Aunt Sarah – Part 2: SPRING BREAK

I was thirteen years old at the time of this encounter with my beloved “Aunt” Sarah.  She was nearly twenty years older than me, and there were no romantic possibilities for us.  However, I had wonderful experiences tickling this dear woman.  She was very tolerant of my efforts, largely because she adored children and found my actions amusing.

About three weeks before spring break, everyone at my school started getting sick. There was a wicked upper respiratory bug going around, producing symptoms comparable to those of a bad flu combined with a sinus infection. Whatever this was, it spread like wildfire, affecting students and teachers alike.

At the height of the epidemic, several teachers had to be replaced, and more than one hundred students were sidelined. Even the school principal was absent for several days.

This awful plague caught up with me twelve days before spring break. I thought I had Ebola, as my body was wracked by a myriad of symptoms.

After being sick for a full week, my symptoms subsided. I felt and sounded fine, aside from fatigue. Attempts to resume my favorite activities left me completely spent. Watching TV and hanging around the house were all I had stamina for.

My parents took me to our family physician, an excellent doctor by the way. She said the worst was over. The fatigue was just a leftover of this mystery bug, and all of her patients were complaining of the same thing. She instructed me to take it easy for a few days and get extra rest.

Reacting to the doctor’s advice, my parents grounded me for the first four days of spring break. Instead of playing football, roller-skating, and hitting the arcade, I was stuck at the house watching soap operas and game shows. I was not happy.

Looking back on it, I don’t blame my folks. The illness left me completely drained. If I had gotten to the park where the few healthy children were playing, I most likely would have collapsed. Nonetheless, I bitched, complained, and blamed my mother and father for ruining spring break -- and my life. I’m pretty sure I blamed them for world hunger and taxes as well.

During the third day of spring break, my mother received a call that one of her high school classmates, Sally, was seriously ill. She’d been admitted to a hospital more than four hours away, and my mother wanted to see her. There was, however, a small problem…me.

My parents didn’t feel comfortable leaving me alone. After some discussion, my mother picked up the phone. She was arranging a babysitter, which pissed me off. I argued that I was a mature young man, capable of being home alone. She disagreed, and continued making the necessary arrangements.

While my parents prepared to depart, I retreated to my room in a huff.  The doorbell rang an hour later. I was still angry about having a babysitter, and I stormed into the living room, prepared to blast my parents. My mood changed when I saw Sarah standing in the doorway. Since our previous encounters, she’d only become more beautiful.

Judging by her incredible figure, Sarah must have been living on the Stairmaster. She was wearing tight jeans, a white shirt that accentuated her bust-line, and a pair of open heels that showed off her heavenly feet. I thought perhaps she’d dressed this way as a form of get-well present to me.

I was so captivated by Sarah that I forgot my parents were standing there. I crossed the room and threw my arms around her.

“Hi sweetie,” she said while hugging me.

“You’ve been grumpy all week, and Sarah is the only person we didn’t think you’d kill,” my mother said sarcastically.

My mother was right. Throughout my illness, I’d been exceedingly crabby. I absolutely adored Sarah, and her presence completely changed my mood. Instead of huffing and puffing, I was looking forward to spending the day with my “babysitter.”

Before leaving the house, my parents reminded Sarah that I shouldn’t do anything strenuous. They feared I’d sneak off to the park and overtax myself by playing football or basketball. Sarah promised to keep me entertained at the house.

“You’ve got to take it easy,” she said. “I know you’d rather be outside tearing up the neighborhood, but you’ve got to slow down for a while. I’m sure we can have fun together right here.”

“You’re probably right,” I replied, pretending to be disappointed.

I’m sure Sarah planned to entertain me with Monopoly, checkers, and card games. She didn’t seem to realize I was already focused on her pretty feet and making plans for our day together.

When my parents left, I was eager to begin. My plans were delayed, however, when Sarah shifted into caretaker mode. She dashed to the kitchen, prepared a delicious lunch, and summoned me to the dining room table. Throughout the meal, she remained by my side, and we talked.

At one point, Sarah asked what I’d like to do after lunch. I felt no reason to be shy because she knew about my love of women’s feet. Instead of answering her question verbally, I reached beneath the table, grabbed her right ankle, and scooped her foot into my lap.

“I’d almost forgotten,” she giggled. “You’re my little foot buddy, aren’t you?”

