Myra-Breckinridge-Gore-Vidal

cruel goddess. His arms were at his sides, and I noticedwith some amusement that he was pressing the palms hardagainst the table, instinctively repeating his earlierperformance. I covered his back with a large sheet ofpaper. Then with an eyebrow pencil, I slowly traced thespine's course from the nape of the neck to the line of histrousers. "This is going very, very well." I sounded to myown ears exactly like Laraine Day, an all-time favorite. "Itsort of tickles," came a muffled voice. Triceps muscleswrithed beneath silk-smooth skin. "Are you ticklish?" Thissuddenly opened an unexpected vista. Fortunately myprogram was so designed as to include an occasionalinspired improvisation. "Well, no, not really..." But I hadalready taken one large sweaty foot in hand (againmarveling at the body heat through the thin sock) anddelicately tickled the base of the toes. The effect waselectric. The whole body gave a sudden twitch. With apowerful reflex, he kicked the foot from my hand, exclaiming"Cut that out!" in a masterful voice, so entirely had heforgotten his place. I was mild. "Do that again, Rusty, and Iwill punish you." "I'm sorry, Miss Myra." He was conciliatory.He looked at me over his shoulder (the tracing paper hadfallen to the floor). "I guess I'm more ticklish than I thought.""Apparently. Or perhaps I hurt you. You don't have athlete'sfoot, do you?" "Oh, no. No. Not for a long time... in thesummer, sometimes..." "We'll just take a look." With somedifficulty, I slipped off the damp socks. If I were a footfetishistlike poor Myron, I would have been in seventhheaven. As it was, what excited me was his profound