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Plain, Awkward, But Oh So Ticklish
(Posted on Monday, April 22, 2002)
This story was submitted by

So many tickling and foot stories involve sexy young victims, gorgeously thrashing bodies, heaving breasts, and other elements of fantasy.  This is fine when these descriptions are true – and even I have had a couple of experiences like that - but there are plenty of ordinary, even plain women who are also ticklish.  This is a true story about one of them.

I enjoy looking at women’s feet, I enjoy tickling them and kissing them, but I also enjoy the planning that sometimes needs to go into real life (rather than fantasy) tickling.  Mary was staying as a guest at my mother-in-law’s for six months. Speaking truthfully and without any trace of condescension, she could have personified the unkind cliché of “old maid”.  She was in her late forties and looked older, with short graying hair and a rather plump body.  But her physical appearance wasn’t the only unattractive element.  Living her entire, secluded life with her mother (who had recently died), she was awkward socially, totally uncomfortable with males, very religious, rather uneducated, and innocent in every aspect of the word.  Her conversation consisted mostly of platitudes, Biblical quotes and observations on the weather.

My mother-in-law, although rather religious herself, had a sardonic sense of humor about having to put up with this woman for half a year.  On one of the few days when Mary was out, I came over for a “visit” – our private code for a mutually satisfying tickle.  (See My Ticklish But Willing Mother-in-Law, parts 1 & 2).  As my hands glided across her bare soles, Gloria complained how long it had been since I had tickled her.  I pointed out that she was not often alone now.

“I know.  The woman is driving me crazy.  I don’t know why I took her in.”  Then she giggled, looked at me and nodded at her own feet.  “Maybe you can tickle her out of the house.”

I laughed.  “How do you know she’s ticklish?”

“Oh, Paul (her youngest son) tickled her a couple of nights ago and she really jumped.”

“Her feet?” I asked hopefully.

“No, her sides – but she’s probably ticklish on her feet, too.”

“Well,” I said reflectively, “I might just try that.”

She laughed, then straightening her leg, she raised her foot to my mouth.  “Well, hold on.  You look after my feet first.”  Smiling, I ran my tongue between her spreading toes and we began concentrating on other things.

We both knew the suggestion was only a joke.  But she had put a thought into my head.  And, the more I thought about it, the less Mary’s looks and awkwardness seemed to matter.

I needed a ruse that would offer a number of solutions: first, a way of getting Mary to let me into the house when my mother-in-law was working; second, a way of innocently getting Mary’s shoes off so she would think the following tickle was just a casual, natural tease, not the attack of a raving foot tickler. (Alright, I was a raving foot tickler but I didn’t want her to see that!).  Third, and most important of all, I needed a story that would let me get away with tickling her  without Mary blabbing to everyone. I was in the closet with my foot fetish and I didn’t want everyone pointing fingers at me.

I finally hit on it.  I would pretend to be thinking about giving my mother-in-law a painting as a gift.  (I would never force a painting on anyone without them knowing but Mary didn’t realize that.) Therefore, the visit was a secret and she was to keep absolutely quiet until after my mother-in-law’s birthday.  If the tickling came off, I could then let her know a week or so later that I had changed my mind about the painting but she was to be quiet about it anyway, so my mother-in-law
wouldn’t know I was planning a surprise.

Thinking the plan over, I felt that even a sexually sophisticated woman might buy
the story; for a naive, sheltered lady like Mary, it should work easily.  I have to confess I did feel I was exploiting her somewhat but my desire to tickle a woman who would not be able so say a word about it was very strong.  Since there wwasn’t going to be anything more than foot-tickling, I figured the guilt was worth it.

It was summer holidays, so I could pick my days.  Telling my wife I was going to the university library for research, I showed up at my mother-in-law’s just after she left for work. Mary let me in timidly.  She was certainly no beauty, I thought as I walked into the living room, and her conversation was as stilted and nervous as ever.  But I was pleased to see she was wearing a plain housedress and no nylons, just heavy slippers covering her bare feet.  I spun her the story and swore her to secrecy, both of which she accepted eagerly.  She thought it was a great idea and, of course, wouldn’t spoil it by telling Gloria.  She even commented on my thoughtfulness, which ratcheted my guilt feelings up a notch.  I brought out a
cloth tape-measure and gestured to a bare wall, which, hardly by coincidence, was behind the couch.

