There is an old English story of a duchess returning home after a hard day’s hunting. Her groom, taking the reins of her horse, notes admiringly, “Boigob, ‘at ‘orse ain’t ‘alf swea’in’, Mum!”
“My man,” she retorts with little circumstance, “so would you be if you’d been between my legs for seven hours!”
Ava Bradshaw, in the days when I knew her, was a girl with just that kind of attitude. From an old English family that owned large wine estates in the Stellenbosch area of South Africa, major shareholders in some of the powerful wineries and co-operatives, she had never wanted for anything and embraced the free love philosophy of the late 1960’s without qualification. The Afrikaaner newspaper of the time, “Die Burger,” had published a photograph of her on Sunrise Beach with the shortest mini-skirt on record, headed by the dreaded conservative expletive “Skande!” meaning shame or scandal. She carried the photo with her as a mark of distinction. She was 21, had begun her medical studies at the University of Cape Town and drove her little Alpha Romeo convertible at breakneck speeds along the national roads.
All of us used to spend weekends on an estate near Somerset West where we kept and trained a large number of horses. In those days there were few buildings in the area and one could ride down to the beach or into the endless vineyards for mile upon mile. I had a mega crush on Ava, but was at the time just 18 with a place somewhere near the back of the line of lovers, both male and female, that shared her bed. On the other hand, I had an advantage over most of the others as I was one of the few that would keep up with her on our rides through the bush and the sea sands. That earned me several points and led to my getting to know her from another side – one that fed my passion on a quite different level.
That Ava was ticklish was common knowledge, and many a young or older man had, in passing close to her on horseback, squeezed her upper thigh or knee, giving rise to a an agonised shriek that was enough to startle every horse around and with hers taking off at a gallop. She would return with a broad grin, warning whoever it was that next time she would have his balls for breakfast.
Also back at the large house with its eight or nine bedrooms and spacious living quarters, she seemed to get into an inordinate number of tickle fights, particularly with her girlfriends. There would be a sudden burst of shrieks in the passage or one of the bedrooms, and next thing some sweet young thing would come running into the relative safety of company, with Ava in hot pursuit.
Initially I felt embarrassed at witnessing these altercations, unwilling to acknowledge even to myself just how they aroused me. I would watch from a safe distance, unable to take my eyes off them. Then, some two months into our friendship, I at last had occasion to become involved myself. One of our favourite things to do was to ride bareback to the beach, an old bridle on the horse, then shed our excess clothing and take the horses into the sea to swim. One could wade out a considerable distance before the horse lost its footing and had to swim for it, at which point, so as not to loose contact, we would slide into the water, holding onto the horse’s mane or tail. It was wonderful fun, but there were few that seemed eager to try. Ava and I were often the only ones to go that far, and so we would stay close to each other, shouting blissfully into the warm summer air.
One time we had drifted quite close to one another when she grabbed me around the waist with her legs in an attempt to make me let go of the tail of my horse. Chasing one’s mount through the wilds of Africa was not every horseman’s idea of a good time, so I was reluctant to let the tail go. Instead, I let go with one hand, using the fingers of the other to tickle the soles of her feet where they were hooked about my midriff.
“Aaaaah! You bugger, hehehe… tickling my feet isn’t fair. Wait till I get you…” Soon we were back on the beach getting into our clothes and headed home.
Now, it was on that estate that I had learned to drive a tractor and car, and we used to drive from where the stables were to the paddocks and fields up in the hills in an old Studebaker with an engine the size of a modern truck and a back seat that could have doubled as a twin bed. Ava would refer to it as “Brenda’s sexwagon”. (Brenda was the owner of the estate and Ava’s best friend.) I have my doubts that Brenda had ever put it to such use, but was pretty certain that Ava had on several occasions chosen this means to strike up a more intimate acquaintance.
Having seen our mounts safely back in the stableyard, Ava said something about taking a ride to check on one of the horses in the far paddocks and asked me to drive her in the Studebaker. We were soon headed into the lonely countryside and parked the car in the shade of a copse of trees. Ava threw herself over the backrest to start fumbling in the back seat area for something, her bare feet kicking about. Then her legs slid into the gap between the seats and she began to playfully slap me with her feet. I did the only thing worthy of my dignity in such a situation, grabbed her one ankle and began to tickle her foot.
