by Casper D
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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!
