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This happened when Kate and I were seniors in high school. Winter that year was unusually harsh, with record snowfalls, ice storms, and relentless Arctic cold fronts that hammered the region throughout the month of January. State highways were treacherous at best, and authorities urged motorists to travel only if necessary. The brutal winter conditions kept Kate and me apart for four long weeks, during which I experienced tremendous feelings of isolation. My closest friends were quarantined at their homes, recovering from a horrendous upper respiratory bug that was sweeping the community. School was repeatedly cancelled, and I had almost no opportunity to interact with the few girls I knew there. Teenage hormones, combined with the intense isolation, pushed my foot fetish to new heights. I honestly thought I’d lose my mind if I couldn’t have access to pretty female feet, and soon. Distraction was the only strategy at my disposal. Sledding and other outdoor activities were out of the question, as temperatures dipped well below zero with wind-chill factors that would make Antarctica seem balmy by comparison. Television became my escape, and I spent countless hours watching soap operas, sitcoms, and sports programs. Boredom and winter depression were threatening to claim my sanity when I received a phone call from my grandmother. She’d been out of town with members of a local church group, but they somehow traversed the treacherous roads to get home. Grandmother needed help with snow shoveling, and she offered homemade cookies and piecrust in exchange for my services. The prospect of delicious baked goods and a chance to do something useful were more than I could resist. I threw on my warmest coat and prepared to face the storm. Road conditions were terrible and grandmother’s house was only a few blocks away, so I decided to walk. My trek took less than ten minutes, but the bone-chilling cold made it seem like much longer. Fierce winds and drifting snow hindered my efforts to clear the sidewalks, but I managed to establish a narrow path to grandmother’s front door. My handiwork was already being undone as I threw down my shovel and ducked inside the house to get warm. The unmistakable aroma of homemade pastries greeted me as I stood in the front hallway removing my coat. I made my way to the kitchen, where I found grandmother standing by the stove. She smiled and offered me cookies and piecrust, fresh from the oven. That dear woman couldn’t refill my plate fast enough. I devoured more than a dozen cookies and a small tray of piecrust before I’d finally had my fill, and it’s nothing short of a minor miracle that I didn’t make myself sick. Grandmother and I remained at the
kitchen table and talked for a while. When I told her how isolated I’d
felt throughout the weather crisis, she invited me to stay with her for
a few days. For the remainder of the morning, grandmother and I talked, played card games, and watched television. This was far more enjoyable than sitting around my parents’ house, and I was glad she’d invited me. We hadn’t planned on venturing out, but it became necessary when grandmother realized she only had a few blood pressure pills left. Her heart condition was quite serious, and she couldn’t go without her medication. The pharmacy was almost two miles away and I wasn’t sure we could make it, but I knew we’d have to try. Driving conditions were arguably the worst I’ve ever seen. Drifting snow and sheets of ice made the roads exceedingly slick, and visibility was terrible. It took more than twenty minutes to reach the pharmacy. Grandmother wasn’t terribly steady on her feet, and I almost had to carry her to the building. There was only one other customer at the pharmacy, and the staff attended to us almost immediately. They quickly prepared the prescription and sent us on our way. I was eager to get home before the weather grew any worse, but grandmother decided we should run a few errands while we were on that side of town. She asked me to take her shopping, and I reluctantly agreed. The grocery store wasn’t faring any better than the pharmacy. One of the clerks told us she’d only seen a handful of customers all day, and she offered to help us with our shopping, largely because she had nothing better to do. We welcomed her assistance. Grandmother’s shopping trip turned into a bit of a marathon, and her cart was overflowing by the time we checked out. Her groceries literally filled the back seat of the car, and I’m sure we had enough provisions to last three weeks. The public library was our next stop. Grandmother had recently purchased a VCR, and she wanted to check out a few movies. She also had a murder mystery reserved, and she’d been eager to pick it up. Two librarians greeted us as we entered the building. City policy prevented them from closing early, despite the harsh conditions. They’d only seen a few patrons that day, and they were bored out of their minds. The reference librarian attended to grandmother while her counterpart offered to assist me. I hadn’t planned on visiting the library, and I couldn’t think of anything that sparked my interest until we passed the self-help section. There were no less than two shelves of books and videos related to yoga, fitness… and massage. With the help of the librarian, I found an instructional video on foot massage and a series or related books. My mind was racing as I envisioned a myriad of possibilities for my next visit with Kate. Grandmother was nowhere to be seen, and I decided to check out before she returned. No one in the family knew about my foot fetish or my activities