Tickling An Older Woman
A Boy's Story, Part 1
(Posted on Sunday, November 25, 2001)
This story was submitted by kibdos@yahoo.ca.

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- My Ticklish, But Willing Mother-In-Law, Part 1 -

This is a true story.

I don’t know how I became a foot fetishist or a tickler although the latter must have followed the former.  I like to do more to a woman’s feet than tickle them and I tickle women in places other than their feet but, since I was very young – seven, as a matter of fact - tickling women’s feet has been a major passion.  However, if I don’t know the origins of my desires, I do know the origins of
my taste in a particular shape of feet: my second-cousin, Ellen.

My family moved to the west coast in the early 50’s and, for the first time, I met my relations.  My father had four cousins: two brothers, whom I liked but rarely saw and two sisters whom I liked even more, saw often and became close to. The youngest was Ellen, a short, attractive blonde in her mid-twenties with medium-length hair, a firm, full  figure and an open smile. It has been a number of years since I have seen her now but, in those days, we were often at her apartment or she at our house.  I must have seen her dressed formally from time to time but my chief memory is of her in casual clothes: blouses, slacks, and – always – ballerina-type slippers. These were quite popular in the 50’s but they remained her informal footwear throughout the years that followed and I rarely saw her in anything else. The other thing I remember clearly is that she hardly ever wore stockings and never wore socks. Pull off those slippers, I thought, and she would be barefoot. And I very much wanted to see that.

She was baby-sitting me one day. My parents were both working and, since it was summer, I was off school and had been dropped off at her apartment. Perhaps it was her own holiday but she was there all week. She painted still-life so we drew, and read and played some board games (I was just learning chess) and had a good time. When my mother came by to pick me up, Ellen asked if I could stay overnight. I was delighted.

After dinner, she turned to me and said, “What would you like to do next?”

Television was still quite new and she didn’t own a set.  I looked around and replied, “Let’s play “store’.  I could pretend to sell you things.”

“Okay.  Do you want to go in the kitchen?  You could sell groceries.”

I shook my head and pretended to think. Then, as casually as a plotting 7-year old could, I answered, “I know…let’s play ‘Shoe Store’”.

She laughed and led me into the bedroom. She sat on the bed.  “All right, I’m the customer.”  She waived in the direction of her large closet. “I saw some nice shoes in the window,” she said. “Please show me some.”

I went to the closet and took out about six pair of high heels, sandals, and slippers. Shoes have never been sexual for me; they are just things that either show off feet or hide them.  But now I saw them as tools, a way to get to her feet.  I spread them out around us thinking that I would try all of them on her.  I wouldn’t allow her to buy the first ones I showed her.  She crossed her legs and held out her right foot. “What do you think would look good?” she asked.

To myself, I said, “Your bare feet” but I reached for some stylish high-heels and said out loud, “Let’s try these.” Then I reached out for her foot.

I don’t think she noticed my hands were trembling.  It was the first time in my young life I had ever taken the shoes off a woman.  I put my left hand on her toes, my right on her heel and gently pulled. I can still remember the sound of the leather sliding free from the back of her foot, a sort of sucking whisper of noise that I found as sexy as I would later find the sound of the descending zipper on my first girlfriend’s dress.  Slowly, I pulled the slipper toward me, my eyes devouring her emerging bare foot.  Her foot was wide and short, her toes small, beautifully symmetrical, perhaps a bit pudgy, her nails polished a bright pink.  I honestly felt my mouth water but it would be years before I even thought of the possibility of sucking those toes.  I stared at them.  I had never seen anything so erotic.

“I hope my feet aren’t too sweaty,” she said. “You know, they sometimes give you a sockette to put over your feet when you try shoes on.”

In what, even now, is quick thinking for a little kid, I said casually, “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll just dry them with my hands.” I reached out and stroked her feet with my right hand, my left holding her lightly by the ankle.  I raised her leg higher so I could see her sole.  It was gorgeous, curving, high arched, narrow against the broad ball of her foot and the spread of her delicious toes. I was careful not to do any tickling as I didn’t want the game to end.  I rubbed lightly but ever so slowly. In fact, I must have gone on far too long.

Finally, she said, “I think they’re fine now.”

