The
First Forbidden Foot Fulfillment
by Casper
D
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Around twenty-one years ago I was unceremoniously fostered out to
a URBAN couple.
This was a strange experience for me, mainly because of how people
in the neighborhood (not the couple who'd taken me in) treated me.
I wasn't brutalized or anything . . . wasn't even ostracized for
being SUBURBAN. But I was treated strangely. And this attitude towards
me didn't stem from racism, I later discovered. Rather it was a
result of a misunderstanding. You see, it had been a long standing
tradition in this part of the state that SUBURBAN children who were
fostered out to URBAN families were generally the most mentally
unstable, unmanageable, emotional wrecks in the child welfare's
kiddy corral . . . kids who were rejected by most, if not all, SUBURBAN
foster homes.
So naturally, when I was placed in the care of the Dickersons, the
couple's neighbors were somewhat wary of me. It didn't take them
too long to get over this wariness though. The real fact of the
matter was that I wasn't unbalanced or an emotional mess at all
. . . well, if you don't count the fact that I craved to have my
feet tickled and played with. But other than that, I was okay. The
reason I was fostered out to the Dickersons had to do with the overcrowding
at Landy Hall, and the fact that the Dickerson themselves had a
good reputation for their care of foster children.
Anyway, I made myself at home with the couple, and--for the most
part--everything went fine. It's funny, but in any world other than
the one I was fostered out to, I would have been considered a very
handsome youth. I mean, I have sandy-blonde hair, blue-green eyes,
and--according to many--I'm good looking. But in the Dickerson's
home . . . even in the surrounding neighborhood, I wasn't viewed
this way. I mean, no one said I was ugly or anything, but I never
got the impression that anyone there considered me really handsome
(they good-naturedly nicknamed me Casper . . . and not just because
I was friendly). Yes, I was a little "unique" by virtue
of the fact that I was SUBURBAN, but no one in that neighborhood
considered me "special". Looking back, it was a kind of
sobering experience in that instance.
*
* *
On
one slow, lazy Sunday, I found myself alone and wandering aimlessly
around the Dickerson home. The house was empty save for me and my
foster father, Isaac Dickerson, who was taking full advantage of
his only night off. Even the couple's other foster kids were gone--off
to engage in varying pursuits and activities. I, being the new youth,
had none to occupy my time with on the weekend.
So I trudged aimlessly from the corridor and into the living room--the
plush carpeting felt wonderful stroking softly against the bottoms
of my sensitive sock-clad feet. The television was off, though the
cable box above it was still alive with the time of day visible
on it's red digital display. And stretched out on the sofa with
his back to me was Isaac Dickerson--tall, dark, handsome and strong.
He wasn't moving a muscle and appeared to be sleeping. I stood over
him for a moment, still somewhat awed by the presence of this man
for some reason.
I stared down at him for a long while. I fantasized about him taking
me in his strong arms and kissing me from the top of my sandy-blonde
head to the soles of my sensitive, extremely ticklish feet. I had
weird fantasies too, I must admit. I mean, I fantasized about cranking
up the stereo and blasting Led Zeppelin throughout the house, and
then my foster father would become so angry that he would do something
like tie my feet together, remove my shoes and socks and coat my
toes with honey or jelly. Then he would torture me by forcing Shaka
(the family dog) to lick the sweet honey or jelly from my feet and
causing me to erupt into laughing hysterics.
Any way, I continued to stare at my URBAN foster father for I don't
know how long. Mr. Dickerson was still lying with his back towards
me, and I assumed that he was sleeping, but then he spoke:
"I can feel you standing there, son. What do you want?"
He asked calmly without turning around.
I, who hadn't counted on the fact that my presence would be detected,
fairly gasped in surprise. "N-Nothing, Mr. Dickerson. Hope
I didn't wake you."
I hurried back down the corridor, making loud, panicked skuff-skuff
sounds on the carpet with my stocking feet. For the next few minutes
or so after, I sat in the bedroom, almost terrified that Mr. Dickerson
would call me back and demand that I explain myself.
When he didn't call, I tried to relax. I lay back on the bottom
bunk of the double-decker bed (which I shared with another one of
the Dickerson's foster kids) and listened to my frantically beating
heart.
Then I began to fantasize again.
I couldn't help but imagine my foster dad using my feet for his
pleasure. I imagined him coming into the room right at that moment
while everyone else was away. I could just visualize him sliding
off my cotton SUBURBAN socks and exposing my bare, pink, very ticklish
soles. At teen-something years of age, the soles of my feet were
soft and smooth . . . still are now eleven years later, as a matter
of fact. I fell asleep dreaming about Mr. Dickerson sliding his
index finger up and down my bare soles, sending me into helpless
hysterical laughter.
*
* *
In
retrospect, there were times when I wonder if maybe I did belong
in the "unbalanced" category.
Once, when Mr. Dickerson left out late at night to play a big-stakes
card game called "bid whist" at a bar/pool hall called
Pigstickers. I managed to sneak out of the house and follow him!
Hell, I even managed to sneak into the bar! You see, no youth (SUBURBAN
or URBAN) in his right mind would sneak into a place like Pigstickers
at eleven o'clock at night. But I wasn't in my right mind then,
so I got away with it. I appropriated a seemingly discarded glass
of some kind of alcoholic beverage (I forget what it was) and was
even thinking about walking to a table and pretending to be a customer.
