My Ticklish, But Willing Mother-In-Law, Part 1
(Posted on Sunday, September 9, 2001)
This story was submitted by kibdos@yahoo.ca.

Webmaster's note: We've received a report that the e-mail address above is bouncing.

Feel free to submit your comments about this story in our free foot fetish chat forum.
To do this, just click here for the story section topic to make your comments public.

This is a true story. Everything happened exactly as I have described it.

Her feet weren’t as sexy as her daughter’s and she might not be as ticklish, but that was just the problem. My (then) future wife, Em, was so ticklish that she became angry whenever I grabbed her sexy feet. Arguments, rather than lovemaking always followed. I had long-range plans to change that but, for the moment, with Em going barefoot all the time (she was 17), and me in a constant state of excitement, I needed a stop-gap ticklee. And with Gloria – as I called her – it might be different.

My future father-in-law was an idiot and, for Gloria, her marriage was rather passionless. I wasn’t setting out to seduce her, but the tickling side of my sexuality needed a release and I wondered if some kind of “relationship” could be formed. If the focus stayed on her feet, that was fine with me. The two questions were, "Was she ticklish?" and "Would she go along without telling everyone?"

Gloria not telling was important to me. I wasn’t out of the closet with my foot tickling fetish (thirty years later I’m still not), and I didn’t want a reputation as the local pervert. At that time (the 60’s), I didn’t even know there might be other guys out there who felt the same as I did. Also, I had managed to briefly tickle seven of our neighbors (as well as the Avon Lady, believe it or not), and assorted aunts and friends’ mothers. Since Em and I lived in the same area, I was worried that the secret might get out. So, I had to go carefully.

Gloria rarely went barefoot, but after working all day as a restaurant manager, she always slipped out of her shoes and stockings and into slippers or sandals. They offered tantalizing glimpses of her feet and would be no problem to take off. In fact, they often slipped off on their own accord. I had the means in my fingers and I sure as hell had the motive in my mind. All I needed was the opportunity.

It came one night when Em was in her bedroom on the phone to one of her friends. I was at the kitchen table and Gloria was sitting across from me. As we talked, I played absentmindedly with a pencil, which I then let fall to the floor. " “I’ll get it,” I said quickly as I dived under the table. I pushed the pencil towards her feet in case she looked underneath. Her feet were tucked under her chair, the toes of her left foot on the floor. Her pink, thinly strapped sandals, half-off, hid nothing. This was the closest I had ever been to her feet. They were high arched, wide, with short, nicely shaped toes – just my taste.

“Do you see it?” she asked.

“Got it,” I replied. Then I picked up the pencil and, reaching out, ran the tip down her bare left sole. She yelped once and pulled her foot back. I got back into my chair and she grinned across at me, saying nothing. And when Em came back to the kitchen, Gloria said nothing to her, either. So it seemed that she was as ticklish as her daughter. That was good news. And she didn’t get angry or talk. That was even better. Step One accomplished.

But the next few steps brought confusion rather than insight. I tickled her twice, both briefly, both when she was in stockings. The first time, she didn’t react at all. The second time, she yelped again. “What was going on?” I thought to myself. “Was she ticklish or not?” I was determined to find out.

I was in my second year of university at the time and had some mornings off. My girlfriend was in her last year of High School and had no free time at all. I found out that Tuesday was Gloria’s day off from the restaurant and so I turned up one morning, asking to look at some encyclopedias. No one in Gloria’s family had much education and she didn’t realize that university students don’t consult mundane sources, so it seemed a reasonable request to her.

Fresh from a shower, she was still in a bright pink housecoat and – My God – she was barefoot! “I’m not leaving this place,” I promised myself, until I give this woman a real hard tickling. I pulled the books from the shelf and spread them around me on the floor. Instead of sitting, as I had hoped, she stood right by me. But she stood on her left leg and crossed her right foot over balanced on her toes. Her bare right sole was only inches from my hand. I pretended to turn the pages while I gazed at her delicious sole, imagining my fingers gliding over the soft skin. Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore.

