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My Ticklish Revenge
by QuantumLuv

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Doug was smoking a cigarette outside. No, scratch that: Doug was angrily smoking a cigarette outside.

He was sitting right in front of his parking space in front of his apartment. It was around 1AM, the moon was out and lighting the night sky, while the 26-year old sat there in exile. A great drunken night of sex with his girlfriend had turned into a great big drunken post-sex argument with his girlfriend. They fought, she broke his glasses, and then preceded to kick him out of the very apartment they rented together. The night sky was chill, and Doug was shivering: he only had on his ratty old black The Who T-shirt, his light-blue jeans with big knee holes, and his long cotton socks and black shoes. This is how I've come to see Doug more than once. This wasn't the first time I had been called over to be mediator to this troubled couple's arguments. This isn't the first time I've seen the young guy locked out of his apartment by his psychotic partner. This isn't the first time he's reached out for help. This will be the first time I don't help him, however.

Doug and I were insanely good friends. Unbelievably so. Thought-predicting, sentence-finishingly good. That is until that one night. That one, drunken night. The night when I got candid with him, told him about my foot fetish. He was very nice about, not fully understanding but certainly responding well to the news, asking a few questions but generally humoring me about the only real secret I was hiding from him. Of course, he didn't know I had always fantasized about his feet: his size 9, soft-as-hell, slightly furry on top feet that just drove me up the fucking wall. Doug always had a well-kept beard that he maintained, and it was usually that and his lightly hairy hands that always reminded me of those perfect-looking pedicel treasures. I say, "reminded" because he was always "self-conscious" about his feet. He rarely, if ever, went barefoot. He owned sandals but pretty much never donned them. He was a shoe guy, by and large. As such, his soles were kept in mint condition: soft, clean, and so fucking unbelievably ticklish. Yet I didn't tell him all this. His girlfriend, however, was eavesdropping: listening in. She misunderstood so much, burst into the room, called me "faggot" and the top of her lungs, and demanded I leave her house. This news surprised the both of us, and an argument soon ensued. Bitch then broke my cell phone just because. Everyone walked away bitterly. When I finally saw Doug a week later, he was cold, distant. For some truly inexplicable reason, he had taken her side on everything. He felt "betrayed" for some reason, and I couldn't figure out why. That distance turned into bitterness, and I still didn't understand why I had just lost my best friend. He continued on as nothing happened. To say I was resentful would be an understatement.

Which leads us to why tonight was so weird. He called me up to inform me he got locked out (again) and needed to find a place to crash. I recommended my place (which he stayed at before), but he felt "uncomfortable" around me. "So why did you call?" I asked. "‘Cause I have no one else to talk to,” he replied. I didn't understand it. Positively none of this made sense. Yet even with everything, I still considered him a friend. I drove out to help him. I let him into my car. He put out his cigarette and got in, still shivering somewhat. We started driving off -- with no particular destination in mind -- and I was trying to figure out what happened. He and his girlfriend were fighting again (nothing new), but this time it was about me for some reason. His explanation soon turned into a tirade: he kept on asking why I had to fuck everything up for him, to which I sat there dumbfounded and confused. Apparently he hadn't gotten over the alleged "incident", despite the fact that nothing had happened. I did my best to contain my anger, but he kept badgering me without any legitimate basis. I had enough, pulled over the side of the road, and got out. He got out too, and continued yelling at me, asking why I had to even get involved in his life. I reminded him that we used to be good friends and it was just as much his deal as it was mine but apparently that wasn't a good-enough explanation from him. He then started mocking me, and I began to really question why I was called in the first place. The hate that was spewing out of his mouth -- I couldn't stand it. I selfishly thought of all the good times we shared, all the bars we used to drink at, all the movies we had rented and drunkenly mocked. He had developed a selective memory about all of that, apparently. I was not only a stranger to him: I was point of hatred. At that point, I had had enough. While he stood next to the passenger-side door extolling his hate-speech, I popped open the trunk, and grabbed a bottle of chloroform. I took a breath in -- taking in full understanding of everything that was about to happen -- and then released. I opened up the bottle of chloroform, pulled a dusty rag from the trunk space, dipped just the right amount in it, sealed up the bottle, and closed the trunk, rag in hand.

