My Ticklish, But Willing Mother-In-Law
Part 3 - The Final Chapter
(Posted on Wednesday, July 3, 2002)
This story was submitted by kibdos@yahoo.ca.

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Confession is supposed to be good for the soul so I hope this will be.

I am going to tell an incident that really happened but that I am honestly not proud of admitting. The stories I have written for Great Feet have always been true, free from exaggeration, but they have been rather therapeutic. For years while I was growing up and even into adulthood I have felt that my desire for women's feet and for tickling made me a misfit, if not an actual pervert  (see TICKLING AN OLDER WOMAN PART 1 & PART 2 ).

Many tickling fantasies to the contrary, most people are not accepting of this fetish in real life and tend to look down on those who are captured by it.  So, from the beginning I have always carried some guilt. If, in these stories, I have given entertainment, well, fine. But they have been for me a catharsis, a clearing, a series of confessions of feelings about tickling women's feet that have always bothered me.   But there are three incidents in my life around tickling women that have always made me feel even more guilty than usual. Since one involved a girl under 18, that is probably a violation of Great Feet's guidelines ; the second involved a girl a bit older but it lacks the action requisite for a readable story; the third is the incident that follows.

I almost cheated on my wife once and if that meager effort that marks me as a wimp or less of a man, then so be it. By my ethics, cheating is wrong and I dont feel that it is something to be proud of.  Especially since the incident was with my wife's own mother.

I have written about Gloria before in these pages (see MY TICKLISH BUT WILLING MOTHER-IN-LAW Part 1 & Part 2 ).  After my mother-in-laws tragic death from cancer, I admitted the foot-tickling affair to my wife (now my ex-wife) and stunningly - it made her happy because I had a relationship with her mother that was closer than she imagined.  But I never told her of the final chapter perhaps from guilt or a desire not to hurt her or from plain cowardice.  But it is something I would like to get off my chest now, to readers if not to her.

Gloria loved being tickled on her feet most of all and I came to realize that our tickling "affair" was a real affair for her. Trapped in a loveless marriage with a genuine idiot, she delighted in the fact that I was attracted to her and we had a secret not known to anyone else.  But there was a day when things got out of hand and everything went overboard - caution, boundaries, ethics - everything.

Being a teacher gave me some freedom in the summer and often our major tickling incidents took place then.  Her husband and two sons were working and she lived near the university where I did most of my research. On her time off, I could still do my work and yet get time for a good hour's tickling to wrap up my day. On the day in question, however, I came to her house early. I figured that I would get my standard "good hours tickling" and then continue on to the library. It didn't quite turn out that way.

She knew I was coming over and that I would be tickling her but I surprised her by arriving early.  She met me at the door dressed in cotton pajamas and a bathrobe, barefoot of course.  She put coffee on the table in the living room  which I accepted and her bare feet on my lap - which I went after even more. We talked as I tickled her and she lay back with her eyes closed and a dreamy smile on her face. My hands roamed slowly, lightly over her soles and between her ticklish toes.  From time to time, she would giggle or moan with pleasure, spreading her chubby toes so that my fingers could tickle the soft, tender skin between them.

Eventually, I lifted her left foot to my mouth and began licking her toes, sucking them slowly and running my tongue into her ticklish arch.  I held her ankle lightly but kept her foot steady when she spasmodically pulled it away.  Soon I found myself kneeling on the couch, both her bare feet raised to my mouth as I tickled and heavily licked her soles.  The legs of her pajamas had slipped back to her knees.  Knowing that she loved to have her calves tickled, I slipped one hand down to them, lightly running them over her skin as I kept sucking her toes.  She giggled and gasped and tried to pull away and yet, at the same time, saying, "Oh gosh, that feels good. Do it again ... do it again ... "

"You like this, don't you?" I said, looking up. Her eyes opened for a moment and she looked directly at me.

"I love it. You're the only one who tickles me." Then she settled back on the couch, stretching full out. Her bathrobe was becoming undone and I realized that the sleeves on her pajama tops were as loose as the cloth around her legs.

With a mouth full of her toes, I said in a muffled way, "You know, I have always wondered if you'd like being tickled anywhere else."

Her brown eyes opened, wide with caution. "What do you mean?"

I had to remind myself that, bad marriage or not, she was very religious and rather strait-laced. Well, I said cautiously, "your underarms." I had raised this thought with her once before and she had reacted very negatively. This time, however, was different.