“Hey, Gavin! Hahaha… didn’t you get enough this morning. You know how ticklish I am on the soles of my feet. Hihi…”
I kept it up for a few more seconds, then stopped and let her go.
“Why are you stopping?” she asked me, giggling like a little girl. God, how that laugh of hers was always able to charm the pants off me!
I looked hard at her, not quite believing what I’d heard.
“Oh come on, what do you think I brought you up here for? Just a little more; but hold onto my foot as you do it. It always tickles far more that way.”
I needed no second invitation but began to tickle as I’d never done to anyone else – not to the girls in my class at school or my three young cousins, who had been my main victims in the past.
Ava was laughing tears by the time I’d finished and was putting up quite a struggle, but with her legs clamped between the car seats, I had a distinct advantage.
“Haha, ok, enough, enough! You’ll tickle the soles right off my feet!” she quipped at me. “Ahh, that felt great! I think I must get you some time when we get home.”
“You’re wasting your time,” I said. “I’m not ticklish.”
“Can’t be!” she was incredulous.
“You’re welcome to try. You wouldn’t be the first.”
“Not even under your feet?” she asked, a little whimsically, I thought.
“Nope!”
“I think its fun being ticklish! Like, what is that anyway. A guy runs his fingernail over the sole of your foot, and it sets you off laughing, makes you leap about, feels like you just want to jump out of your skin. But it doesn’t hurt, it does no damage and afterwards everybody feels good because they’ve had a good laugh.”
“Sounds great,” I retorted. “You seem pretty ticklish anyway.”
“You don’t say? Whatever gave you that idea? Damn right I am! Like, everywhere on my body, but most of all on my waist and legs – and above all my feet.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll just have to miss out on that experience.” I said.
“But you do like to tickle, don’t you? I noticed you were really getting into it there?”
“Yeah, that’s ok,” I said, somewhat evasively.
“Deal!” she cried. “You help me to tickle the others and you get to tickle me!”
I was not sure what to make of that, so let it ride. But I could imagine, and my mind was full of visions of erotic encounters I had up to then hardly dared to fantsise about.
That summer was particularly dry, and the drought was worst in the eastern regions of the Cape Province. Many of the farmers there were loading livestock and horses onto trains and sending them to the Western Cape simply because there was no grass and they could not afford to feed them. We took on a load of scrub ponies – must have been about 15 in all, and it gave us all a lot of extra work, as they’d been used to running wild and needed breaking in and handling. A lot of Ava and Brenda’s friends came around to help, so social life at the farm was lively, we ate enormous meals prepared for us by the cooks Brenda hired, and when we were not riding we were either at the sea or hung around inside through the heat of the day.
It’s not surprising that Saturday and Sunday after lunch and in the evening a certain amount of romping around took place amongst the four girls present, and as usual, Ava was in the thick of things.
There was this one time when most of the others had gone into Somerset West, where there was some sort of market on, and there were just Ava, a girl called Gillian, my good friend Walter, who was a lot older than the rest of us and mainly concerned with the horses and his recent divorce, and myself. Ava and Gillian were playing some sort of card game while I was reading in the corner of the living room. Walter was taking a nap in his bedroom.
I was watching the two ladies out of the corner of my eye and could observe Ava at work – and I don’t mean at cards. She was deliberately doing things that would exasperate Gillian, like stealing looks at her cards, saying things to distract her or simply not paying attention. She allowed her legs to stretch out under the table and placed her bare feet on the chair next to Gillian. From there it was possible to distract her by nudging her hip or thigh and so on. Not surprisingly, Gillian eventually grabbed her foot and began to tickle it. Ava almost leapt out of her seat, giggling frantically.
“Don’t tickle my feet! You can’t imagine how ticklish I am.” she chortled, then sat down again and continued right on with her little game. This time she began to use her toes to tickle Gillian’s feet under the table, sort of surreptitiously, without really looking at what she was doing. Gillian squealed and pulled her foot away.
“Ticklish on your feet, huh,” Ava observed with a little giggle.
“Don’t,” said Gillian. “I can’t stand having my feet tickled. I go hysterical when somebody tickles me under my feet.”