“Let’s try there.  The painting is about three feet wide.  You measure and I’ll stand back and see what it might look like.”  I was about to suggest that she remove her slippers before standing on the couch but she beat me to it.  Saying, “I’d better take these off”, she stepped out of the clunky things and climbed onto the couch.

I paused for an unexpected and surprisingly delicious moment.  I had never seen her feet before and I was astonished at how great they were.  Not as sexy as my wife’s, nor even as nice as my mother-in-law’s, they were far better looking than
the rest of her.  They were short, rather broad and pudgy but her toes were very symmetrical.  I caught a quick glimpse of her soles as she climbed on the couch.  I wanted to see more.

“Perhaps you should kneel,” I suggested.  “It will give me a better view.”  Of course, I didn’t say a view of what. Innocently, she knelt, holding the tape against the wall, her bare soles now facing me.  My God, I thought, they were nice!
A broad ball offering plenty of tickling room, a high curving arch, smooth skin with enough plumpness to promise plenty of soft wrinkles when she bunched them. (And, I promised myself, once I started tickling her, she would bunch them.)  They were really nice.  The rest of her unattractiveness completely vanished from my mind.  It was those feet I wanted.

I got her to move the tape around in various places but I hardly glanced at the wall.  My eyes were hungrily glued to those bare soles.  After enjoying the view for several minutes, I walked towards her.  I wanted this to seem completely natural so I wasn’t going to tickle her now.  But I wanted to move those slippers farther away.  I pretended to trip slightly over one of them so I picked them both up and, with a quick “I’ll just move these out of the way”, tossed them across the room.

We measured some more and I brushed up against her toes several times, noticing delightedly how they twitched spasmodically as I did so.  I even got down on my knees “to see how the picture would look from a low angle” and had my face right next to her feet.  (I know that ploy wouldn’t work with a sophisticated woman but Mary thought nothing of it.)

This was going to be good.  Most of my tickles with the neighborhood women had been of short duration - after all, I didn’t want to be labeled as the local weirdo - but I made up my mind that this was going to be as long as I could risk it. After all, she had promised to keep this visit a secret.

We finished measuring.  She turned and sat on the couch, her bare feet on the floor, her eyes seeking her slippers. “I’ll get them,“ I said helpfully.  I picked them up across the room, walked back to her and knelt in front of her like a good
shoe clerk.   “Allow me,” I said.  I dropped both slippers on the floor.  She giggled and, to my delight, held out her right foot.  Since it was now inches from my face, I looked at it carefully.  Yes, indeed – there was certainly no correlation between good looks and a good foot.  She must have noticed I was looking at it.

“I bet you never saw such big feet in your life,” she laughed.

My left hand gripped her ankle, my right hand rose to her smooth, bare soles and - without answering - I started tickling her arch.  She let loose with a shriek that must have been heard down the block!  Her leg shot back and kicked forward.  I kept tickling but was losing my grip on her ankles.  My God, this lady was strong!  I tucked her thrashing leg under my arm, my dancing fingers scrambling across her soft wrinkles.  Suddenly her foot was gone, her leg pulled free from my arm.  She was laughing but both bare feet were now firmly on the floor.  Damn it, I thought, it’s over too soon!  She going to get up and how can I make the tickling look innocent now?

“Yep, I’m ticklish,“ she said breathlessly, “I’m really ticklish!”  And then she did something that I swear is absolutely true but still incredible to me after all these years:  she put her bare foot back in my hands!

I was stunned.

She repeated the question I hadn’t bothered to answer: “I bet you never saw such big feet in your life.”

I collected myself.  I couldn’t believe my luck.  I looked closely at her foot as if I was giving the question serious thought.  The soft pads of her toes, the curving lines across her arch beckoned me.  The memory of that first, quick tickle still
tingled in my fingers. This time, I said to myself, I’m going to hang on and I’m going to give her the tickling of her life.

“I don’t think they’re that big,” I replied. (In fact, they weren’t.) “What size are you?”

Unbelievably, she flexed her foot.  There was no way this woman was teasing me; she was just completely and utterly naïve.  It hadn’t occurred to her that this could possibly be sexual for me.  We were just having a banal conversation about her feet.

