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Happy fingers happy feet, Happy I'm floating Around on my feet now You make me go dizzy I'm weak at the knees I feel like I'm walking Round ten feet tall, Oh I wish you'd stop yer nonsense Just look at all the folk. Will yer stop yer tic-kle-ing tic-kle-ic-kle-ing. Stop yer tickling Jock!, Tickled pink
In the Muscovite palaces and courts for centuries the tickling of feet was a tradition long used to arouse a lady’s libido. Catherine the Great and Anna Ivanovna were apparently fervent participants, and would employ full-time female ticklers who would tell lewd stories and sing bawdy songs as their fingers flickered back and forth, in order to get the ladies all fruited up and ready to meet their husbands frothing at the bit. (I highly suspect that some of the ticklers and ‘ticklees’ made merry too mind winks).
(sonmi would like it noted that should anyone come anywhere near her tootsies they shall get a big fat kick in the gob)
- sonmi looking deadly serious upon the Cloud.
Esme's Cloud 
Nothing like a little toe tickling while hearing a bawdy story to get the, um, juices flowing. Ooh, did I just write that?
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Hahahaha. Blimey. You certainly did!
I’d blame the Cloud if I were you, it acts as a truth drug sometimes you know. winks.
sonmi laughing a lot upon the sneaky Cloud
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A little XTC of the podophilian kind – tout de suite!
“‘ang on a bit me old ducks, me bleedin’ corns is killin’ me”
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Indeed. The Urban Dictionary (an absolute mine of dodgy yet quite entertaining information) describes your average podophile as ‘Someone who would rather fuck a nice pair of feet instead of the person they belong to. Not to be confused with pedophile.’ – which ties in with a previous link on the Cloud (plus a little tweaking) – ‘nice feet, couldn’t care less about the boat race’. .
‘Not to be confused with pedophile‘…….shakes her head…sadly, many who are fat of head and dull of marbles would need to be informed of this potential mistake.
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“. . . ladies all fruited up and ready to meet their husbands frothing at the bit.”
What bit?
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A ‘rarebit’. nods
s.u.t.C
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Aha. Also know as a “blushing bunny” so I am informed.
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And rampant rabbits of course.
sonmi grinning upon the Cloud
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They are indeed that – far too many carrots methinks. Speaking of which, my next deep article at my place is going to be all about carrots and how they have the power to change the world. It will be all pointy and orange in colour. 😐
The frothing rarebit is also known by the name “rinktum ditty” across the waters I gather. That, for me, is a little too near the knuckle, or bum, sounding more like a stray haemorrhoid than something I would wish to pleasure myself with, or eat.
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“sounding more like a stray haemorrhoid than something I would wish to pleasure myself with, or eat.” – now there’s a sentence I suspect you didn’t imagine you’d be writing today. laughs
I love carrots so I’m already keen. Not keen in a disturbing sense, I respect carrots, and sweet potatoes too for that matter, though I have no time whatsoever for celery and cauliflower.
Just so you know.
s.u.t.C
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Ah, a carrot lover too am I, and your words invoke deep thorcus on them to be sure. My question is this: why don’t organic carrots (as found in Sainsbury’s) taste as good as they used to? There formerly was a distinction, the non-organic often being soapy to the taste, the organic being sweet and flavoursome. I am suspicious of this change. I should grow my own, and would if I could be arsed. Sweet potatoes, for myself, roasted once glazed in a little olive oil, are one of the finest foods known to humanity. Celery is an abomination; the cauliflower, I would say, dubious a thing. However, there is a recipe, heretofore exclusively for concocting in H’s kitchen, that combines the iffy Brassica with curry and coconut, the lot being pummelled so as to form a soup, one that delights on occasion, in this corner of Blighty.
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sonmi grows enough carrots for half the year in the Cloud’s garden and highly recommends the effort for the taste is sublime, and has long been suspicious of all supermarket goods, but needs must at times. Roasted sweet potatoes….mmmmmmmmmmmm…….I’m contemplating the cauli-curry (not melon), it is possible the whole ‘jeez that looks like a big fat brain and tastes as one might imagine such an organ to taste’ issue might be over-come if chopped up and covered in a nice home made korma sauce. Soup might be a step too far mind.
s.u.t.C
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I hear you on the soup front. Generally speaking, this gloopy arrangement is best served only to toothless ones. The melding together of various tastes into a blur often reminds one of the contents of the lower intestines once nature has pummelled as she must. Let the process come only after olfactory indulgence, and that, I think, is the ideal. However, H’s ‘3C Soup’ is an exception, mainly due to the aforesaid iffyness of the cauliflower, which must be erased, if necessary, by extreme force.
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Question. Were the ladies frothing at the bit, or were it the husbands (who may have been spying the whole ordeal)? Just asking.
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I’d say it sounds more like a male trait, but I know many females just as keen and kinky laughs. There was no tv in those days Peter, so peeping will have been rife I imagine.
sonmi laughing upon the Cloud
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Dear me! I did not know this!
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I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you, but better it came from me than a stranger I feel.
sonmi laughing upon the Cloud
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Who is this stranger you feel?
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Hariod, this is the Professor, Professor, I present Hariod. everyone shakes hands looking wary. The Professor won the ‘most likely to be a serial killer, but you’d still invite them round for afternoon tea’ award. So. Think on.
sonmi grinning upon the Cloud
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Er, professor . . . sir? I hope I didn’t tread on your toes just then. Whatever you get up to is none of my business. Not that you get up to anything I’m sure. And even if you did, you’ve probably done it so many times you know how to hide your tracks. So just to say, forget I ever said anything. I do not exist. I never saw nothing and never heard nothing – agreed? I know you murderers love a double negative; what a bunch you are! Bye.
[Holy shit – I’m outta here.]
“better it came from me than a stranger I feel.
Psst! Sonmi, if it wasn’t that stranger, you know the psycho nut job who you very wisely handed a Cloudie to, then are you sayin’ you feel lots of them?! Yikes! – you know you can get into trouble doing that. Again, none of my business. Just lookin’ out for you gal. H ❤
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Good to meet you, for sure. I’m something of a warrior, see.
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[gulp]
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I’m so spicy and wicked!
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Wicked and spicy. I can’t argue with that, especially as you have such a sharp sword.
s.u.t.C
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WTF?!
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hhahaha
I seriously love feet
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But how do you feel about inches and centimeters? Don’t leave them out in the cold!
sonmi measuring the Cloud
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inches are finches and centimetres merely centipedes, somni
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Sick finches high!*
sonmi has been waiting for around two and a half years for the opportunity to use that line and so thanks Jess and may well now retire from public life and take up making raffia work baskets.
s.u.t.C
*borrowed from a wordsmith sans permission, but put straight back, honest guv
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Hahhaahahahahahhashaaa
About the baskets
I want one full of toes, pickle spread and sourdough
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sonmi gets out the elephant tranquilizer darts and approaches Jess in a sneaky fashion
s.u.t.C
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Is this what they call ‘foot foreplay’? Oh-no…. you don’t have to answer!
Hahahahahaha! 😀
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Good job too, I run a respectable blog here, though it’d be more like ‘five-play’ if toes are counted. I’m sorry I posted it now laughing.
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