By Alfalf
I live and work in Smalltown America. The town, like most small towns, has its Main Street with its shops and all, its one movie theater (which we’re lucky to have), and its several restaurants. The town pretty much closes up at 5 PM and the restaurants not much later. It’s a safe place to live and the folks around here are all pretty much good folks, willing to lend a hand and also willing to band together when the needs arises. This is the community, my community. I am a gay, white male, 36, and I also have a foot and tickling fetish.
Because of my connection with social services and community outreach, I’m well known by the local Sheriffs department, having worked with them on a number of projects, etc. Quite often, because I live alone in a fairly large old house with a fair amount of property, the sheriff will call to ask if I’ve got any odd jobs I need done as he has someone who needs to do a certain number of hours of community service or they’ll face being locked up. The sheriff, a pretty cool younger guy, who I’m able to go and have a few beers with and talk sports, etc., with a wife and two little daughters, also has an idea of my other interests and isn’t phased by it at all. He thinks my great interest and delight in tickling guys’ feet is a little out of the realm of normal experiences, especially in smalltown America, but kinda likes the idea of me reducing some of these big barroom brawl types to hysterical laughter with something as simple as a feather. Thinks it’s a good way to humble ’em and knock ’em down a few pegs. This being the case, every so often, especially if it’s one of the local jock types who has gotten a bit out of control and needs a healthy dose of reality, he’ll call me and ask me if I’ve got time for an attitude adjustment.
While hes never been present for one of the adjustments, the sheriff’ll usually send the guy over with one of the officers, who’ll sit and wait in the squad car to pick the guy up and bring him back to headquarters. What the officers who are waiting in the car think they’re waiting there for or why the sheriff is sending these guys to me, I don’t know and really don’t want to know.
When the call comes in, the sheriff will usually give me an idea of what he thinks the guys problem is and why he thinks I can help. I’ll usually ask how long he thinks I need to adjust the poor guys attitude. Up until now, the longest attitude adjustment has been 90 minutes. This is the case I’m about to relate to you.
When the squad car pulled up, Darrell, age 24, dirty brown hair, slightly unshaven, 60, 175 lbs., wearing blue jeans, flannel shirt and untied brown work boots and white socks, stepped out and looked up at the house. He went around to the back door where I was working on the back porch and spoke up when he saw me, “The sheriff sent me over, said something about you supposed to correct my attitude or something about tickling my feet or something.” I looked up at this point, somewhat surprised that the sheriff had told the guy so point-blank why he was being sent over. When I didn’t say anything, he continued, “Said something about either doing this with you for half-hour [which I knew was a lie- since I had spoken to the sheriff and knew it was supposed to be 90 minutes] or I could go back to the county jail for violating my probation.”
Putting down the shelving unit I was working on, I said, “Okay, follow me” and started toward the cellar door. Darrell looked really hesitant as I went down the basement steps and opened the door to the cellar. Yet, he followed. I walked into the center of the room and pointed to the wooden desk chair with wooden back and side arm rests. In front of the chair was a wooden weight bench. “Sit down over there and put your feet up on the bench in front of you,” I said as I walked over to the serving cart I usually kept all my tickling stuff on. Darrell sat down and did as he was told, but seemed really not to believe that it was actually going to happen. “Hey man,” he said, “This is just a joke, right? You’re not gonna really do that weird shit with my feet are you?” I walked over to Darrell and stood right in front of him as I started to fasten the wrist restraints around his wrists. Looking him right in the eye, I asked “Do you want to go back to jail? Its either 90 minutes here with this or 30 days back at County.”
He was stunned and just started to shake his head from side to side, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He didn’t try to move as I pulled up my stool and positioned myself in front of his boots. Reaching over the bench, I pulled up the first set of leg restraints and started fastening Darrell’s legs in place. Having bolted the bench to the floor, I’m not worried about guys freaking out and knocking me or themselves over. I returned to my spot on my stool in front of Darrell’s feet and began to slowly remove the boot from his left foot. As it slipped off, he said, again, somewhat more urgently “Hey man, listen, you’re not gonna do this shit, right? I’ve learned my lesson. Let me go.”
I looked up at him and as I removed the boot from his right foot, revealing a slightly dirty and sweaty white sock, said “Darrell, you did the shit and now you’re answering for it. The sheriff thinks a little laughter might help you to remember to straighten your life the fuck up.” He was quiet when I said this, so I returned and began to slowly remove his white socks. Once finished, I attached the second set of restraints around each ankle and then took out my set of two cuffs and began hooking his two big toes together. Glancing up at him while fastening the toe cuffs, I saw a look of real dread on his face.
Our eyes met for a moment and Darrell asked “You like doing this stuff?” I shrugged a little and said “Kinda cool.” He shrugged back, as if to say he was trying to comprehend but couldn’t. “So how long you gonna tickle my feet?” “Hour and a half,” I answered. He half muttered “Shit” shaking his head side to side. “Any place in particular your feet are very ticklish?” I asked, as I picked up a small white fluffy feather. “All over,” he answered as he watched me begin to slowly stroke the feather up and down his soles. Darrell’s feet began to twitch and wiggle as best they could and he started to giggle. “God, that’s driving me crazy,” he said out loud to no one in particular.
I worked over every part of each foot, between each toe, up and down his arches and soles, around his ankles and over the tops of his feet. I used 4 different types of feathers and tickled him slowly and quickly, lightly and with greater intensity, and Darrell sat there [what choice did he have?] and laughed and laughed. The sound of his laughter, his really cute, size 10 feet, with little tufts of brown hair on each toes and the nice high arches, not to mention his predicament all made for a really erotic experience. I gave Darrell one 5 minute break after about an hour and then spent the last 30 minutes tickling his feet with my fingers. His movements and laughter and his whole reactions, from his facial expressions to the way his feet twitched and tried in vain to flee the feathers were incredible.
When we were done, I placed my feathers back on the serving tray and began to untie him. All the while, Darrell just sat there drenched in sweat and still giggling to himself. He was breathing a bit on the heavy side and was trembling slightly. “Man, that was something else,” he said, as he bent down to put his socks back on and then his boots.
Surprisingly, as he stood up he extended his hand to shake mine and grinned. “I learned my lesson, man. Don’t do shit in this town or I’ll be sent to see you- and I don’t ever wanna do that shit again. You’re a killer!” And with that, he was out the door and up the steps and back in the squad car heading back to the sheriff to pick up his valuables and tell the sheriff that he had done his community service and now had a whole new attitude.