I walked right over to Doug -- still talking for some reason -- and pressed the rag right up to his mouth in mid-sentence. He struggled for a moment, but things happened too quickly. Within five seconds, he was out. He collapsed on the ground by the side of the road. Fortunately at this hour, there weren't many cars around, and I suspect the ones that were just thought he was drunk. I hoisted him back into the car, and strapped him. I couldn't believe it: I was getting a tear in my eye. I hated that I was doing this, but I had to be honest: one can only take so much abuse for so long before one snaps. I had been Mr. Nice Guy long enough. Now, it was time for him to feel alone and isolated -- at my hands, of course ...

***

When Doug woke up, the first thing he noticed was the taste: slightly smelly, very colorful, and very strange. Textured. Cotton-y. Oh yes: I only hope that he would realize that it was my work socks from that very day that were jammed into his mouth. He tried moving his tongue, but all he did was just lick more toe sweat. The sock had then been taped over his mouth, so he couldn't do jack about it. The second thing he noticed was that he couldn't move. His hands were tied very tightly behind his back. Very tightly. He wasn't feeling rope-burn, but he sure as hell couldn't move his hands. Then, of course, were his legs. Dude was still fully clothed -- he even still had his shoes on! -- But his jeans were providing nice cover: his ankles were tightly duct-taped, and even the area just above his knees was restrained as well. He couldn't spread his legs apart even if he wanted to and his life depended on it. Nope: instead, he was belly down on my big futon in my own apartment, helpless as a baby seal. He could move his legs up and down if he wanted. He could even do The Worm. That was about it. He tried making muffled noises, but all he was greeted with was silent. He looked around. It was obviously my apartment, but everything was dark. He tried screaming through his gag, he tried struggling against his bonds, but it was totally useless: he was helpless. He was mine.

After about 10 minutes of fear-induced hysteria, I turned out a small lamp near the foot of the futon (and where his feet were). He tried looking, but the belly-down position didn't give his neck much arc. He tried to see what he could, but that's when I spoke up. "Hey there Doug. It's me." He struggled some more. "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry buddy, but you're home now. And, well, you're gonna be here for awhile." Struggling again. I sat on the futon, my lap about a foot away from his writhing legs. Those somewhat-worn shoes not even knowing where they'd end up in a bit.

Doug was obviously a bit angry, but I let him have his moment. "Listen up, dumbass," I said in a somewhat-menacing tone, "Do you want to know what's going to happen to you?" His neck arced as much as it could and he glared at me. I smiled. "You see Doug, I've been patient with you. I've been patient as hell, really. When you and your girlfriend decided to shaft me for virtually no reason whatsoever, I took it in stride. I know some friendships cannot last forever, and I obviously hit a button with you. I'd apologize, but I don't really know what apologize for. For being myself? For treating you like the good guy that I know you are? It's hard to say, really. Yet when I get this call out of the blue after dealing with you ignoring me for months, when I pick you up -- yourself obviously still liquored up as hell -- and have to deal with nonsense, accusations, and lies flying out of your mouth, what am I supposed to do, Doug? Smile? Thank you for the favor? Need I remind you of my broken phone? Of being called "faggot"? Of all the isolation and loneliness you forced upon me? All I wanted was an explanation and I never got one, despite reaching out to you. And now you want me to house you again but you can't trust me enough to stay with me? Well I had it, good friend. I've gone way beyond the limit of casual generosity for you. Right now, I get to be jealous. I get to be selfish. I get to ... teach you a lesson." Struggling, take 6. "And oh yes, Doug, it's going to involve your ... feet."

The neck arced again: now his eyes were wide -- with terror.

