A Photographer’s Memoir
(Posted on Friday, March 22, 2002)
This story was submitted by FFst.

This was my third visit to the hair-dressing saloon where, as a photographer, I took both black and white and colored pictures of the soles of Sue’s feet for my own collection. She and the other girl there asked if I worked for some magazine. I answered honestly that I do not although I would like to. What I was doing was only as a free-lancing collector because I am a foot-fetishist. After all, I gave them all the pictures of their whole bodies which I have no use of. But, today, both Sue and the other girl were not there. A new girl smiled at me between two dimples. I asked her name.

“Sandy. Do you want to take my feet?”

“Yes! Barefeet only! No sandaled feet!” Her lightly tanned feet looked exquisite in her strapped sandals.

“So, are they what you want?” She kicked off her sandals and stuck both her open soles at my face, spreading her toes widely.

“Wait a minute!”  unpacking my  tripod, “Hold your feet that way!”

“It is beautiful!” she claimed as I took the picutre of myself kissing the soles of her feet. She has a pair of youthful orange-rosy soles, with five smiling toes surrounding each white calyx. Unlike the thick skin of some of the sandaled soles, the skin of her soles was soft, tender and moist with a feeling of almost being sucked up by my lips. The aroma of her  feet was unfortunately so faint that I have to nuzzle deep between her toes to feel any. I imagined that she would have a pair of good smelling feet, if her fragrance was not dissipated through her strapped sandals. The blue polish on her two short big toes and eight long toes reflected the flashlight as they attempted to hold and to squeeze my nose. I noticed that she was wincing and asked what was the matter.

“Your lips tickle!”

“Well, ” I started to say something but she cut me short.

“I like this feeling! Go further down!”

“But we need some real tickling. Put your feet at the edge of this bed.” and gave a light tickle on her left sole. Not just her face but all her toes laughed. A series of  pictures captured her grimacing face, jerking arms, half-withdrawn legs and curling toes, all with my fingers crossing the centers of her soles while her tinkling laughter went into a tape-recorder and filled  the room to the ceiling like silver bells.

I decided that next time I must bring along a video camera although still frames also have their merit of freezing the instant instead of let it to fly by. I put a badge of “Miss Pretty Feet l996” on her shoulder, a fake diamond anklet to her left ankle, a golden-foot trophy in her hand and a diamond and ruby crown on her head.

“Kick up your right foot high so that I can take your sole. Now, the left foot. Now, turn around and lift one foot at your back. Now, lift up both your arms!”  Before she knew what I was doing, I stuck two fingers into the armpits at her both sides as the flashlight clicked. Unexpected tickling always produced the best results.

“Oh! That’s really  tricky!” She screamed loudly.

“Now, let me find your most ticklish places and let’s have a good laughing!”

“Why don’t you tickle both my armpits and my soles at the same time?  The feeling of tickling coming from all my four points into the center of my heart is what I like the best!”

“That must take more than one man.  But I will try to tickle your soles and your armpits alternately. Try to enjoy the next to the best. But would it kill you?”

“No! You don’t know me. I would like to be killed by tickling!”

She rolled on the blanket throwing around  her long deshevelled black hair like a wild woman, emitting from the corner of her mouth between laughters, “Please don’t stop!  Please don’t stop!   It feels so good!   Let me die now!”

40 minutes of incessant tickling has passed through her upper and lower body parts with all her writhing hysteria into my camera and her screaching howling into my tape-recorder. The blanket was soaking wet with her juice.

“Now, nothing is complete without this final ordeal! Do you like pain?” I took out a narrow, thin, bamboo paddle from my bag. “Hold your soles high here!” and lashed hard until a red line appeared in one of her soles.

“Harder!”  she demanded,  “You hit so light not even to kill the tickling left in my soles!”

“Sure! This is the way I like a girl to endure. But can you still walk if I put forty deep welts down each of your soles?”

“Of course I can!” I tried to hit the same spot down the middle of her soles without ripping the skin off  the surface as a good bastinadoer would do. The welts turned purple.

“Harder!” She still demanded.

My pants were almost bursting while the paddles in my hands lashed mechanically at her soles. I lost count although I believed she must have received more than fifty blows in each soles. Small drops of blood spurted out of some of the red purple lines. I looked at her face. She was smiling at me with half-closed eyes.

I brought the developed pictures back there a week later and asked for Sandy.

“Sandy who? No one works here by this name.”

I showed one of the pictures with her face. Both girls shook their heads, “Never seen this person here!”

The pictures are still with me waiting for delivery.