with Kate, and I wanted to keep it that way. The librarian placed my items in a paper bag, and I scurried to the car and stashed them beneath the seat. Grandmother was waiting for me when I returned. She’d picked up her book and selected a handful of old movies, including two Cary Grant films. City crews were hard at work, attempting to clear the streets. A large snowplow was passing the library as we exited the parking lot, and I was able to follow him most of the way back to the house. Unpacking the car was a challenge. I escorted grandmother inside so she wouldn’t slip and fall. Then I made a series of trips from the car to the house, delivering our groceries to the kitchen. I also tucked my library items inside my coat and carefully stashed them in the guest bedroom. Grandmother wasted no time putting away the groceries, and she began preparing an elaborate dinner. Her meals were always superb, and I couldn’t wait to see what she’d create for us. Kate phoned the house as I was hanging up my coat, and we talked for the better part of an hour. It was good to hear her voice, and she promised to come and visit as soon as the weather improved. I could’ve talked with Kate all day, but neither of us wanted to run up the phone bill. We mutually agreed to end our conversation, by which time grandmother was waiting for me in the kitchen. She’d prepared one of my favorites – cheeseburger pie – and an assortment of side dishes. The meal was fantastic, easily one of the best I’ve ever had. I cleaned my plate in record time, and grandmother offered to serve desert in the living room. She thought we’d be more comfortable there, and she wanted to try out her new VCR. We shared several servings of piecrust and cinnamon rolls while watching "Charade" – a classic film featuring Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn. The movie was good, but it was also long. I was eager to watch the foot massage video from the library, and I found myself counting the seconds until the closing credits rolled. It was late when the movie finally ended, and grandmother was struggling to stay awake. She wished me a goodnight and made her way to bed. After I was certain she’d fallen asleep, I crept to the guest bedroom and retrieved the foot massage video. My heart was pounding as I loaded the tape into the VCR. I’d never watched a video like this before, and I huddled close to the television like an anxious adolescent preparing to watch a porn film. The video began with a lengthy montage of pretty female feet being lavishly massaged at a spa. This tantalizing scene was followed by a series of step-by-step instructions, skillfully performed and narrated by a trio of massage therapists. Each technique was clearly demonstrated, and the lessons were easy to follow. It did occur to me, however, that merely watching the techniques being performed on screen wasn’t good enough. Since I didn’t have a partner to work with, I held my hands in front of me and pretended to massage an imaginary pair of feet. This enabled me to practice the various hand positions and movements so I wouldn’t be clumsy or awkward the first time I performed these methods on Kate. My impromptu practice session went well, and I decided to call it a night. There was an outside chance that I‘d have to go to school in the morning, and I wanted to get some sleep. I put away the massage video and made my way to bed. Morning came quickly, and I awoke to the sound of violent wind gusts blowing snow against the side of grandmother’s house. I peered out the bedroom window to find whiteout conditions. There was literally so much snow in the air that I could barely see across the street. I immediately tuned the radio to a popular local station. Their news anchor was reciting an extensive list of school closings, and I wasn’t entirely shocked when he announced that my school wouldn’t be holding classes. The fact that school was cancelled didn’t break my heart, but I was concerned about the weather. Kate wouldn’t be able to come for a visit until the winter storms subsided, and I was beginning to doubt that would ever happen. My hopes for a reunion with my cousin were quickly restored, however, when the radio station delivered the regional forecast. Their chief meteorologist was predicting that conditions would improve by the end of the week – possibly Friday or Saturday. There was no guarantee the forecast
would prove accurate, but I didn’t care. This was the first time in
three weeks that anyone had reason to believe there would be a break in
the weather, and that was good enough for me. I chose to proceed under
the assumption that I threw on some clothes and gleefully bolted from the bedroom to start making plans for the weekend. There were many things I wanted to do, but my stomach was growling, and I decided that breakfast should be my first priority. Grandmother was waiting for me in the kitchen, and she’d already heard the cancellation announcements. She appeared to be gearing up for one of her famous all-day baking marathons, and she invited me to assist her. This wasn’t how I’d planned to spend my day, but it turned out to be fun, and it also gave me a big head start on my preparations for the weekend. Grandmother spent much of the morning teaching me how to make some of Kate’s favorite homemade foods, including apple pie, bread, cookies, cinnamon pie crust, and an enormous container of spaghetti. By mid-day, the kitchen looked like the bakery aisle of the local grocery store, as every square-inch of countertop was covered with fresh, homemade baked goods. There appeared to be enough food to feed a small army for a month, far more than Kate and I