Tracy
Rating:
;
Genre=Fiction;
Pages=8;
Characters=16,282;
I originally posted this story over a year ago. Lately there has been increased NG activity pertaining to this interest so I thought I’d post it again.
Please do not allow anyone under the age of 18 to read the contents of this message. This short story is fairly PG rated compared to some of the other stories here. I'd be interested in any thoughts on the subject of cast fetish, as well as any other stories and/or pictures that you could send me. This is only my second attempt at this kind of writing so please be kind with any criticisms. -- RB
I looked at my watch. It told me that two minutes had passed since the last time I looked at my watch. A quick glance to the wall clock confirmed that my watch was still correct, even though my watch now had two more minutes of wear and tear on it. I debated whether to call time to confirm that the clock and watch were correct, but I decided that was a little excessive.
Tracy was almost an hour and a half late. I had stopped being annoyed about a half an hour ago and started becoming worried. She was normally fairly punctual; not obsessively so, but just enough to let me know that she should have been here by now. Or at least have called.
It was not like we were on any particular time-table. Our Friday night date consisted of pizza and a video. The pizza man was running late too. I forced myself to sit down and relax. This worked for about two minute s and then I started the whole thing all over again.
At 8:45, almost two hours after she was supposed to be here, I heard some kind of rustling and a thud outside my apartment door. The bell rang just as I reached the door to peer through the peep-hole at Tracy's distorted image.
"It's me, silly," she said through the closed door. "Let me in."
I opened the door to reveal a grinning Tracy, supporting herself on a pair of crutches with a full-length cast on her left leg. My mouth dropped open, and I just stood there staring at her.
"Do you mind if I come in?" she asked sweetly, struggling on her crutches to get through the doorway. I waited until she got through, closing the door behind her and following her as she went into the living room, swinging smoothly on her crutches. She turned around to face me, hopping on one foot before coming to rest and leaning again on her crutches. She was still displaying an embarrassed grin.
I continued to stare at her, becoming strangely aroused at the sight of the cast on her leg. I raised my eyebrows and nodded towards the cast.
"It's a long story," she said, rolling her eyes. "Do you mind if I sit down. Your elevator was out of order and I had to climb the stairs to get up here." I noticed that there was a faint sheen of perspiration on her forehead. "Why can't you live on the first floor?" she asked accusingly.
She worked her way over to the couch, struggling to maintain her balance on the crutches as she carefully picked her way around the various pillows and furniture that made up my living room. Grabbing both crutches with one hand, she supported her weight on them as she settled down onto my couch, her casted leg resting on the floor. She leaned the crutches against the end of the coffee table and then, taking a deep breath, picked up the cast with her hands and maneuvered it around onto the couch. Since she had taken up most of the available couch space, I sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her, examining the cast while she described the traumatic day that she had had.
She exhaled heavily. "I'm not sure that doctor knows what he is doing," she exclaimed with as much disdain as she was capable. "Remember I told you that I injured my knee water-skiing a couple of years ago." I nodded . "Well, I didn't think it was that bad of an injury. I only had to wear a brace for a few weeks and that was it." She pulled herself up into a more comfortable position on the couch. "Well, my knee never really stopped hurting. Not really bad, but still, after almost two years it didn't go away." She leaned forward to take off her sweatshirt, pulling it over her head, her long dark hair falling in waves as it came off.
"Anyway, I was supposed to go back to the doctor once a year for a checkup. I missed the first appointment - a year ago - but his office kept bugging me to go this year, so I finally went. When I got there, the doctor gave me a long lecture about missing last year's appointment and then he took a bunch of x-rays of my knee. I guess he found some torn ligaments that he had missed the first time." She shook her head in disgust. "It didn't really hurt that much anymore and the only reason I went to the appointment was to keep them from bugging me, but the next thing I knew, they were putting me in this cast!"
She flung her arms up in exasperation, "Look at me," she cried. "I started out this morning feeling fine, and now I'm hobbling around on crutches, like some... some... something!" She put her head back against the couch and closed her eyes. A single tear rolled down her cheek. "How am I supposed to work, or do my aerobics class. I can't even drive my car!"
She opened her eyes and looked at me apologetically. "That's why I was so late, I had to wait for my roommate to give me a ride."
