The
Sneaky Solicited Sole Seize
by Casper
D
<<
Back
to Stories Index
It
was after twelve o' clock midnight, and I was tossing and turning
upon the top bunk in my assigned bedroom.
Unable to sleep, because of the exciting afternoon I had painstakingly
planned for the following day, I sat up in bed. I used my old Ghost-Buster
key-chain flashlight to read one of my eight-year-old foster brother
Ricky's books, while Darnel (my teen-something-year-old foster brother)
snored and mumbled in the bunk below me. The book--Madeleine L'engle's
A Swiftly Tilting Planet--was obviously for younger readers, but
not for mere eight-year-olds like my foster bro! Ricky was quite
advanced for his age, however, and there was no doubt in my mind
that he comprehended most of what he read. After scanning the collection
of the astute eight-year-old's books in the room (Ricky slept in
a different bedroom, but almost all of the paraphernalia belonging
to us foster waifs was stored in the same bedroom that I shared
with Darnel), it was also clear that he had excellent taste when
it came to selecting reading material.
Despite the fact that I looked like a poster child for the Aryan
nation, my entire foster family was URBAN . . . if you didn't count
Flaviano, who was Mexican. Flaviano wasn't one of the Dickerson's
official foster waifs, but he hung out with us so much that he might
as well have been. How my teen-something-something-year-old self
came to be fostered out to the Dickersons is a long story, and were
it not for the fact that I'm SUBURBAN, no one would even care. Well,
to make a long story short, I wasn't fostered out to a URBAN family
because I was crazy or an emotional ruin (as most SUBURBAN waifs
purposely fostered out to URBAN households were), there was just
a matter of overcrowding at Landy Hall . . . honest!
But anyway, I digress.
My foster brother Ricky also owned a copy (if I'm remembering correctly)
of J. California Cooper's novel Family, and once--when I glanced
through it--I saw that he had even circled a passage with a red
felt-tip marker, the ink of which had managed to stain through four
pages. I can't remember exactly what it was he had circled, but
it read something like this:
'Other people, a few, have kind souls til some other people mess
with them so much they can't take much more of nothin' and they
get that mean evil streak in them to fight back with.' Really heavy
stuff for a kid who had trouble tying his shoelaces! Heavy stuff
for even me . . . and I was teen-something-something or so at the
time!
Anyway, after growing bored with the L'Engle book, I lay back on
the top bunk and dangled one leg over the side again. This action
had become a habit for me ever since I came to live with the Dickersons.
You see, when I first began doing it, it was in the hopes that Darnel
would see it one night--hanging near his head where he lay on the
bottom bunk. Can anyone spot a bare foot dangling near them and
resist the urge to tickle it? Well, Darnel could. I mean, I'd hang
my leg down in the morning so that my elder foster bro would have
to see it when he got up. And always he did indeed see it. But instead
of gliding his fingers along my very sensitive sole, he would harshly
shove my foot out of his way!
Needless to say, this reaction from Darnel was not the desired result.
It was my fantasy that this husky URBAN teen-something would lean
his head out towards my perfectly smooth and soft sole and lick
it. I fantasized that he would stroke his tongue across it gently
because he would be afraid of awakening me. Of course, I would only
be pretending to be sleep. I'd fake being asleep while trying my
damnedest to resist bursting out laughing because of the frenzy
that Darnel's tongue would be causing me!
Actually I mainly fantasized that my foster DAD would do the licking,
but I would take what I could get.
I would always have the strangest (albeit pleasurable) dreams surrounding
my foster Dad. The URBAN Adonis, Mr. Dickerson, would hold my teen-something
frame in his muscular arms as if I was a baby . . . and I'd be wearing
nothing but a bath towel! He would kiss my temples and coo over
me, nuzzle my ears and play with my fingers and my ticklish toes.
He would continue covering my entire body with soft kisses even
after I've fallen asleep. One of Dickersons, either Isaac or his
only biological son Vincent, would carry my sleeping body out of
the living room and ever so gently place me atop the king-sized
bed in Isaac Dickerson's master bedroom. Then they would both go
to the foot of the bed--my foster dad giving my foster brother a
wink to signal him to begin--and they would proceed to lick the
soft, sensitive, ticklish soles of my bare feet. Mr. Dickerson would
take my left foot, and Vincent would take my right . . .or vice
versa. And even though, I'm ticklish to death, in my dream I can't
seem to be able to move . . . am unable to even scrunch my toes
or flex my feet to escape the two velvety tongues mercilessly cleansing
my bare soles.