could polish off in a single weekend. Our baking session generated a ton of dirty dishes, and it took more than an hour to tidy up the kitchen and put everything away. Once we’d finished, grandmother retired to the living room to rest and enjoy her traditional lineup of soap operas, which typically ran from sometime before lunch until three o’clock. This seemed like a perfect opportunity to make additional preparations for Kate’s visit, and I quietly retired to the guest bedroom for a while to study the books from the library. Their pages were laden with full-color photos and in-depth instructions, detailing a plethora of foot massage techniques, most of which I’d never seen before. I quickly absorbed this information while practicing each technique on an imaginary pair of feet. My focus and attention to detail was like that of a surgeon reviewing a medical text, and it occurred to me that I could graduate as the valedictorian if I applied that same intensity to my schoolwork – but I never did, of course. The new massage techniques came easily to me, and I was confident that I’d be able to effectively perform them when Kate arrived. It was almost one o’clock, and I decided to put away the library books and attend to my next task. Privacy was sometimes an issue for Kate and me when our parents were around, as there was no way to predict when or where they’d be at any given time. I’d gotten in the habit of stashing foot massage supplies throughout the house to assure that I would always have access to them. Grandmother’s house was fraught with old laundry chutes, defunct air vents, and an assortment of nooks and crannies that were ideal for hiding things. I’d accrued enough lotions, massage oils, and soaps to open my own day-spa, and I stealthily deposited them in rooms on first and second floor. I was in the entertainment room stowing the remainder of my foot massage supplies behind the metal grate of an old air duct when the closing theme of "One Life To Live" began to echo through the house. It was two o’clock, which meant I only had another hour to myself. My massage paraphernalia was masterfully concealed in locations throughout the house, but I still needed to prepare snacks for the weekend. I quietly dashed to the kitchen and filled a series of stylish wicker baskets with bottled water, small containers of jam, and multiple helpings of homemade pie crust, bread, and cookies. Grandmother was hopelessly engrossed in an episode of "General Hospital" as I retraced my steps and placed the wicker food-baskets alongside my foot massage supplies on first and second floor. I completed my task moments before the show ended and rejoined her in the living room. I’d done a good job of preparing for Kate’s visit, and there was nothing to do but wait for her arrival. Patience, however, was never my strong suit, and I probably would’ve stared holes in the clock and the calendar if it hadn’t been for grandmother. She engaged me in conversation, prepared a spectacular dinner for us, and also taught me a card game called Polish Poker, which I proved unexpectedly good at. These activities helped to pass the time
and also stopped me from obsessing about the weekend. Before I knew it,
the ten o’clock news was on, and it was nearing time for bed. The following morning, the local radio station announced that my school was planning to hold classes despite the fact that conditions had only improved slightly. The district couldn’t get their federal aid money if they didn’t convene, and it didn’t matter how many students attended or what they did with us once we were there. I’m sure that was a major factor in their decision. My parents gave me the option to stay home, but I decided to go. I was craving social interaction, and I thought it might be interesting to see who showed up. The weather conditions were still poor, and the trip to school was an adventure in and of itself. I passed a few emergency vehicles along the way and also encountered a number of motorists who’d spun out of control and become stuck in the snow. When I reached the school, a lone school bus, frosted with snow and ice, was idling in the driveway. There couldn’t have been more than twenty cars in the parking lot, and I knew there wouldn’t be many students present. The hallways were virtually deserted, and the building seemed like a ghost town. Only four students were in my homeroom, and our regular teacher was gone. It was impossible to conduct regular classes under such circumstances. Our substitute teacher gave us considerable latitude in exchange for our assurances that there would be no disruptive behavior. He allowed us to draw, read, visit the school computer lab, or spend time in the gym where the phys-ed teacher was putting together a makeshift basketball game. Shooting baskets sounded like fun, and I spent a good portion of the morning involved in a My lunchbox was stuffed to the breaking point with homemade goodies grandmother had thrown together for me, and I shared my leftovers with a few students who were especially disillusioned by the school cafeteria food. One of them facetiously promised to name his first-born child after me. It was almost twelve-thirty when I finished eating, and I decided to spend the rest of the school day in the library. The foot massage books I’d been reading at grandmother’s house were tucked in the bottom of my duffel bag, and I was able to study them without interruption until the final bell sounded. The trip home from school was almost as colorful as the one I’d endured while getting there that morning. Conditions had improved, but the roads were still glazed with snow and ice – a fact that seemed