Wade1
3rd Level Orange Feather
- Joined
- Dec 27, 2003
- Messages
- 2,561
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A couple weeks ago my wife and I were sitting on the sofa -- I was reading; she was flipping TV channels with increasing dissatisfaction. At some point, unbeknownst to me, she gave up on the TV and cast her gaze in my direction. Then she flexed two of her fingers into little crooks, reached across to me, and started twiddling them against my side, just above my waist. Of course I flinched convulsively, an involuntary giggle spilling from my mouth, instinctively contorting to twist my side out of her reach.
"Wh-what are you doing??"
"You've got something on your shirt," she said with a smile, leaning over to flicker those two fingertips against my side again. My book flew to the floor and I convulsed further, emitting a series of mirthful yelps.
"No I don't!" I cried, scrambling to shield myself with my hands.
"Quit moving, it's right there," she said, and by now her smile couldn't be any bigger.
Well, maybe mine was bigger. Her fingers fluttered against my writhing side. My eyes squeezed shut with the force of my involuntary laughter, which was building in intensity and desperation, my body juttering with each rising snicker. I must have looked like someone who was loving a good joke when really I was in the helpless grip of the frolicsome effects of those infernal incessant fingertips. I seized her forearm with my hand, distantly registering the warm feel of her skin against mine: the soft and ample fur on her gorgeous, elegantly muscled arms is one of my favorite things about my wife's body, but at this point all I could think about was trying to pry her hand out of range of my twitching side. I strained but her fingers remained just barely within reach, tickling away, sending agitating signals through my body, throwing my every muscle into high alert.
I fell back against the sofa -- she pounced after me. "Uh-oh, the spot moved," she said, reaching across to spider all her fingers against my stomach. "Now it's over here!" I threw my head back and laughed -- a ringing, uninhibited laugh. I lost my grip on her arm and bent my elbows against my abdomen, crossing my arms, attempting in futility to defend myself.
"Stop," I hiccuped through the laughter. "Stop."
"Why?" she said, her hand darting from one twingeing spot to another.
"I can't--" I said. "I can't--"
I can't finish a sentence, I might as well have said, as the giggles overtook me.
"I'm just trying to get at this thing on your shirt," she said over my laughter.
I slipped tumbling and giggling to the floor -- she followed. My hands darting here and there, always a half-second behind her tickling fingers.
Finally, she stopped, still kneeling over me. I caught my breath.
"I'm sorry, hon," she said. "Turns out there wasn't anything on your shirt after all."
"You don't say," I panted.
"Nope," she said. "It turns out..." And suddenly she was grabbing my shirt, lifting it with one hand, her other hand plunging inside, her fingers scrabbling across my bare skin -- "It's under your shirt!"
I howled with shrieking laughter. And so did she.
"Wh-what are you doing??"
"You've got something on your shirt," she said with a smile, leaning over to flicker those two fingertips against my side again. My book flew to the floor and I convulsed further, emitting a series of mirthful yelps.
"No I don't!" I cried, scrambling to shield myself with my hands.
"Quit moving, it's right there," she said, and by now her smile couldn't be any bigger.
Well, maybe mine was bigger. Her fingers fluttered against my writhing side. My eyes squeezed shut with the force of my involuntary laughter, which was building in intensity and desperation, my body juttering with each rising snicker. I must have looked like someone who was loving a good joke when really I was in the helpless grip of the frolicsome effects of those infernal incessant fingertips. I seized her forearm with my hand, distantly registering the warm feel of her skin against mine: the soft and ample fur on her gorgeous, elegantly muscled arms is one of my favorite things about my wife's body, but at this point all I could think about was trying to pry her hand out of range of my twitching side. I strained but her fingers remained just barely within reach, tickling away, sending agitating signals through my body, throwing my every muscle into high alert.
I fell back against the sofa -- she pounced after me. "Uh-oh, the spot moved," she said, reaching across to spider all her fingers against my stomach. "Now it's over here!" I threw my head back and laughed -- a ringing, uninhibited laugh. I lost my grip on her arm and bent my elbows against my abdomen, crossing my arms, attempting in futility to defend myself.
"Stop," I hiccuped through the laughter. "Stop."
"Why?" she said, her hand darting from one twingeing spot to another.
"I can't--" I said. "I can't--"
I can't finish a sentence, I might as well have said, as the giggles overtook me.
"I'm just trying to get at this thing on your shirt," she said over my laughter.
I slipped tumbling and giggling to the floor -- she followed. My hands darting here and there, always a half-second behind her tickling fingers.
Finally, she stopped, still kneeling over me. I caught my breath.
"I'm sorry, hon," she said. "Turns out there wasn't anything on your shirt after all."
"You don't say," I panted.
"Nope," she said. "It turns out..." And suddenly she was grabbing my shirt, lifting it with one hand, her other hand plunging inside, her fingers scrabbling across my bare skin -- "It's under your shirt!"
I howled with shrieking laughter. And so did she.
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