In the other bedroom I heard Lamarque roll out of bed at around five. It wasn't even dawn, but he always rose with the neighbor's chickens and got on the computer. As I heard him typing away, I knew that the inevitable was about to take place. I imagined him sitting at the computer, his brown-skinned muscles rippling under his Malcolm X T-shirt.
"Waz up, Endorphin Machine?" he'd ask the computer as he signed online. That's what he called his computer. The Endorphin Machine. "How are ya, yasexy silicon-based mutha fucka?"
I prayed that he wouldn't check the message boards on any of the male foot or tickling sites, for if he did he was bound to see what I'd posted a couple of days before. After about thirty minutes of listening to him punch away at the keyboard, I thought that maybe I was safe . . . that maybe the hot-tempered brother I shared a house with had focused on some good tickling pics or the like.
But then it happened.
"What the fuck . . . ?"
And before I knew it, Lamarque had rushed into my room, reached under the covers of my bed, grabbed me by my ankle a slid me right off the bed and on to the floor. He yelled at me almost belligerently, and--to be honest--I deserved it. I had posted a narration about an ancient experience the two of us shared, and, in said narration, my buddy came off in a less than flattering light.
"You made me look like some kind o' nutcase, fool!"
Managing to get away from him, I ran out of the house--barefoot and in my pajama bottoms--with Lamarque in hot pursuit. I'm not sure why I'd posted that experience. I think (well, I KNOW) I was getting back at my roommate because he flatly refused to make a video with me. I mean, the two of us had had so many tickling adventures together in private--why not make a video to share with others? I got mad at him just for being the private person that he was. And I had done it by posting something that embarrassed him. I was a jerk. I deserved to be beaten senseless. And that's what I thought was going to happen to me when Lamarque finally caught up to me and tackled me to the ground in the backyard.
"What the fuck did you do that for??" He asked, gripping my wrists. Clearly what he'd read had taken him off guard.
"You crazy fucker! I'll do what I want! Get off me!" I struggled and fought like a man possessed and waited for Lamarque to cold-conk me with a right to my jaw or something.
"Hold up, wild child." He said, frustrated as I kept managing to wriggle my arms out of his grasp. Finally he got fed up and gave me a shake that made my head bounce against the ground a bit. "Dumb-fuck! If you think you gettin' away, yo' ass is blonder than you look. I'm stronger than you are, and I can just hold you down like this till you tire yourself out."
"Get off me, you crazy black fuck!" I yelled, snarling and struggling even harder to get loose. I started drumming my bare heels on the ground like a child having a tantrum . . . and trying so hard to wrench my arms free that I felt as if I'd tear my hands right off my wrists.
Lamarque let me go. And I know why. He knew that, even though I didn't have a chance of getting loose, that I wouldn't stop trying--that I would keep struggling until I hurt myself. That's how I am. And because I'm this way, I realized why some suspects who are restrained by police officers keep on struggling to get away, even though they know they don't have a chance in hell of breaking free. They struggle to get away because there is an unusual kind of humiliation that comes from being restrained against your will . . .especially when there is no hope of fun or pleasure as a result of the restraint.
Lamarque would never have stopped struggling if someone restrained him, and he knew that I was just like him. Too much like him. I wasn't my father's son, I was Lamarque's son. Had been since I was around thirteen.
As he let me go, he scowled. If anyone else had said what I'd said to him, he would have knocked their teeth out. But not me. Physically we may have been complete opposites . . . but spiritually we were the same. He couldn't hurt me because he knew that, in a similar situation, he would have done the same thing. Plus he knew how I'd grown up . . . what my real Dad had done to me before I'd been put into foster care. He wouldn't hit me.
He got off me. Then he stood up, turned on his heel . . . and stalked off.
He went in the house, took a shower, got dressed and left. He didn't say a word to me. Wouldn't even look at me. Feeling lousy, I kept watch for him on the porch after he had been gone for about two hours. My excuse for sitting on the front porch like a loyal dog waiting for his master's return would be that I was waiting for the mailman, who was due to arrive with my first copy of Footbuddies Magazine (not a plug, the absolute truth--i swear!).
My stomach fluttered upon Lamarque's return. He made his way towards the house . . . I walked off the porch and met him half-way. I caught myself beginning to kneel . . . my knees bending at the mere sight of him. I intended to apologize--throw myself on his mercy. But the twenty-something brother glaring at me with rage-hardened eyes looked devoid of mercy.
But almost immediately he saw something in my face. I don't know how miserable I looked then, but i bet it was pretty pitiful, for the anger in Lamarque's eyes was quickly replaced by pity and forgiveness. He put his arm around me, seemingly without even realizing it--left it around my shoulder as we made our way back to the house.