My lap moved next to him, I grabbed his jeans by the belt loops, and used that to toss him around, the boy now belly-up. I stood up and got more duct-tape. I grabbed him by the ankles and pulled his body down so that his legs were just barely over the wooden edge of the futon. I looped the tape through the gap between his ankle-tape and knee-tape, essentially isolating his feet to just barely be sticking out over the edge of the futon. I taped and taped -- Doug was not going anywhere tonight. He still tried struggling on occasion, but already his energy was starting to waver. I was becoming alarmingly pleased with how things were going. I pulled over a chair, and sat right in front of his feet. He tried wavering them around from the ankles, but his movement was extremely limited. I knew just what it'd take to put him over the edge ...

I gripped his left shoe with my hand. He got panicked. My grip tightened. I could feel the foot inside trying to break my hold -- like a moth trapped inside a mason jar -- but it was no use. I was owning this boy tonight. I grabbed his right one now, and he fidgeted and panicked like any good victim should. All I did was hold those shoes in place until the fluttering feet inside calmed down. Once they did, I simply ran my hands up and down the tops of his shoes, just to make his own feet feel like they're objects: like they're not even his anymore. He struggled so more, but, again, to no avail. Also, not as much struggling this time: this was all a good thing. It was almost as if he was resigning to his fate.

Both my hands made their way to his laces, and began slowly pulling those knots undone. I talked as I did so. "So, as you know Doug, I have a male foot fetish. It's huge. It's gigantic. If this were real life, I would be paying you hundreds of dollars just to do what I'm doing right now for free. Yeah, a foot fetish is homoerotic -- I'm not going to deny that -- but 'faggot'? No, not as much so. I know you're 'self-conscious' about your feet being unshod, but Christ man -- you can't hide those things from me forever. They're just too fucking amazing. I think after all the shit I've been through, I deserve a little treat, don't you?" He tried screaming through his gag. It was beautifully muffled. The undone laces now dangled downward. I loosed up the tongues on both of them. "Look at me, Doug." He didn't. "LOOK AT ME!" I yelled in a threatening baritone. He stopped ... and craned his head upwards. Our eyes met.

"Think about everything I've been through. Think of all the isolation that you put me through. Think of everything I lost because of you. Think about how you called me tonight, and think about everything that you said." A moment passed. I then very quietly said to him "Doug, if our roles were reversed, wouldn't you do the same?"

The look that he gave me wasn't one of acknowledgement or resentment. He probably wouldn't do the same if our roles were reversed, but he knew that he wasn't a completely blameless creature at this moment. He just gave me the slightest of nods. He knew. He understood. He didn't condone, but he understood. In truth, that took me by surprise. He didn't have to. He should've been angry still. I stepped away for a moment, and then came back with a sleeping eye-mask. I placed it over his eyes. "You don't need to see what happens next, buddy."

He muffled some things but I sure as hell couldn't understand (nor did I care to hear). I unzipped and pulled off my own jeans at this point: I had been sporting a hard-on ever since he woke up. I didn't take off my boxers just yet -- I wanted to play with my toy, first. I went to his left shoe, wrapped my hands around it, and pulled it off very, very slowly. This was deliberate: I wanted to make each moment unbearable for him. Molasses was faster than this. I just wanted him to feel his meager protection slipping away from him. Past the ankle, the sole, and the toes -- it was off. The socked foot in front of me wiggled a bit -- it was breathing. I did the same to the other foot, and then boom: I had two socked Dougfeet right in front of me. Oh boy. This was fun. I examined the soles of his socks: there foot impressions. Right around the toes and the arch and heel: he had been wearing these socks all day today (even during sex earlier? who knew!). I went and placed my nose just an inch away from his soles, and could just feel the sweaty warmth radiating from them. I then took a big sniff inward. A symphony of erotic flavors had entered my brain. I got drunk off those feet in mere seconds. I was excited. I was in ecstasy. Yet this wasn't enough. I then pressed my nose right into his toes and inhaled. I had become a smell hound, and he was the prey. By physically pressing myself into his feet, he couldn't help but feel a bit violated, but that was the point: these weren't his feet anymore -- they were mine.

I sniffed and sniffed and even lightly jerked myself while doing so. This was heaven. He muffled and struggled, but to no effect: my hunt for his footstink was just too great. Perhaps it even smelled better knowing how desperate he felt: maybe there was some fear sweat creeping in as well. Then I sat back on the chair again. I prepped my index finger. It inched closer to the ball of his left foot. Then, I scratched it.

