Aunt Sarah – Part 1

Sarah was a longtime family friend, and she’d known my parents for many years. She moved away when I was just a baby, and I’d only met her twice -- once when I was in first grade, and years later at a family party. Although she was not related to me, my parents always referred to her as Aunt Sarah. I still don’t know why. 

Sarah had just returned to the area. She’d been living out of state but decided to move back when she and her husband divorced. She phoned my parents when she got to town. 

What I didn’t find out until weeks later was that Sarah had recently been told she couldn’t have children. She always loved kids, and the news was devastating. 

In a conversation with my mother, Sarah expressed a need to be around children, and she asked if she could watch me sometime. Despite the fact that I was eleven years old and rather self-sufficient, my parents thought it was a wonderful idea. They wanted to help Sarah and didn’t like leaving me home alone for extended periods. I think they were afraid I might start a fire or something. 

The following day, my parents told me that Aunt Sarah would be visiting sometime during the weekend. To be honest, the news of her impending arrival didn’t excite me. Had I known what Sarah was going through, I would have displayed a more positive attitude.  

I came home from school that afternoon to an empty house. This didn’t bother me, and I went about my customary after-school ritual, devouring homemade cookies and drinking milk while watching cartoons. Shortly thereafter, my parents called.  

My father had a business trip that day, and he took my mother with him. There were problems, and he needed to stay longer than expected. My parents said they wouldn’t be home until very late that evening, and they’d arranged for Aunt Sarah to come and stay with me. Spending Friday night with a babysitter didn’t sound like fun, but I didn’t give them any static about it. Our phone conversation ended, and I sprawled out on the couch and continued watching TV.  

The doorbell rang shortly after five o’clock.  I opened the door and nearly fainted. Standing on the front porch was a tall, beautiful, thirtysomething blonde with deep blue eyes, a radiant smile, and the body of an aerobics instructor.  It was “Aunt” Sarah. She was wearing a tailored blouse, red skirt, and open high heels that showed off her flawless toes.  Her jacket was slung over her shoulder, and the scent of her perfume was alluring. 

Before I could say anything, Sarah bounded through the door, hugged me, and planted a wet sloppy kiss on my cheek. She was being quite affectionate, and I didn’t complain.   

I encouraged Sarah to make herself comfortable, and she sat in my father’s Lazy-Boy recliner. I plopped down on the floor and casually placed my hand on her left foot. She looked at me and smiled, but made no effort to pull away.   

Sarah explained that she’d come to the house directly from her new job. She didn’t stop to change her clothes, and I was glad she didn’t.  Her business attire was stunning, and she looked like she’d stepped out of a fashion magazine.  

Sarah told me about her new job and shared her feelings about her recent relocation.  She also seemed genuinely interested in my life, and she asked many questions about my friends and school.  Our conversation continued for more than an hour. 

It was time for supper, and Sarah took me to the local pizza parlor. The tantalizing aroma of fresh home-style pizza greeted us in the parking lot.  We shared some sodas and a large thin crust with extra cheese before returning to the house. 

Sarah was eager to entertain me.  She offered to play card games, watch TV, or do seemingly anything else I wanted. She was surprised when I asked her to sit and talk for a while. We resumed our original position – her sitting in my father’s chair, with me at her feet. Things got better when she kicked off her shoes, complaining that they were uncomfortable.  

It wasn’t long before Sarah became antsy.  She was determined to do something with me,
and she repeated her previous offer. I didn’t want to blow the entire evening on a longwinded board game, so I suggested an activity that might afford me some chances to play with her feet: drawing. 

Sarah was pleased with my suggestion. I escorted her to my room and produced some sketch pads, crayons and colored pencils. I also offered her a comfortable chair. My room was equipped with a Lazy-Boy recliner similar to my father’s.  She smiled, sat, and graciously accepted a box of Crayolas and some paper. 

Drawing came naturally to Sarah, and she created some attractive sketches while I struggled to maintain a casual demeanor. I desperately wanted to play with her beautiful feet, but the situation called for a subtle approach. 

I knelt beside the chair, smiled innocently, and asked Sarah if I could trace her hands. She thought it sounded like fun, and she was eager to comply. I traced them with multiple crayons in various regions of the page, creating a colorful collage.   

Sarah was impressed with my artwork, and she responded enthusiastically when I asked if I could trace her feet.  She rose from the chair and gracefully positioned her soles in the middle of my sketchpad.  

That dear woman couldn’t have been more ticklish. She giggled, squirmed, and squealed as my crayons repeatedly made their way around the outer edges of her feet.  The collage turned out well, and she hugged me before sitting down. 

Tickling an attractive older woman had always been a fantasy of mine. I was still attempting to process the experience when Sarah asked what I’d like to do next.  The choice was obvious.
I dove at her ankles and began raking my fingers across her soles. She thrashed wildly and screamed with laughter, but I somehow maintained my grip on her feet. I didn’t stop tickling her until I feared she’d pass out. 