I smiled, nodded, and continued eating lunch. To my surprise and delight, Sarah made no efforts to withdraw her foot. She took my actions in stride and cheerfully promised to entertain me for the rest of the day.

Once I’d finished eating, Sarah was eager to find an enjoyable activity for me. Before she could stand up, I firmly grasped her ankle and gently tickled her arch through the open side of her shoe. I persisted for more than ten minutes, during which she giggled and squirmed.

When I finally released her foot, Sarah continued giggling and leaped from the table, presumably trying to prevent another tickling incident. She wasn’t angry, but she pleasantly insisted that we find something else to do. I escorted her to the entertainment room, which featured tall shelves filled with my toys, art supplies, and sports equipment.

My thoughts were still focused on Sarah’s feet, and I didn’t want to choose a game that would take all afternoon. After visually scanning the room, I spotted a card game on the top shelf. I’d played it before, and each round never lasted more than a few minutes.

The top shelf was extremely high -- more than eight feet. I grabbed a smalll stepladder from the corner and prepared to retrieve the game. Sarah was concerned that I might fall, and she instructed me to stand back while she made the climb. Her concerns were unfounded, but I complied.

Sarah quickly discovered that climbing a stepladder while wearing high heels was impractical. She gracefully removed her shoes and tossed them to the floor. My foot fetish immediately took over.

While Sarah struggled to reach the top shelf, I quietly snatched her shoes and fled the room. Before she realized I was gone, I’d made it to my bedroom and removed my foot massage supplies from the closet. I also hid her shoes behind my bookcase.

By the time Sarah caught up to me, my foot massage supplies were tastefully arranged beside my Lazy Boy recliner. I was hoping she would see them and volunteer to let me rub her feet for a few hours. That didn’t happen.

Something about my facial expression and body language must have suggested I was planning another tickling attack. Sarah looked at me, looked down at her bare feet, and took off running. This was too good to resist, and I chased my giggling babysitter to the living room where I successfully tackled her on the couch and secured her ankles.

"Sarah, you’ve got such pretty feet,” I said in a teasing tone. “Tickle tickle tickle!”

During our previous encounters, I’d memorized ALL of Sarah’s ticklish spots. With the skill and coordination of a seasoned tickler, I ruthlessly tortured that beautiful woman’s feet until she was screaming, pleading for mercy, and pounding the couch with her fists.

My brutal techniques took Sarah well beyond her limits. Once I knew she’d been broken, I negotiated with her.

“I really love your feet,” I said affectionately. “If I stop tickling, will you let me give you a foot massage?”

Sarah was desperate to stop the tickling, and she nodded emphatically.

“For as long as I want?” I asked, attempting to improve the terms of our agreement.

Sarah’s face was positively crimson, and her breath was coming in desperate gasps. She was unable to speak but responded by waiving her hands and nodding.

“There’s one more thing,” I said with a coy smile. “You have to let me play a game of piggies on your toes before you go home.”

Once more, Sarah nodded her agreement to my terms.

“Do you promise?” I asked while intensifying the tickling.

Sarah used the remaining air in her lungs to produce a final chorus of hysterical laughter and screams. She also accepted my terms, and I stopped tickling her.

Poor Sarah was a mess. Her face was red, she couldn’t stop giggling, and her breath was coming in heaves. She eventually recovered and slapped me on the shoulder.

“If you weren’t such a cute kid, I’d have to kill you,” she giggled.

“Just remember our deal,” I replied while making tickling gestures in the air.

The sight of my wiggling fingers made Sarah squeal. She assumed a fetal position and prepared to fend off another ticklish attack. It took me a few minutes to convince her she was safe.

“The tickle-torture is over,” I said in a soothing voice. “It’s time for that foot massage.”

It took some coaxing, but Sarah followed me to the bedroom and sat in the Lazy Boy recliner. I raised the footrest and further elevated her feet with large fluffy pillows.

Before starting the foot massage, I went to the kitchen and put together a tray of snacks and some iced beverages for Sarah. I figured she could use them, especially since I’d tickled her to screams for several minutes. She thanked me for the gesture.

While Sarah helped herself to root beer and chips, I placed a comfortable stool in front of the footrest and sat down. Her exquisite feet were just inches from my face, and I spent a few minutes lubricating them with a generous quantity of my trademark peppermint lotion.

Sarah watched intently as I massaged her arches and toes with deep, soothing techniques. She also complimented my massage skills.