lost on some commuters. It was Friday afternoon, and people were rushing to get home and start their weekends. The end result was a series of entirely predictable fender-benders. I’d gotten no more than seven blocks from school when traffic slowed to a crawl, and I could see tow-trucks laboring to separate cars that had become tangled after losing control and sliding into one another. Clearing the road was going to take a while, and I wasn’t content to wait. With the police three blocks ahead of me busily scribbling accident reports, I made an illegal u-turn and back-tracked to a small side-street. This unexpected detour substantially altered my route home and took me through residential neighborhoods I wasn’t especially familiar with. Along the way, I passed a few home-based businesses I’d never noticed before, including a VCR repair shop, a hair salon, and some kind of arts and crafts store. I didn’t have to get home right away, and my hair needed a trim. It hadn’t been cut since the start of the weather crisis, and I was beginning to feel like a German sheepdog. I decided to take a chance on this unfamiliar salon, and I parked my car. The stylist saw me coming up the sidewalk and greeted me at the door. Her business had been slow since the first snowfall, and she appeared happy to have a client. She escorted me to her studio, which was based in a room that used to be a kitchen before she remodeled the house to accommodate her business. Getting my hair cut by a total stranger the day before Kate’s arrival made me slightly nervous, but it turned out well. The stylist did a wonderful job, and she gave me an added touch of style I’d been lacking. I complimented her efforts, promised to come back, and tipped her on my way out the door. My good experience at the salon inspired me to check out the other home-based businesses on the block. The VCR repair shop was only a few houses up the street, and I made that my next stop. Grandmother’s videotape-player was brand new, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to get acquainted with the local repair technician in case she needed his services later. Friendliness must have been contagious on that street, because the VCR repairman couldn’t have been nicer. We talked about sports, movies, and current events for more than fifteen minutes before the subject of electronics entered into our conversation. He gave me his card, a brochure with his rates, and a coupon for a sizeable discount on any repair work. I thanked him for his time and started walking back to my car. The arts and crafts place was situated across the street in a small home, recessed from the road noticeably farther than the other houses in the neighborhood. It appeared to be dark, and I nearly drove away without stopping, but something changed my mind at the last moment. I crossed the icy road and approached the front door, which looked like it hadn’t been opened in a while. There was a crude, handwritten sign hanging from the doorknob, encouraging customers to knock on the back door. This didn’t make a great first impression, and I was almost ready to leave when the owner of the shop appeared at the window. She smiled pleasantly while emphatically gesturing toward the rear of the house. It would’ve been rude to turn away at that point, and I followed the narrow sidewalk to the back door, where I was immediately invited inside. The house was quite warm – a welcome contrast to the cold conditions outside – and I spent a few moments warming up and trying to defrost my glasses. Linda, the shop’s owner, formally introduced herself, guided me to a comfortable chair in front of the fireplace, and apologized for making me walk to the rear of the house. She said the front door was damaged, just as I’d suspected, and it couldn’t be opened. When I was finally able to see, I got my first clear look at Linda. She was a reasonably attractive woman, probably in her mid-forties, with a sunny disposition similar to that of some holistic healers I’d known. We’d only been talking for a minute or so, but I was already glad that I’d stopped by. The shop, while thoroughly cozy, was nothing like I’d envisioned. There were shelves of reasonably-priced artwork and pottery, along with some basic painting supplies, but it hardly seemed like enough to justify a store. I was about to question the apparent lack of inventory when Linda explained that her business was undergoing a transition and she simply hadn’t gotten around to changing the sign. Her arts and crafts shop had essentially become a casual hobby, as she’d opened a successful mail-order company, selling premium nutritional supplements, high-end cosmetics – and her own line of homemade soaps and lotions. The fact that I’d stumbled onto this obscure shop less than twenty-four hours before Kate’s arrival suddenly seemed like divine intervention. My expression must have been one of utter shock, because Linda concernedly placed her hand on my shoulder and asked if I was alright. I assured her that I was okay, but thrilled to learn of her homemade product line. Linda was rather amused that a teenage boy was so enthusiastic about soaps and lotions, and she sensed there was more to the story. She started asking questions, and her curiosity grew as I tried to sidestep them. It finally became apparent that I wasn’t going to get the good until I fessed up. While omitting Kate’s identity and the exact nature of our relationship, I explained that a cute female friend was coming to town for the weekend, one who frequently asked me for foot massages. Klingler’s was an award winning
local brewery until 1970, when a massive fire forced them to shut down.