Scenes like this is what my wet dreams were made of.
Anyways, since there wasn't a chance in hell that my foster dad
or bro were going to do something like that, I had to always go
about tricking people to tickle my feet. Doing things--as I mentioned
earlier--like hanging my leg over the side of my bunk in hopes of
getting my foot played with. And playing this waiting-to-be-tickled
game was often painful, for one's leg gets mighty sore after it's
been dangling precariously over the side of a top bunk for an extended
period of time.
My foot was tickled for-real one morn, however. I had my leg dangling
over the side like usual and had long-since fallen asleep . . .
and I had dropped off into dreamland while still desperately hoping
that Darnel would suddenly become mischievous and would tickle my
foot. A pathetic fantasy, but it was one I dreamed about almost
nightly. Anyway, I was asleep when Mr. Isaac Dickerson--my kindly
foster dad and a man I considered to be a URBAN Adonis--came into
the room and rapidly slid his index finger from my heel and up my
sole towards the area below my toes. He knew how ticklish my feet
were, and he knew that this action would wake me up quick and in
a hurry!
He was awakening me for our trip to the barber shop. Mr. Dickerson
took Vincent, Darnel and Rick to the neighborhood barber, but he
always drove me to get my sandy Caucasian thatch cut at a shop in
the city of Paramount. Yeah, my foster parents took time and effort
to deal with my "special" needs. But there was one special
need they couldn't take care of . . . a need they really knew nothing
about. My insatiable compulsion to have my feet tickled, licked,
played with.
Anyway, back to the story at hand.
I was just teetering on the edge of dropping off when I heard the
pad of bare feet and the squeaking of the bedroom door opening.
Sitting up in bed, I was startled--but not truly shocked--to see
Ricky enter. Carrying a graphite pencil in his left hand and a sketched
drawing in his right, he tip-toed towards the bunk bed.
"Look at this," the eight-year-old said loudly.
Darnel awoke--opened his eyes and stared directly at the boy. He
didn't see him. How could a surly, exhausted teen-something-something-year-old
see an eight-year-old who has crept into his bedroom after midnight
with only the sole intention of showing off a childish drawing?
The idea of such an event occurring was so strange and remote that
I'll bet Darnel's brain flatly refused to register Ricky's presence.
Still, I was afraid for Ricky because I knew that, eventually, Darnel
would come to his full senses. What would happen after that was
a despairing, dreadful mystery. Darnel could get pretty mean.
I once tricked young Rick into tickling my feet just by telling
the boy that my feet were so ticklish! With the knowledge that his
SUBURBAN foster brother had the most ticklish feet in the world,
how could a lad of eight resist the opportunity to tickle them when
the chance to do so arose? And I have to give the kid credit, he
set me up good. You see he pretended that a marble from his hand-crafted
Mankela (a board game) set had rolled underneath the bottom bunk
in my room. So I, in my stocking feet and with the word "sucker"
written all over my face, crawled under the bunk in search of the
elusive marble. Well, not completely under--my head and torso were
under the bed, but my butt legs and feet were still exposed.
"I don't see it, Rick." I said, probing around beneath
the bunk. While under there, I did discover that Darnel kept a Pee-Chee
folder full of semi-pornographic sketches hidden. Anyway, I was
still searching when I felt a weight settle on my legs, pinning
them down. It was Ricky. Before I could inquire as to what the heck
was going on, the eight year old tugged off my socks and was tickling
my soft, pink bare feet. He slid his fingers from my heels, across
my arch and towards my toes. In Rick's mind there was nothing sexual
to this tickling business. To him it was all fun. Anyway, my laughter
could not be contained. I grew a hard-on in my pants and laughed
uproariously until I hurt myself. Not only had my hair gotten caught
in this wire-mesh under the bunk, but I sorta injured my hardened
cock by reflexively humping the floor with it.
So with BOTH my heads hurting, I kind of let myself go limp. I scared
the hell out of Ricky when I did that. I think he thought I'd passed
out or died. He stopped tickling me, and as I lay there not moving,
I could feel him gingerly poking at the bare soles of my now limp
feet with his index finger. "Dave? Davey?"
I was still sore, but just his poking finger was causing me to get
hysterical all over again. I wriggled my feet crazily and begged
for Ricky to stop. My sore cock was hard all over again and I'd
lost a few strands of hair to the snagging wire mesh beneath the
bunk bed. Ricky didn't stop tickling me until one of my kicking
feet caught him right in the forehead. That single kick discouraged
Rick from tickling my feet with that much vigor and ingenuity ever
again.