“I know we’ve done this before, but I’m still amazed that someone so young can do this so well,” she giggled. “This feels wonderful.”

I thanked Sarah for the compliment and continued massaging her feet for more than an hour. She seemed content to let me rub her feet indefinitely, but I stopped sometime after four o’clock. I didn’t know when my parents would return, and I wanted to leave time for additional foot-related activities.

When I lowered the footrest, Sarah asked for her shoes. I playfully refused and gave her a pair of cute pink bedroom slippers that showed off her pretty ankles, arches and toes. Then I made a dash for the living room.

Sarah thoroughly enjoyed the foot massage, and she expressed no discomfort with anything I’d done. Nonetheless, I decided to engage her in some activities not related to my foot fetish. I was mindful of the age difference between us, and I didn’t want to create an awkward situation that could ruin our day together.

My decision paid off.  Sarah loved kids, and having the opportunity to entertain me meant a great deal to her.  I was having fun as well.

I grilled Sarah about her favorite foods as we shared a game of Trivial Pursuit. This wasn’t idle chatter. I was planning to surprise her. She confessed a love for Italian food and provided a list of her favorite dishes. Having successfully acquired the necessary information, I made some excuse to leave the table, sneaked to the phone, and placed an order with an Italian restaurant my family had ordered from on previous occasions.

The food arrived forty-five minutes later, and I paid for it with cash my parents left for us. Sarah smelled the Italian food and thought it was a sweet gesture on my part. She did, however, look confused when I ushered her to my bedroom and asked her to sit in the recliner.

Once Sarah was comfortably seated, I covered her with a large bath towel so she wouldn’t get food on her blouse. Pretending to be a waiter, I served her a plate of food and a glass of cold root beer. She found my actions cute and sweet.

For my plans to work, I needed to finish eating long before Sarah. I sat beside her and gulped my food – it’s nothing short of a miracle that I didn’t make myself sick. Fortunately, at that young age, I had the constitution of a goat.

While Sarah dined, I raced to the bathroom and filled a large plastic basin with warm water and massive quantities of richly lathering foot soap. This was an organic, floral-scented soap from a company in Maine, and it was the most heavily moisturizing soap I owned.

When I returned to the bedroom, Sarah spotted the basin and immediately realized what I had in mind. She covered her face with her hands and chuckled.  The cute-kid factor was still working for me, and she offered no resistance as I removed her slippers and placed her feet in the water.

Using a technique I’d perfected with my cousin Kate, I wrapped my hands with thick cotton washcloths, worked them into a profuse lather, and gave Sarah a “washcloth foot massage” as I called it. She loved it.

“This is amazing!” she laughed. “Where did you learn how to do that?”

I boasted that I’d invented the technique, and Sarah was intrigued.  She peppered me with questions about my foot fetish as I continued bathing her feet.

My techniques generated a rich, luxurious lather. Sarah said it felt like silk. She happily wiggled her beautiful toes, which reminded me of our agreement.

“As I recall, you still have to let me play a game of piggies on your toes,” I said with an evil grin.

Sarah cringed in response to my comments.

“Nooooo… don’t tickle… this is so relaxing… please don’t tickle,” she said in a whiny tone. “I promise we can do that later. Right now I just want to enjoy this.”

I respected Sarah’s wishes and continued the massage. As the evening progressed, she became quite chatty and opened up to me about her failed marriage and her desire to have children. She also thanked me for pampering her, and remarked that I was far more sweet and affectionate than her ex-husband.

Sarah was obviously enjoying herself, and I continued for another thirty minutes. Profuse quantities of lather were threatening to overtake my bedroom, so I rinsed her feet. She thought we were finished, but I had additional plans.

While Sarah watched with a curious expression, I applied a thick layer of coconut-peppermint foot lotion to her soles and placed socks on her feet. Then I rapidly massaged her socked feet to warm them and disperse the lotion. She threw her head back and sighed.

“That feels sooooo good,” she giggled. “What are the socks for?”

“They’ll moisturize your feet,” I explained. “Leave them on for a while.”

Sarah acknowledged my instructions, hugged me, and followed me to the living room. I really wanted her to feel at home, so I gave her a tour of the house. My parents had already shown it to her, but I went a step further by explaining the history of each room.