Without looking up, I reached over and lightly ran one finger from her toes to her heel and back again. She didn’t move. I stroked her again. She still didn’t move and she said nothing. I looked up and her large brown eyes were sparkling at me. She grinned and winked.

“I’m not ticklish,” she said. She kept her foot in place and I kept tickling her gently.

“You’re not?”

“Nope.” Then she went to the couch and sat down. “You can tickle my feet all day and it wouldn’t bother me.” Only later would I realize that this was a subtle invitation to do just that. Only even later would she admit that she stood the way she did, hoping that I would tickle her feet. But I didn’t pick up on any of the hints and left, embarrassed. But, at least, Gloria said nothing to her daughter.

Later in the month, I went over again. Housedress this time and light canvas slip-on shoes. During the hour I was there, I pulled those shoes off three times and tickled her, each time getting a cheerful giggle and the words, “I’m not ticklish. I told you.” But she didn’t seem to mind it and – again – said nothing to her daughter.

Two weeks after that, it happened: the incident that changed our entire relationship. I went over to borrow one of her husband’s many tape recorders. He was like a child with his toys and would have flipped if he knew that I was using one of his toys. Gloria shrugged and said, “We’ll just keep it between us.” She was wearing a housedress again and the ugliest, heaviest slippers that I had ever seen, completely hiding her feet. I was in sandals that I kicked off when I came in.

I followed her upstairs to the crowded room where her husband kept his junk. She stood at the door, waved in the general direction of the recorders and said, “Help yourself. I’ve got dishes to do.” I went in and knelt down beside the scattered machines. “She seems distracted,” I thought, and “not in the best of moods.” No action today. But I was aware that she hadn’t gone downstairs. She stood watching me from the doorway. What I didn’t know then was that she was making up her mind. Suddenly, she was behind me and this time it was her hands on my feet!

“Tickle, tickle, tickle!” she laughed. Though I’m not ticklish, I jumped in surprise. Then she added, “It serves you right!” As she said this, she stepped slowly passed me, carefully picking her way through the mess of recorders. Again, only later did I realize that she was doing this so that I would have an opportunity to grab her feet. But I missed my chance.

“It doesn’t serve me right,” I protested. “Why does it serve me right?”

There was a leather armchair and footstool in front of me. She settled into the chair and slowly put both of her feet on the stool, inches from my hand. “Well, you tickle my feet and I’m not ticklish.”

I looked at her for a moment, stunned. She looked back with a teasing smile. My God, I realized with a shock, she wants to be tickled! She’s asking to be tickled! I deliberately pushed one of the recorders out of the way. She grinned, knowing what was coming. Returning her smile, I said, “You’re not?”

“Nope.” Her dark eyes sparkled with mischief. This forty-five year old woman was flirting like a teenager.

I lunged.

She shrieked with delight as my left arm wrapped tightly around her ankles and my right hand swept off her slippers. I began tickling her bare feet hard, my fingers digging into her soft soles. She laughed, saying over and over, “I’m not, I’m not!” but she barely struggled. I kept tickling and, after a minute or so, her laughter subsided to delighted giggles. I took a chance and released her ankles. She kept her feet on the stool. Now I used both my hands on her soles and my tickling slowed to light, stroking caresses. She arched her feet and spread her toes as my fingers ran between them.

If this was fiction, I would now start sucking her toes and she would have loved it. Since this is a true story, I didn’t have the nerve and she would have been shocked at such intimacy so soon. Besides, I was having enough fun. My tongue would have to wait.

The electric feeling between my fingertips and her soft, beautiful feet was incredible. Never had I had a woman who would let me be this close to her feet for so long. My hungry eyes roamed over her feet, probing the soft curves and wrinkles just as my fingers were doing and the delighted expression on my face probably told her the whole story. Whether or not she had heard about foot fetishes (she was quite religious and this was the early 60’s), she knew that I was enjoying myself.

Both of my hands were now gliding over her right sole. I looked up at her. She smiled. “I told you I’m not ticklish….but it feels good.”

“Does it?” I asked encouragingly.

Like an offering, she slightly raised her left foot and spread her toes. “Try the other one.”

It was the beginning of a fifteen-year foot-tickling affair. And she never told anyone.