Psychotic Foot Fiends and Tickling Terrorists



Psychotic foot fiends and tickling terrorists . . . are they a menace, or the future kings of the New World Odor??

But seriously, I have a bud who is both of these. But he's a little more eccentric than most whom I've met. And his untoward attitude towards satisfying the hunger his fetish produced began rather early in life. I won't say how early, but you'll get the general idea. I'll just say that the first step on my road to realizing that my bud (whom I shall call "LP" here) was a little left of center began back in the days prior to the space shuttle bowing up--the days when little white me lived with a black foster family in the city of Lynwood, California.

Around this time, I used to always go to Ham and/or Leuder's park and watch basketball games or play soccer. But one day I did neither. One day I met LP, and my life hasn't been the same since. I mean it! When I first met him, he was singing an old Parliament (or perhaps it was Funkadelic) song. He sang and nonchalantly ambled up to me, and the two of us got to talking.

He wasn't dressed like the black gang-bangers around at the time (no rag in pocket, or overtly blue or red clothing) but there was something dangerous about him. Well, maybe dangerous isn't the right word. But anyway . . . eventually he and I started across the park together. I glanced at him. He was just a little taller than I was at the time, but was compact with muscle. His hair was almost shaved completely off, but it was his eyes that held my attention. They were just brown, and yet they seemed to penetrate with a depth that's kind of hard to explain. I myself was (and still am, if I do say so myself) fairly cute. I have greenish-blue eyes, and my thatch of sandy hair seemed the antithesis if LP's close cropped black stubble. I had a few freckles on my face at the time, and my fair skin contrasted greatly to his tobacco-like medium brown.

I glanced over at him and kinda shyly asked, "You play basketball?"

"Nope." He answered in that cold, monotone voice of his. He picked up two jump ropes which had been left on the blacktop where the really little kids sometimes played.



I was going to ask--if he didn't like b-ball or soccer--what the heck was he doing at the park at this time of day?

But, as if he were reading my mind, he said, "I'm checkin' out the feet of players--sometimes a few of the guys here will take off their sneaks and socks."

My heart flew up to my throat, because he'd said he liked feet so candidly. At first I was going to play the total hypocrite and pretend to be disgusted. But I couldn't do it. You see I had been keeping my own desire for male feet a secret for so long, I couldn't bear to pass up getting to know someone who shared my interest.

"Hey, I-I-" I tried to verbalize my feelings--tried to explain to him that I liked what he liked. But just trying to put my secret into audible words was making me dizzy. I stammered and swayed a little and actually felt light- headed when I said, "I-I like feet too."

"I know." LP said calmly. I seen you watchin' guys' feet here . . .an' at the pool too. Doin' most of the same shit I do to get a peek." It wasn't long at all before we started talking about our likes and even our fantasies. I told him how I dreamed about having my foster dad or one of my foster brothers tickle my feet. And he seemed to really get interested.

By this time we were in a secluded section of the park. I noticed this with some discomfort.

"When do you gotta get home?" he asked me.

"My foster brother is gonna pick me up here around six."

"Will you get put on punishment if you're late?"

At first I was confused by this "on punishment" business, but I quickly realized that he was asking me if I'd be punished if I came home late. And I told him that I surely would be.

"Shit . . . we ain't got much time then."

"What do you mean?"

"Nuthin." He replied, rolling up the jump ropes that had been left lying around. I wondered if he had a job as the park's official equipment manager or something. Nah--they wouldn't give someone his age that much responsibility. After he rolled up the jump ropes, he looked at me and said, "I could tickle you if you want. But you have to let me lick your feet."

My heart raced even faster than it already had been! I got dizzy again.

Everything was happening too fast, you know? "We can't do that out here. We--" LP cut me off and went on to tell me about all the foot encounters he'd had right under the nose of the general public. The story of a Mexican at the pool is one that really got to me.

"I think his name was Oscar Plascencia," He said. "We was jus playin' around and he ducked underwater and tried to grab my legs. I wrapped my legs around his waist and held him under while he was upside down. An' while his top half was under the water, I licked his feet which were stickin' up right near my face. At first his legs were really kickin' an' shit--too much for me to lick his feet. But once I held him under long enough his legs stopped kickin so much--"

I acted as if I didn't believe him, but I was getting cold all over, you know? He stopped walking and stared at me.

"That musta been wild." I said nervously. And I was trying my best to pretend that everything was okay. . . that nothing was wrong.

"Shiiiiiiiit, ain't nuthin' scarier than watchin' a really pale-ass whiteboy get even paler." LP said, looking at me intently. "Oscar didn't die or nuthin, you know."

"I was pretty sure you didn't kill him." I said. But it was a lie. In my rapidly thudding heart I really thought he had killed someone just to have his way with that someone's feet. My legs still felt wobbly, even though I was so relieved.

