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.