This photo was taken sometime before our big fight. Back when Krauzer was just a friend of a friend. You know, I can't remember why me and that punk mutha fucka threw down that day, but we did. Krauzer was maybe eighteen, had blond buzz-cut hair, and sported the kind of perfect California tan which usually only a person with some real loot could afford to maintain. He was about six feet even and wore an Ocean Pacific shirt, plain jeans and Reebok sneakers. In preparation for the battle he removed his shirt, revealing a bare upper body that rippled with muscle. His well-defined deltoids and pectorals testified to hours of workouts at the gym or wherever. But it wasn't his body that impressed me, it was his feet.

Krauzer apparently was going to battle me barefoot, and he toed off his Reeboks and skinned off his white socks one at a time. His size eleven feet were great-looking. Pink well-shaped toes, round heels, wide soles. It was the sight of his feet that caused me to change my agenda. Shit, I wasn't gonna beat this punk down . . . I was gonna tickle him! Tickle him in front of the onlooking crowd that had gathered around us. After having peeled down to his broad naked chest and bare feet. I took off my Raider's jacket and shirt too. Immediately I made my way to a small group of well dressed guys on the sidelines--I figured that they would look after my jacket better than the raggedy-lookin' mutha fuckas dressed in nuthin but their khaki's and tank tops. As I approached, several of the well-dressed boys fearfully backed away . . . as if they thought I was going to use one of them for practice before I fought Krauzer. I just ignored most of them , but my attention was drawn to the neatly-dressed kid with sandy hair and deep greenish-blue eyes. I'd seen him around the neighborhood before . . . was an ersatz brother of my homie, Darnel. I may have tied and tortured this boy before too, but at that particular moment, I couldn't remember.

"Hold on to this for a second, cuz," I told him. "Don't want to risk gettin my jacket messed up jus' to dick around with this fool here," The sandy-haired boy took my jacket, but didn't smile or nothing. Matter of fact, his greenish-blue eyes sorta looked at me accusingly, and his mouth was kinda twisted with distaste. I thought to myself: Ah, so prettyboy doesn't approve of good ole gutter-level fightin', huh? Better to remain dignified and peaceful, eh? I looked him in the eye, then glanced down at his feet which were clad in rather new-looking Adidas sneaks. I said to myself: I've seen the future, prettyboy. I will tickle those feet of yours. And as if he could read my mind , Sandy-boy glared at me with a challenge in his eyes that seemed to say "over my dead body". I wish he would have said something like that out loud. Just so I could say "Well, I've worked-over the feet of many a-knocked-out adversary. Working over the feet of a dead body couldn't be that much different." But Sandy-boy remained silent. Still, he took my shirt, Raider's jacket, and my glasses too. I turned around to face my opponent. Krauzer was already hunkered down, ready to rush at me and grab me around the waist like a little bitch. I could also see that this pussy wouldn't be above doin' shit like pokin mutha fuckas in the eye an' all that.

I get like that when I'm fighting and my intention isn't to tickle. In those type of serious fights I like to make damn sure that I leave an everlasting mark on whoever steps to me. Suddenly Krauzer rushed. I automatically leaned forward so that my feet are firmly planted, and just as Krauzer is about to reach me, I lunged--real low--and grasped the punk around his chest (pulling the same shit on him that he was about to try to pull on me, see?) and pinned his arms to his sides. Krauzer was just like I figured; strong as an ox, but devoid of skill and slow as a fuckin' bubble. This pussy actually tried to stomp my feet and claw at my back, but he was about to learn that once I get my grip around somebody, that somebody just ain't gonna be able to free himself. I started to squeeze, an' Krauzer starts tryin' to squirm himself loose.

I squeezed twice as hard and heard his breath spew out of him in a rush. Little bitch even tried to bite my shoulder. Now this really pissed me off, cause who knows where the fuck his mouth has been? Still I didn't shy away from his teeth. Instead I butted him in the ear with my head. He cried out and relaxed for a second--just a second. Still, it was enough time for me to shift my grip to his waist. Then I picked Krauzer up, kickin' and cussin'' and gasping for oxygen. I made my way over to an area where a pile of dead leaves had been collected and dumped him in it. He screamed like a girl as he went down. Most of the onlookers laughed. I forgot who was holding the rope I would need (I'd had a friend keep it on standby), so I turned my back on my foe and searched the crowd. Someone shouted for me to look out, but that wasn't necessary--I knew that chickenshit Krauzer would try what he did.