"But I really wanna lick your feet an' junk . . . I mean, as long as you ain't got deformed feet or nothin' like that."

For a quick second the panic left me and I got a little mad. "No way! My feet look great an they're--"

The panic returned when I saw the look in his eyes. I felt a bug-like bead of sweat slide down my back. "M-my brother said he might come by earlier than usual . . . t-to watch the basketball game. So I'd better be waiting over by the c-courts just in case--"

LP shook his head. "Fuck that fronting, man . . . you full o' shit." He glanced around at the emptiness of this particular area of the park. It was behind the abandoned sub station where the grass was dead and stuff. No one ever went to this unattractive portion of the park. I was in a full-blown panic now. I thought about running but, racial stereotypes aside, I knew there was no way in hell I was going to get away from him. I tried to play it off. To see if I could appease LP somehow before he did something crazy. "Hey, man. I-I'll take off my shoes and you can touch my f- feet if you want."

Without answering, he crouched and tackled me to the ground! He then slid up my body and started choking me! I tried to yell but he clamped down even harder on my throat. And he wasn't doing it carelessly, he was doing it carefully--using his strong hand to search for some crucial spot. I fought long and hard to pry his hands away, but eventually a terrible weakness came over me. . . and I suddenly understood what was happening. I was fucking dying!

I rolled over onto my back, but LP hung on, squeezing. He was squeezing the artery in a special way that kept the blood or air or something from reaching my brain. He wasn't trying to kill me, I LATER found out. But at the time I thought I was being murdered. I was crying and silently screaming for my foster dad or my foster brothers . . . anyone! I tried to reach out, tried once more to push LP away, but it was too late. I swear, I started seeing colored spots, and then the pain in my neck intensified. I felt my own hands fall limply to my sides as the blackness swallowed me up.

When I woke up I had a BAD headache.

*********PAUSE FOR THE CAUSE**********

Listen, dear reader, if you're into the S/M or kidnapping scenes or the like, DO NOT let your top or master or whatever knock you out by shutting off air to your brain. Done wrong it can cause brain damage, to say the least! Plus you wake up with a headache that can ruin whatever fun your top or whatever may have planned for you later. I'd rather deal with chloroform (deadly as THAT can be) than deal with that artery pinching stuff!


Anyways, back to my narrative . . . .

I woke up and found myself trussed up with jump ropes as I lay on my abdomen.

Using one of the jump ropes he'd been carrying, LP had tied me with my feet drawn up behind me--bound and secured to the other jump rope that similarly raised my arms. He checked the knots, drew them tight, gagged me with his blue bandanna and then pulled off my sneakers and socks. I blacked out again just as I felt his warm wet tongue stroke my tender sole.

When I woke up again, he noticed I was conscious and stopped licking and sucking and doing whatever he'd been doing to my feet while I was out.

"Okay, I'm gon' be fair about this shit," LP told me. "I got off on your feet, so it's only right that you get off too. You liked to be tickled, right?"

Before I could answer, he began to tickle my feet by gliding a stiff leaf over and between my bare toes. He stroked it between and around each toe on both feet, smiling at the sound of my gagged and tortured screams. Even with the gag, my screams were pretty loud though. I was hoping that someone would hear me. Well, I was HALF hoping that someone would hear me. Another half of me enjoyed what was happening. The feeling of being restrained and tickled was so incredible that it overpowered the massive headache I'd regained consciousness with. LP used his other hand to glide his fingers over my left foot--from my delicate heel, up my smooth sole, across the ball of my foot and all around my arch . . . then he repeated the same process over and over again. My bound body rocked like a rocking horse and I humped the grass while he tickled me.

He tickled me till I came really close to blacking out again.

Once he was finished, I sat on the grass, putting my shoes and socks back on while LP watched with a satisfied smirk. I wanted to yell and curse at him--to tell him that he was a psychotic asshole who should be put in a mental institution. But I didn't. At the time all I really focused on was how wet my socks were. It took me a moment to realize that LP had probably licked and sucked them while I was unconscious. The thought of his licking and sucking the sweat out of my socks should have disgusted me, but instead it made me feel...umm, I don't really know if there's a word for it. I put the socks on--socks that were damp with the mixture of my sweat and LP's saliva--and wiggled my toes in them. Then I put on my sneakers--the interiors of which may have also been licked by LP, but I couldn't really tell.

The whole experience was both a jumbled nightmare and a beautiful dream of lost time and reality. I watched LP carefully roll up the jump ropes he had used to bind me like a calf set for branding. He asked me if he was any good at tickling, and my anger at him ended completely when he apologetically rubbed my hair . . . as if I were the dog that had been beaten just because his master had been in a bad mood.

I was too dazed to feel humiliated or anything. There really isn't a name for what I ultimately felt after this experience. But I'll tell you this much; what I felt wasn't bad.