"I don't know," she said.

"Well, you like it on your legs ... so I thought ..." I left the sentence unfinished.

She looked at me for a long moment and then in a small voice she replied, "You could try," and she raised both arms behind her head. The sleeves of both her robe and her pajamas slid down to her armpits.

I gently kissed her toes and put them on the couch. Getting up, I walked around behind her. I reached both hands to each of her wrists and gently, lightly, began tickling the underside of her forearms. She gasped sharply with pleasure and went rigid for a moment, her entire body bending like a bow.

"Oh ... oh ... oh ..." she groaned as my tickling fingers slid down her arms to her elbows then slipped past them. I tickled her upper arms to let her get used to it and then glided down into her deep pits.

"Oh my gosh!" she squealed, her body heaving to one side. "It's so ticklish ... so ticklish!"

I was getting more and more aroused.

I started tickling in earnest and she twisted and giggled, saying, "Oh my gosh!" over and over, the equivalent of violent language for her. In a blend of agony and delight, she kept saying, "It tickles ... it tickles ... it tickles," as she twisted and writhed under my hands.  But she didn't cover her underarms and I knew she wanted me to keep at it.

I am a foot and tickling man first and foremost, but the rest of the female body is as delightful to me as it is to any regular guy. Standing behind and above her writhing body, I couldnt help thinking about her full, heavy, breasts, wondering if she would like to be tickled there and wondering if all this tickling wasn't making her nipples as rigid as it often made my wife's. I was starting to lose control but didn't yet know it.

Loose clothing on women has always made me want to slip a tickling hand inside and this time was no exception. I kept tickling her, getting a far more violent response than even my tongue on her toes had produced. I reminded myself of how religious she was, how cautious she had been developing a tickling relationship even this far. I could blow the whole thing in the next few minutes. But I was getting more and more aroused as she twisted and giggled under the tickling and caution was now the last thing I wanted to think about.

"How about your back?" I asked slipping my gliding hands under her.

She giggled and arched in ecstasy, twisting her body so that my hands roamed freely on her back and her sides. The back of her head was pressed against my stomach, her arms stretched above her head tightened around my waist. I realized that she was getting as aroused as I was, but I wondered if she was aware of it. My hands inside her pajamas lightly tickled her ribs and then moved to her soft stomach. I could feel her breasts brushing the sides of my forearms. She started gurgling with laughter her upper body writhing under my moving fingers.

"It tickles ... it tickles so much!"

I bent my head so that my mouth nestled beside her ear. "Do you want me to stop?" I whispered.

Between her giggles, she whispered back, "No ... no ... don't stop. It feels good, but it tickles so much. I didn't know I was this ticklish!"

"I didn't know you would like it this much," I said softly. I knelt behind her so that her head rested on my shoulder, her cheek pressed firmly against mine. My God, I thought, what am I doing? This woman is twenty years older than I am and she's my mother-in-law! But I couldn't or didn't want to stop my wandering, tickling fingers.

I started tickling her in long gliding strokes, from her hips to her underarms and back again, getting her used to having my hands roaming under her clothes. I was wearing jogging shorts and could feel my erection pushing through the material. Her legs were straight with tension and I saw her toes were tightly bunched. For a moment, even though I couldnt see them, I could picture the wrinkles on the soles of her feet. I wanted to feel my tongue slipping over those wrinkles, but I also wanted to tickle her round, full breasts. Her robe had fallen completely open and I could see the bumps of her erect nipples through the white cotton of her pajamas. My fingers tingled in anticipation.

I was incredibly aroused but I was also frightened. I knew instinctively she would never tell anyone about this (since it was part of our tickling secret) but my next move could completely blow a wonderful foot-tickling relationship that I had spent years developing. My mind paused, weighing the consequences. Then, taking the risk, I slowly slid my fingers up from her hips to her underarms. As I did, I let my thumbs brush against the sides of her breasts. She let out a sharp gasp, her body bending back, her head thrusting into my shoulders.

I whispered into her ear, "I like this as much as you do."

"But it's wrong ... it's wrong ... we should stop."

I moved both my hands down from her underarms and started tickling the sides of her breasts with all my fingers. "No, it's not. It's between us. Only between us and it's a pleasure you deserve."

"What if someone comes in?"

