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Tickling An Older Woman
A Boy's Story, Part 2
(Posted on Saturday, December 1, 2001)
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To read part 1, click Tickling An Older Woman, A Boy's Story, Part 1.

If my earlier story about tickling my cousin, Ellen, was fiction, I would have tickled her throughout the night.  She would have loved it and then encouraged me to suck her toes.  But since this is a true story and I was only seven, nothing like that happened.  I knew that I had gone as far as I could go for now.  And, being young, kissing or sucking toes had not occurred to me.  (That didn’t come until my first girlfriend.)  It was the tickling I wanted, the feel of her bare feet under my fingers, the struggle as she tried to escape and her delicious laughter filling my ears. At this age, with older women, tickling their bare feet was sex for me.

As I lay on the bed, my body was burning with excitement and I was shaking. Whether or not she noticed this, I never found out.  She pulled those ballerina slippers on and went into the living room.  I rested for a moment, trying to settle my feelings.  I was worried that I might have gone too far, that my desire for her feet was too clear and, most of all, that she would tell my parents.

I discovered masturbation when I was six.  I didn’t even know what it was called, either its proper term or the many crude expressions I learned later.  But I remember being in my bedroom looking out a window and masturbating over the sight of our married neighbor sunning herself on the back lawn.  She wasn’t very pretty but she was barefoot and her soles were toward me as she sprawled face down on a blanket.  So, I fantasized I was tickling her feet and stroked myself into what amounted to an orgasm for someone of my age.  Now, with Ellen in the next room, I felt like doing that again but was afraid of being caught.

I rolled off the bed and went into the living room.  We played a card game for a while and then I changed into an old t-shirt for pajamas and went to bed.  She lay down and read a story to me. As she left, I asked her to keep one small light on.  It was her bed and she would be sharing it with me but not for a few hours.  I was determined to stay awake until she came.

Of course, I didn’t; I went out quickly.  I was awakened by the sag of the mattress and a rustle of sheets.  The small table-lamp was still on, throwing the room in dark pinkish shadows. The alarm clock showed 11:00.  Behind me, I could hear Ellen settling herself in.  Pretending to be sleeping, I rolled quietly over.  The covers were over her and I couldn’t see what she was wearing but I could smell perfume and the freshness of soap.  My body started tingling again as I thought of her bare feet at the bottom of the bed, so close to my hands.  I lay very still, listening to her breathing, watching the hands of the clock creep around the dial.  I must have fallen asleep again for when I next looked at the clock, it was 2:35.  I could hear her breathing, deeply and regularly.  Now, I thought.

I slipped quietly out under the sheets and knelt on the floor.  On hands and knees, I crept down alongside the bed, listening to her breathing, wondering if she was actually asleep.  At last, I reached the bottom of the bed and crawled over to her side.  I could see the hump of her figure and the smaller hump that must mark out her feet.

Slowly, very carefully, I lifted the counterpane and tugged at the tucked-in sheet.  My whole body was trembling with excitement and my groin tingled.  The sheet came away, the noise seeming loud in the quiet room.  I paused and waited.  All quiet.  I carefully lifted the sheet and folded it back.  There, in the pink light of the small lamp, inches from my face, were her soft, bare feet.

For a while, I just stared at them.  She was lying on her stomach so her soles faced up. The wrinkles of her feet seemed deeper in the shadows, the sensuous angle of her arches softer.  I looked hungrily at her feet, my young eyes tracing out every line, every gentle curve.  I smelled leather, soap and baby powder.  I counted her toes, lingering over each one, trying to get up the nerve to reach out and touch them.  If I did, where would I start?  How long could I tickle her?  And would she wake up?

Finally, I couldn’t stand it.  I would probably get in a lot of trouble but I had to feel those feet, just once more.  I reached out a trembling right finger and lightly touched the arch of her right foot.  She didn’t stir. Gently, very delicately, I ran my finger slowly from her arch down across the wide, rising ball of her foot to her chubby toes.  She didn’t move.  With my left hand, I slowly ran my finger from her heel down the side of her other foot to her baby toe.  I was shaking so much I
must have looked as if I had a fever.  Then I took all of my fingers, placed them on the heels of both her feet and let them trickle slowly down to her toes, bumping over the soft ridges, feeling the electricity of my touch against her skin.  Her feet twitched and she rolled over on her side.  Now I’ve done it, I thought.  But she didn’t wake up.

I waited while my heart settled out of my throat.  Then, with the index finger of each hand, I lightly tickled the baby toe of each foot then moved to the next ones…and the next…until I finally reached her big toes.  My face was only inches from her foot.  Looking back, I can’t imagine why I didn’t use my tongue but it just didn’t occur to me then.  However, I have the most vivid memory of my two fingers drawing tickling patterns over her two big toes.

