My Kinky Mind

’Sup, guys.

Nah, you can skate here. It’s cool. I was just wondering…how’d you like to make five hundred bucks? Two-fifty each.

No no, hold up…it’s nothing like that.

See that house? The one with the brick? Yeah. So…the dude who lives there is into some seriously fucked up shit, and…

Hang on, lemme finish!

Okay. So this dude. His thing is getting tickled. I shit you not. Feet, mostly. Fuckin’ savage tickling. Hard as you can do it.

I know, right? He’s nuts.

Here’s the deal. If you can hang for a few hours…work his feet real good…that’s five hundred bucks between you.

He’s paying.

You’re friends with Jackson, right? Tall kid, skates up here sometimes? He’s done this, like…five times already. Swear to God. Tickled the fuck out of the poor guy.

Yep. House on the corner.

My dude won’t see you. He wears this hood thing, and…what’s that? No, he’s tied up. That’s how he likes it.

Do you know what stocks are? Never mind. Doesn’t matter.

I got the money right here if you’re down…

Sweet! He’s gonna go crazy.

Nah, don’t worry…I’ll show you how. It’s easy. This motherfucker is so ticklish, dude. And if you’re squeamish about touching his feet, I’ve got these little spiky gloves you can wear. And brushes. You’ll see.

Yeah…[redacted] is his name, but I just call him ‘tickle slave.’ Actually, check it out…he posts all this weird kinky shit under the name @tickle-prisoner-writer on Tumblr, and…

Tumblr. T-U-M-B-L-R?

Here. Lemme show you.

Yep, those are his feet. Fuckin’ pathetic tickle slave…

We always use stocks now, though. You’ll see. Easier to tie his toes back. Little cords around each one, so he can’t hide his soles…

I know. He’s so weird.

Now, listen up…when he hears us coming down the stairs, he’s gonna…

Downstairs. To the basement. That’s where his stocks are.

Anyway, he’s gonna act like he wants out. Begging and shit. But that’s just part of the act. Ignore him.

A surprise? Not exactly. Everybody said she was a cheater. But you have to understand: the sex was transcendent. He was addicted.

Anyway, his smartest move, when he walked in on the two of them rutting like ferrets, would have been to get the hell out of there. Cut his losses. But no, he started mouthing off. Making empty threats. That’s how he ended up on his back, straddled by a hundred ninety pounds of naked muscle.

Mr. Baseball was moments away from hocking a loogie into @tickle-prisoner-writer’s mouth when the “girlfriend” giggled that she had a better idea.

Something that would really get to him.

Tying @tickle-prisoner-writer to the bed took some doing, but Mr. Baseball was terribly strong. Turned out he had a younger brother, and more than knew his way around a pair of ticklish feet.

That was a long fucking night.

They eventually let him go, but things snowballed rather quickly in the days and weeks that followed. @tickle-prisoner-writer didn’t appreciate showing up at her apartment, or Mr. Baseball’s, with whatever bondage gear they’d told him to buy—but what could he do? The bastard was six-three and threatened to post video of their “sessions.” He couldn’t bear the thought of his friends hearing the way he screamed.

And was it really so bad, listening to them fuck during breaks? He didn’t mind that part so much. He’d rather be the one getting laid, of course, but beggars can’t be choosers. It sucked having his feet brushed, especially when they used that one massage oil, but he still got to see her perfect nipples occasionally. When he wasn’t blindfolded.

It could be worse. It wasn’t like the tickling happened all the time, right? He wasn’t an actual prisoner. Not literally.

Meetings usually take place without him (an automated tickler keeps him howling), but every so often, they let him join. It’s a bit of a process—hosing him off, scrubbing his feet—but the synergy is worth it. Having @tickle-prisoner-writer’s soles in the room really boosts productivity.

It’s a double-edged sword for him. He enjoys being out of the dungeon for a few hours (even if he’s not permitted to see anything), and it’s nice to be clean. But hearing all his captors together, discussing his feet, is as intimidating as it is humiliating.

On the bright side, the tickling he gets during staff meetings is tamer than anything in the dungeon. But he’s expected to stay quiet in the boardroom, so as not to interrupt the flow of conversation—and that is exceedingly difficult. He’s used to being able to let ’er rip, yelling and crying and begging to his heart’s content.

Action items from the most recent meeting include reducing orgasm frequency by at least 75% in the next quarter, and finally completing that brush-ranking protect.

Also resolved: sleep blocks are not to exceed four hours, with immediate effect.

I just feel like the above-average size, the abundance of available surface area, is almost like an invitation for tickles. There's just so much space for a hairbrush to slowly drag along, or for a feather to trace and stroke like a paintbrush on a canvas.

Big-footed guys would probably claim otherwise, arguing that it's not fair that their soles are singled out for something they can't control, that it's actually even worse for them because the tickling is inherently more intense on soles with extra space to exploit, but l'd say that's simply the cost of having big, helpless soles in the first place.

All ticklish feet should be stimulated as much and as often as possible. Right now, as you read this, there are billions of feet going untickled around the world, and that’s a travesty. Think of the laughter we’ve lost.

That said, if your feet are exemplary in some way—especially large, or aesthetically beautiful, or significantly more reactive than most—then it’s even more important to get your soles immobilized as soon as possible, and keep them that way. We put priceless works of art in museums, don’t we? Of course we do.

In practical terms, I’m not sure the extra surface area is as impactful as you imagine. Yes, a large brush or grooming glove has more room to work. That’s true. But in my experience, the most exquisite suffering comes not when the tickler brutalizes the full length and breadth of my oily, flexed, quivering soles—but when the focus settles on a special place, unique to me.

Barely more than a centimeter square, the ticklish agony it produces would require a poet to describe fully.

Few know the location of this spot. At least one is reading this post, and I beg him to remain silent.