was finished, I set the bottle down. “Wait, don’t forget about my feet,” she said, “I don’t want them to burn.”

Now, having my girlfriend arrive home to find me rubbing her sister’s bare feet while she lounged in a bikini would be a calamity of epic proportions, thus my hesitation. Additionally, I wasn’t sure if the question was simply an innocent request, or if my (open) secret had reached her ears and she knew how to mess with me. I chose the former, and answered, “No problem, just hang on.” She had tiny size six feet, but they looked quite similar to her older sister’s. I carefully massaged the sunscreen onto both of her upturned soles, ensuring a thorough application, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t spend a few extra seconds kneading it in. Again, just making sure I didn’t miss any spots, sun damage is no joke! I left it at that; no tickling and nothing to give myself away, I hope.

As a brief aside, the girls’ mother also had very beautiful feet. They were well taken care of and she’d frequently walk around the house barefoot or dangle a slipper off her big toe while watching television. One day, I discovered her organizing a closet. She was kneeling, and both feet were sticking out from under her bum. I made a point to stop and exchange a few words, while offering my assistance, just to take in such a magnificent sight. Those mature, slightly dusty soles were calling my name, and it took a great deal of willpower not to crouch down and test their ticklishness. I’d often catch her in the living room, lounging in a LA-Z-BOY recliner after work. Both bare feet would be propped up while she read a book or watched a show, and she’d softly rub one with the other, or flex her toes back and forth. Emma’s bedroom was on the second floor, and I always volunteered to run downstairs if she wanted a drink or snacks, just to catch another glimpse of the older woman’s feet.

I dropped in one day and found her napping on the couch. She was wearing nylons, and I had to bite down on my knuckle and remind myself that tickling my gf’s mom, although a longtime fantasy, probably isn’t a good idea. That said, I knew she was ticklish, as I’d caught Emma’s dad poking her sides and making her yelp in surprise more than once. On one of their trips to the beach, I received a fantastic picture: Emma, Taylor and their mother’s feet, sun-kissed and side by side, toes poking out of the sand. It was a foot fetishist’s dream come true and something to behold, I wish I still had it. Sad to say, but I never laid a finger on her mom’s shapely soles. If she were anything like her daughter, she’d thoroughly enjoy me paying them some attention.

All three girls made regular visits to the nail salon in the mall. I’d say every four to six weeks, or so. I once asked what their foot care routine consisted of and was told that paraffin wax dips, shea butter-infused foot masks and exfoliating scrubs all played a part. That, plus generous amounts of moisturizer ensured their skin remained healthy and supple, not to mention sandal-ready. Emma had a pair of fleece-lined moccasins that she’d wear in colder months of the year, they kept her toes toasty and any time I slipped them off I’d be treated to a pleasantly warm pair of soles that I simply had to bury my face in.

She had a multitude of creams and lotions on her shelf that would be in constant rotation. Lavender and vanilla were two of her favourites, but there was one body lotion in particular that I preferred. It was called ‘With Love…’ and made her skin sugary sweet. It was a delightful smell, an intoxicating aroma that I inhaled deeply. Each time I stuck my nose in the spaces between her toes I’d be granted another whiff of those seductively-scented soles.

It’s difficult to accurately describe, and unfortunately is no longer on store shelves. Every time I squeezed that bottle my nostrils would fill with some sort of fragrant blossom, but it had some spicy notes too. Regardless, it provided her soles with a rich, luxurious feel, not that they really needed it. I offered to help her whenever possible. Fresh out of the shower, after her lengthy bedtime routine, I’d have her lie face down and spend a while slathering copious amounts of thick body cream over both upturned feet. Heels, arches and in between the toes, I was meticulous and methodical, providing the care they deserved, and I’d finish by covering them up with a fuzzy pair of socks. It was relaxing for both of us.

I could go on, but I’ll bring this chapter to a close. Well, one more thing. I have a sneaking suspicion that, after our relationship ended, Emma divulged my secret to others. The reason I say this is because I had a coworker, Jen, tell me a story about renting an apartment in another province, and her landlord at the time requested some ‘foot stuff’ in lieu of rent. Unsurprisingly, this piqued my interest so I asked her to elaborate. She went on to say that she let him take pictures, touch and even tickle her feet. It was quite an unexpected conversation, and I was sort of caught off guard, but I acted nonchalant and said something like, “Oh, crazy, well at least you saved money that month.” Years later, my current gf finds herself working alongside this girl, and I soon receive a message that reads, ‘Hey, did you date Jen, cause she knows all about you.’