The nostalgic old building was spared from the wrecking ball by a local
businesswoman named Carol, who transformed the badly damaged structure
into a trendy café and coffee house. I lunged at Kate
quite awkwardly, and she was prepared for my attack. She sidestepped me
like a bullfighter, shoved me out the door, and locked it behind me. I
came to rest in the snow on grandmother’s front porch. The sweater I was
wearing offered little protection from the harsh winter conditions, and
I pleaded with Kate to let me come inside. She flatly refused. “You need to cool
off,” she chuckled. “We’re supposed to be leaving for Klingler’s
anyway. I’ll bring you your coat and we’ll get going.” I’d been full of
mischief for most of the evening, and I didn’t blame Kate for locking
me out of the house. I did, however, briefly wonder if I’d freeze to
death. That didn’t happen, of course.
Kate was mindful of
the dangerous conditions, and she didn’t leave me unprotected for
long. It took her less than a minute to bundle up, grab the house keys,
and appear on the porch with my coat, hat, and gloves. With the storm
continuing to intensify, Kate and I mutually agreed that we should run
to Klingler’s. That would’ve been an easy task under ordinary
circumstances – little more than a five minute jog – but not on this
occasion. The sidewalks were
covered in several inches of snow, and it was difficult to find solid
footing. We were also running headlong into powerful gusts of wind that
slowed our progress and made it difficult to breathe. By the time we
reached Klingler’s (I think it took us roughly ten minutes) Kate and I
were half-frozen and gasping for air. Carol greeted us at the door and
offered to take our coats. She also thanked us for coming out on such an
ugly night. Carol seemed
especially appreciative of our business, and I quickly understood why.
Klingler’s was practically deserted, as most of the regular patrons
had wisely chosen not to venture out in the storm. Only a handful of
customers were visible, all of them huddled around the fireplace on
ground floor. There were empty
tables throughout the building, and Carol invited us to take our pick.
Kate wasted no time choosing her favorite spot on the upper level. The third floor of
Klingler’s boasted a unique dining area, situated in the “crows
nest” – a large, oval shaped deck that overlooked the lower levels.
When the brewery was in operation, the shift manager could oversee
operations throughout the plant from this level.
Kate’s preferred
table was situated in front of a large window, which offered a
breathtaking view of the entire east side. Grandmother’s house, most
of the neighborhood, and portions of downtown were clearly visible from
our seats, although the view was slightly obscured by falling snow. Both of us were still shivering from our hike through the snow, and the
soothing warmth of Klingler’s was a welcome contrast to the harsh
conditions outside. An air duct beside our table was belching a steady
stream of hot air, and we huddled close to it, attempting to warm our
hands. Kate remained near
the door while I stumbled though the pitch-blackness searching for a
flashlight. I found one in grandmother’s bedroom, but the batteries
were dead. My search continued
for several minutes, during which l banged my shins on various pieces of
furniture. I finally managed to feel my way to the entertainment room,
where I located some candleholders and an old cigarette lighter. They
were dusty and obviously hadn’t been used for a long time, but they
still worked. The flickering
illumination of candlelight instantly changed the look and feel of the
room, and it also had a profound effect on me. Up until that moment,
I’d been obsessed with tickling Kate’s feet, but my renewed interest
in foot massage unexpectedly took over. I’d been
practicing my techniques throughout the week, and it occurred to me that
this was a wonderful opportunity to try them out. We couldn’t leave
the house because of the storm, and watching television wasn’t
possible because the power was out. Kate always loved
it when I surprised her with sweet gestures, and I was certain she’d
be thrilled if I spent the evening pampering her. On a more selfish
note, fondling and caressing her beautiful feet was something I’d been
yearning to do since the beginning of the weather crisis four weeks
earlier. I gleefully removed
my stash of foot massage supplies from their hiding place behind the
desk and carefully arranged them on a small coffee table near the couch.