As we walked, I held Sarah’s hand and shared colorful stories about the many birthdays, holidays, and other events that occurred at the house over the years. She appreciated my efforts to make her feel welcome and shared a few stories of her own. She told me about her childhood and her family as I listened with interest.

The phone rang while we were standing in the guest bedroom. It was my parents. They said they’d be home in two hours. I knew my time with Sarah was limited. When she hung up the phone, I prepared to initiate a final round of foot fun.

“Well, my folks will be home soon,” I said. “I guess we’d better get started.”

Sarah stared at me with a confused expression. She was unafraid but had no idea what I was talking about.

“Wait here,” I said with a growing smile. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

My demeanor was rather mischievous, and I don’t think Sarah trusted me. However, she decided to comply. As I was leaving the room, she sat on the edge of the bed and giggled quietly.

There were several large paper bags in the kitchen. I grabbed one and filled it with two enormous beach towels, a bottle of massage oil, and some peppermint foot powder. I also snatched a cold bottle of water from the fridge in case Sarah got thirsty. With my heart beating like a sledgehammer, I bounded up the stairs.

When I returned to the guest bedroom, Sarah was standing in the corner. She asked what I was doing. I smiled but said nothing. She repeated the question as I covered one side of the bed with a towel.

“Sweetie, what are you doing?” she giggled.

“Relax,” I said. “Come over here.”

I must have been smiling like the cat that swallowed the canary, and Sarah paused before approaching the bed.

“Lie down,” I said while fluffing some pillows.

Sarah’s instincts were telling her to be wary, and she was hesitant to lie down. Taking full advantage of my cute-kid factor, I hugged her, kissed her cheek, and repeated my request in a soft, gentle voice. That’s all it took.

With Sarah in position, I placed comfortable pillows under her head. I also offered her a blanket, but she declined.

“What ARE we doing sweetie?” she asked in a giggly voice. “You still haven’t told me.”

Before answering Sarah’s question, I positioned myself on the bed, covered my lap with a pillow, and gently grabbed her feet.

“Well, you promised to let me play piggies on your toes,” I said teasingly. “My parents will be home soon, so we need to do this right now.”

Sarah laughed, rolled her eyes, and looked up at the ceiling.

“God help me,” she giggled. “He’s going to tickle me again.”

“Yes, but I’ll be very gentle,” I explained. “This may actually be fun for you.”

Sarah was skeptical. She had genuine doubts that allowing me to tickle her feet would be fun, at least not for her. Regardless, she kept her feet in my lap and allowed me to proceed.

I slowly peeled off Sarah’s left sock, revealing her gorgeous, thoroughly moisturized foot. She began to giggle in anticipation of the tickling. It was really cute.

Fearing Sarah might hyperventilate, I encouraged her to take a few deep breaths. I then grasped the smallest toe of her left foot between my fingers.

"This little piggy went to market,” I said in a gentle voice.

Sarah squirmed and tittered as I lightly stroked the underside of her toe. Unlike the frantic laughter I forced from her during our tickle-torture session on the couch, she was emitting delightful giggles completely devoid of anxiety.

“How does that feel?” I asked.

"He-he-he-he-he… you don’t have to ask… ha-ha-ha-ha-ha… you know it tickles… hee hee hee,” she replied.

“You’re right,” I confessed. “I just wanted to hear you say that.”

Sarah offered no rebuttal to my comments. Frankly, she couldn’t. My techniques were forcing her to giggle and an involuntary smile was plastered across her face.

Sarah’s reactions were delightful, and I was eager to continue. Rather than tickling another toe, I decided to tickle the space between her smallest toe and it’s neighbor. The moment my finger made contact with that tender flesh, she squealed loudly.

“Hee hee hee… hey… hehehehehe… you can’t do that… HAHAHAHAHA,” she complained. “AAAAAAAAAAHHH… that’s not a piggie… hee hee hee... you’re only… hahahahahahaha… allowed to tickle piggies… hee hee hee.”

I didn't acknowledge Sarah’s objection. Instead, I flashed her a pleasant smile and continued telling the story.

"Okay sweetie," I said. “This little piggy went home.”

This toe was more ticklish than the previous one, and Sarah began to writhe all over the bed.

"Pleeeeehee-hee-heeeeze… hee hee hee… you’re tickling me-hee-hee… hahahahaha,” she giggled. “HAHAHAHAHA… it tickles too-hoo-hoo much… hee hee hee.”

“Alright, I don’t want you to feel tortured,” I said affectionately.