His whole body lurched. The wonderful thing about keeping your feet in shoes all the time: they become soft -- and sensitive. Even with that thin layer of cotton between his skin and my fingernail, he could still feel the tickle running through him like a bolt of electricity. It returned again. He jumped again. Then I prepped all 10 nails to start lightly scratching at the balls of his feet. Within seconds, his whole body was writhing again. Holy fuck: he was even more ticklish than I was. Scratchy scratchy scratchy went the nails. The feet tried to cross in front of each other to prevent the attack, but it was no use: the Tickle Spiders were winning. Slowly they moved up his soles, right to the base of his does, still lightly scratching back and forth, back and forth. I could make out deep-throated laughter even through the gag. Oh, I was getting to him. Yet the Spiders were in no hurry: my hands took their time dishing out Doug's tickle punishment. Next thing he knew, they were playing with his toes. They weren't tickling as much as they were just playing: dancing up and around, poking inbetween (even with the socks in the way), and then quickly scampering down to his ankle again. Then back up. Then down. Then more tickly scratches. This continued for about 20 minutes. It went by like 30 seconds for me ... I couldn’t imagine how long it felt for him.

"Awww," I said as I turned to him taking a pause. He was breathing heavily through his nose. "I think you put up with a lot already, haven't you Doug?" He nodded in panicked agreement. "I think we should reward you, shouldn't you?" His head shook vigorously. "Well, I know you pretty well," I started, "and if I'm not mistaken, you just love ... being..." I stretched each pause out longer. He was sweating with anticipation. "Bare..." His eyes widened. "... Foot."

He screamed so hard. I could almost hear it through the gag this time! I knew each second was slowing down into a torturous minute with him, and I fucking loved it. I was going to break Doug's spirit, and I hadn’t even gotten started yet. I sat down again -- he was still moaning -- and I pinched the little bit of sock between his index and big toe. I did this for both socks. "Ready for liftoff?" He screamed "Noooooooooo!” and I laughed. With firm grip, those socks were coming off slowly. The sock rims sliding down his leg ... then around his ankle and heel ... and up the sole. His feet were pointed upwards, so by the time the sock rims were just above the toe base (and totally not touching any Doug foot at all), I just let them dangle there, like a cotton bell, around his toes. They weren't on his feet, technically, but the socks still covered up his toes just dangling there. I wanted him to feel his last big of protection just barely, barely within reach. I just let the socks dangle for well over a minute, tempting and teasing him. And then, I threw them aside. Doug was now barefoot. Barefoot. Barefoot.

Oh god what a sight.

The toes stretched like how your arms do when you first get out of bed in the morning. They were only covered by air now. Those hairs on the tops of his feet -- god, so sexy. And those soles: so perfectly shaped. So beautiful to look at. And they were here, in front of me. They were here, ready to be ... tickled.

Without warning, my hands had become Tickle Spiders again, and the lightly whipped along the soles of his feet. Then the sides of his feet. Then the tops of his feet (my favorite part). Then, I cupped both ankles in my hands, freed up my index finger for each, and just let that finger scratch and scratch and scratch. It was like a Scratch-and-Sniff lotto ticket in a way: I scratched 'em, and then sniffed his toes. He must've felt so used right about now, but that was kind of the point. My hard-on was now raging like a maniac at this point. The index finger kept scratching and I could hear him chortling and giggling through his gag. I looked over, and saw the biggest smile stretch across his face, and I smiled myself. He had no control over his emotions anymore: I did, and right now I felt like Doug should be laughing. I stuck my nose right next to that big toe on his right foot and inhaled. Then his left. Then his right again. Then his left again. Man, I could keep this up for hours.

"Feel used yet?" I asked. He gave me a "Mm-hmm" that was almost through tears. God this was fun.

