Below The Ankles

"Sweetie, it's not that I don't love you..." explained a black-stockinged Tamara as she adjusted her make-up in the mirror. Her size 4 black dress hugged her one hundred and twenty pound Caucasian athletic frame.

"I know," replied a despondent Tom. Watching Tamara dress for her job, one would think she was actually going to the prom. After all, it had just been a few months before that she had worn that exact dress with the exact rhinestone necklace with the exact pattern of curled hair and overapplied makeup to Tom and Tamara's very own prom.

"Honey... we've gone through this over and over again... you know that I'm not a rich girl."

"I know," replied Tom again, not bothering to look up and take in the surroundings of their own sparse newlywed apartment. Not bad for a couple of eighteen year olds, Tom had thought to himself, but... not good enough for Tamara. He should've known that she would want more than their pocketbooks could provide, that he should've realized that this sort of situation could and would rear it's ugly head. Tom knew that he should've seen this coming. But he didn't.

"And you know that this pays my bills." Tamara checked her makeup in the mirror one more time. Standing at five feet and four inches, Tamara wasn't a particularly imposing presence in general, she knew. But she also knew that she exuded plenty of sexual energy, what with her preened hair and manicured fingers. The fire engine red on her nails had been a nice touch, Tamara thought to herself.

"I know." Tom paused and gazed at Tamara as she regarded the perfumes on her cabinet. This was always the part he hated. Tom wished that she would at least pretend not to care too much about the type of perfume Tamara used. But she did.

"So then let's please try to move this along. I have to be there by eight. Ok, sweetie?" Tamara decided on a fragrance and then dabbed it in her usual places and Tom watched. A little behind each ear lobe, a little in between her size thirty four C breasts...

"Can't you skip the last place?" Tom asked, fully knowing that Tamara couldn't.

"Jesus, Tom!" Tamara exclaimed, as she bent over and dabbed a fingertip of perfume on the nyloned sole of each foot. "My feet are what pay the rent. Above else, my customers clamor for me because of my specialty."

"I'm sorry I said anything," Tom responded. Tamara slipped on her strappy sandals quickly. Once more, she sized herself up in the mirror. She'd look edible hot tonight.

Turning to Tom, embracing him, Tamara kissed him on the lips.

"You know I love you. You know I belong to you..."

"From the ankles up." Tom didn't hide the emphasis from his voice.

"Yes, from the ankles up. You knew, when we married, that this was my living. You knew that you'd always have me as your soulmate. And you knew that as long as we didn't have better paying jobs, that I'd continue to do what I knew how to do. So here we are... and yes, in return for cable TV, a leather sofa, a new car, cashmere sweaters... in return for all of that, complete strangers will ravish my size nine pedicured feet tonight. Some may have their faces smothered in my soles. Some will receive foot jobs. Some... and you know this, sweetie, so don't get upset... some may lock my ankles in stocks and tickle the shit out of my feet."

Tom nodded, clearly upset.

"You can't be upset by this every time I go. I love you, baby." Tamara turned to go, her heels clicking on the uncarpeted floor.

Tom nodded again, this time adding "But you don't even let me tie and tickle your feet..."

Tamara sighed. "That's because it tickles too much. I can barely deal with the pedicures. These guys pay top dollar to put me in stocks... and believe me when I tell you that it's not fun." She walked out towards the apartment door. At the threshold she glanced back to Tom...

"Remember, sweetie... it's just from the ankles down." Tamara turned, and left. --------------------------------------- Ughh. I really need to get an actual job, thought Tamara, as she walked out the door. None of this was really fair to her Tom. Not that Tom had room to be understanding; fully two thirds of Tamara's 'foot revenue' -- as she called it -- went to feed Tom's expensive lifestyle. Tom had bought the ridiculously priced furniture and insisted on the luxury electronics. Tom owned the nicer modern car, Tamara thought as she shifted her 1992 Pinto into reverse and backed out into the street. And most importantly, to Tamara, Tom knew what Tamara did for an income before they had exchanged vows. Almost on cue, her cell phone began playing a hip hop ring tone, indicating a certain caller. Taking a deep breath, Tamara reached for her phone.

"Julian." The catch in Tamara's voice revealed a certain excitement at what came next -- that is, details of what awaited her that evening. The ritual was simple and always observed between her forty seven year old friend and Tamara. Small talk would be skipped, and the conversation would immediately turn to the client of the evening.

"Hey honey. How are you?"

"Good," purred Tamara. "I was hoping you'd tell me where I'm going and how I'll be doing tonight." Her red-painted toes curled.

"You'll be doing well, tonight. You'll be headed to 749 Smith Avenue to entertain a bachelor party. The pay is the standard rate for a strip dance, bondage and foot play for everyone at the party. But you could be doing even better if you agreed to more activities."

"Like what kind of activities?" asked Tamara, although she knew what was coming. This was an offer Julian made every now and then, and Tamara routinely turned it down. It sent a rush of excitement to hear him say it, though. It always had. From the very first time Tamara had met Julian at a bar, all of what Julian proposed made Tamara feel intrigued. She hadn't believed Julian at first -- he hadn't been the first to complement her shoes or even her feet -- and his promises of riches for services rendered had seemed absurd. Who in their right mind would pay to suck her toes? Who on this planet would pay to have her rub her soles on his face? Who in God's Name actually got off on seeing her writhe in a pair of stocks while her feet were tickle tortured? Well... it had turned out that there were plenty of men and even a few women who paid top dollar to indulge in said activites. But some always wanted more. And they would ask Julian -- her foot pimp, in a manner of speaking -- for additional services.

"To be blunt, sweetie, sex."