"Butch-up, Davey." he ordered when it looked as if i might cry. "Don't want to give the neighbor's the idea that you're a fem do you? Most of the girls in the neighborhood still think they have a chance with you. And as long as they think they have a chance, they'll keep on droppin' by here with cakes an' stuff. "
I laughed. We continued on towards the house. As the dew-covered grass stung my bare feet, I asked him, "How come you didn't punch me out?"
I knew why. Lamarque knew why. But what he said in reply to my question was, "Well, shit . . . you might have kicked my ass if I'da hit you."
We both laughed at that one.
About a half-hour later, I was completely dressed and sitting on my bed writing like usual. i intended to take a stroll to the market on Rosecrans in a few minutes, But Lamarque had other plans.
My bedroom door swung opened.
Bound and barefoot and looking quite groggy, Jason Benedict was pushed into the room by Lamarque. He was a red-haired freckled twenty-two year old Englishman who lived about two miles from us.
"Jase!" I leaped off the bed. "Where'd you come from??"
"I had our little redhead friend nappin' in the car." Lamarque replied. "His house is where I took off to after I left here."
Jason was still a little green around the gills when he melodramatically--almost robotically--said,
"Lamarque infiltrated my home, seized me, and pinned me to the ground. I had my father's gun. It is a .45. If I had been able to get one clean shot off, I could have blown his black arse into next week. But he damn-near broke my finger getting it out of my hand. Lamarque had an ether-soaked car-buffer strapped to his hand. He covered my mouth with it and knocked me out."
Oh, by the way, don't worry about Jason and his ordeal. Being kidnapped was his "thing". Even as he lamented his capture by Lamarque, I couldn't help but to notice the throbbing boner in his pajama pants.
"Forget about Jase for now," my roommate ordered. "It's time, boyeeeeeeeee!"
Lamarque then took up some rope. He took my arm and rolled me over onto my stomach on the bed. I resisted as best I could--Lamarque would not have expected less of me. But still he got me tied--binding both wrists together behind my back.
After he tugged off my sneaks and socks, I didn't speak or offer resistence as he tied my ankles--in fact I held my feet together cooperatively while he bound them. With my hands tied, there was nothing left to do but submit.
Lamarque's hands roamed all over my body. He liked the smoothness of my fair skin, and--to be honest--I enjoyed the feel of his strong, massaging hands. I lay in the middle of the mattress, lying on my bound arms, and looking up at the man I had embarrassed for no reason other than I was possessed with a burst of bratishness. He took the time to stroke my thighs and calves while I lay there . . . on my back with my penis sticking up and waving shamelessly. Yes, the entire ordeal was getting me hot.
"Please! Don't do this, Lamarque Pleeeease!" I cried out, wriggling and twisting uneasily. I watched him wet his lips and grin evilly. He begin to stroke the soles of both my feet. I heard my own sharp intake of breath as I tried to restrain myself, gritting my teeth. My roommate laughed aloud at my predicament. Here he had me bound helpless and at his disposal like usual, and he could either be merciful despite what I had done to him on the messageboards . . . or he could tickle me unconscious.
He chose the latter. He tickled my bare soles unmercifully and, after a few minutes of listening to my incomprehensible moans and pleading, he got me to laughing loudly and uncontrollably. "Ha-ha-ha-hhhheeee. Don't . . . pl-please, Lamarque! St-stop it! Stop it! Ha-he-he-hey-no-no-nooo-oh, my god! Ha-ha-ha-he-hey-he! Pleeeeeeeeeease!" My feet are so vulnerable and he began tracing swirls and patterns with his nails to extract the utmost benefit from each stroke. While all this was going on, Jason--hands still bound--was actually on the floor, sniffing the socks Lamarque had pulled off me!
As for me personally, it seemed that my feet were feeling all the tickling torture in the world as Lamarque mercilessly attacked my soles . . . and my cock started getting harder than it already was. In slow motion--while Lamarque tickled and tickled and tickled my feet--my penis continued to rise higher. Then suddenly there was Jason's hands on me, pumping my cock up and down as Lamarque continued to tickle. And I came . . . shooting my load hard . . .almost passing out . . . but struggling to hold on as I clung to the amazing sensations encompassing me. I screamed with mixed laughter and rapture. Lamarque persisted in tickling my feet as I spurted, driving me into a fit of sinuous spasms and convulsions and wriggling and squirming and writhing . . .as much as my bonds would allow. He worked my right foot then moved over to my left. I uttered growls of pleasure and that really turned Lamarque on.
He paused from tickling my feet in order to gently kissed each of my toes and down my feet and around to my insteps. I giggled and cooed like a happy baby. He then spread each of my toes and licked and blew the tender spaces between them. He licked and kissed my feet, then caressed and massaged them. Laughing uproariously, I threw my head back in shear cosmic bliss. I strained desperately at my constraints, gasping for breath between every jarring laugh. With Jason still pumping my cock, I came again--feeling hot cum shoot up and splatter down upon my body just before I passed out cold.
When I regained consciousness, I was sore, but completely forgiven.