I’m still not entirely sure how she knew, or why she decided to bring it up. She seemed really cool about it, so perhaps I wasn’t picking up what she was putting down. I’ve been accused more than once of being oblivious to signals from the opposite sex, so I could’ve missed an opportunity, but at this point it hardly matters. Shortly after that peculiar conversation, Jen set me up with one of her friends. It didn’t end up going anywhere, she wasn’t my type, but we did have a couple of fun nights together.

I don’t believe Emma would’ve gone around town telling everyone who’d listen about what I was into, as the breakup was mutual (as much as a breakup can be, I suppose) and we remained friends for a while afterward. I live in a small community, so let’s chalk it up to word of mouth. At the time it weirded me out, but now it’s just water under the bridge, as they say.


- PART THREE -


There was a period of time when we’d been separated by a couple of hundred kilometres or so. I’d graduated from my program, but Emma had another year or two left. We’d still have weekends together, for the most part, but that five-day stretch throughout the week was tough. There was a void that phone calls and text messages just couldn’t fill. Skype was popular for voice calls, so that was our go-to. Near the end of every call, she’d raise her feet to the webcam and flash me her soles, knowing how much I craved them. She had to time it such that her roommate was elsewhere, and I’d take a screen grab for later. Being unable to touch them was frustrating, but once the weekend rolled around, I’d turn her into a giggly mess the first chance I got.

The method of restraint I typically used involved neckties and the belt from an old robe that hung in my closet. I hadn’t yet discovered the plethora of bondage gear available for purchase online, which has since changed. My bed was a four-poster, well-suited for tying up ticklish girls like Emma. She’d strip to her bra and panties, and I’d secure each wrist to a bedpost using a necktie. The soft, fleecy belt was used to lash both ankles, side by side, to the bottom-most section of the bed frame. Spread eagle was also effective, but I preferred having her feet beside one another. Plus, it’s great if you plan to use toe ties.

Oftentimes, I’d begin with her upper body. She was unbelievably sensitive all over, so gliding a fluffy feather in the smooth hollows of both underarms was a great way to kick things off and get the giggles flowing. I’d keep her guessing by feathering one armpit while spidering my fingertips up along her side. At first, she’d wriggle underneath me, but had nowhere to go. Lightly touching her bare skin anywhere seemed to send ripples of tickly current coursing through her nubile body, so I’d work my way downward at a leisurely pace, enjoying every inch of her.

Once I began to pinch and prod at her ribcage she’d really get wild, thrashing and hollering as I explored the spaces between ribs. I’d raise my hands where she could see, and form two ‘claws’, slowly dropping them lower and lower, all the while saying, “Here it comes, are you ready? You can’t get away and you know it’s gonna tickle like crazy…” Emma’s frantic flailing and crazed laughter were addictive, I didn’t even have to touch her to get the desired result. But once I made contact, look out.

“NEYAHAHAAA! NOT THERE, PULEEEHEEASE!” She’d howl at the top of her lungs as I kneaded her tender sides.

“Aww, does that tickle? Well, if you think that’s bad, wait until you feel this…”

I’d reposition my hands on her narrow waist, just above her hips, and squeeze deeply.

“NOOHOOO—FUCK, STAHAAAP IT!”

Reducing my girlfriend to a babbling madwoman was a feeling like none other. Her long blonde hair would be an unruly mess in short order, sprawling all over the pillow as she whipped her head back and forth, fighting a losing battle against the unbearable ticklish sensations inflicted by my skilled hands.

I’d stop tickling her after about a minute, allowing the frazzled girl a chance to catch her breath and take a well-earned break. By now she’d be panting and cursing me, all with a great big grin. Deep down, I knew she loved being tickled. We did have a safeword, but she rarely used it.

From here, I’d usually interject some light, teasy tickles. The ‘hold your laughter’ challenge is wickedly fun, as you well know, so I’d instruct her to stay silent while picking up my feather once again. Those lovely blue eyes would widen with horror as I spun it between my fingers. “Don’t worry,” I’d reassure her, “I promise to be gentle this time. Just try not to laugh, okay?”

She’d nod, and I’d begin. Slow, lazy circles would be drawn around her belly button using just the soft tip of my little feather. “What’s the matter, babe?” I’d ask. “Wait a second, this doesn’t tickle, does it?” But she wouldn’t take the bait, as unsealing her lips would almost certainly unleash a torrent of laughter. For my next trick, I’d swipe the plume in wide arcs all across her belly, as if I were painting. Emma would pull against her restraints, attempting to slip a hand free. But my knots don’t come loose. Verbal teasing worked like a charm, as each ‘kitchy koo’ I uttered amplified her already extreme sensitivity. I’d keep her right on the precipice of laughter, watching as she choked down rising giggles with her lower lip wedged between her teeth.