Just as before, I decided to tickle the space between Sarah’s toes before moving on. Her reaction was quite pronounced. She threw her head back, shrieked, and involuntary laughter poured from her mouth.

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA… you can’t… hehehehehe… that’s not a piggie… hahahahaha… wait… HAHAHA… you can’t tickle there… hee hee hee,” she managed through her laughter.

I didn’t want Sarah to become tense, so I eased up.

"Okay sweetie,” I replied warmly. “Try to relax. Now, this little piggy had roast beef, this little piggy had none, and this little piggy went… do you remember where this little piggy went?”

Sarah smiled and giggled, but didn’t answer me.

“Well, this little piggy went wee wee wee ALL the way home,” I gleefully said while lightly scribbling my fingers up and down the sole of her foot.

Although I was trying to be gentle, that precious woman laughed hysterically and pleaded for mercy.

“HAHAHAHAHA… PLEEEEEHEEE-HEE-HEEEEZE… HAAAAA… NOOOOO… OH MY GOD… AAAAAAAHH… IT TEEHEEKLES… HAHAHAHAHAHA!” she screamed. “HEHEHEHEHE… IT TEEHEEKLES … ST-HA-HA-HA-P… PLEEHEEZE… PLEEHEEZE… PLEEHEEZE… HAHAHAHAHA!”

Forcing ticklish laughter from Sarah was truly sublime, but I sensed she needed a break. When I stopped, she struggled to catch her breath for more than two minutes. Her chest was heaving and she couldn’t wipe the involuntary smile from her face. I was concerned she might be angry - but she wasn’t.

“You little monster,” she giggled. “I’m horribly ticklish!”

“I noticed,” I replied sarcastically.

Sarah struck me with a pillow and giggled. She truly wasn’t mad, but I sensed she needed time to recover. When she was feeling better, I took hold of her right ankle.  She grimaced as realized what I was about to do.

"Are you ready?" I said in a tender voice. "This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home, this little piggy had roast beef, this little piggy had none, and this little piggy went wee-wee-wee, all the way home.”

Delivering the story with a gentle demeanor seemed to help. Sarah’s toes were very ticklish, but she didn’t appear tense. She remained relatively still, aside from some involuntary squirming, and allowed the giggles to come freely.

“How are you doing so far?” I asked while softly stroking Sarah’s toes.

"He-he-he-he-he… I'm okay… ha-ha-ha-ha... but it tickles… hee hee hee!" she said in a giggly voice.

“You’re doing great,” I said reassuringly. “I promise I’ll be gentle. Just relax and let yourself be ticklish.”

"Hehehehehe… um… okay… hee hee hee,” she replied, her voice brimming with giggles. "Ha-ha-ha… I can handle it for now… hoo hoo hoo… just don’t get carried away… hehehe!"

Sarah was being extraordinarily cooperative, and I didn’t want to upset the balance by tickling her forcefully. Using light feathery strokes, I drew circular patterns and figure eights on the balls of her foot. This caused her to giggle and squirm, but she tolerated it well.

When I reached Sarah’s arch, her body language and facial expressions changed. She arched her back, wiggled her toes, and giggled uncontrollably.

"HAHAHAHAHA… oh my… he-he-he-he-he-he... AAAAAHH… hohoho-hahaha... that part really ti-hi-hi-hi-hi-hickles… hahahahaha!" she squealed.

“I’m trying to be gentle, and we’re almost done,” I said warmly. “Just let me make you laugh.”

Sarah had no choice but to comply. She writhed on the bed while laughing helplessly. I enjoyed her reactions for several seconds before moving on.

The remainder of Sarah’s beautiful sole still needed to be explored. With my gentlest touch, I scribbled my fingers from her heel to her toes and back again, making sure to locate her most ticklish spots. I repeated this process several times, and her reaction was completely off the scale.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA… PLEE-HEE-HEE-EASE… DOOOOHOHOHOHOHON'T TEEEEHEEKLE… ST-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAP!” she screamed while thrashing on the bed. “HAHAHAHAHAHAHA… I CAN’T TAKE IT… HAHAHAHAHAHAHA… PLEE-HEE-HEE-EASE … IT TEEEEHEEKLES… HAHAHA… ST-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAP!”

Up until this point, I’d done a good job of tickling Sarah gently, and she’d been wonderful about indulging me. I didn’t want to spoil the mood by tickle-torturing her. I modified my techniques until her reactions were less intense.