I was almost expecting Sarah to be angry, but she wasn’t.  Instead, she dismissed my actions as those of a playful child, and she continued laughing for a few minutes. 

While Sarah recovered from my ticklish assault, I put the art supplies away and attempted to start another conversation.  I once again sat on the floor and placed my hands on her feet.  This time, however, I played with her toes. The gesture did not go unnoticed, and she confronted me. 

“I could be wrong, but I think someone really likes feet,” she giggled. 

My emotions ran a gamut from embarrassment to fear. I was mortified by the prospect that Sarah would tell my parents about my love of women’s feet. I alternated between blushing and begging her to keep quiet about this. She hugged me until I thought my ribs would break.  

“This will be our little secret,” she said. “I promise.” 

I repeatedly thanked Sarah and kissed her cheek. She suddenly seemed rather sad, and I asked if something was wrong.  She denied it and painted a bright smile on her face. Looking back on it, she was probably thinking about the child she couldn’t have.  

As she’d done earlier in the evening, Sarah asked what I’d like to do next. She emphasized that she wanted me to have fun, and any ideas I had would be fine with her. Frankly, this woman was so determined to entertain me that I could have suggested burning the house down and she would have complied. That weighed in my favor. 

Since my foot fetish secret was already out, I asked Sarah if I could massage her feet. She erupted with laughter upon hearing my suggestion. Fearful that she might turn me down, I swung into action.  

I removed my foot massage supplies from the closet and arranged them on a towel beside the chair. With lightning quickness, I took my best basin to the bathroom and filled it with warm water and foot soap. When I returned, Sarah smiled at me, undoubtedly stunned that an eleven year-old boy would own a collection of foot massage supplies. 

I knelt in front of Sarah, placed her feet in the basin, and massaged them with soothing techniques. She leaned back in the chair and sighed, content to let me have my fun. I bathed her feet for more than ten minutes, during which she became quite relaxed.  

“What’s next?” she asked in a giggly voice. 

I rinsed Sarah’s feet and raised the footrest on the chair. Her skirt was fairly short, and I sensed that she was uncomfortable, so I covered her with a floral-patterned sheet. That solved the problem. 

Attempting to make Sarah feel like I was waiting on her, I dashed to the kitchen and returned with a bowl of homemade cookies and a thoroughly chilled Coke. She laughed and smiled as I served them to her. 

With everything in place, I sat near Sarah’s feet and began the massage. She watched with interest as I applied a richly moisturizing foot cream to her delicate soles. The room quickly filled with the aroma of coconut and peppermint.  

Sarah remarked that her feet felt wonderful. She was genuinely surprised that someone my age had such advanced foot massage skills. While nibbling on cookies, she questioned me. 

“What’s the story mister?” she giggled. “You’ve obviously done this before.” 

I didn’t specifically tell Sarah about my cousin Kate, but I explained that I had a female friend who let me play with her feet. I added that I’d given this anonymous friend many hours of foot massages.  

The urge to tickle Sarah resurfaced while she was questioning me about my foot fetish.  She’d been very kind to me, and I didn’t want to torture her. With my lightest touch and a soft voice, I initiated one of my favorite tickling games. 

"Your toes are so cute,” I said. ”This little piggie went to market, this little piggie satyed home, this little piggie had roast beef, and this little piggie had none… and this little piggie went tickle tickle tickle all the way home!“ 

Sarah responded to my efforts by giggling and squirming. She briefly protested, explaining that she was too old for piggies. I assured her that she wasn’t, and I tickled harder. 

Sarah pleaded with me to stop. I couldn’t resist the urge to negotiate, and I gave her two options. I told her that I’d tickle her for two hours, or she could let me massage her feet.  For the record, I never would have tickled this poor woman for two hours, but she didn’t know that.  Through gales of hysterical laughter, she begged me to rub her feet.   

As Sarah struggled to catch her breath, I resumed the foot massage with my finest techniques. It only took her a few minutes to relax, and I continued for more than an hour. 

Sarah never ordered me to stop the foot massage, but it eventually seemed appropriate to do so.  She thanked me for pampering her as I organized and put away my supplies. 

We returned to the living room and sat on the couch. Sarah couldn’t resist the urge to further interrogate me about my foot fetish.  We talked quite openly for more than an hour, and it was fun. Then she took me to the arcade, followed by a stop at a fast food place. 

My parents were waiting for us when we returned to the house. They thanked Sarah for watching me, and she assured them I’d been well behaved. 

I walked Sarah to her car, hugged her, and pleaded with her to come back soon. She returned the following week, and before she moved away, my parents invited her to watch me several times. 

One final note… things worked out well for Sarah. The last time I heard from her, she’d found a new husband and was happily married.  By the way, she has a son.  Apparently doctors don’t know everything.