Straddling her waist, I’d be able to observe her animated expressions while tickling her flat tummy. Swish, swish, swish, each passing second was punctuated by yet another feathery swipe on her midriff. The pretty girl’s cheeks would puff out, her nostrils would flare and her breathing would become rather fast, chest rising and falling in sync with my tickles.

“You’re not gonna laugh already, are you? I’m just getting warmed up.” She’d shoot me a look that said, ‘not a chance,’ while gritting her teeth. It was too cute, and I’d watch as she tried to maintain it. But she just couldn’t keep a smile from tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Tickle, tickle, tickle… c’mon, let it out, I know you can’t take it much longer…” She tried to hide it, but an involuntary twitching of her eye revealed the truth. Every time my feather grazed her skin she’d tense up, or groan in a flimsy attempt to stifle a giggle. Her cheeks would be a rosy shade of pink by now, and I’d just have to decide when I wanted to hear that musical laughter.

After some more feathery fun, it was time end our little game and really let her have it. “I’m gonna break you,” I’d say with a wolfish grin. Then I’d place my feather on her tummy as my ‘claws’ came back out. “No, n-no pleeease, don’t this to meeheee…” she’d plead, already giggling before I’d laid a hand on her. “Here it comes, get ready,” I’d say, then begin the countdown. “Three, two, one…”

“NEYAHAHAAA!” bellowed the girl as I attacked her underarms, digging in as she cried out passionately for the merciless tickling to stop. “BWAHAHAAA! YOU PROMISED—EIEHAHAAAA!” It was half song, half scream, and I could never get enough.

Eventually, I’d make my way down to her feet. Saving the best for last and all that. Kneeling on the floor, I could study her pale bare soles, which were nervously wiggling and switching side to side. I’d greet them with a kiss, allowing my lips a moment to linger, then tickle the tops of her feet, watching as those toes curled over, showing off her pretty pedicure.

From there, well you know the drill. I had complete control over her ticklish tootsies. I could do whatever I wanted. For example, I could slip my feather between those wiggly toes while she squawked and snickered. Once in a while she’d successfully snag it by curling them over, but a quick scrape of my thumbnail up her arch would soon set it free; all five toes would flare out in distress, then curl over defensively again, wrinkling those sexy, silken soles.

“Not my toes, not my toeeees!” God I loved to hear that. I’d gently jab each one with the blunt quill to make them dance, then flick it up each toe stem. Sometimes I’d trace the wrinkles on her soles just to see what happened. A short dash here, a longer one there, occasionally autographing her soft, girly feet while she laughed helplessly on the bed. I’d draw invisible shapes and patterns, even write little messages and make her guess what it said. A correct guess meant more kisses as a reward, if she guessed wrong however, well then my scribbling and doodling would be the least of her worries.

In her purse was a deadly tickle tool. You know the one. A wide paddle brush, perfectly suited for scrubbing a pair of sensitive soles. It amused me to watch them quiver as the hairbrush grew nearer, while she mumbled and sputtered things like, “Not the brush!” or “I can’t handle it, really, I’ll fuckin’ die if you touch me with it!” I was always so thankful that she carried this evil tickling device wherever she went, extremely convenient really. A hundred bristles waiting to make contact and a tender-footed blonde in peril were a potent combination. With one in hand and a bottle of baby oil within reach, there’s no telling what I could do.

Scrubbing the hell out of her well-oiled soles as her strained cries for a saviour fell on deaf ears was a phenomenal experience. Before that, though, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention a favourite item of mine: the makeup brush.

Tickling Emma using one of her own makeup brushes, as described in Wrap It Up, was real. She had so many of them and they were ideal for a pair of sweet, soft feet like hers. There were tapered ones that worked wonders for her toes, and wider, thicker ones that I’d use on her arches and the tops of her feet. She had so many that I eventually just stole a set for my tickle kit. They weren’t relegated to just her lower extremities though, as I could put them to good use on her upper body, targeting her pits, sides, even that tickly spot on her neck and collarbone. Naturally, her irresistible feet were my focus.

I liked to have her lie face down on the mattress. There was a sturdy wooden rail that ran the width of the bed, several inches above the footboard. I’d ask Emma to stick her feet through and dangle them off the edge. I could use my neckties, or a pair of her stockings, to tie both ankles to that section of the frame. This was as close to a set of stocks as I could get at the time.