"He-he-he-he-he… it tickles… ha-ha-ha-ha!" she giggled while wriggling on the bed. “Hahahahaha… when… can we-hee-hee st-ha-ha-hap… hee hee hee?”

“Just a few minutes longer,” I replied.

Sarah’s eyes widened when she heard I planned to tickle her foot for another three minutes. She laughed and squirmed as I made circular patterns across the sole of her foot, including several passes up and down her arch.

"Ooooooh gaaaawwwd… hahaha… plee-hee-hee-ease… be careful… hee hee hee hee hee!” Sarah pleaded. “Hahahahaha… that really tickles… hahaha.”

“We’re almost done,” I replied. “Tickle tickle tickle!”

My exploration of Sarah’s arch continued for two minutes. I kept things gentle, but that part of her foot was excruciatingly ticklish. She was laughing, her face was red, and her eyes were teary. When the game finally ended, she was a disheveled mess.

“Oh, you little monster,” she exclaimed in a breathless giggly voice.

Sarah may have wanted to call me other things as well, but she was simply out of breath. Actually, she wasn’t angry - just exhausted. While she recuperated, I reached for my supplies.

The bottled water was appreciated, and Sarah took a generous sip. While she quenched her thirst, I began massaging her feet.

“Another foot massage?” she asked with a smile.

“You look like you’ve just been tortured,” I chuckled. “Let me make this up to you.”

Sarah thought it over, giggled, and gave me her blessing to proceed. While trying not to appear giddy, I applied a liberal amount of floral scented massage oil to her feet.

Thirty minutes passed as I alternated between rubbing Sarah’s toes and massaging her arches. My nurturing techniques seemed to make up for the tickling I’d inflicted on her earlier. She became deeply relaxed and rather talkative.

One of the things I loved most about Sarah is that she never spoke to me like a kid. That meant a great deal to me. I was mature for my age and capable of conversing on an adult level. Sarah recognized that, and she felt comfortable discussing almost anything with me.

I was having a wonderful time talking with Sarah, but our conversation was interrupted by another phone call. It was my parents again. They were running late and wouldn’t be home for another three hours. This meant I had additional time to spend with Sarah, and I was delighted.

When Sarah finished talking to my folks, I resumed the foot massage. She took a moment to compliment my efforts.

“Sweetie, nobody has ever pampered me like this,” she chuckled. “My feet feel wonderful. You’re good enough to do this professionally.”

For an aspiring footman like myself, there was no higher praise. I blushed and thanked Sarah for the compliment. I then proceeded to give my beloved babysitter a marathon foot massage.

About ninety minutes before my parents were scheduled to return, I stopped the massage. Sarah hadn’t asked me to, but I thought it was a good idea. I wanted extra time to put away my foot massage paraphernalia and compose myself.

Before Sarah stepped off the bed, I powdered her feet to absorb any residual massage oil. She enjoyed that, and I spent a few minutes massaging her feet with foot powder. When I was finished, she put her socks on, and we walked downstairs.

Sarah and I sat at the kitchen table, continued our conversation, and shared a cringle pastry. We had a really nice talk, and I found myself wishing we had a few more hours to spend together. Sarah sensed my feelings and promised to come back soon.

My parents were scheduled to get home in less than an hour and Sarah asked for her shoes.

“You can have them back… if you let me put them on for you,” I said.

Sarah covered her face with her hands and laughed.

“Alright, alright” she laughed. “I’ll play along... just get my shoes.”

I asked Sarah to pull her chair away from the table, and I sat on the floor. She placed her feet in my lap and I massaged them for a few minutes.

“Which shoe would you like first?” I asked.

“Either,” she chuckled. “I’m not fussy.”

I held up Sara’s left shoe, and she gracefully slipped her foot into it. She knew I was enjoying myself and asked me to secure the straps. I complied and spent a few minutes caressing her shapely foot.

“You’re such a sweet kid,” she laughed.

Sensing that time was a factor, I quickly repeated the process on Sarah’s other foot. My timing proved perfect. I had just secured the final strap on her shoe when my parents walked through the front door. Sarah and I joined them in the living room.

“Did he behave for you?” my mother asked.

Sarah looked at me before responding. My heart was in my throat because I didn’t know what she’d say.

“He was an angel… for the most part,” she said while smirking and winking at me.