He was out of the leaf-pile and was running at me from behind. So I waited at the last moment to shift my weight--downward this time, and then forward---and Krauzer's sweaty arms slid over my back and the prick sprawled on the ground (a patch of ground that wasn't cushioned by a pile of leaves this time) with the wind knocked out of him. Krauzer screamed and ran to mount yet another attack. By now I'd gotten sick of playing with him. I dodged his head thrust, and fed this fool my thigh--hard against his gut and chest. And while Krauzer tried to get his wind back, I pinned his arms and chest again. This time over his back though--locking them in a four-legged arch with Krauzer helpless to do shit underneath. I liked to use this move against fools that are really panicked or really stupid. I mean a stupid person never got it into his head that the only way to break this hold was to go limp and stop supporting their own weight. If Krauzer had just done that we both woulda tumbled to the ground, and I wouldn't be able to keep that hold on him. Instead this fool kept on trying to break free by butting forward--and in the act of doing this he was supporting his own weight and mine too . . . and I could use all my strength to squeeze him till he couldn't breathe at all. Which is what I did. As I squeezed, Krauzer shook--his legs stretched out and flailed wildly. His hands opened and closed spasmodically. He made these wild animal sounds as he shook and drummed his big bare feet. The sound of his bare heels impacting against the ground echoed like the rapid gallop of a horse. And the more he struggled the harder my dick became. I could hear people on the sidelines cheering--some were pleading for me to stop. But not one of those chickenshit spectators stepped in to stop me.

I kept on squeezing as Krauzer began gasping in tiny, quick breaths. When I felt his ribs give a little, I knew that this fight wasn't going to last much longer. Finally Krauzer uttered a rattling sigh and passed out. As his entire body went limp, I held him upright for a little while because I like the feel of a limp body in my arms. I shook him back and forth a little, watching his head--which was bowed towards his chest--flop back and forth like the bud of a flower on a broken stem. Then I let him fall. I was aching after that battle, but I felt good. Good, horny and hard . . . my dick was pulsating and throbbing under my pants. The need to expel brutal energy was satisfied for the moment, but it was replaced by a new need. Giving me an exuberant high-five, my boy Darnel handed me the rope I'd asked him to hold. I returned to where Krauzer lay and rolled him over, securing his hands behind him with the handcuffs I'd been carrying with me everywhere since I was fourteen.

Then I threw several loops of rope around Krauzer's ankles. A long length of rope went around his neck. I passed the rope through the loops around his ankles and pulled it tight, forcing my enemy (who was beginning to come to by this time) to arch backward, choking the rope across his throat. Once this was done I accepted victory. Yeah, I grew up around some folks who basically told me that someone like me would have to live his life being disappointed, mocked, feared and hated. Well, I learned to deal with all of that. My Daddy and Granddaddy taught me to do whatever it took to get joy out of this life--and they taught me that I could take whatever shit life threw at me and then transmute it into something that gives me pleasure.

Surely bouts with imbeciles like Krauzer couldn't have been what they meant. Still, it was only after I started practicing their philosophy on a carnal level that I began to realize that life can be pretty damned nice! I started in on those size eleven, sensitive feet the moment Krauzer began to fully regain consciousness. In the beginning he felt my hands gently scraping his soles in order to stimulate the nerve-endings into action. Pressing resolutely against his insteps, my thumbs rubbed at his foot muscles . . . stroking this way and that way. Then I started brushing my fingertips across my enemy's now sufficiently sensitized soles, moving them all over the bottoms of his feet. Yeah, ole Krauzer was really beginning to feel that shit by now--started to shake like a skid row crackhead. Neither his pride or rage or humiliation could stop him from spouting out with laughter. It was at this time that I retrieved my lucky eagle's feather (which I had plucked right out of an ugly-assed wide-brimmed hat that my granddaddy had bought in New Orleans) and began to lightly scrape it up and down the soles of each of Krauzer's feet. Every stroke of that feather activated the tingling, efficacious nerve endings . . . which, of course, resulted in wave after torturous wave of tickles coursing through my enemy's muscled body. Whatever pride Krauzer had before was gone. I mean, this guy laughed with unrestrained abandon now . . . as if he hadn't been all red in the face and screaming about how his sorry ass was gonna kill me just five minutes earlier. I used the feather to slowly trace every little curve of his heels and insteps--then moved it up to the balls of his feet, and to that sensitive, funky area where his toes connected to his feet. Jostling the feathers all around this area, I watched his feet wiggling like crazy. And I listened as the surrounding crowd screamed with laughter.

Had this tickling session been a more "private" endeavor, I woulda licked Krauzer's wide soles and sucked his well-shaped toes like crazy. At this point in time, however, people knew me as freak, but not a foot freak. And people see what they want to see, So--on that particular day--what most of the onlookers saw was one guy publicly humiliating another by tickling the hell out of his feet. Nothing more. And as I did this, the inside of my pants was abrading my dick shaft only lightly, but the resulting friction still greatly stimulated my engorged rod. I knew that my dick veins were standing out prominently as it responded to both the chafing and the perverse joy I felt tickling the shit out of my adversary. Krauzer's laughing screams and wiggles grew so intense that I almost stopped torturing the guy because I was scared the mutha fucka was gonna snap his cap or something. But I got over that notion pretty fast. I mean, Krauzer was at home inflicting less pleasurable torture upon others, so if getting the shit tickled out of him caused him to break . . . well, such were the things of life.