Then I made my mistake: I slipped one finger between her toes.

Both feet snapped back under the covers.  Horrified, I saw she was sitting straight up staring at me, her eyes wide in the shadows. Then she smiled.  “You little devil,” she laughed. “You woke me up!”

My face was hot with embarrassment and desire.  “I…I’m sorry….I was just…”

“I know  what you were doing.  Now get back in bed and go to sleep – or I won’t take you to the park tomorrow.”  Her voice was light and it was clear she wasn’t mad

I decided to take a chance. “All right,” I said and started burrowing under the covers towards her. “I’ll come to bed this way.”

I heard her giggle “Little monkey,” as I crawled quickly from the foot of the bed.  It was dark under the sheets but I found her left foot immediately.

From above me, muffled by the blanket, I heard her hiss, “No you don’t!” but it was too late.  I grabbed her ankle and held on tight with my left arm.  And, in the semi-darkness, with her beautiful bare foot only inches from my face, with the warmth of her skin under my hands and the smell of baby powder and perfume all around me, I started tickling – hard!

She shrieked but quite quietly, almost in a whisper. “If you make me scream, I’ll wake up the rest of the tenants…Stop it…stop it!  Don’t tickle…don’t tickle…don’t tickle!”  She twisted and kicked and kept whispering “No–no – no–no…”

The covers whipped off me and, as I hung on, I saw the sheets were off her too.  She was wearing white cotton pajamas with small roses on them.  I saw a flash of her soft, white stomach and the curve of one breast.  I went back to her foot, keeping my fingers scrambling across her bare sole.  She heaved trying to get away and then started falling out of bed, dragging the blanket and sheets with her.  I hung on tight to her foot.  She slid giggling on her back to the floor, her trapped foot still on the bed, twisting in my grasp.  I dug my fingers into the base of her toes.  She screamed but still kept her voice muffled so no one could hear.  Her quiet giggles and furtive struggling were intoxicating.

I realized how strong she was and knew she could have broken away but was afraid of either making too much noise or hurting me.  Finally, with a great kick, she freed her ankle.  I lost my balance and, as I looked down, I found myself starting to slid off the bed on top of her.  Beneath me, I saw her lying on her back, her legs spread, her pajamas bunched up showing her heaving stomach.  I fell firmly on top of her, her softness sending an electric shock through my already aroused young body.  Without even thinking, caught up in excitement, I shoved my hands under her pajama top and started tickling her sides.  She exploded with laughter.  I was now sprawled across her, straddling her thrusting, bucking hips.

“No-no-no-no-no-no-no!” she laughed, over and over.  She was slightly chubby and her soft skin felt incredibly erotic under my scrambling, digging fingers.  She fought to grab my hands.  I kept tickling but moved them up, not reaching for her breasts but trying to tickle her underarms.  But, as I finally reached them, I could feel the delightful sponginess of her full breasts against my skin.  And this time, I knew I had an erection.  I wondered if she knew it, too.

Squirming and giggling, she pressed her arms tight, trapping my scrambling hands against her sides.  I squeezed my legs against her thighs, desperately hanging on, still tickling with my trapped hands.  She was bucking like a young filly and we fell sideways in a heap, my legs still tightly wrapped around her.  Her pajama top was high across her chest and one breast was partly free. Twisting her arms, she reached up and gripped my wrists.  Finally, with one great heave of her hips,
she threw me off.

“Now stop!” she whispered firmly. “Stop!  Stop – or I’ll tell your mother!” I froze. This was the one thing I really feared.

“Okay…I’m sorry…I’m sorry…” I scrambled back to my side of the bed and straightened the tangled covers.  She climbed back on the bed and pulled the sheets up.  I turned out the bedside light.  In the darkness, I could her breathing settling to mormal.

“You little devil,” she muttered. I rolled over.  My body was still shaking, my heart pounding, my nerves alive like hot wires.  I tried to calm down.  I was awash with feelings I only partly understood but I knew I had been through an incredibly exciting experience.  My erection was thrusting painfully against my shorts.  I never wanted to masturbate more than at that moment but I couldn’t relieve the agony for fear of her hearing me. My nostrils were filled with the warm smell of her body, while the memory of her struggling bare feet, her laughter and softness of her sides and breasts burned my brain.

Finally, my own breathing started to calm down.

“Auntie Ellen?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Are we still going to the park tomorrow?”

I could hear the smile in her voice.  “Well, not if you tickle me again. Now goodnight.”

What did I want: the park or another great tickle?  There was no contest, of course, but I had gone as far as I dared in that one night.  I wasn’t going to push my luck.

But, for the rest of my life, that experience and those high-arched, ticklish little feet were engraved in my memory.

This story was submitted by

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To continue this story, click Tickling My Friend's Mother, A Boy's Story, Part 3.

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