My attention had long since left my book and was riveted on the little drama playing itself out before my eyes. Ava’s feet were on the chair once more, and she now moved one foot across to rest it on Gillian’s lap. Gillian began to caress the top of the foot, began to move around, all gently and lovingly, then started to manipulate the toes. This had Ava giving out little squeals and giggles. Gillian began to rub her fingertips across the sole of the foot, which had Ava chortling loudly. She bent to pick up Gillian’s foot and to do the same. Gillian immediately wanted to pull away, but Ava held on.
“Don’t worry, it won’t hurt,” she said.
Gillian relented, saying, “just watch you don’t tickle me too much. Even what I’m doing to you is likely to make me run a mile.”
For Ava, that was a bit of a challenge and she soon had Gillian giggling frantically and trying to pull away. But Ava held on grimly, increased the intensity of her tickling and this, in turn, caused Gillian to tickle harder herself. Ava, in fits of giggles, fell off her chair onto the ground, pulling herself free and tackling Gillian where she sat. Instantly there was a raging tickle fight going, both girls screaming with laughter, rolling around on the floor until Ava got the upper hand, sitting on top of Gillian holding her arms down by the wrists. She slid up to place her knees on Gillian’s upper arms and began to tickle her armpits and sides. Gillian was going apeshit, not screaming loudly, but with that kind of hysterical laughter that just kept escalating, increasing in speed and hysteria but not in volume.
“Ava, Ava, no, no don’t. Mercy, please, mercy,” she begged.
“Ok, I’ll stop tickling you there, but you have to let me tickle your tummy in that case.” She ordered.
“No Ava, no for Pete’s sake. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Please, can’t you see how ticklish I am?”
But Ava was already allowing her right hand to explore Gillian’s abs, caressing here, digging in there, with the poor victim seeming to collapse, unable to defend herself.
Ava stopped again and Gillian continued to plead for respite. “No Ava, no, please don’t tickle any more. I just go all weak and can’t do anything to stop you.”
Both girls were laughing, obviously still having a good time.
“The only problem is, I can’t get at your feet like this,” Ava said to her.
“Thank God for that,” Gillian replied. “That’s the worst. It makes me shudder even to think of it.”
“Gavin, come here a moment,” Ava called over to me.
Our little deal came to mind – that part where she wanted to call on my help in case of need. I went over to her in a flash.
“Come and sit over here,” she commanded. “She won’t do much. If she does, just tickle her a bit under the arms.”
Gillian was a sweetie and we’d always got on fine, so she wasn’t intimidated by me. But most certainly the situation terrified the shit out of her.
“You guys, no, for fuck’s sake, what’re you gonna to do to me? Please, no, nooooo!”
Ava was already sitting on her knees, hands ready to administer their torture. I watched, fascinated from my perch, looking now at Ava, now again at Gillian’s face in its tormented hilarity.
“Oh God, if only I wouldn’t go all weak like this when someone tickles me,” Gillian was saying. “Please, guys, don’t, please don’t… Yiiiiiiiiiiih!!” she finally shrieked as Ava’s fingers descended onto her feet.
Ava was crooning to herself. “Oohh, ohmegosh, you have such cuuuuuute little feet. Just such fuuuuun to tickle. I just want to tickle and tickle and tickle them soooo much.” I had no idea Ava was given to that kind of baby talk, but it seemed to work on Gillian, whose head was thrown back, mouth wide open, emitting a steady stream of laughter.
“Does this tickle?” Ava asked, hearing some kind of escalation in Ava’s repeated bursts of laughter.
“Yehhehheh iiit-t-t tick-tick-tick-les!” Gillian stuttered, unable to articulate a single phrase.
Ava was getting increasingly worked up. I could sense her breath coming in fits and starts. Then she did a funny thing.
“Gavin,” she said, “Tickle the sole of my foot. I want to feel what it feels like for her while I’m doing it.”
Her foot was right behind and next to me, sole turned up and ready for me to reach down and tickle. Willingly I descended on it and started scratching lightly with my nails.
“Not too much, or I won’t be able to bear it.” Ava cautioned, already in fits of giggles. I toned my tickling down slightly, content just to hear the melody of her reactions.
Gillian was not saying much, just frantic in her uninterrupted howling and throwing about of her head and shoulders. She was completely helpless under our combined weight.