Those brushes were tailor-made tickle tools, and a small stroke could elicit powerful responses. I’d swirl it around the ball of her foot, sweeping down to her heel then loop back up to get those piggies wiggling. No pressure need be applied, a gentle application was more than enough. It’s funny, the longer I tickled her feet, the rosier they got. I’d switch from left to right, picturing one sole as a palette from which to choose the appropriate shade, then applying it to the other. My powder brush, with its dense array of wispy synthetic bristles, would easily make her little feet tremble. It could cover a wider surface area, whereas a narrow eyeshadow brush could be more intricate. Sometimes I’d pry apart two toes and tickle the delicate skin between. Other times I wouldn’t have to, as those long toes would fan out, enticing me.

Those blushing bare soles were mine to tease and torment. She’d repeatedly try to protect one with the other, or rub them together to reduce any lingering sensations administered by my assortment of tickly brushes. A dual-sided brow brush (with ultra-fine, angled bristles at one end and a prickly spiral at the other) was useful for tracing the lines and subtle creases that would appear every time she scrunched up her toes. I fucking loved to watch them curl over. I’d poke the little spirally end in between and spin it, listening intently as she squealed and watching as those panicked toes splayed out once again.

If I desired to keep those ever-wiggling digits still, then a deck of cards came in handy. I’d place one between her big toes with instructions not to let it hit the floor, then resume tickling those smooth soles, exploiting every inch as she tried valiantly not to move a muscle. She couldn’t hold out forever, of course, and I’d slowly whittle her down, watching with glee as her resilience crumbled.

“Don’t drop it! You know what’ll happen!” I told her, eager to use the hairbrush as punishment. “I won’t…” she’d reply, a laugh on the cusp of breaking loose from her lips while straining to hold it in place.

I reminded her that she could laugh - I was bewitched by her girlish giggles - I just wanted her to keep still. My cosmetic tickle tool was used to great effect, travelling in fluid lines, agonizingly slow, deliberately keeping her on the edge. With a simple flick of the wrist, I could make her toes twitch, knowing that she could barely stand it much longer. Exploring hills and valleys, my brush of choice would adapt to the contours of her foot, and I could stimulate countless nerve endings by simply running the wooden handle up her arch.

As a side note, guitar picks are splendid for tickling and can be used in a variation of the ‘hold the playing card’ game. Try it with your lee, just place a pick between each of her toes and tell her not to drop a single one. You’ll smile when they inevitably succumb to gravity and click against the floor, and she’ll shudder because the hairbrush is coming.

With a ‘tickle tickle’ here and a ‘coochie coo’ there, it wouldn’t be long before Emma would lose her grip, and the card would take a tumble. Then the real torture began.


- PART FOUR -


When the lighthearted, flirty tickles ended and the hairbrush came out, it was a noticeably different vibe.

I’m not sure what was running through her head the first time I tied her up. She claimed she’d never experienced any sort of bondage before, so I took it slow. Truthfully, I had also never tried it, but was stoked that I finally could. I had a pair of red, fuzzy handcuffs which I thought would work well. She raised both arms above her head, and I snapped the cuffs loosely around her wrists and secured them to the bed frame. I didn’t have a second set for her ankles, which is when I improvised with the neckties.

A hairbrush seems to be the ultimate tickle tool for bare feet. A grooming glove (which I’ve personally felt) serves the same purpose, but there’s a beautiful irony in using her own brush against her. A hundred points of contact all at once, overwhelming her senses, nerve endings already on high alert from the lighter tickles she’d received. I remember rummaging through her purse for it while she lay cuffed to my bed, the faint glow of a table lamp in the corner casting dim, warm light, softly illuminating her figure. She was wearing a matching set of red lingerie purchased from La Senza just for this occasion.

“What’re you looking for?” she asked. Without turning my head I replied, “I wanna see your reaction to something.” I took my time withdrawing it, building the anticipation, listening to the cuffs clink gently as she fidgeted. Then I pulled it out, waved it in the air, and watched her jaw drop.

“Noooo, don’t fuckin’ touch me with that!” Her words were laced with trepidation. “Not the b-brush, just use the feather, use the feather again!”

“Shhh, it’s okay babe. I’ll make sure I give you a break, eventually.” I knelt at her feet, totally hypnotized and amazed that she actually agreed to this. Then I pinched her pinky toes and wiggled them slightly. “This little piggy went to market,” I said as all ten curled up tight, doubtlessly terrified of the imminent sole-scrubbing.