“Just a moment. You’ve got some fluff here.” (She didn’t, of course.) I reached my finger and thumb between her toes.

She giggled and pulled free. “That tickles!” But then she put her foot back into my hands. “I’m very ticklish,” she added.

“Sorry,“ I replied. Then I added “…but I didn’t get all the fluff.” I fumbled between her toes. She twisted her ankle and giggled some more but didn’t pull back. I don’t remember if I had an erection but I had never been more aroused in my innocent little life.  Finally, I claimed to have “got it” and reached for the high heels. I put one on and she modeled it for me. Then I suggested she try them both. Once again, I heard the intoxicating sigh of the slipper coming off, saw another beautiful bare foot emerge and heard the hollow clunk of her slipper dropping to the floor. I caressed her left foot and then slipped the other high-heel on.

This went on through ten more minutes and five pairs of shoes.  Playing the game, she pretended she couldn’t make up her mind and asked to look at some more. Each time, I pulled the shoes off slowly, like unwrapping a present.  Each time, I insisted on caressing her feet and, each time, she let me do it.  Looking back, I guess she knew what I was up to but probably thought it innocent enough – kid’s curiosity, kid’s play. And she was kind and gentle. Knowing her as I do now, she wouldn’t have wanted to spoil my fun and it didn’t really threaten her. At least, until I tried on the last pair.

They were bright pink, open-toed, backless fuzzy slippers. I had never seen her wear them but I was fascinated because they showed so much more of her feet than her ballet slippers and, I realized, would be much easier to take off. This is it, I thought. My first big tickle.

She was holding both feet straight out, pretending to look at the slippers. “Yes,” she said. “I like these. I’ll take them.’

“Great,” I replied. “I’ll wrap them for you.” But instead of taking the slippers off one at a time as I had been doing, I wrapped my left arm around her ankles. I slashed my free right hand up the soles of both feet, catapulting the slippers into the air. I heard their soft clunk as they hit the floor, a sound that has always been exciting to me from that day on. My grip on her ankles tightened. I held my breath and started tickling.

She screamed sharply and began laughing.  Her legs pulled hard against my grip and she rolled over on her side, trying to kick herself free.  Under my scrambling, dancing fingers, her soles felt incredibly soft, even with her toes bunched as they now were.  She was screaming, “No-no-no-no-no-no!” over and over and struggling to break away.  I tickled along the wrinkles of her soles, then in between them and then tried to force my fingers between her tightened, bunching toes. I didn’t think of how loud her laughter must sound in the apartment or what others would say or even if I would get in trouble. I wanted those feet more than anything I ever wanted in my life. As she bucked and twisted and laughed and kicked, I hung on tight and kept tickling.

She tried to scramble across the bed to the other side, screaming, “Please stop-please stop-please stop!” and dragging me like a living ball and chain around her wiggling feet.  As she crawled on her stomach her feet twisted around and her soles were now facing upwards.  I threw my small body across her ankles as a weight and began tickling her feet with both of my hands.  My fingers dug deeply into the softness at the base of her toes and she stopped laughing and simply screamed, her body thrashing, her legs pumping, her arms scrambling against the heavy counterpane.

I was too light to hold her and she started to get away. I again wrapped my left arm tightly around her ankles while my right hand kept tickling madly.  She was strong and I was thrown back and forth across the bed but still hung on. Then suddenly she pulled free, her feet slipping under my arm. She lay on her back on the far side of the bed, panting, her breasts heaving under her partially unbuttoned blouse, her face red, her hair in her eyes.  I lay still too, my breath in my throat, my blood pounding in my ears, my whole body alive with a tingling fire I had never known before. As my breathing slowed, I glanced over at her.  My mouth was dry with excitement.  She brushed her hair back and looked at me, smiling. “You gave me quite a time, you little devil,” she said.

I looked deliberately down at her beautiful feet, whose shape and symmetry were now forever engraved in my mind.  I didn’t know it then but those were the kind of feet I would desire the rest of my life. “Could we play again?” I asked.

She swung her feet off the bed and put them firmly on the floor. Then she stood up and tucked in and buttoned her blouse. She smiled gently and I saw she wasn’t in the least upset. “Maybe some other time,” she replied.

She seemed to have forgotten I was staying overnight. That “other time” was going to be sooner than she thought.