Let me say this from the outset: coming from a large, extended family with dozens of relatives, my childhood was an epic of non-stop tickling. Most of our people emigrated from Eastern Europe, eventually settling into the same neighborhood, which meant there were always plenty of kids around on weekends and holidays.

Our folks took turns taking care of us after school, sometimes sending an older cousin over to keep an eye on us. This was a favored tradition from the old country, where everybody in seemed to be related by blood or marriage. The majority of our babysitters were female, but our all-time favorite minder at the time was our "long lost" cousin Karl.

Karlos Jeygensen was four years my senior, making him around sixteen when he started babysitting my sisters and I. We quickly discovered he was a world-class tickler, and while we all fell victim to his torturous fingertips at one time or another, I soon became his prime target – mainly because I did everything in my power to provoke him most of the time…though I now suspect there might have been another reason.

I guess I need to explain a little about myself.

I was born with a rare glandular condition known as TISM - Toxically Induced Sexual Morphism. While genetically male, I appear anatomically female in virtually every respect; only the specialists can tell the difference, and then only after extensive examinations and testing. The medical literature connects it to an industrial accident back in the sixties, which released several thousand tons of insecticide into the local environment - much of which consisted of conjugated estrogens. The result was an ecological disaster and several generations of transsexual children - tranzies in the regional parlance - of which I happen to be a prime example.

The condition effects something like one in seven males in the Courtland district, meaning that I wasn't really seen as anything out of the ordinary at the time (religious fanatics and right-wing nutjobs notwithstanding). Tranzies had become a fixture in my hometown decades before, and my parents were willing to raise me as a girl during early childhood. So did everyone else, which is where my "long lost" cousin Karl comes in.

As the proverbial black swan of our family - an archetype gothic art student with a 'take no prisoners' attitude – Karl had my number from day one, and never failed to remind me who was in charge. It made absolutely no difference what my preferred pronoun was: he utterly refused to put up with even the slightest hint of rebellion on my part. If I started something, I could be damned sure he would finish it.

And believe it or not, that suited me just fine.

Being the middle child in the family, I was slightly starved for attention, and usually acted out in chronic misbehavior. I was also a budding tomboy (a lethal combination back in those days), so I was always getting into some kind of trouble. Karl was somewhat on the rough-and-tumble side as well, which made him the perfect foil for my frequent escapades. In common with most little 'girls,' I enjoyed a good tickling every now and then, but more importantly, I loved Karl's undivided attention whenever he dropped round for the afternoon.

I think Karl picked up on it early on, because he started "punishing" my high jinx with extremely long tickling sessions, sometimes lasting more than fifteen minutes with intermittent breathers. My sisters, Tanya and Lydia, usually joined in the festivities, making sure I never got off too lightly. Much as I dreaded these protracted marathons, I still looked forward to Karl's weekly visits and often dared him to chase me down for a tickling. I simply could not help myself; I always believed that I'd get away with it this time.

From the very start, I urged him on with incessant mischief. At first, he would jokingly warn me off, threatening me with the most diabolical torments imaginable. Naturally, this would only make me more determined to push the limits as far as possible. Within a few seconds, I'd be playing the nuisance while he tried to read a book on the sofa (or whatever). I never knew when the warnings were going to run out (that was a crucial part of the excitement), so I always screamed like a banshee when my ordeal began.

No no no don't tickle me!!!

Once Karl had me secured firmly on his lap, his hands would roam all over my body while I shrieked in helpless laughter. My dress would scrunch up around my chest, revealing my plump little torso. His fingers would dive in immediately, dancing around my ribs and tummy button. Curling up in his arms, I'd try to pull my dress down to conceal my knickers, but by that time there was no escaping those probing digits.

After a minute or so he'd allow me to catch my breath. I'd lay panting against his shoulder, face flushed with embarrassed pleasure, bursting into spontaneous giggles every few seconds. He'd ask me if I was going behave, to which I'd nod in breathless agreement, begging him to let me go. Of course, his arms were still wrapped tight around me, holding me firmly in place. This was little more than a brief respite, and I was well aware that the real tickling had yet to begin.

Having concluded the warm-up, Karl would proceed to The Never-Ending Foot-Tickle. This was accomplished by laying me on the floor with my feet propped up on his lap. Holding my ankles together with one hand, he would draw his finger-tips down my soles in long, teasing strokes. Shill peals of laughter would explode from my throat as I bucked about in a wild attempt to get away. Needless to say, it was a completely wasted effort; once Karl had my feet in his iron grip, there was no evading my just deserts. Once again, my dress would slip all the way down to my shoulders, allowing everyone in the room a generous view of my floral print panties. The sheer embarrassment of having my thighs, knickers and belly on display was almost as bad as the tickling itself.

The commotion usually brought my sisters to the living room, where they enjoyed a front row seat to the evening's entertainment. Both would spur Karl on with the greatest of enthusiasm, giggling at my hopeless predicament. Sometimes they would actually come over and hold my arms down on the carpet so I couldn't pull my frock down over my panties (they always found that part hysterically funny). As the name implied, The Never-Ending Foot Tickle seemed to continue throughout eternity, though it probably lasted no more than five minutes at the most.

That is, at least until I reached my early teens. That was when things took a turn for the ... interesting, so to speak.