Then Ava began to laugh less, continued tickling but was obviously really worked up. I guess aroused would be more apt.
“Ok, stop,” she told me. I complied.
She started to tickle Gillian more and more gently, who calmed down, just giving little squeals and cute giggles until Ava stopped altogether.
“Hey Gav, that was great!” Ava told me. “Why don’t we let her go and see if there is any more tickle fight in her.”
“Just let me catch my breath. I’m going to get you back if it’s the last thing I do!” Gillian squealed, obviously spent but recovering fast. One would have sworn she had enjoyed the whole experience. Then, as I was getting off her, she pulled my head down and whispered quickly, while Ava was otherwise occupied, “are you going to help me as well. I’m going to need it.”
I’d interpreted Ava’s words to me to mean I could tickle her if I helped her tickle others. Assisting Gillian did not seem to constitute any kind of betrayal our undertaking to my mind. Anyway next thing I knew, Gillian had launched into another attack on Ava, getting her ribs from behind so Ava fell to the ground, curling up in a little ball. Gillian pulled her so she lay flat, lying on her stomach and sat on top of her. Strangely, Ava did not seem to be offering much resistance as Gillian went for her ribs and armpits. She reacted in her usual manner, wildly thrashing about her, laughing uproariously.
It was easy to see, however, that Gillian was not into tickling the way Ava was – or for that matter, the way I was. And she was not that confident. Ava had managed to turn over and was now ready to defend herself. Gillian held her arms down, not letting her get a hold of her, and then called me.
“Gavin, won’t you go sit down on her legs so she can’t get away.”
I made haste to comply. Ava watched as I passed, was still laughing but said not a word. I quickly positioned myself on her knees, facing her feet.
“Gavin, why don’t you go ahead and just tickle the soles of her feet while I hold her here. I am so going to enjoy watching her face, knowing there’s nothing she can do about it.”
“Gill, no!” Ava sounded frantic. “You can’t get Gavin to tickle me under my feet. He’s a bloody demon! Oh shit man, if only I weren't quite so ticklish. But that bugger is a professional bloody foot tickler. Watch out for him if you’re walking around barefoot. If ever he gets hold of you he’ll make every ticklish nerve on the soles of your feet begin to scream!!”
Flattering perhaps, but Ava said it for Gillian’s benefit, not mine. Obviously she was enjoying herself enormously. For me, however, there was no need for a second invitation. I started in on her pretty bare feet, holding one foot by the toes while I tickled the stretched skin on the sole of her foot underneath with the nails of my other hand. We were rewarded by hoots of laughter from Ava, hoots that would become shrill screams and then subside into a gurgling bubble that did not abate again for many minutes.
“I never knew tickling could be so much fun,” Gillian was saying. “You should see your face. I’ve never watched anyone laugh like that before. Just keep tickling those feet, Gavin; make sure it’s really ticklish for her. Yeah, just like that! Holy shit, she is but freaking out!” She was laughing quite uncontrollably herself by now.
It was one of the best concerts I had ever attended. Bach had nothing on the sound of the melody that I was able to control with every change of position on her foot.
“Not right there, pleeease Gavin! Christ, it tickles so much right in the middle of my foot there. Oh bugger it, stop massaging between my toes like that.”
I loved it. I just didn’t ever want it to stop. Then the thought occurred to me to have a go at Gillian’s foot that was within easy reach. Perhaps she, too, wanted to experience what it felt like. That was our undoing! The moment I started, Gillian was on her feet and running for cover, leaving Ava an easy escape…
Yes, Ava certainly had a way with her, constantly wanting to live life on the edge, trying every adventure possible, but most of all, share her experiences with others, creating a mood of fun and laughter around her. There were many further incidents of tickling confrontations. By this time she had surmised that I was aroused by these events too. Long after I’d moved away from Cape Town, she still sent me accounts of the odd tickling escapade that she’d been involved in. She knew I loved those stories and could relate them in memory to the girl that, for me, has always been the most fun to tickle. Perhaps I shall get a chance to share some of these with you some time.
The last time I heard from Ava, she’d gone to India and joined an Ashram. I always found this utterly incongruous. Was she trying a course of chastity and spiritual devotion to make up for a misspent youth? Or, more likely, did she have some sort of private arrangement with her Guru, like, you know what I mean?!
