Several months ago, my girlfriend surprised me with a rather unusual birthday present. It was a gift certificate for a pedicure and foot massage at a local spa — made out in her name. Considering it was my birthday, this might not sound like much of a gift to you. Then again, you don’t know me as well as Peyton does — especially when it comes to my foot fetish.

I adore Peyton’s feet — they’re compact and perfectly shaped, with toes I love to suck and highly arched soles that practically demand a lengthy, lingering exploration with my tongue.

“I know you love watching me have my tootsies taken care of,” she said as she drove us to our city’s downtown area. I had to agree that was an understatement.

“So I figured this’ll be a real treat for you, too,” she explained. She inhaled deeply, the corners of her mouth twitching ever so slightly as she worked the car’s gas pedal with one sandaled foot.

“You look a little nervous,” I observed slyly.

“No, no,” Peyton said quickly, fluttering a slim hand over the steering wheel. “I just haven’t had my feet done recently, and they’re kind of grody. You know how a dancer’s feet can get sometimes.”

I did know. Peyton teaches ballet at a local adult education center, and the long hours she puts in shows on her feet. Their caramel-colored soles are usually smooth and soft, but also tough, like fine leather. But I also knew better. The reason she didn’t have those glorious size sixes regularly pampered had nothing to do with her punishing schedule. I won’t go into details just yet, but suffice it to say I was really looking forward to watching Peyton get her toes done.

We found parking with no trouble, and minutes later a smiling attendant ushered Peyton over to a chair with a bubbling whirlpool bath before it for her tired feet. She sat back with a magazine and a glass of wine from the attendant. I got a glass as well, and for a while we just chilled, listening to the classical music playing softly over the speaker system. We were the only customers at that hour, which made the vibe even more relaxing.

When the attendant returned with a towel and a case of tools, Peyton looked even more nervous. She surrendered her feet to the attendant, letting them rest on the towel on the woman’s lap.

“Happy birthday,” she murmured, clinking glasses with me.

Then the real fun began. The attendant gently lifted one of Peyton’s feet and began whisking a tool like a sandpaper-covered sponge over her sole. At first things seemed fine, but as the sponge went whisk-whisk-whisk with a metronome-like rhythm over the ball of her foot, Peyton’s expression became almost comically agitated. Her nose crinkled and her lips pursed, her shoulders jerking upward periodically. She couldn’t seem to concentrate on her magazine. Finally, she couldn’t take it any longer. She burst into a peal of laughter that made the attendant start in surprise.

“Oh God, no!” Peyton giggled, slumping back helplessly in the chair. “I’m s-sorry. I just c-can’t!”

The attendant and I traded smiles.

“I could tell she was ticklish the minute I touched her toes,” the woman told me. “Don’t be embarrassed, honey, ticklish feet are a real occupational hazard in this business. I see it all the time.”

The woman tried her best to keep Peyton’s ticklish torment to a minimum, but it was as though a door to the most ticklish depths of her sensitivity had been unlocked. Poor Peyton made it through the pedicure, but I’m not sure how. She almost literally laughed her head off throughout the entire procedure.

Yes, Peyton’s gift to me that year was literally the gift of laughter — her laughter. Most women have ticklish feet, but when it comes to sensitivity, poor Peyton’s soles are off the charts. So much so that I’ve had to restrict my own attention to her feet to very firm massages. Kisses and licks and other forms of oral adoration can quite literally drive the poor thing crazy, so I’ve had to save them for special occasions.

But that wasn’t the end of the surprises — or discoveries — that birthday would bring me. As we drove back home, Peyton asked me, in a shy voice, if I’d liked my surprise. I told her “like” didn’t cover it.

“Can I tell you something?” she asked in that same shy, adorable voice. “I got so hot when that woman was touching my feet! I couldn’t stop laughing, but I was so turned on! I just know I would have come eventually if she hadn’t stopped.”

“Really?” I asked. Saying my interest was sparked would be sadly understating things. A wave of heat moved over my entire body, and I felt my cock stiffening in my jeans.

“I think it’s because you were there watching, and I knew how much tickling women’s feet turns you on. That’s why I wanted to let you come along while I got my pedicure, but I had no idea what it was going to do to me. Do you think… ”

She let her voice trail off, her eyes focused on the road, and I didn’t press her. But finally she cleared her throat and asked, “Do you think you could tie me up and maybe… tickle my feet a little?”

A little? I would have been perfectly happy if she had pulled over at that very moment and thrust her bare feet into my lap — and kept them there for the next three hours! Truth be told, tickling is one of my very favorite forms of sexual play. I’ve longed to subject Peyton’s exquisitely sensitive soles to a full-on tickle session for as long as we’ve been together. The only reason I never suggested it was worrying it would cause her discomfort.