“Have a guess,” she giggled.

I took this opportunity to look more closely.  I wrapped my left arm around her ankle and brought her foot to my face. “I don’t know,” I responded.  “Women’s feet are measured differently than men’s.  Is it done in inches?”  Using the thumb of my right hand as a measuring stick, I placed it gently on her bare toes.  She squealed and pulled back but I held her leg tightly and said in offended innocence, “I’m just going to measure you.”  I slowly walked my bent thumb down the length of her foot, across the broad ball, down into the deep arch and then back up to her heel.  She tried to hold her foot steady but gave muffled squeaks every time my thumb moved downwards.  My eyes were close to her foot as though I was counting every ticklish inch.

“My gosh…my gosh…I’m SO ticklish!…..eeeeee…Don’t take so long!….”

I finished but then placed my fingers gently and unmoving on her sole.  “Gee, I don’t know”,  I said, sounding puzzled.  “Size Six?”

Quickly, breathlessly, she said, “Size seven.  That’s my size…Size seven…”  Then seeing that I didn’t move, she added, “Are you going to put my slippers on?”

I looked closely at her feet again.  “Oh yes. Yes, I promise I will put them on… afterwards.”   And gripping her ankle tightly, I started tickling.

She exploded!  The next ten minutes were the wildest, roughest tickling I have ever experienced.  She kicked, she twisted, she fought, she squealed at the top of her voice.  Half the time I had to concentrate just on hanging on to her thrashing leg so I tickled by reflex action.  Even then, I could feel the incredibly electric feeling of her soft, pudgy, ticklish soles under my scrambling fingers.  Her toes were bunched tightly but I forced them apart with my fingers, seeking the sensitive skin
between them.  That drove her into greater frenzy.  She wasn’t even laughing anymore, just screaming and begging me to stop:  “No…no…please…please stop…PLEASE STOP…!”

She thrashed so much that she slid off the couch, then twisted over on her stomach and tried to crawl away.  I lost my hold for a moment.  Desperately, I flung my whole body across her struggling ankles, pinning them under both my weight and my left arm together.  Her feet were now trapped side-by-side, both wide, inviting soles helplessly upward as my tickling fingers flashed up and down her delicious wrinkles.  I dug deep into the soft, twisting feet.

As I tickled her, I realized I was getting more and more excited.  Had this been my wife – God, even my mother-in-law - giving me this incredible reaction, I realized that I would have wanted to fall on them by now and fuck them through the
floor. I sure wasn’t going to do that but, getting incredibly aroused, I did what I swore I would not do: I buried my face in her bare soles and started licking.  It was a crazy thing to do.  Maybe I hoped she would just take it as extra tickling but I
don’t think I was thinking straight at that moment - I just wanted those incredibly ticklish feet!

“Oh my gosh, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” she screamed and began bucking on the carpet trying to free herself, her squealing getting even louder.  My tongue lashed across her bare soles, turning them shiny, wet and slippery.  I didn’t know
it then but I was on the verge of losing control – and with a woman who was completely unattractive to me!  With both hands holding tight to her left foot, I hauled it off the floor and put her toes entirely into my mouth.  She shrieked!

Suddenly the doorbell rang!

I froze and she quickly pulled away.  Fighting with my breath, I went to the door.  It was a salesman.  He must have heard the squealing but his face was passive.  By the time I got rid of him, Mary was in her room.  She had socks and shoes on and her feet firmly on the floor.  That was the end of that.  I tried to treat it as a joke and I hoped she took it that way.  I reminded her that she wasn’t to tell anyone of my visit.

Months passed and it seemed she kept the agreement.  She eventually moved into her own place.  Then, one day, as I was tickling my mother-in-law, she looked at me with her eyes sparkling.  “I understand you gave Mary quite a time.”

I froze.  I imagine the blood drained from my face.

My mother-in-law giggled and pushed her foot affectionately against the side of my face.  “I was jealous,” she smiled.

“You needn’t be.”

“Was it fun?”

“Well…She’s very ticklish.”

“And I’m not,” she said.

I smiled.  “In your own way, you’re better.”  I said and I slipped her toes into my mouth.

This story was submitted by

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