Anyways, let me get back to the night in question.
It was after midnight and Ricky came bouncing across the room with
the sketch in his hand. He advanced closer to the bunk bed.
"Look at this," he repeated. The combination of nut brown
skin and contrasting bright hazel eyes gave him an exotically handsome
appearance. I held down my hand expectantly, ready to quickly take
the youngster's proffered gift and usher him out of the room before
Darnel truly detected his presence. I was shocked and rather offended
when Ricky ignored my extended hand and gave the drawing to Darnel!
It was a childish--but well done--reproduction of the theater masks
illustrated on the cover of one of my Motley Crue albums (I was
the only one in the Dickerson's household who claimed to like metal,
but every time I played it, I couldn't help but notice that URBAN
foster brother Vincent never failed to bob his head along with the
songs).
Anyway, with a lot of frantic pantomiming, I silently motioned for
the kid to leave the room as quickly as his little mincing feet
could carry him. I unfairly imagined an enraged Darnel grabbing
Rick by his pajama collar and giving him several hammering blows
atop his close-cropped head, sending the lad into the same senselessness
that he, Darnel, had been so rudely awakened from. Then he would
throw the youngster's inert body out into the hallway and let it
lie.
I know that this scenario would never have happened, but I've always
had an active imagination. It was this imagination that constantly
kept me thinking up ways to get people to tickle my feet.
Anyhoo, Ricky didn't notice my anguish and concern for his safety,
however. He had all of his attention focused on Darnel, and was
anxiously awaiting the teen-something-something-year-old's reaction
to his gift. I saw an angry gleam appear in Darnel's eyes and it
sent a bolt of terror through me. I held my breath and glanced down
at my older foster brother. And much of the cold anger had gone
out of the teen-something-something-year-old's smooth, milk-chocolate
face and was replaced with a drowsy look of keen interest. Through
heavily-lidded eyes, he closely scrutinized the sketch Rick had
given him. Then he looked at the smiling eight-year-old and the
expression on his face changed again.
I suddenly thought about cats. How they sometimes kill mice and
drop the dead rodents at the feet of their human owners. This was
how Darnel was looking at Rick at that moment--as if the youngster
were a cat who'd just given him a dead mouse. Still, there was no
real anger in his eyes. Just sleepiness. He actually held the sketch
up to me. "Yo, check this out, cuz. Big ears here has talent
. . ." he said. He was back to sleep as soon as I pried the
drawing from his hand.
Though dark-skinned, Ricky seemed to flush with pleasure. He was
grinning from ear to ear as he padded out of the bedroom. As he
departed, I spied the eight-year-old's tender, cream-colored soles--wondering
how tender and ticklish they were. And I continued to speculate
on how sensitive the soles of Ricky's feet were when I finally dropped
off into dreamland.
The reason I was having so much trouble sleeping was that I had
devised a conspiratorial plan to have my feet tickled the following
day. Hell, I was like a kid the night before X-Mas! You see, my
foster brother Darnel had a friend named Hakeem who was addicted
to narcotics. I won't say if it was crack, because I couldn't honestly
say for sure . . . but I believe that it was. I mean, he wasn't
a hype or anything. Anyway, Hakeem was always dropping by and asking
Darnel for five dollars or so. And Darnel, disgusted by what his
friend had become through the years, would always turn him away.
Hakeem was a light-skinned URBAN teen-something with gray eyes.
Around the neighborhood he had been known as "Ghost".
And because I was SUBURBAN, the people in the neighborhood nicknamed
me "Casper". Casper and Ghost. I don't know why, but I
always felt a kind of odd connection with that poor guy. So much
of a connection that I decided to secretly lend Ghost the money
he wanted (Mrs. Dickerson dolled out ten bucks every week to all
of us). But I would lend him the money only if he did me a favor.
And that favor was to drive me to his place one afternoon and, of
course, tickle my feet.
You see, every Saturday the other foster waifs went out and did
all kinds of things. I, on the other hand, usually hung around the
house and was constantly--according to Mrs. Dickerson--underfoot.
Sometimes I would ask Mr. Dickerson or my foster brother Vincent
to drive me to Leuders Park where a lot of the neighborhood waifs
played basketball and soccer regularly. While there I would spend
the money given to me on things like fast food and stuff which,
when I think about it, was stupid because Mr. Dickerson bought us
waifs fast food all the time . . . and he paid for it out of his
own pocket.
