Call me kinky if you like, but my penchant for having my tootsies tickled began at a very early age. I lay the blame entirely at someone else’s feet… those of the shop assistant in our local branch of Barratt’s Shoes, who first introduced me to one of those... are you ready for this?… one of those foot-measuring gauges. I think they’re a bit more sophisticated now but the one that first got my virginal young feet tingling was a metal, wedge-shaped platform with a sliding rule that fixed your foot in place to measure the length and – ohhh! the very best bit! – a soft belt that wrapped around it and slipped into a buckle to determine the width. There was something about my foot being touched and enclosed in such a sparse yet strangely sensual way, and especially the feeling of that little belt - so much so that I was disappointed when my feet stopped growing and the placement of them in such a delightful device was no longer required.
Their desire for attention didn’t subside, though. As an adult I developed a taste for having my soles very softly and slowly tickled – only it doesn’t actually tickle in that squirmingly unbearable way, instead it soothes. I go into a happy stupor when my toes are teased, my insteps caressed. I never want it to end. And I used to ask, "Will you do my feet?" ("do"!) but I admit I'm spoilt now and let my provocatively wiggling naked toes make their own silent but firm demands. I truly believe there is an erogenous zone down there that equals any of the other more well-known ones. It’s just as well you can’t get pregnant through your feet.
Many years ago I had to go for a medical in connection with a job I’d applied for. It was the first and only time I’ve had to go through one; as expected it was mostly just a case of answering questions about lifestyle and general health. Then the doctor said she needed to check my reflexes, so she did that thing where they tap you just under the knee, causing that horribly weird ‘dead’ sensation that makes you kick out involuntarily. Oh, I hate that. “And now I’m just going to check your feet,” she said, preparing me for a similarly uncomfortable experience, as she asked me to remove my boots and socks and lie down on the couch with my legs outstretched. I waited anxiously. Then slowly she started to tickle my right foot with a large feather. I closed my eyes, let the feeling take me. Bliss. She carried on for a little longer and then moved to my left foot. The feather brushed softly against my sole, lingered tantalisingly around my heel then moved up and oh so sweetly stroked the underside of my toes. I may even have let out a very quiet but ecstatic sigh - it was all I could do to stop myself crying out "More! More!" Finally the doctor stopped, looked over at me with a rather concerned expression and asked, “Erm…. did you feel that?” I suddenly realised that she had been expecting my feet to jerk, my legs to twitch, my whole body to stiffen in discomfort. I came back down to earth and explained that, yes, I had absolutely felt it, and that I’d loved every second of it… She looked at me as if I was mad. I got the job, though.
I may as well face it. My name is C and I’m addicted to having my feet touched. Do you reckon I could get hold of one of those old foot-measuring gauges off eBay, I wonder? Mmm... that little belt...