“I think that could be arranged,” I told her with a smile.

After a quick stop at a crafts store near my apartment, we finally arrived home. It took iron discipline to keep from ushering her immediately into the bedroom. But I forced myself to wait until after the delicious birthday dinner Peyton cooked me in my own kitchen.

Then we got busy for real.

I laid her on my bed, facedown. I blindfolded her with a silk kerchief and used a few more to bind her wrists to my bed’s headboard. Then I tied her ankles with rope and used a couple of small rubber bands to hook her big toes together.

And there they were: her feet, soles turned up, entirely at my mercy. After making sure she was OK, I got to work. I started slowly, using a couple of brightly colored, stiff-edged feathers we had bought at the crafts store. I drew these with tantalizing slowness over her soles, moving their broad tips from her round, smooth heels up to the tips of her toes. I could hear Peyton gasping as the feathers slid back and forth, setting her nerves on fire. The edges I drew down between her toes, and that was what turned her gasps to a whimpery, helpless chuckling that gradually grew louder and louder.

“My toes,” she giggled in a babyish voice. “Oh God, my poor toes!”

“I think you meanmytoes,” I said gloatingly. “For tonight, they’re all mine!”

I brushed the tips of her precious piggies with the feathers and teased their soft undersides. Peyton’s laughter grew louder and more insistent until her entire body shook with it. But tickling is about more than feathers. I had also laid out a selection of brushes for Peyton’s ticklish pleasure. There were torturously soft makeup brushes I’d borrowed from her purse, a spare toothbrush from the bathroom, and my good old-fashioned stiff-bristled hairbrush.

By now, the feathers had rendered her soles so sensitive that even the softest of the brushes tickled her into a happy, gibbering wreck. I teased her about needing a good cleaning between the toes and put the toothbrush to work. She squealed and jerked her feet in my lap, bumping deliciously against the erection I had developed. Then when I dragged that wicked hairbrush over her arches, her ass bucked up in the air, and I knew she’d gotten to within a toe’s wriggle of coming.

“Do you need a break?” I asked her teasingly.

“God, no! No, keep doing it! I need it!”

I knew what she meant; she was very close, inches away from an incredible climax.

So for the grand finale, Peyton’s helpless tootsies got a long, luscious tickle from the vibrator she kept tucked away in my dresser drawer. I’d barely started working the toy over her smooth foot-flesh when she went into a twitching, gasping storm of pleasure. She ground her hips against the sheets, moaning and mumbling as her climax took her. When her gyrations slowly spun down and stopped, I tenderly untied her hands, and then her ankles.

By then I had a massively excited, very tickled woman on my hands. She rolled over into my arms and covered me with kisses, mumbling and biting at my earlobes.

“I want you,” she whispered pleadingly. “I want you to fuck me.”

She straddled me with her back toward me, and slowly, carefully impaled herself on my rigid cock. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a beautiful, sexy sight as my girl arching her back and gasping with pleasure as she took my dick up to the root. Pleasure nearly overwhelmed me, and I began thrusting upward with a slow, repetitive rhythm. I felt my own climax gradually building. When it came, I knew it would be truly explosive. 

But the fun still wasn’t over. I couldn’t help but notice Peyton’s naked soles upturned at my sides — within easy reach of my fingers. She looked over her shoulder and caught my eye. An irresistible smile blossomed on her lips.

“Oh no,” she whispered, in the voice of a cartoonish ingénue facing a villain’s most fiendish scheme. “Oh, you wouldn’t tickle my poor feet again… would you?”

Well, duh, as the kids say.

I diddled her arches and the balls of her feet and the deep, tender slots of her toes, feeling the ticklish energy build and shoot up through her, stiffening her body. She broke at once into shrill, uncontrollable laughter, gabbling and pleading for me to stop. Her pussy clamped shut on my cock, and I continued pushing up into her. It was an incredible fuck, a total joining of our bodies’ sexual energies.

I kept tickling her feet as I pushed, relishing her hysterical, sexy laughter like I’ve relished few things in life. She released a volley of hoarse gasps, bending over and jerking her ass, so I slipped in and out of her. My cockhead burned with delicious friction, and then I exploded. Peyton wailed and fell forward onto her palms, shuddering continuously.

We kissed and stroked each other, whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears. We spent the rest of the night that way, eventually falling asleep in each other’s embrace. It truly was the most incredible birthday I’ve ever had.

And I’m still enjoying it. For next year, I’m thinking seriously about investing in some new bondage equipment — and maybe a few more feathers to go along with it. They’ll get plenty of good use.