I went over to a nearby drawer and pulled out some bird feathers. Nothing much, but just something fun to tease him with. I began feathering the sides of his ankles, and kept that up for five solid minutes. I know what that feels like: it almost tickles but not really but still kinda does. It's almost like tickle foreplay, your senses getting mad before finally crying out "JUST TICKLE ME ALREADY!" The feathers then messed with his toe hairs, then in-between his fun boytoes, then up and down his soles. He kept laughing and his body (low on energy) still had a spastic twitch here and there. Doug was being worn down into tickle putty. The feathers did their dance, the victim just laid back and laughed.

I stopped, finally, to give him a breather. Every single nerve ending on his feet must've felt on fire. Even though I wasn't tickling him, he was still laughing. Almost like waves upon waves of aftershocks still hitting him. I went to the kitchen and grabbed two water bottles: one for me and one for him. I kneeled down next to the side of the futon and pulled of the tape. Then I slowly pulled my socks out of his mouth. His voice was hoarse. "You ... you bastard."

"Have some water" I insisted. Though he still couldn't see, his open mouth eventually found the plastic salvation. He took the water without hesitation, practically draining the entire thing like a hamster in a cage. "Good boy" I told him. I drank some myself. "Please..." he beckoned, all scratchy-sounding. "I give up. Please let me go." It sounded so delightfully pathetic. "Oh but Doug..." I started, "we haven't even got around to lubing your feet yet."

"Noooooo!" said the scratchy, almost non-existent voice.

I went back to my chair near his beautiful Dougfeet. "But wait Doug -- I'm all out of lube. Well, you know what I'm going to have to do then, right?" I didn't hear any response. I smirked. I kneeled down next to him so his feet were at face-level. I licked my chops, and planted my moist tongue right at the ball of his left foot, left it there, and slowly drug it upwards. "Noooooooo!" he cried, but it was too late: the worship had begun.

My slow tongue was giving his helpless soles their much-needed saliva. My tongue flickered a bit when it got to his toes. Then it started at the bottom again -- on his other foot. I went back and forth licking his Dougsoles, my tongue as Huck Finn's paintbrush and his feet as that endless picket fence in need of a fresh coat. I then went and licked the sides of his feet, his insteps, and then slithered my greedy tongue in-between his toes, savoring every flavor. God this was heaven. His hips thrusted a bit involuntarily, but mostly, Doug was laughing. He's no doubt been tickled before, but not like this. Never like this. He was in pure tickle hell. Plus, the new moisture on his feet was making his skin sensitive to the air around him, the bit of wind in the room occasionally rolling past his sensitive dogs and giving them an extra, bonus tickle. I like bonus tickles.

When I got to his toes, though, god I had a ball. I sucked those things like lollipops, spending extra time flickering his toe hairs. Sometimes I'd even scratch his feet while doing so. He was laughing and hating me and probably secretly loving all of this at once. His mind didn't know anymore: it was all confused and irrational. I was controlling it now. I kept sucking and sucking and sucking his toes for well over 20 minutes. Then stopped. I lay down a bit. I looked up at his bound feet. Even through the window, there was a sliver of moonlight bouncing off of his saliva-coated toes now, and it was one of the hottest fucking images I've ever seen. Only now was it time to have fun.

I grabbed some scissors and cut his legs free from the futon armrest. His legs were still bound, but he was no longer in one place. I picked up his body and laid him on the ground face down. I then walked about 15 feet away to the entrance of my apartment. I opened the front door wide open. I put my jeans back on (hard-on be damned), kneeled in front of him, and pulled off his eye mask. I pointed to the front door. "Alright Doug, I gotta use the restroom, but let's be fair. If you can make your entire body out that door by the time I get back, I'll let you go. How does that sound?" He didn't respond, but I didn't wait up. "Go!" I said. I really did have to use the restroom, so I did.

When I stepped back out, I knew exactly what had happened: Doug, only able to really move his legs, had "wormed" his way 4 feet closer to the door. His head was still about 10 feet away. It was so demeaning to crawl on his belly towards freedom, but I liked it that way. I snuck up behind him and without warning began licking his soles while they were moving. "Noooo!" he cried, and tried to escape as quickly as he could. I kept following and licking. Of course, this was all part of my plan: I wanted him to use up every last remaining reserve of mental and physical energy towards this task that I knew was impossible for him to do. And even if he did, make it out, what was he going to do? Go down whole flights of stairs by him? Stand up and use a phone with his nose? I had merely created the illusion of freedom for him. In his delirious state of mind, the illusion was real enough for him.