Anyway, I came up with a plan. A plan where a member of my foster
family would drive me to Leuders Park on Saturday. They would then
leave me there and pick me up around six that evening like usual.
After this, I would implement my carefully thought out plan. You
see, not too long after being dropped off at the park, I intended
to call Hakeem and he'd come and drive me from the park in order
to transport me to his house in Lynwood. And once we were at his
place, he would tickle my feet for a time . . . and then he'd drive
me back to the park where I would wait for a member of my foster
family to take me back home. It was a good plan. And a bold one
for a teen-something-something-year-old SUBURBAN-boy from Pomona.
But most importantly, it was a plan that worked! On a sunny Saturday
afternoon, I found myself in Hakeem "Ghost" Davis' apartment.
I was half terrified, half pleasurably excited as I untied and removed
my sneakers.
What followed is still burned into the cells of my brain to this
day.
Hakeem himself slid off my somewhat sweaty and smelly SUBURBAN cotton
socks and exposed my bare pink soles. As he stared at my feet, he
got a look on his rather beige face that seemed to say "Damn,
even this SUBURBAN-boy's friggin' feet are soft and pampered-looking!".
Still, I'm probably wrong about whatever thoughts were running through
what was left of Hakeem's mind at this time--as I've said, I have
an active imagination.
Anyway, he tried tickling my exposed soles, but I kept kicking free
. . . and came very close to accidentally kicking HIM. My feet are
VERY ticklish, you understand. So ticklish that nothing short of
medieval stocks could keep me from kicking my feet as they're being
tickled. At first Hakeem was frustrated, I mean he didn't necessarily
relish the idea of having to tickle some SUBURBAN-boy's smelly,
sweaty bare feet just to glean a paltry five dollars. (and my feet
really were kinda smelly then, for I managed to get in several games
of basketball before he arrived at the park to transport me to his
place) But eventually "Ghost" really got into the spirit
of the task that I was asking of him. He solved the problem of my
kicking legs by grabbing my feet in a headlock, if you can imagine--it's
kinda like I was in a headlock, except my feet were where my head
would have been, you know?
His fingers scraped up and down my excessively sensitive bare soles,
then he used a toothbrush to attack the undersides of my toes. I
desperately wriggled my toes and tried to flex my feet, but Hakeem
was holding them vice-like within the crook of his arm. He'd alternate
between using his fingers and using that toothbrush . . . the toothbrush
whose pleasure-giving powers I still dream about to this day! He
inserted the bristles of that brush between my bare toes. One at
a time that brush grazed all over each toe. My screams had to have
been deafening, and yet Hakeem was totally unconcerned about anyone
hearing.
It wasn't long before my face, chest, pits and crotch were damp
and heady with sweat. My cock was so engorged and throbbing that
it hurt . . . but it was a GOOD hurt. Hakeem put the toothbrush
aside and attacked my feet with his fingers again. He moved his
fingers up and down my soles, then from left to right, again and
again. I screamed my head off. And my cock throbbed and pulsated.
There was electricity in my genitals, and this electricity grew
stronger in intensity with each stroke of the toothbrush and each
scrape of Hakeem's fingers. it was incredible!
Hakeem seemed to be surprised at how much he was enjoying himself.
He retrieved the toothbrush again and began to broom it between
my toes, then all over my feet. From my heels, up my soles, down
through the arches and across the ball. Then he began the whole
process all over again. I shot my load at the very moment Hakeem
used the bristles of the toothbrush to trace an intense, electrified,
ticklish path from the sole to my heel on my right foot. I must
have spurted four times (at teen-something-something years of age
you have to realize how new and powerful shooting off was to me!)
The orgasmic experience didn't cause me to faint, but the second
my last drop of jizz had been released, I almost immediately dropped
off into an exhausted, but pleasurable sleep.
When I awoke I found that Hakeem had placed my shoes and socks (though
haphazardly) back onto my still-tingling feet. Once I fully regained
my bearings, he drove me down to Leuders Park and I stayed there
until foster bro Vincent came and picked me up.
The implementation of my plan with Hakeem was the boldest thing
I'd ever done up to that point. I can honestly say that the time
I spent with the Dickersons were some of the happiest days of my
life thus far . . . but, looking back on some of the things I did
in secret back then, I would also have be honest in saying that
I may have been temporarily insane half of the time!
|