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Most of my stories are fiction. This one is documentary. Everything in this story is true.
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Last week, a guy on Grindr reached out and said, "This might sound silly, but could I pay you to tickle my feet for 10-15 minutes? It's a totally harmless kink."
I have been thinking a lot about sex work recently. A lot of trans women do it, or have done it. It's hard to get a job as a trans person. And the money's quick and readily available. It's a risk, sure, but all we do is take risks.
So this fella offered me $40 or $60 for "a quick 10-minute tickle session." I opted for forty. I have no idea why. I think I thought I would do such a good job that he would want to tip me. (I don't just want to do sex work--I want to do sex work really well.)
We sorted through the details. His fetish is to be tickled anonymously for 10-15 minutes until he cums. He wanted me to pin and then tickle his feet. Ideally it would be from behind a glory hole style sheet. Since I couldn't rig up something quickly enough, we opted for a different option--he would lie underneath a blanket with only his feet exposed. I would pin his feet, tickle them gently, he would cum into tissues he had supplied, I would leave the room, and he would depart. We would never see one another's faces.
That's remarkably close to what happened. Here's how it went.
After we settled on those particulars--$40, under a blanket--I sent him my address. I told him to enter it into his maps app and follow it to the letter. I live in a slightly unusual location on roads that are maintained by the city, but barely.
He had asked if he could tickle my feet first, to show me how he likes it. I said yes. This was the biggest risk I took. He was very friendly. Kind, warm, positive. But I don't know this person. I have no references. I'm relying only on my intuitive read of him.
When he arrived, I was in the correct position, whichÉ my god, left me 100%, vulnerable, I realized. I was lying beneath a blanket. My front door was unlocked. He knew he had access to the house, and to my bedroom. He knew I would be concealed completely. Suppose he were violent. I was 100% vulnerable. I could be killed and never see it coming.
He crept in quietly. Stealthily. I wasn't even sure he was in the house.
Then I felt him climb on top of me. Only my feet were exposed. He sat on my pert butt and grabbed my ankles. The clutch was firm, but the touch was gentle. So gentle that I gasped. He played with the bottom of my feet, my toes, the tops of my feet, the edges. Sometimes he caressed them. Sometimes he stroked them with his fingers. Sometimes he grazed them with his fingertips.
I had my phone with me to text him. Anonymity was one of his stated goals. That meant no talking. We would text instead--from three feet away from each other.
The good news for me is that we were through the most dangerous part of the afternoon--the part when he could kill me and I would never see it coming.
It was hot under the blanket I'd chosen. And I was still a little nervous, and worried about performing well for him. But all in all, it felt pretty good to have my feet be touched.
I texted him from under the blanket to tell him it was his turn.
My bedroom, conveniently, has two doors. He exited one, then I exited the other. I texted him to say that I was going to grab a different blanket. I swapped that blanket in then waited. He texted--he was ready for me. I entered the room and sat on his legs.
I tried to do as he had done. This was about him. I pressed his leg into my armpit. The tickling partÉ that was easy, instinctive. I learned it as a kid. My sister and I would tickle-torture each other deeply, then beyondÉ to the point of insanity. I felt equipped when it came to that part.
I imitated his touch. I think my tendency would be to use a little more force than he had, so I had to consciously tone it down. I started gently. Just stroking his feet, up and down. A few fingers brushing up and down his arch.
I felt him shudder.
We were off to a good start.
I tried a few more things. Most worked. I tried the top of the foot. He seemed to like that. When he was turned on, he would shudder. It felt real--honest and involuntary. I tickled the sides of his feet. I played up and underneath his toes
I tickled him for maybe eight or ten minutes. I had my phone--we were texting, not talking. At some point, I hit a good rhythm with him. I could feel him pulsating under my touch. His pulsing hit a rhythm, accelerated, held steadyÉ and then stopped.
I kept tickling.
A minute later, I got a text. From him, under the blanket.
"Just finished :)"
I stopped, a little embarrassed that I had kept tickling him after his orgasm. I guess it's like blowing a guy after he cums, though--it's not the important part of the blow job, but no one minds. I left the room. I did whisper a quick "OK!" when I read that text. That was the only word uttered between us.
I remember when my sister would tickle me beyond the point of bliss. It felt like eating too much candy. The sweetness was there, but the joy was gone. Like pain in pleasure.
I stepped out of the room. I could hear him very quietly exit the house.
He had sent me the $40 before he came in, so we were settled up. He did not leave a mess. I was left all alone in my house, $40 richer, richer than that in experience.
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Like I said, I've been thinking about sex work. It's the oldest profession. Why? Men need to get laid. They need to get their rocks off. Women know how to do it, in particular us trans women. So why not take advantage? They have the money, we want the money. They want sex, and we know how to give it to them.
I have given away plenty of sex for free. This time I got paid. Everyone ended up happy. Said my foot fetish friend, "I've been thinking about our last kinky encounter quite a bit."
So have I, my friend. So have I.
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Email me at sexyamie@hotmail.com if you have any bad ideas.