“Get away from my feet!” she commanded, flailing them left and right, fruitlessly attempting to evade my tickly touch.

I couldn’t wait to torture her sexy little soles and her struggling made it more enjoyable. There was a quick release on the handcuffs, but I must’ve forgotten to mention that small detail. Whoops. I don’t think she truly realized what she’d signed on for, or how being tied down would heighten her astonishing sensitivity.

“No, n-no don’t use that, pleeease I’ll die!”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, you won’t die. You’ll just laugh, a lot.”

“Oh my god, you’re so mean!”

I don’t think ‘mean’ is the right word, sadistic perhaps, but I’m not splitting hairs. She twisted her body and tugged her legs in an effort to break free, but those supremely soft bare feet remained stock still, frightened twitches notwithstanding.

“God, please don’t do this, pleeease…” Emma’s impassioned pleas for a higher power’s intervention went unanswered, and my cravings for her frenzied laughter only grew.

“Oh, come on,” I said, “are you really scared of your own hairbrush?”

“You don’t understand,” she replied, “I’m too ticklish, that’ll kill me!”

With a vice-like grip, I secured both of her big toes using one hand, severely limiting her mobility, then pressed the brush against her left foot, making her flinch. “I need you alive, babe, so I promise not to kill you,” I replied. “But you won’t like it much either, so hold on.”

“I hate you, I fuckin’ hate y—”

Her words were cut short, replaced by an animalistic howling that reverberated off my bedroom walls.“NEYEHAHAAA! IT’S TOO MUCH, PULEEHEASE STAAHAAAP!”

But of course that wasn’t an option. I needed to push her limits and bask in that magical sound that every ler dreams of. “That’s it, laugh for me,” I said while vigorously brushing her bare soles. The cuffs rattled against the wooden bed frame as my terrifically ticklish girlfriend roared, imploring me to let her go. But with arms stretched overhead and feet locked in place, she was now my tickle slave.

“NOOHOOO MORE—HEHAHAHAAA! I CAN’T BREEEATHE!”

That hairbrush was a fearsome weapon, easily sucking the air from the babbling blonde’s lungs. My hold on her toes was ironclad and I was delighted to see her bouncing up and down on the mattress, wailing like a banshee as I ruthlessly scrubbed those sinfully soft size sevens.

“IT TIICKLESSS—GYAHAHAAAHAA—IT FUCKIN’ TICKLESSS!”

“Aww, I know it does,” I said, alternating between her left and right foot just to keep the sensations fresh and torturous. “But I think you can handle a bit more. Let’s find out.”

“NOOHOOO, MAKE IT STAAHAAP—NEYAHAHAA!”

She really didn’t have much say in the matter; screaming in ticklish agony, Emma had no choice but to lie there and take it. She was my captive, and the small room in which I watched innumerable tickling videos was now my own private torture chamber. It was fantasy made reality.

Speaking of, I’m reminded of that classic Tickling Paradise clip, in which Liz, wearing her basketball jersey, sneaks into Ariel’s bedroom to exact revenge. She lay sleeping atop her pink bedsheets, wearing her little blue babydoll negligee and thong. “You fuckin’ bitch, let me up!” demanded the girl upon waking and realizing she’d been bound to her own bed. “You tied me up and tickled me all day,” replied Liz, cackling with glee. “So, miss ‘I’m not ticklish’, guess what you’re gonna get.” Laughing and cursing, Ariel could do naught but suffer at the hands of the ‘jock’. After Liz grew bored with those supple soles, she used one of Ariel’s very own dolls to tickle her bare underarms. It wasn’t long afterward that she was begging the other girl’s forgiveness.

I always thought that Emma and Ariel shared a certain resemblance, but it might’ve been more to do with the way they laughed while having their feet tickled. I’d watched it so many times, often wondering what it’d be like to take Liz’s place. In that moment, it definitely lived up to expectations.

Emma was genuinely ticklish and I could get some raw, authentic reactions from her with my fingers, feathers and my collection of makeup brushes. But the paddle brush really sent her over the edge. Part of me felt bad for pushing her this far, the other part was like, ‘She hasn’t said the safeword yet.’

“DAVE PLEEHEHEAAHAA! “STAAHAAP TICKL—”

What began as a bout of booming belly laughter had transformed into a fit of near-silent convulsions as the hysterical girl lost the ability to speak. Not wishing to actually kill my ticklish plaything, I eased off; my grip slackened and the brush came to a halt. Her once-pale soles had literally been tickled pink. I knew they were haunted by tickly sensations yet to vanish, as I watched her toes spasm ever so slightly.