“My man,” she retorts with little circumstance, “so would you be if you’d been between my legs for seven hours!”
Ava Bradshaw, in the days when I knew her, was a girl with just that kind of attitude. From an old English family that owned large wine estates in the Stellenbosch area of South Africa, major shareholders in some of the powerful wineries and co-operatives, she had never wanted for anything and embraced the free love philosophy of the late 1960’s without qualification. The Afrikaaner newspaper of the time, “Die Burger,” had published a photograph of her on Sunrise Beach with the shortest mini-skirt on record, headed by the dreaded conservative expletive “Skande!” meaning shame or scandal. She carried the photo with her as a mark of distinction. She was 21, had begun her medical studies at the University of Cape Town and drove her little Alpha Romeo convertible at breakneck speeds along the national roads.
All of us used to spend weekends on an estate near Somerset West where we kept and trained a large number of horses. In those days there were few buildings in the area and one could ride down to the beach or into the endless vineyards for mile upon mile. I had a mega crush on Ava, but was at the time just 18 with a place somewhere near the back of the line of lovers, both male and female, that shared her bed. On the other hand, I had an advantage over most of the others as I was one of the few that would keep up with her on our rides through the bush and the sea sands. That earned me several points and led to my getting to know her from another side – one that fed my passion on a quite different level.
That Ava was ticklish was common knowledge, and many a young or older man had, in passing close to her on horseback, squeezed her upper thigh or knee, giving rise to a an agonised shriek that was enough to startle every horse around and with hers taking off at a gallop. She would return with a broad grin, warning whoever it was that next time she would have his balls for breakfast.
Also back at the large house with its eight or nine bedrooms and spacious living quarters, she seemed to get into an inordinate number of tickle fights, particularly with her girlfriends. There would be a sudden burst of shrieks in the passage or one of the bedrooms, and next thing some sweet young thing would come running into the relative safety of company, with Ava in hot pursuit.
Initially I felt embarrassed at witnessing these altercations, unwilling to acknowledge even to myself just how they aroused me. I would watch from a safe distance, unable to take my eyes off them. Then, some two months into our friendship, I at last had occasion to become involved myself. One of our favourite things to do was to ride bareback to the beach, an old bridle on the horse, then shed our excess clothing and take the horses into the sea to swim. One could wade out a considerable distance before the horse lost its footing and had to swim for it, at which point, so as not to loose contact, we would slide into the water, holding onto the horse’s mane or tail. It was wonderful fun, but there were few that seemed eager to try. Ava and I were often the only ones to go that far, and so we would stay close to each other, shouting blissfully into the warm summer air.
One time we had drifted quite close to one another when she grabbed me around the waist with her legs in an attempt to make me let go of the tail of my horse. Chasing one’s mount through the wilds of Africa was not every horseman’s idea of a good time, so I was reluctant to let the tail go. Instead, I let go with one hand, using the fingers of the other to tickle the soles of her feet where they were hooked about my midriff.
“Aaaaah! You bugger, hehehe… tickling my feet isn’t fair. Wait till I get you…” Soon we were back on the beach getting into our clothes and headed home.
Now, it was on that estate that I had learned to drive a tractor and car, and we used to drive from where the stables were to the paddocks and fields up in the hills in an old Studebaker with an engine the size of a modern truck and a back seat that could have doubled as a twin bed. Ava would refer to it as “Brenda’s sexwagon”. (Brenda was the owner of the estate and Ava’s best friend.) I have my doubts that Brenda had ever put it to such use, but was pretty certain that Ava had on several occasions chosen this means to strike up a more intimate acquaintance.
Having seen our mounts safely back in the stableyard, Ava said something about taking a ride to check on one of the horses in the far paddocks and asked me to drive her in the Studebaker. We were soon headed into the lonely countryside and parked the car in the shade of a copse of trees. Ava threw herself over the backrest to start fumbling in the back seat area for something, her bare feet kicking about. Then her legs slid into the gap between the seats and she began to playfully slap me with her feet. I did the only thing worthy of my dignity in such a situation, grabbed her one ankle and began to tickle her foot.