I soon abandoned this plan, and just hid myself in the corner-kicking
myself for being so stupid as to even come to the place.
Eventually someone spotted me.
I immediately pretended to be passed out at the table (the glass
of the unknown alcoholic beverage nearby, clearly and purposely
visible). It's not easy to fake unconsciousness while you're scared
to death, but somehow I pulled it off. The person who spotted me
asked everyone if they knew who the sleepy little SUBURBAN-boy was
or how I'd gotten there. It didn't take long for the news to reach
my foster dad at the opposite end of the bar. Mr. Dickerson, who
had walked to the bar/pool-hall because it wasn't very far from
the house, carried me out of the pool-hall and towards the car belonging
to his friend, Earnest Jackson. Once we were situated in the back
seat, Mr. Dickerson lifted me onto his lap while Mr. Jackson drove
us home. He stroked my forehead during the entire drive. He told
Mr. Jackson that he had no idea why I'd followed him. He even verbally
expressed concern for my well-being, because he wasn't sure how
much I had drank. He would have been surprised to discover that
I hadn't ingested half of the glass of the unknown beverage I'd
swiped.
Upon arrival, Mr. Dickerson carried me into the house, and undressed
me. As he pulled my shoes and socks off, I silently begged (while
still pretending to be passed out) that my foster dad would just
slide his tongue once across the soles of my bare feet . . . even
plant a kiss on my instep, or kiss my toes. But he didn't. Mr. Isaac
Dickerson, I'd learned right away, was forever more attracted to
the breasts of full-grown URBAN women . . . and not the feet of
young SUBURBAN youths. He put me to bed with a modicum of paternal
tenderness, but without the slightest trace of sexual attraction.
The next morning, he wasn't even too angry about my sneaking out
to follow him to Pigstickers. He knew that I wasn't trying to be
a willful, obstinate foster son, but rather I--much like a cocker
spaniel puppy--just wanted be around him. He was probably touched
by the fact that I loved him so much. Still, he never understood
in what way that I loved him. I partially loved him in the father-son
sense . . . but I also loved him in another way. A way that I just
didn't have the courage to reveal to him. I still don't . . . unless
of course he's reading THIS! Sure I changed the names to protect
the innocent and blah blah blah, but I'm sure that anyone who was
involved in the events that take place in this story would be able
to recognize themselves AND me.
After the way he'd carried me home and put me to bed, I began to
desperately crave his touch and affection more. Once, while playing
football with my foster brothers and a few of the neighborhood boys,
I got tackled by three husky URBAN lads. I wasn't hurt more than
usual by this, but I could hear Mrs. Enid Dickerson (my foster Mom)
yelling fearfully--probably fearing that the slight-looking SUBURBANboy
had been crushed. So I took advantage of the situation, and pretended
that the three young offensive linemen had knocked me cold!
I played the role for all that it was worth, keeping my eyes closed
and remaining perfectly limp as Mr. Dickerson checked me for injuries
and then carried me in his strong arms off the lawn. He carried
me into the house and sat down on the sofa with me still on his
lap. Mrs. Enid Dickerson hovered above us and, after making certain
that I wasn't dead or too severely injured, ordered her husband
to put me to bed. My foster father complied without complaint. He
was deeply concerned himself. I still feel guilty about worrying
him so much that day.
He lay me on the bed and undressed me. I was "conscious"
now, but was still pretending to be a bit groggy. He pulled off
my worn sneakers, and wrinkled his nose a little as he slid off
my smelly, sweat-soaked socks. As unreasonable as it sounds, I was
hurt by the fact that the smell of my feet repulsed him. I wanted
him to love the smell of my feet. I wanted him to bring my sweaty
socks to his nose and take deep whiffs. I wanted him to lift my
bare toes to his nose and sniff for all that he was worth. But he
didn't.
"What's the matter son?" he asked, seeing the depressed
look on my face.
"Nothing, Mr. Dickerson." I lied. "I was just feelin'
bad about losin' the game."
"Oh, cheer up, boy--the other team won by default." He
said with a bright smile, as he continued pulling off my sock. I
giggled as the sock slid past my sensitive heel.
"Good, you're smiling again."
I became sort of bold and told Mr. Dickerson that I wasn't smiling
because I was "cheered-up", but rather because of the
way he'd slid the sock off my very ticklish foot.
"You're ticklish?" he asked.
I nodded, looking forlorn and depressed again. "My feet especially."
"Well, if this is the only way to get you to laugh . . ."
Then, without warning, my foster dad slid his index finger from
the heel of my right foot all the way up to the area below my little
toe. I jerked and laughed. He then scraped his finger across the
area below my toes, down the arch, then brushed it back and forth.
I began to scream out loud, it tickled so much!
"Oh, you can try that if you want to, but it ain't gon' help
. . . " he said, noticing that I was now curling my toes in
a desperate attempt to protect them from his tickling fingers. He
raked his fingernail from the heels of my bare feet, across my arches
and towards my toes--causing me to flex my arches and wriggle my
toes in a frenzied attempt to escape his fingers. I had found the
secret! All I had to do from then on was pretend to be deeply depressed.
Whenever Mr. Dickerson saw a hangdog look on my face, he'd grab
my foot, relieve me of my shoes and socks, and begin tickling my
feet like crazy.
As you can imagine, I was depressed a lot during the time I spent
living with the Dickersons!
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