“It’s okay babe, relax,” I said, climbing on the bed and lying alongside her.

Emma’s breathing was laboured, chest heaving up and down as she blinked away tears that had welled in the corners of her eyes. “You’re such an asshole,” she said, her voice beginning to sound hoarse from overuse.

“Tut-tut,” I replied, “talk like that will get you in more trouble.” I gave her a sly wink and strolled two fingers up her tummy as she giggled.

Barefoot and bound, she’d endure more hairbrush-inflicted tickle torture that evening, but I’m not heartless, so breaks were provided.

In subsequent tickle sessions, I’d periodically employ a bottle of baby oil which I kept hidden in my sock drawer. Honestly, I’m not a huge proponent of oil for tickling (I don’t like the feel of it, and it spoiled the ability to worship her feet during our tickle sessions) but I must admit that it appeared to enhance the sensations forced upon her by the brush.

A squirt of oil applied directly to her pampered pink soles would ensure that it glided effortlessly. They’d be glistening, slick and begging for my touch. Sometimes, I’d forgo the brush entirely. Two oily bare feet, perched on the footboard, tied securely about waist high. Decisions, decisions. I’d be aching for more than tickling by now; my cock would be throbbing, straining the limits of the stitching on my boxers, and I’d have no choice but to give in eventually. Those tender, sweet bare feet could make me cum so hard, emptying my balls with ease.

I’d plunge myself between her ivory arches (it’s like they were made for me) and watch as all ten toes scrunched up in response to the forced footjob. She’d squeeze me tight, flexing her feet to and fro, helping me along. The pressure would build as each stroke brought me closer to release. I’d have to pace myself, or the fun might end too soon. Each time my cockhead pierced the tight gap between her soles, I’d be treated to yet another warm surge of intense pleasure. Emma would gyrate her hips atop the bed, hoping I’d untie her so she could tend to her aching pussy. “I need you now,” she’d tell me, barely more than a whisper. And that was her ticket to freedom. Words would fail me, I could hardly string enough together to form a coherent sentence, but it didn’t matter. I’d untie her and fuck her the way she deserved.

Care to read about it? You’re in luck, I’ve dedicated a large chunk of Wrap It Up (specifically Part II) to that very thing. When you’ve finished here, I hope you check it out.

Over the course of a few years, I was able to thoroughly enjoy her feet in many different ways. From tickling to worship, to more naughty activities, including footjobs and, my personal favourite, the ‘foot smothering handjob.’ If you’ve never experienced a hot college girl shoving her bare feet in your face while passionately stroking your dick, intent on making you erupt like a geyser, you fucking need to make that happen. In fact, I think that’s a great way to close out this story.

I want you to imagine lying down on your bed, head on the pillow, completely relaxed. Now imagine your partner is sitting between your legs, and she places her socked feet on your chest, inches from your face. Good start, huh? It gets better.

I can remember playing with her toes and rubbing her feet, taking my time before removing her colourful socks. Emma was a sucker for a good foot massage and I’d happily oblige, since it was mutually beneficial. Slow, steady pressure and soothing strokes ease tension and loosen tight muscles. I’d gently squeeze each toe, rolling it between my fingers, pulling upward and stretching them ever so slightly. I’d work my thumbs in small, circular motions, firm but not too hard, moving downward from the ball of her foot, following the natural curve of her arch. For her heels, I’d apply deeper pressure, sometimes using my knuckles. I don’t claim to be an expert masseuse, but if you’re looking for an unhurried, attentive fella, your search ends here.

After a few minutes, I’d slip off her socks, baring her soles. Wrapping my hands around her insteps, I’d use my palms to warm her skin. The tops of the feet are an overlooked tickle spot. Hers were so profoundly soft that the slightest touch would make her toes curl over, which in turn would wrinkle up those creamy arches. The room was calm and still, and as my massage ended I felt a hand gently rubbing my cock over my boxers. My arousal was clearly noticeable; I was stiff and trembling while she teased me, trailing a finger along the outline of my package as it pulsed for freedom.

A deep grunt pierced the quiet, and Emma knew what I needed. When she finally pulled me out, I was aching for her touch. She wore matching silver toe rings on each foot, like the one in the photo. I played with them as she played with me; she knew how loose or firm her grip needed to be in any given moment and each stroke caused my own toes to curl as my heart rate steadily increased.