“Hey, Gavin! Hahaha… didn’t you get enough this morning. You know how ticklish I am on the soles of my feet. Hihi…”
I kept it up for a few more seconds, then stopped and let her go.
“Why are you stopping?” she asked me, giggling like a little girl. God, how that laugh of hers was always able to charm the pants off me!
I looked hard at her, not quite believing what I’d heard.
“Oh come on, what do you think I brought you up here for? Just a little more; but hold onto my foot as you do it. It always tickles far more that way.”
I needed no second invitation but began to tickle as I’d never done to anyone else – not to the girls in my class at school or my three young cousins, who had been my main victims in the past.
Ava was laughing tears by the time I’d finished and was putting up quite a struggle, but with her legs clamped between the car seats, I had a distinct advantage.
“Haha, ok, enough, enough! You’ll tickle the soles right off my feet!” she quipped at me. “Ahh, that felt great! I think I must get you some time when we get home.”
“You’re wasting your time,” I said. “I’m not ticklish.”
“Can’t be!” she was incredulous.
“You’re welcome to try. You wouldn’t be the first.”
“Not even under your feet?” she asked, a little whimsically, I thought.
“Nope!”
“I think its fun being ticklish! Like, what is that anyway. A guy runs his fingernail over the sole of your foot, and it sets you off laughing, makes you leap about, feels like you just want to jump out of your skin. But it doesn’t hurt, it does no damage and afterwards everybody feels good because they’ve had a good laugh.”
“Sounds great,” I retorted. “You seem pretty ticklish anyway.”
“You don’t say? Whatever gave you that idea? Damn right I am! Like, everywhere on my body, but most of all on my waist and legs – and above all my feet.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll just have to miss out on that experience.” I said.
“But you do like to tickle, don’t you? I noticed you were really getting into it there?”
“Yeah, that’s ok,” I said, somewhat evasively.
“Deal!” she cried. “You help me to tickle the others and you get to tickle me!”
I was not sure what to make of that, so let it ride. But I could imagine, and my mind was full of visions of erotic encounters I had up to then hardly dared to fantsise about.
That summer was particularly dry, and the drought was worst in the eastern regions of the Cape Province. Many of the farmers there were loading livestock and horses onto trains and sending them to the Western Cape simply because there was no grass and they could not afford to feed them. We took on a load of scrub ponies – must have been about 15 in all, and it gave us all a lot of extra work, as they’d been used to running wild and needed breaking in and handling. A lot of Ava and Brenda’s friends came around to help, so social life at the farm was lively, we ate enormous meals prepared for us by the cooks Brenda hired, and when we were not riding we were either at the sea or hung around inside through the heat of the day.
It’s not surprising that Saturday and Sunday after lunch and in the evening a certain amount of romping around took place amongst the four girls present, and as usual, Ava was in the thick of things.
There was this one time when most of the others had gone into Somerset West, where there was some sort of market on, and there were just Ava, a girl called Gillian, my good friend Walter, who was a lot older than the rest of us and mainly concerned with the horses and his recent divorce, and myself. Ava and Gillian were playing some sort of card game while I was reading in the corner of the living room. Walter was taking a nap in his bedroom.
I was watching the two ladies out of the corner of my eye and could observe Ava at work – and I don’t mean at cards. She was deliberately doing things that would exasperate Gillian, like stealing looks at her cards, saying things to distract her or simply not paying attention. She allowed her legs to stretch out under the table and placed her bare feet on the chair next to Gillian. From there it was possible to distract her by nudging her hip or thigh and so on. Not surprisingly, Gillian eventually grabbed her foot and began to tickle it. Ava almost leapt out of her seat, giggling frantically.
“Don’t tickle my feet! You can’t imagine how ticklish I am.” she chortled, then sat down again and continued right on with her little game. This time she began to use her toes to tickle Gillian’s feet under the table, sort of surreptitiously, without really looking at what she was doing. Gillian squealed and pulled her foot away.
“Ticklish on your feet, huh,” Ava observed with a little giggle.
“Don’t,” said Gillian. “I can’t stand having my feet tickled. I go hysterical when somebody tickles me under my feet.”