It’s probably fair to say that most of the spas in the area didn’t
have that many foot products. The entertainment
room couch was a sleeper – it folded out into a full-sized bed. I
decided to make use of that feature for this particular foot massage
session. There were fresh linens in the closet, and I dressed the
mattress with a pretty floral-patterned bedspread and a plush winter
comforter. There was a
battery-operated radio on the desk and I tuned it to a smooth jazz
station that was broadcasting from a neighboring town. Once everything
was in place, I grabbed a candle and prepared to retrieve my cousin. Navigating the
house proved tedious, and I had to slow my pace to avoid blowing out the
candle. I nonetheless managed to find my way back to Kate. “I was beginning
to wonder if I’d ever see you again,” she said, only half-jokingly.
“I’m still freezing. Do
we have heat?” “It’s toasty
warm in the entertainment room, and that’s where we’re going…
after you take off those boots,” I replied with a smile.
Kate let out an
exasperated sigh and threw her hands in the air, essentially resigning
herself to the situation. “I give up,”
she chuckled. “You can have my boots and my feet if you promise to
keep me warm.” “It’s a
deal,” I answered, unable to hide my enthusiasm. There was an
antique wicker chair near the door, and Kate made herself comfortable. I
held my breath as she sensually peeled off her boots and socks,
revealing her shapely, silky feet. It was the dead of
winter. No sane person would be wearing sandals for months, but Kate had
still gone to the trouble of painting her flawless toes, and I could see
that the nail polish she’d chosen was one of my all-time favorites.
She later confessed this was not a random selection on her part. Seeing pretty
female feet after so many days of intense winter isolation was almost
more than I could handle. My heart was pounding and my breath was coming
in labored gasps, but I managed to maintain some measure of composure. Kate reached for my hand, and I began to guide her down the hallway. We’d only taken a few steps when she squealed and pulled away from me. “Hold on foot
monster,” she said in a commanding tone. “This floor is ice cold and
there’s melted snow all over the place. If you want me to go through
with this, you’re going to have to carry me.” I was more than
happy to honor Kate’s request, but there was no way I could hold the
candle and carry her at the same time. The two of us pondered the
situation for a moment and mutually agreed that I should give her a
piggyback ride. There wasn’t a
convenient place to set the candle, so I held it in front of me with one
hand while Kate struggled to climb onto my back.
Her first few attempts were rather clumsy and she nearly pulled
us both to the floor. It took some effort, but she finally regained her
balance and found her way onto my shoulders. “Sorry about
that,” she laughed. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.” “I’m fine, but
we’ll have to move slowly,” I explained. “If this candle goes out,
we’ll really be stuck.” Kate threw her arms
around my neck and clung to me as I carried her through the house. I
think she was afraid I’d stumble and drop her… but I didn’t.