“Ohhhnnn,” I moaned as her soft hands wrapped snugly around me, working up and down as I lay staring at those perfect feet just waiting to be worshiped.

I couldn’t rush it, patience is a virtue after all. So I began rubbing my nose along all ten tantalizing toes. She’d wiggle them and once in a while snag my nose. I’d allow her little foot to direct me, rolling my head left and right as I enjoyed the aromatic richness; each successive breath was held longer than the last, savouring repeated lungfuls of her divine scent.

“Does that feel good, babe?” she asked. “Have you been waiting for this all day?” Placing one hand on top of the other, she twisted in opposite directions while working them up and down my shaft.

I’d watch as she spread her toes for me, an explicit invitation for my tongue to explore the spaces between, one I’d readily accept. First, I’d press my face into both soles, grinning as she tapped her toes on my forehead. Smooshing those wrinkly, dick-stiffeners against my face while she lovingly stroked my throbbing cock was euphoric, but it meant I wouldn’t last long. Thankfully, she took her time, keeping a steady rhythm as I sent a silent ‘thank you’ to the heavens above. With one fingertip, she touched the precum which had been pearling at the tip, rubbing it around as I groaned in ecstasy.

Cupping her heels, I cradled them in both hands as my hips began to rock in earnest. She’d utter a few giggles as my coarse stubble tickled her. Before long, my fingers would be back up to their old tricks; dragging a finger up her arch, circling the ball and then winding up at her toes. As I mentioned, she had a weak spot just beneath those long, slender toes, along with her inner arch. I’d focus on those areas just to see if she’d be able to concentrate. While drawing figure eights, I’d watch them scrunch anxiously, forming two adorable little foot fists as she giggled like a schoolgirl.

Tickling her feet is a slippery slope, and I’d soon find myself sinking my nails into those soft pink soles, coaxing laughter from her lips. She’d shake both feet side to side, but was unable to deflect my meandering, inquisitive fingertips.

“No, don’t tickle my feeeeheeet!” She knew I loved to hear that, and she’d pepper in a few choice phrases just like it when I was getting close to the edge.

When she was tied to my bed, I was the boss. But when she held my hard cock in her hands and rubbed those buttery soles against my face, well, I wasn’t in charge any longer. She formed an ‘O’ with her thumb and index finger, sliding it loosely over my swollen cockhead in irregular intervals. My mouth hung open and my head lolled to one side, moaning in pleasure while she toyed with me.

I was planting kisses on her heels, embedding my nose once again between her toes, sweeping my head left and right ensuring proper attention was paid to all ten. Next, the wide blade of my tongue lapped eagerly at her arches. Numerous wrinkles appeared and I was determined to count each one, no matter how long it took. Pretty soon I’d mapped out every square inch of those fuckable little feet; I knew every wrinkle and crease intimately.

At some point, I don’t know when, she popped open the bottle of baby oil and drizzled it onto my manhood. My breaths became ragged and my groaning grew in volume and intensity when she started squeezing tighter and stroking faster, root to tip.

That blonde cocktease knew how to bring me right to the brink, then back off, edging me. “Oh, so close that time, huh,” she’d say. “Maybe I’ll let you cum soon, do you want that?” Then she’d chuckle, positively delighted with herself. I was putty in her hands.

At last, her delectable toes were next on the menu. Each time I plopped one into my waiting mouth she jolted, anticipating that tickly feeling, but I was more concerned with tasting each one. A true treat for the palate, they were hungrily devoured in an act of unabashed gluttony as I worked my way down the line. One moment I’d be sucking on the pinky toe of her left foot, and its next door neighbour, the next I’d be passionately licking the arch of the other. Unable to sate my appetite, I greedily wolfed down her toes one by one, all while the giggly girl continued to jerk me off.

“Mhmmm, don’t stop…” I’d mumble with her toes in my mouth, as if she ever would. Her thumb was pressed on the underside of my knob, right against that hyper-sensitive spot, travelling in slow circles as I worshipped those young soles with boundless enthusiasm.

“You’re getting close, I can tell.”

She wasn’t wrong. Each measured stroke manifested a long, low moan and an electric shock shot up my spine when her other hand began cupping and massaging my balls. They were full and ready to be drained. I couldn’t take much more, my mind reeled at how this came to be; what was once a perverse pleasure only possible in stories online, was now playing out before my eyes.