My attention had long since left my book and was riveted on the little drama playing itself out before my eyes. Ava’s feet were on the chair once more, and she now moved one foot across to rest it on Gillian’s lap. Gillian began to caress the top of the foot, began to move around, all gently and lovingly, then started to manipulate the toes. This had Ava giving out little squeals and giggles. Gillian began to rub her fingertips across the sole of the foot, which had Ava chortling loudly. She bent to pick up Gillian’s foot and to do the same. Gillian immediately wanted to pull away, but Ava held on.
“Don’t worry, it won’t hurt,” she said.
Gillian relented, saying, “just watch you don’t tickle me too much. Even what I’m doing to you is likely to make me run a mile.”
For Ava, that was a bit of a challenge and she soon had Gillian giggling frantically and trying to pull away. But Ava held on grimly, increased the intensity of her tickling and this, in turn, caused Gillian to tickle harder herself. Ava, in fits of giggles, fell off her chair onto the ground, pulling herself free and tackling Gillian where she sat. Instantly there was a raging tickle fight going, both girls screaming with laughter, rolling around on the floor until Ava got the upper hand, sitting on top of Gillian holding her arms down by the wrists. She slid up to place her knees on Gillian’s upper arms and began to tickle her armpits and sides. Gillian was going apeshit, not screaming loudly, but with that kind of hysterical laughter that just kept escalating, increasing in speed and hysteria but not in volume.
“Ava, Ava, no, no don’t. Mercy, please, mercy,” she begged.
“Ok, I’ll stop tickling you there, but you have to let me tickle your tummy in that case.” She ordered.
“No Ava, no for Pete’s sake. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Please, can’t you see how ticklish I am?”
But Ava was already allowing her right hand to explore Gillian’s abs, caressing here, digging in there, with the poor victim seeming to collapse, unable to defend herself.
Ava stopped again and Gillian continued to plead for respite. “No Ava, no, please don’t tickle any more. I just go all weak and can’t do anything to stop you.”
Both girls were laughing, obviously still having a good time.
“The only problem is, I can’t get at your feet like this,” Ava said to her.
“Thank God for that,” Gillian replied. “That’s the worst. It makes me shudder even to think of it.”
“Gavin, come here a moment,” Ava called over to me.
Our little deal came to mind – that part where she wanted to call on my help in case of need. I went over to her in a flash.
“Come and sit over here,” she commanded. “She won’t do much. If she does, just tickle her a bit under the arms.”
Gillian was a sweetie and we’d always got on fine, so she wasn’t intimidated by me. But most certainly the situation terrified the shit out of her.
“You guys, no, for fuck’s sake, what’re you gonna to do to me? Please, no, nooooo!”
Ava was already sitting on her knees, hands ready to administer their torture. I watched, fascinated from my perch, looking now at Ava, now again at Gillian’s face in its tormented hilarity.
“Oh God, if only I wouldn’t go all weak like this when someone tickles me,” Gillian was saying. “Please, guys, don’t, please don’t… Yiiiiiiiiiiih!!” she finally shrieked as Ava’s fingers descended onto her feet.
Ava was crooning to herself. “Oohh, ohmegosh, you have such cuuuuuute little feet. Just such fuuuuun to tickle. I just want to tickle and tickle and tickle them soooo much.” I had no idea Ava was given to that kind of baby talk, but it seemed to work on Gillian, whose head was thrown back, mouth wide open, emitting a steady stream of laughter.
“Does this tickle?” Ava asked, hearing some kind of escalation in Ava’s repeated bursts of laughter.
“Yehhehheh iiit-t-t tick-tick-tick-les!” Gillian stuttered, unable to articulate a single phrase.
Ava was getting increasingly worked up. I could sense her breath coming in fits and starts. Then she did a funny thing.
“Gavin,” she said, “Tickle the sole of my foot. I want to feel what it feels like for her while I’m doing it.”
Her foot was right behind and next to me, sole turned up and ready for me to reach down and tickle. Willingly I descended on it and started scratching lightly with my nails.
“Not too much, or I won’t be able to bear it.” Ava cautioned, already in fits of giggles. I toned my tickling down slightly, content just to hear the melody of her reactions.
Gillian was not saying much, just frantic in her uninterrupted howling and throwing about of her head and shoulders. She was completely helpless under our combined weight.
Then Ava began to laugh less, continued tickling but was obviously really worked up. I guess aroused would be more apt.