Her car was a small import with a manual transmission, and she obviously could not work the clutch with the cast on her leg. I didn't even think she could fit through the doorway of the thing. I was suddenly struck wit h the humorous image of her squeezing into her tiny car and trying to work the pedals with the tips of her crutches. I mistakenly let a smile cross my face.
"What are you laughing at," she asked teasingly, wiping the tears from her eyes, quickly regaining her spirit. "You're supposed to comfort me." She slapped my shoulder lightly. "Don't you have any sympathy for me?" S he asked as she pushed out her lower lip and tried to look sad.
I got up to sit across from her on the couch, lifting the cast up and re-settling it into my lap, surprised at how heavy the thing was. Tracy was a small woman, only 5'2", and even though she worked out, I could understand how difficult it would be to try and walk with the crutches with a hunk of plaster on her leg.
"Well, at least I have some sick-time coming," she said, brightly. "And since my leg doesn't really hurt, it will be sort of like a vacation. Although, I'm sure I would look strange with a tan on only one leg."
The doorbell rang. Probably the pizza. I moved out from under her cast, again amazed at how heavy it was, and went to retrieve their pizza, tipping the guy even though it was an hour late. I grabbed some plates and went back into the living-room, setting the pizza and plates out on the coffee table. Tracy had settled more deeply into the couch and half closed her eyes and I assumed that she was not really interested in eating. I closed the box and went to put it into the fridge.
I was not really hungry either; the sight of Tracy with the cast on her leg had set off a strange throbbing in the pit of my stomach and groin and all I could think about was running my hands over the surface of the cast.
I asked her if she wanted to watch the movie and she mumbled distantly and gestured vaguely towards the television with her hand. Turning the volume low, I started the old b&w classic that we had both seen countless times and went back over to the couch, sitting with the cast in my lap again. Tracy crossed her good leg over the cast - her tanned skin contrasting sharply with the white plaster - and straightened up a little in an half-hearted attempt to watch the movie.
While the opening credits were rolling, I undid the laces of the high-top tennis shoe on her other foot, removing it and the sock and dropping them to the floor. As she usually did when I removed her shoes, she yawned widely and gave a big stretch. My heart actually skipped a beat at the sight of her toes, protruding from the end of the cast, splaying out during her stretch. before she crossed her arms across her chest and closed her eyes.
The movie played on, and even though I was looking in the direction of the television, I was not paying any attention to it, so excited was I from Tracy's cast. As I normally did when we were sitting on the couch together, I began to lightly stroke the length of her legs, feeling the familiar smoothness of her skin and the nice curve of her calf and thigh. Hesitantly, I switched my hand over to the casted leg, running my hand up and down it's length, admiring the rough feel of the plaster, the way it exaggerated the shape of her thigh, getting narrow as it came to a small point around her kneecap and then continuing in a gentle curve down to her toes. I was a little self-conscious doing this, knowing that she might think it a little strange, until I realized that she could not feel anything through the thick layer of plaster.
I looked over and saw that Tracy was breathing deeply, now completely asleep. Not surprising, considering the day that she had. I gave up pretending to watch the movie and examined more closely the cast on her leg.
The sight of her foot held imprisoned in the plaster cast was really getting me going and was far more arousing than I would ever have suspected. I have always been a little bit of a foot fetishist, and Tracy had beautiful feet. A perfect size 6, with well formed toes and a nice, high arch. I always enjoyed the sight of them, especially in high-heels.
I examined her foot closely where it exited from the end of the cast. There was a slight streak of white plaster along the side of her big toe, right where her foot disappeared into the cast, obviously where the doctor h ad spilled. I could see that she had gotten a pedicure recently; her toenails were neatly trimmed and polished with a bright, red polish.
I loved the way the cast followed the line of her foot, holding it extended, arched gracefully so that her toes were pointed out. In this way, I knew that there was no way that she could wear one of those cast-walking s hoes; with her foot positioned the way it was, only her toes would be able to touch the ground. I mentally thanked the doctor for putting her in the cast this way; the next few weeks would be enjoyable, watching her move around, unable to walk without the use of her crutches.
Thrilled though I was at the outcome of the day's events, it had been a long day for me as well and I could feel myself start to grow tired. Sitting back and returning my gaze to the television, I started massaging her un-casted foot absently, squeezing the ball of the foot in the palm of my hand and pushing my thumb into the bottom of her heel. She hummed to herself in pleasure and smiled in her sleep.