I increased the torture by taking hold of one foot and pulling Krauzer's toes back away from the balls of their feet. Yeah, I exposed his soles better by stretching the skin. I then used the eagle feather to wedge between those small areas and tormented the hell out of each and every nerve ending more fiercely. Then I slowly and gently brushed every one of his great-looking toes on both of his wide, meaty feet. I took special care to get underneath them--on the balls of his feet, and between them. Krauzer laughed, screamed and convulsed all the while. Yeah, he tried curling his toes to reinforce his feet against my tickling, but the attempt was futile. I alternated from foot to foot, mercilessly tickling, brushing and scraping like a mutha fucka.

My dick grew harder and harder as I did this, and soon the feeling that I was about to explode in my pants became a concern. I could actually feel precum dripping from my rock-hard rod! A tiny part of my mind began to worry that everyone could see my erection . . . I was at least comforted by the fact that my dick was pointing downward. I swear I could feel every drop of precum drip out of my piss-slit and dribble down my leg inside my pants. Yeah, ticking Krauzer was driving me wild. There seemed to be a trickle of precum for every time my enemy yelled "please". Soon I had two pink, size-eleven feet and ten pink toes with nerve endings on fire. And Krauzer had gone from merely screaming and crying . . . to screaming and crying for mercy. Who knew his punk ass was so ticklish? I hadn't a clue at the time the battle was initiated. I knew most people were ticklish to some degree on their feet, and--when I decided to take on Krauzer--I figured that this boy would laugh a bit and feel foolish by having his feet tickled in public. But I wasn't expecting him to scream and plead as if I were committing bloody murder. I wasn't expecting my tickling to make him weep like a baby or convulse like an epileptic. I reached the point where I got him pleading, tears in his eyes, for just a momentary respite in my tickling torture. But instead of giving him relief, I assaulted his feet with fire from a cigarette lighter I borrowed from my boy Hakeem. I slid the flame up and down my enemy's insteps, then under and between his bare toes. I didn't hold the fire to his flesh long enough to really burn, but certainly long enough to torture him. Eventually I did put the flame to his soles and held it there for longer and longer intervals of time. Krauzer grew frantic. I looked down at his bucking body. I grew a little weak with the pleasure of watching him jerk and spasm.

Feeling the flame for the fourth time, Krauzer's wet, gray eyes searched my face, pleading. I made sure he didn't see a trace of mercy in my expression. Which wasn't hard at all. Krauzer screamed in torment and tried with all his might to pull his feet away from the unmerciful tickling and torture, but I'd bound him too well . . . so the flame, feathers and fingers continued to beset him. I didn't stop until he foamed at the mouth and passed out. And at the moment I saw Krauzer's gray eyes roll up into his skull, my body shook with orgasmic pleasure--my steel- hard dick exploded as load after wet hot load of cum exploded in my pants, drenching my inner thighs and oozing in rivulets down my leg. Almost everyone cheered or cussed except the Sandy-haired boy holding my Raiders jacket. He handed it to me without a word, and his attitude made me certain that we had "met" before.

Had I beat him down one day or something and had forgotten? I couldn't remember. Whatever the case, I had already decided that I was going to tickle his feet soon. Weren't many players like him in my neighborhood, hearing the sound of his nasal-sounding, tortured laughter would be welcome change. I noticed how--after handing me my jacket--Sandy-boy stared at the bare feet of the fallen Krauzer. The kid was good at making it seem as if his eyes were just casually glancing over at my unconscious foe, but I could see where his vision was focused. I knew this because my vision focused in on feet the same way. Yeah, I had this prettyboy's number. I would have said something to him then and there if I hadn't been worried that someone might see that--beneath my pants--cum was drooling down my leg and towards my sock. But whatever the case, it was clear that fate was kind to my ass once again.

What else could I call circumstances like this, but fate? I sure as hell don't believe in coincidences. Sandy-boy and me had been thrown together, not by chance, but by something more cosmically deliberate. When Krauzer regained consciousness I had to fight the urge to actually thank that mutha fucka for the role he played in all of this. Now, twelve years later . . . . I sip at my St. Ides while sitting at this computer. It seems as if I'd roamed through every one of my favorite corners in cyberspace: tickling sites, foot fetish sites, bastinado, bondage--and there seemed to be new ones cropping up every day. Shit, I wonder if purgatory was like this; A thousand years of sitting in front of a computer screen reading about the exploits of others? Well, it sure as hell wasn't going to be a purgatory for me. Reading about the experience of others is okay, but everyone would agree that nothing compared to having your own fun. And fun was just what I had in mind as I turn in my swivel chair and glance towards the living room.

The young sandy-haired angel stretched out upon the sofa was sleeping innocently, his mouth slightly open, his breath easing in and out of him calmly. I bet anyone who passed him by couldn't resist the urge to touch his sweet face--caress his smooth cheek. I myself was more interested with his white-socked size-nine-and-a-half feet which were propped on the sofa's armrest. Sandy-haired Dave looks the same. And he is the same, really. The same well-mannered, guileless, sensitive young man who--over a decade earlier--calmly held my Raider's jacket while I wrestled with my enemy.

He's looking mighty inviting right now as I type this, so I guess I'll take my leave. If I hurry, I can get him tied before he wakes up. Feet dreams all.