"What kind of sex?" Tamara smiled to herself.

"The kind where your feet are on a spreader bar and ravished while a client has sex with you." Tamara's grin grew wider. What was it with men and their unpredictable urges? If it wasn't sex, it was a request for Tamara to dress like a schoolgirl. If it wasn't the schoolgirl fantasy, it was Tamara in bondage, while having sex. Or maybe it was all of the above. Or maybe it was Tamara tickling a client's wife while foot smothering her husband, while dressed as a gothic dominitrix. There really was no sense to any of it.

"You know I can't. The deal is that contact takes place from the ankles down..."

"Sweetie," Julian interrupted, "when I tell you that if you pushed your limits a little bit tonight, you could easily take the rest of the month off."

"First of all, don't call me sweetie," Tamara replied, half-mockingly, half-serious. "Second of all, I'm not on contract here, so I can take off however much of the month as I desire. Third of all, I'm married..."

"One thousand dollars for the evening," spoke Julian, rather plainly.

"Julian, I'm married."

"What difference does it make if you play once a month the whole way, than if you play six times a month with just your feet...? Wouldn't Tom prefer that you spend more time with him?"

"I don't think Tom wants me to have sex with strange men," replied Tamara, while realizing that this wasn't entirely true. Tom was a weird one too. Often, Tamara came home in the wee hours of the morning from her jobs only to find Tom aroused. At first, Tamara had attempted to ignore his 'present state', fully knowing that Tom actually got jealous and upset when Tamara would be leaving their place headed for a job. But Tom would sheepishly ask what Tamara had done that evening, and for how much. Tamara had, again at first, only contributed skeletal details of the evening. 'I got someone off with my feet,' or 'I was tickled.' But Tom would ask for more... until one day when impatient to get some sleep Tamara decided to tell him the sordid details. And Tamara discovered, much to her dismay, that Tom got off the most when Tamara was explicit about the number of men who had tickled her quivering white and pink soles and had -- fictitiously -- ravished her pussy. Men were strange little creatures, Tamara had decided, as she pulled herself back into her present conversation with Julian.

"Look, Tammy, if you want to corner the foot market in the entire state, you have to make some sacrifices. Besides, don't you think you're already enduring the worst? I mean, adding sex to the mix could make the tickling a lot less grueling."

Julian was right, and Tamara knew it. Tamara turned her car into Smith Avenue and pulled onto the side of the well-to-do street

"So ... a spreader bar. What the hell is that?" ------------------------------------------

Tamara came home at three in the morning carrying her crumpled black stockings and strappy high-heels in her red-fingernailed hands, her jet black hair and eye make-up a mess. Quietly opening the door, Tamara reflected on the evening's events and discoveries. It had all been so raw. Who knew that her feet could be made more ticklish after an orgasm and after being covered with baby oil??? Things had certainly been more intense than she had ever imagined.

Walking into the dark bedroom, Tamara discerned the shape of Tom shift underneath the comforter. Tamara set down her stockings and shoes.

"Baby, is that you?" asked Tom as he sat up in the king sized bed.

"Yes, sweetie. How are you?"

"Good... tired... how... how was your evening?"

Tamara took a deep breath, knowing where this was going.

"It was a good evening, baby." Tamara wondered to herself if Tom would note the difference in her smell and in her disheveledness from the other times she came home after jobs.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's good to be home."

"What happened?"

Tamara paused and sat down, facing Tom. Making this work would be a fine line.

"Well, sweetie, tonight I earned my keep." Tamara edged her feet towards Tom's face. Reflecting on the paleness of her feet and redness of her toes, Tamara thought to herself that her feet could be used as sexual weapons.

"What do you mean?" Tamara could see Tom's hands move towards his groin. Placing her feet together, Tamara softly pressed Tom's face with her still-oil covered size nine soles.

"Tonight, sweetie, four guys a little older than you tied my feetsies and wristsies apart, covered my soles in baby oil, and tickle tortured them until I cried from the laughter."

"Were your feet tied together or apart?" asked Tom from behind Tamara's feet. Tamara knew where Tom was going with this, as the rhythmic motion became evident under the blanket.

"Apart, sweetie." Tamara reached underneath the blanket with her hands.

"And then what happened, baby?"

Tamara paused again. This was the beginning of something new. With her left hand she began tickling Tom's balls.

"I got horny, sweetie." Tamara's left hand tickled Tom more furiously, and her right wondered to the area in between her legs.

"Really?" asked Tom, following the ritual question and answer that always preceded his orgasm.

"Yes, sweetie. And do you know what happened next?"

"No... tell me." The blanket over Tom's groin was moving up and down much more rapidly now. Tamara continued tickling Tom's balls with her left hand and pleasuring herself with her right.

Tamara sighed. "They fucked me. All four of them." Tamara touched herself more intensely now. "And they tickled the shit out of my poor defenseless feet. You feel my feet on your face, baby? Four pairs of hands ravished these feet."

"Did you like it?" Tom asked, the blanket over Tom's groin pumping violently up and down.

Tamara thought back to the evening. She thought back to how the men had written the words "Tickle Whore" across her chest. She thought back to how the men had taunted her by making her laugh and giggle while they fucked her and called her dirty, unspeakable names. She remembered that special point in the evening when two men had pressed their cocks into each sole while a third fucked her and a fourth tickled her upperbody, all the while she laughed and begged and screamed for a halt to the tickling. She looked at her feet, held together and pressed against Tom's face -- her livelihood and secret sexual organs all wrapped in two damn ticklish size nine pedicured feet.

She gasped as an orgasm tore through her and Tom shuddered as he had his orgasm too, underneath her feet, below her ankles.

"I loved it."