As I (quite literally) nipped at his heels, his chin had finally made it out the door. At this point, I then put his legs in an arm lock, and then just proceeded to tickle his feet with vigor. Oh, how they squirmed still. Like little creatures. Little bits of life gasping for freedom. And he tried moving, but I was holding him immobile. "Oops, times up!" I cried. Still holding his legs, I simply stood up and dragged his bound body allllllll the way back to the base of the futon. "Noooooo!" he cried (again -- it was becoming his catch-phrase for the night!). I casually walked over to the door and locked it, trying to make the clicking door lock sound as loud as possible.

Now that he was completely on my carpeted floor, I swung him around so that his face was next to the lamp I turned on earlier. I put the eye mask on again, but he was too tired to say ... anything. I pulled my chair over and pulled out my cell phone. "OK Doug, do you really want to get out of here?" "Yes," he whimpered, in near tears. "Do you now know how shitty you made me feel?" "Yes" he said. "Why did you do that to me?" His fevered mind couldn't think of anything, which is what I was counting on. "I don't know,” he said in desperation. Just the answer I was looking for. "You don't know? Then why did you even do it if you don't know?" A pause. All he could think of: "I don't know." "Well, it's almost all over soon. I just want you to return me the favor that I did for you tonight ... and lick my feet."

His face grimaced for a moment, but he knew he had no choice. "OK" he sighed. Even though he was blind and on the floor like a worm, I inched my socked feet ever closer to his face. "Now take my socks off." Once his face felt the shape of my feet, his mouth bit down on a bit of sock tip, and I pulled my left foot out. Then he did the other one. "Do you like taking the socks off my feet, Doug?" "Yes" he blindly bemoaned, knowing no other answer would've worked. "Now suck on my toes,” I ordered. His mouth felt around, and then he engulfed my big left toe. His mouth sucked on it smoothly, simply, steadily. He went around to other toes and licked and sucked them with equal precision. Even for faking this gesture just for me, I would've mistaken him for a guy with his own foot fetish any other night of the week. He simply sucked and sucked my digits. I was fucking loving it. I kept badgering him with questions. "Do you like my toes?" "Yes." "Do you love sucking on them?" "Yes, sir." "Say it to me!" "I ... I love ... sucking on your toes ... sir." "Will you do it anytime I ask?" "Yes, sir."

CLICK. His mouth stopped. "What was that?" he asked. "Hold on a second" I said. A few digits were pressed in my phone, and boom -- it was sending to my e-mail inbox. I rewound the minutes-long video I had just been filming, and then held up the playback to his ear: "Do you like taking the socks off my feet, Doug?" "Yes." I stopped it. I could see he was crying a bit. I broke him.

As tears streamed down his face, I grabbed the scissors and unbound him everywhere. His weak, depleted body just lay there. I sat down and nursed his head, stroking it gently. "It'll be alright, Doug. It'll be alright." Within moments he had passed out.

I don't know when he woke up, but I know where he woke up: a cheap motel not too far from his house. I don't know what transpired, but I checked out a cheap room after he passed out, and basically flopped his barefooted body onto the bed. When he awoke, he would've found the shoes he was wearing last night (but no socks -- I kept those), and a cheap pair of purple plastic flip-flops with a note, indicating that if he truly was sorry and wanted to give a chance at restarting everything again between us -- with full understanding that if it doesn't work, it doesn't work -- he should wear those cheap flip-flops into work the next day.

Of course, he and I worked in the same office: that's where we became friends. They had a very strict dress code. Admittedly, he didn't have to change into "shoes" until he clocked in, which is what I was banking on. I was sitting in a manger's office the next day, barely finishing out my opening shift when I glanced out and saw Doug standing in the doorway, himself on a closing shift. His shoes were in his hands. The cheap flip-flops were on his gorgeous feet. We exchanged glances. He nodded. I smiled. He walked off to change.

I had a good feeling about this...