My tongue coiled like a serpent around each toe, biting down gently, nibbling the stems as cute, sporadic laughter filled the otherwise silent room. I could easily suck those pretty rings clean off the teen’s toes, and as I slurped on them her intermittent giggles gave way to subtle moans; it was an ever-growing harmony that I’d never tire of. She could’ve jumped on top and gone for a ride, but wanted to finish me with her hands instead. I knew she adored the attention I paid her feet, and by now there were few places my tongue hadn’t slithered.

“Are you gonna cum for me?” she asked, an eagerness in her voice, “for my pretty feet?”

I tried to speak, but the syllables melded together rendering my words completely unintelligible. This carnal delight was coming to an end rather quickly, I could feel it building with every shuddering breath I took. I soon felt her palm rubbing the head of my cock as I gorged myself on her heavenly feet.

“Don’t hold back on me.” She let slip another little moan, then added, “I want it all, every last drop.”

My bucking hips told the tale. I was ready to pop and she, too, was keen for me to erupt. Feverishly pumping into her hands like a man possessed, my back arched as I gave one final, sharp thrust and let out a deep growl.

The long-awaited release sent a crackling surge of pleasure coursing through my system. My balls tightened as I fired a white-hot spurt of cum into the air, followed by another and another as she milked me dry.

“Oh wow,” said Emma with a gasp, “you really needed this.”

“Ohhnnn, fuckkk…” was all I could say while pumping thick loads across her knuckles and onto my own body.

“Mhmm, good boy, let it all out.” She jammed a big toe into my open mouth as my drooling dick pulsated and my legs shook, shooting several final ropes as my eyes attempted to look through the top of my head.

The satisfied giggle she let out when my balls had nothing left to give was too cute, but she didn’t let go or stop pumping. Actually, she continued rubbing my overstimulated cockhead until I couldn’t fucking take anymore. I was writhing on the bed, grabbing handfuls of blanket, saying, “O-Okay, stop, fuck please stop, it’s too much!”

“You’re so sensitive,” she told me as my warm nut dripped down her fingers. “Maybe I should tie you up sometime.” Then she wiped her hands clean on my tee shirt as I lay, tingly and totally spent.

The idea of being tied down, edged, and then receiving post-orgasm torture was hot. Unfortunately, that never came to be with Emma, largely because I never asked. I’m positive she would’ve happily agreed, it would be payback for all the times she was lashed to the bedposts. I’ve since had that experience, but I’ll save that story for another time.

Anyway, I cleaned up my mess, dried her feet off, then looked at her and said, “Lie down, it’s your turn.” She’d taken good care of me, and I happily returned the favour.


- FINAL THOUGHTS -


What you’ve just read were some fun memories that have been on my mind lately, and I figured they might be worth sharing. Despite the fact that she was insanely ticklish, Emma never had a problem being tied up. I’d blow raspberries on her tummy, glide a feather up her inner thighs, squeeze just above her kneecaps and anything else I could imagine just to watch her squirm and listen to that superb sound only tickling can produce.

I can still see those spit-soaked toes inches from my face, and those little dimples on the girl sitting between my legs. Looking back, it’s wild how I went from reading stories and watching tickle videos online to suddenly living it, all in the blink of an eye.

My foot lust, much like it is now, was insatiable, but she made sure I was well fed. Whether I was using them to empty my balls, or tickling her to exhaustion, Emma’s feet received loads of attention.

It’s still sort of surreal that I managed to find a girl like that.

This feels like a good place to end, for now. There’s more I could write, and I likely will some other time. I have a few more noteworthy tales involving Emma, her friends and her sister too, but for now, let me know if you enjoyed it and whether you’d like to hear more.

Likewise, if you’d like to read some stories about my current girlfriend, April, please let me know. I’ve posted dozens of pictures of her bare soles here on DeviantArt, so take a look and tell me if you’d be interested in reading some ticklish tales involving her pretty feet. In all honesty, I’m going to write them anyway.

We’ve been together quite a while now, and our tickly misadventures inform and influence my stories just as much as my time with Emma ever did. But I figured if I was going to write an ‘irl’ tickling story, I might as well start at the start.

Again, it’s not every day that you meet someone who’s feather-ticklish, loves to be tied up and uses her feet to get you off. I’ve been lucky enough to strike gold twice, and have since expanded my tickling repertoire; I now have more bondage gear, more tickle tools and greater methods of inflicting ticklish suffering than ever before.

Thankfully, April not only indulges my foot fetish but actively requests that I tie her up.

Find someone like that.

Until next time.

 

[footluva]

That was amazing. Your a lucky bloke I wish all women were that accommodating.
Do you have pictures of her toes by chance?