I continued to massage her foot until my fingers were sore, and as I usually did when I finished, I ran my fingers along the bottom of her toes, which I knew were very sensitive, watching in amusement as her foot jerked away in a reflexive reaction. Struck by a sudden flash of inspiration, I started running the tip of my index finger along the underside of the toes that stuck out from the end of the cast. As I touched each toe, it twitched a little, but otherwise she did not stir. I continued to do it, watching her face for any reaction. Without really waking up, she scrunched her eyebrows together in disapproval and tried to turn over. I stopped t easing her toes for a moment and held onto the cast to prevent her from moving away, waiting for her to start sleeping peacefully again so I could start teasing her toes again with my finger.
This went on for quite awhile; me tormenting her in her sleep until she was on the verge of waking up, and then stopping long enough to let her fall back to sleep completely. Finally, her eyes fluttered for a moment, an d then opened, looking at me sleepily.
"What are you doing?" she asked, in annoyance.
Without answering, I increased the tickling, grabbing each toe and twisting it lightly. She made a vain attempt to pull her toes away, but the cast stopped her from accomplishing any significant movement.
"That's not fair," she yelled, suddenly realizing the vulnerability of her position. As I continued to tease the tips of her toes, she tried to get at me to knock my hands away, but with the cast holding her leg straight, she quickly discovered that she could not reach. I quickly shifted my position, sitting sideways with both my feet on the couch and the foot of the cast between my legs, on my lap. I squeezed my knees together against the cast to hold her leg steady, freeing up both hands to use on her. She immediately began to squirm wildly, trying to kick at me with her other foot, her blows falling harmlessly against the edge of the couch.
From my new vantage point, I saw that the cast left part of the ball of her foot exposed. As she yelled in protest, and increased her effort to get at me with her hands and other foot, I continued to squeeze and stroke her toes with one hand, running the back of my fingernails of my other hand against the ball of her foot. She immediately lost all control, squealing hysterically and writhing on the couch; her toes frantically splaying out and scrunching together in a desperate attempt to get away from my fingers. The muscles in her leg and foot were stretched taut, unable to flex and move, totally immobilized inside the cast. She grabbed a pillow, covering her face and screaming into it and then trying to hit me with it, frustrated that she was still unable to reach. I tried briefly to get at the arch of her foot, but could not get my fingers under the tight-fitting cast, so I resumed tickling her toes and the portion of her foot that was exposed.
This was certainly more than enough to keep her going. By now, she was laughing and screaming loudly, still trying desperately to wiggle away from me and the agony that I was bringing her. There were now tears streaming down her face and I could tell she was actually having trouble catching her breath. I slowed down a little, just lightly stroking the ball of her foot, waiting patiently for her breathing to come under control. But only for a moment before starting up again. Time and time again, I repeated this cycle; slowing down just enough to let her get a little under control and then resuming my torture of her foot until she was on the brink of hysteria.
I had known that she was ticklish, but until now I had never been able to hold her long enough to explore how ticklish she really was, or to find out where her most vulnerable spots were. But now that she was effectively my prisoner, I was able to investigate all kinds of possibilities, at least as far as the part that was held immobile by the cast.
I discovered that she had an extremely sensitive spot on the underside of her big toe. Every time I touched that area, her whole body jerked like she'd been shocked. Mercilessly, I zeroed in on this area for a while, watching her thrash around with enjoyment, wondering briefly whether my neighbors would complain about the high-pitched squealing coming from my apartment.
I quickly found that I was able to cause her even more torment by tickling each of her toes one at a time, starting at the little toe and working my way up to, but randomly skipping, the newly-discovered, ultra-sensitive big-toe. This seemed to be an almost worse torture than the actual tickling. Each time I got to her big toe, she steeled herself in anticipation, almost howling in frustration when I skipped it and went back to her little-toe.
After a few courses of this, I stopped tickling her, deciding that she had probably had enough. I watched as her perspiration soaked body visibly collapsed in relief, and she lay there for awhile trying to catch her breath.
Finally, she sat up on the couch, her chest still heaving, and crossed her other leg back over the cast that was still between my legs. She looked at me with a twinkle in her eye.
"Hmmm, that was kind of fun," she said, still giggling softly.
The End