“Ok, stop,” she told me. I complied.
She started to tickle Gillian more and more gently, who calmed down, just giving little squeals and cute giggles until Ava stopped altogether.
“Hey Gav, that was great!” Ava told me. “Why don’t we let her go and see if there is any more tickle fight in her.”
“Just let me catch my breath. I’m going to get you back if it’s the last thing I do!” Gillian squealed, obviously spent but recovering fast. One would have sworn she had enjoyed the whole experience. Then, as I was getting off her, she pulled my head down and whispered quickly, while Ava was otherwise occupied, “are you going to help me as well. I’m going to need it.”
I’d interpreted Ava’s words to me to mean I could tickle her if I helped her tickle others. Assisting Gillian did not seem to constitute any kind of betrayal our undertaking to my mind. Anyway next thing I knew, Gillian had launched into another attack on Ava, getting her ribs from behind so Ava fell to the ground, curling up in a little ball. Gillian pulled her so she lay flat, lying on her stomach and sat on top of her. Strangely, Ava did not seem to be offering much resistance as Gillian went for her ribs and armpits. She reacted in her usual manner, wildly thrashing about her, laughing uproariously.
It was easy to see, however, that Gillian was not into tickling the way Ava was – or for that matter, the way I was. And she was not that confident. Ava had managed to turn over and was now ready to defend herself. Gillian held her arms down, not letting her get a hold of her, and then called me.
“Gavin, won’t you go sit down on her legs so she can’t get away.”
I made haste to comply. Ava watched as I passed, was still laughing but said not a word. I quickly positioned myself on her knees, facing her feet.
“Gavin, why don’t you go ahead and just tickle the soles of her feet while I hold her here. I am so going to enjoy watching her face, knowing there’s nothing she can do about it.”
“Gill, no!” Ava sounded frantic. “You can’t get Gavin to tickle me under my feet. He’s a bloody demon! Oh shit man, if only I weren't quite so ticklish. But that bugger is a professional bloody foot tickler. Watch out for him if you’re walking around barefoot. If ever he gets hold of you he’ll make every ticklish nerve on the soles of your feet begin to scream!!”
Flattering perhaps, but Ava said it for Gillian’s benefit, not mine. Obviously she was enjoying herself enormously. For me, however, there was no need for a second invitation. I started in on her pretty bare feet, holding one foot by the toes while I tickled the stretched skin on the sole of her foot underneath with the nails of my other hand. We were rewarded by hoots of laughter from Ava, hoots that would become shrill screams and then subside into a gurgling bubble that did not abate again for many minutes.
“I never knew tickling could be so much fun,” Gillian was saying. “You should see your face. I’ve never watched anyone laugh like that before. Just keep tickling those feet, Gavin; make sure it’s really ticklish for her. Yeah, just like that! Holy shit, she is but freaking out!” She was laughing quite uncontrollably herself by now.
It was one of the best concerts I had ever attended. Bach had nothing on the sound of the melody that I was able to control with every change of position on her foot.
“Not right there, pleeease Gavin! Christ, it tickles so much right in the middle of my foot there. Oh bugger it, stop massaging between my toes like that.”
I loved it. I just didn’t ever want it to stop. Then the thought occurred to me to have a go at Gillian’s foot that was within easy reach. Perhaps she, too, wanted to experience what it felt like. That was our undoing! The moment I started, Gillian was on her feet and running for cover, leaving Ava an easy escape…
Yes, Ava certainly had a way with her, constantly wanting to live life on the edge, trying every adventure possible, but most of all, share her experiences with others, creating a mood of fun and laughter around her. There were many further incidents of tickling confrontations. By this time she had surmised that I was aroused by these events too. Long after I’d moved away from Cape Town, she still sent me accounts of the odd tickling escapade that she’d been involved in. She knew I loved those stories and could relate them in memory to the girl that, for me, has always been the most fun to tickle. Perhaps I shall get a chance to share some of these with you some time.
The last time I heard from Ava, she’d gone to India and joined an Ashram. I always found this utterly incongruous. Was she trying a course of chastity and spiritual devotion to make up for a misspent youth? Or, more likely, did she have some sort of private arrangement with her Guru, like, you know what I mean?!
Thanks for posting it. 