We safely reached the entertainment room, and I carefully set her
down. I’d been yearning
for an opportunity to try out my newly developed massage skills on Kate,
and I felt like a giddy child as I directed her toward the doorway of
the entertainment room. My body language must have suggested that I was
planning one of my customary tickling attacks, and she confronted me. “You’re way too
eager to get me in there,” she giggled. “What are you up to?” “It’s a
surprise,” I whispered. There was a moment
of silence as Kate stared at me with an inquisitive expression, trying
to guess what I was planning. Her instincts were probably telling her
not to trust me, but she took a leap of faith and opened the door. The warm, inviting
atmosphere of the candlelit entertainment room immediately to put Kate
at ease, and she confidently stepped through the doorway. It only took
her a few seconds to notice my foot massage supplies, and her face lit
up. “Is this why you
brought me here?” she asked. “If I’d known this was what you had
in mind I would have let you catch me hours ago! Where do we start?” Kate was suddenly
raring to go – probably because she hadn’t received a foot massage
in more than six weeks – and she didn’t bother waiting for my
answer. She hastily rolled the legs of her jeans up to her knees,
sprawled out on the sofa bed, and wiggled her bare feet at me. It was sometime
after midnight, and Kate began to fade in and out of consciousness as I
lovingly caressed her feet with an assortment of aromatic oils. Her
expression was one of utter contentment, and I’d never seen her so
deeply relaxed. Candlelight
continued to dance across the walls and ceiling of the entertainment
room, and the soft jazz playing on the radio had joined forces with the
rhythmic howl of the wind to create a lullaby of sorts. Grandmother’s
house couldn’t have been more serene, but the silence was abruptly
shattered by an unexpected phone call. The piercing
ring-tone jarred Kate from her dreamlike state, and she was still
half-asleep as she clumsily swiped at the phone in a desperate attempt
to silence it. Her efforts were almost comical as she was swinging
blind, her sleepy eyes partially closed, but she managed to hit her
target on the third ring. Kate was visibly
aggravated by this unwanted interruption. Her irritation grew when the
caller identified herself – it was her mother. Kate’s mom always
worried about her “little girl” under the best of circumstances, and
being stranded miles away during a raging winter storm didn’t help
matters. She’d called to make sure that both of us were home and safe.
The mere fact that she was able to get through at all was nothing short
of a miracle considering the number of lines that were down. I could see Kate
struggling to be patient as her mother peppered her with the usual
worried mom questions. How are you? Are you staying warm enough? Have
you had enough to eat? Are you feeling okay? What are you doing? Kate was trying to
answer her mother’s questions and end their conversation as quickly as
possible. Unfortunately, she was barely coherent and her voice was
groggily slurred, enough to make her sound mildly drunk. This aroused
her mother's curiosity and prompted another seemingly endless volley of
questions. The interrogation
went on for more than a minute, and Kate’s patience finally began to
wane. In pure frustration, she blurted out the only answer that would
satisfy her mother – the truth. “Mom, if you
absolutely must know, your nephew is giving me the best foot massage
I’ve ever had,” she snapped. “I’d just about fallen asleep when
you called.” I honestly thought
my heart would stop as Kate informed her mother what we’d been doing
all night. The mere possibility that our family might learn about my
foot fetish or our years of foot games left me mortified. Irrational,
paranoid thoughts and worst case scenarios were racing through my mind
when Kate handed me the phone and uttered words that nearly made me
faint. “My mom wants to
talk with you,” she mumbled while struggling to stay awake. It suddenly felt
like all of the blood was leaving my head, and the receiver weighed
forty pounds as I raised it to my ear with trembling hands. I took a
deep breath and scrunched my eyes shut, fully expecting some form of
moral condemnation from my beloved aunt. Instead, she was warm and
thoroughly grateful. “Thanks for
taking care of my little girl,” she said sweetly. “Now I don’t
have to worry about her. You kids have a good night.” With that, Kate’s
mom hung up, and I collapsed in a heap on the bed. It took a few minutes
to catch my breath and stop shaking, but once I’d collected myself, I
felt foolish. Kate’s mom
obviously knew nothing about my foot fetish, and she’d always been
loving and kind to me. It would have been entirely out of character for
her to scream and lash out at me under any circumstance, and I was
mildly ashamed that I’d jumped to such wild conclusions. My hands were
saturated with massage oil when I answered the phone, and the handset
looked like it had been painted with Crisco. I’d just begun to wipe it
clean with a towel when Kate groaned and sat up, unable to regain the
blissful state she’d been startled from. “I don’t
believe this,” she wearily chuckled, referring to the poor timing of
her mother’s phone call. “Now I’m half-awake, I can’t get back
to sleep, and I’m hungry.” "Not a
problem," I flippantly replied. “I’ll get something for you
right away.” Kate glanced around
the room, and there was no food in plain sight. I'm sure she wondered
how I intended to produce snacks for her, and she stared inquisitively