"No one is going to come in," I assured her. I started tickling the underside of her breasts. I realized they were even bigger than my wifes. I whispered again, "You deserve this kind of pampering." Her cheek was pressed against mine, her mouth wide open and only inches from my own. My tickling hands glided up the two quivering mounds and I slowly, teasingly, tickled around her nipples without touching them. She was panting and whimpering and started pushing her body upwards as if forcing her nipples into my hands. I teased her some more, tickling a circle around her nipples and moving my mouth even closer to hers.

"Do you want me to continue, Gloria?" I asked.

"Yes ... yes ... please ... please!"

My hands were back at her sides now and, spreading my fingers, I let them lightly, teasingly, wash up and over her breasts like waves rising over two hills. My middle fingers hit both her rigid nipples at the same time.

It was like touching two erotic triggers. A shriek broke from her lips, she twisted her body sharply and suddenly her mouth was on mine, her tongue pushing against my own, her arms tightly around my neck. I dug my fingers deep into her breasts, tickling and caressing at the same time. Awkwardly, I clambered over the couch on top of her, our mouths still locked, my right hand still tickling madly.

Somehow her robe and pajama top were pulled open and then off in the mad, passionate scramble. She was kissing me like she was starved for it, her arms tight around my neck. My left hand was now trapped beneath her but my right kept up an even more frenzied tickling of her breast and side. I finally freed my left arm and, lying full on top of her, began tickling her sides with both hands, my hips thrusting between hers. The more I tickled, the wilder she became, panting and gasping as she kissed me. She brought her legs up and wrapped them legs tightly around my waist.

"Tickle my feet ... tickle my feet," she whispered hoarsely between kisses. I slipped my right hand down her leg to her left foot and found it, the toes spread wide, waiting for my fingers. I tickled her harder than I had ever done, my hand digging into her soft, pudgy sole, my swollen erection pushing against her, almost as if I was fucking her through my shorts and her pajamas. We kissed and tickled wildly and then I could stand it no longer. I ran a hand up her leg.  She squirmed and giggled underneath me as I lightly caressed her inner thigh. Then my hand slipped under the elastic and I started to pull her pajama bottoms off.

"No!" she began to pull away. "No, we can't. We can't. It's wrong. It's wrong."  Her hand reached down and grabbed my wrist.

I stopped, my breath heaving against my chest. I let go of her pajamas and rolled to one side.  I looked at her for a long moment, but she was avoiding my gaze. Her face was flushed, her neck glistening with sweat, her full breasts rising and falling as she caught her breath.  I had never had a session like this with an older woman and I was amazed at how erotic it had been. I wasn't angry because she had stopped it. She wasn't a cock tease she hadn't set me up just to draw back - and I wasn't a rapist. We had both been carried away and we both knew it. I smiled quietly at her and then leaned over and gave her a gentle and, I hope, comforting kiss.

"You're right," I said. I got up and handed her pajama top to her. "You're right. But for a moment," I added, "I wanted to."

She struggled into the soft, white cotton and pulled on her robe, tightening the belt nervously. "Yes, but it's my fault. It's all my fault. We'll have to make sure it never happens again." She was sitting up tensely on the couch, her feet on the floor in front of her.  Kneeling on the floor in front of her, I waited while she calmed down.

I had some calming down to do myself. Again: here was a woman at least twenty years older yet she had made me explode with passion.  Even worse, she was my mother-in-law!  Had I really gone overboard on the tickling?  Was my foot-fetish pushing me out of balance?  It might be easy to sneer at these feelings today but they were real for me then.  My passion for tickling feet had made me cross a boundary with her okay, we had crossed it together - but I was afraid I was crossing all boundaries.

And, with her religious background, God knows what thoughts were racing through her mind. I watched her until she seemed more relaxed. I was conscious of her bare feet firmly down on the carpet in front of me. I paused for a moment, thinking. Should I push at this point? Then I reached out and lifted her left foot in my hand. With my index finger, I lightly tickled a pattern on her sole. A small, nervous smile flickered across her face. I gently kissed her toes.

"But surely we can still have this?" I asked.

She smiled back, relieved, and held out her other foot to be kissed. "I would miss it if we didn't," she replied.

I stayed with her for another hour to make sure things were all right between us, tickling and licking her bare feet as I had always done. When I got up to leave, she followed me to the door.

"My feet feel like they're walking on air," she said laughing. She gave me a shy but quite full kiss at the door as I left.

"I enjoyed it as much as you did," I replied. "But don't worry. It won't happen again." And, for both of us, it was probably better that it never did.