as I crawled across the room and disappeared beneath the desk. “What are you
doing under there?” she asked with a giggle. I pretended to
ignore Kate’s question and continued to rummage for a few moments,
allowing her curiosity to build. Her eyes widened as I rejoined her on
the sofa bed and presented her the elegant food basket I’d so
carefully placed in the entertainment room two days earlier. “Where did all of
this come from?” she asked. “Grandmother and
I baked,” I answered, my chest swelling with pride. Kate leaned forward
and kissed my cheek, flattered and astonished that I’d gone to such
lengths to prepare for her visit. She couldn’t stop smiling as she
rifled through the basket, struggling to decide which treats to sample
first. “Come in,” she said warmly while reaching out to take my hand. I followed Kate to the living room and found that she’d been busy. Positioned in the middle of the room was a large air mattress – the same one we often pulled out of the closet on hot summer nights. It was neatly dressed with blankets and pillows, and there was also a pile of sheets and comforters beside it on the floor. “Lie down,” she said softly while gesturing toward the mattress. I saw nothing strange about Kate’s request. It was a brutal winter evening, we were thoroughly stranded, and I assumed she wanted to snuggle – something we’d done many times before. I happily plopped down on the mattress; my head comfortably nestled into the pillow. Kate grabbed a clean white sheet from the pile, carefully folded it, and knelt beside me on the mattress. She began wrapping my arm in the sheet – the same way my doctor had wrapped it with an ACE bandage a few months earlier after a minor basketball mishap. By the time Kate was finished, my left arm was literally cocooned all the way to my armpit. She then rolled me onto my side, grasped the remaining end of the sheet, and tucked it beneath me, effectively pinning it to the mattress with my own body weight. Something about this exercise seemed fishy, and I was about to question it when Kate leaned over me. She cradled my face in her hands, kissed my cheek, and appealed for my continued patience. “Trust me.. I’m just tucking you in,” she said warmly, her face mere inches from mine. “This will only take a few minutes… okay?” Kate’s smile was completely disarming, and I agreed to let her continue. She quickly repeated the wrapping and tucking process on my right arm before I could change my mind. “There!” she declared triumphantly while securing the remaining fringe of the sheet. “Are you comfy?” “Well… I’m stuck,” I timidly replied while testing Kate’s handiwork and discovering that I couldn’t free my arms. “Just relax,” she calmly responded while climbing on top of me and straddling my waist. I wasn’t scared, but there was something different about Kate’s behavior. Her actions were unusually premeditated, not unlike the meticulous preparations I typically made while planning one of my foot fetish games. The intense winter isolation was bringing out the mischievous side of her personality to a degree I’d never seen before, and all I could do was lay there and wait to see how things unfolded. Kate was gazing at me with a kind expression, lovingly caressing my hair with her left hand. Her right hand, however, disappeared beneath my shirt. She placed her palm flatly against my stomach, and the warmth of her touch was rather soothing… until she began stroking my flesh with wiggling fingers. My abdominal muscles started to involuntarily contract, I could feel a smile forming on my face, and a series of giggles began to gurgle deep within my chest. Kate seemed pleased with my reactions. “Ticklish?” she asked teasingly. I defiantly stared up at the ceiling, struggling to maintain some measure of composure. It didn’t work, of course. Kate intensified her efforts only slightly, and I began to squirm and giggle like a ticklish child. “That’s what I thought,” she chuckled. Kate’s long, professionally manicured
fingernails were perfect tickling implements, and she knew exactly how
to use them. My body was on automatic pilot, responding to her touch The process continued for what must have been three minutes, if not slightly more. Kate was having a wonderful time forcing ticklish laughter out of me, but she lightened her touch just enough to let me catch my breath so she could engage me in conversation. “Mister, we need to have a little talk,”
she said while casually stroking one of the sensitive areas she’d
found during her initial survey. “The last few times I tickled you, it
almost seemed like you were having fun. Do you like it when I tickle
you?” “Honey, I’m not letting you off the hook this time,” she giggled. “One way or another, we’re going to talk about this.” The words ‘one way for another’ sounded ominous. I suspected that I might be in for something that would take me well beyond my limits... and I was right. Kate began to firmly probe my flesh with a series of deep, rhythmic, pressing movements, not unlike those of a gastroenterologist performing an abdominal exam. Nothing could have prepared me for the intensity of this technique, as waves of soul-wrenching tickling sensations coursed through my body with each movement of my cousin’s cruel fingers. There was an almost telepathic quality to Kate’s attack, and she seemed to be inside my mind, sensing my reactions to her touch and modifying her techniques to maximize my response. Her efforts were anything but random, and I could tell that she was searching for a specific spot… and she found it.
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