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Ah, the casual cruelty of college friends (F/M)

AiritheDestoyer said:
You must like them a great deal if you follow their advice talking yo other people's therapists about your adorable weaknesses...
Click to expand...

Well, she is an individual of noted wisdom and prudence, disarming cuteness, and uncommon persuasiveness.

Besides, although it was an uncomfortable discussion at times (I think Frances said "You don't have to be embarrassed" several more times than I actually transcribed in the above recreation) I walked out of there feeling pretty good; it seemed like I hadn't disturbed the status quo an I assumed Sarah's prohibition from tickling me would remain intact.
 
She seems a bit wise beyond her years... cute's also a plus.

And that's good. But I have the feeling you eventually will miss Sarah's relentless teasings...
 
Latest developments

So. That encounter with Sarah's therapist happened, I guess, in August of 2011. The rest of that visit to Sarah's place concluded without incident, and we went back home. We continued to see Sarah once every few months, usually as she'd come to visit us, and she continued to refrain from tickling me, and I'd continue, on occasion, to taunt or goad her, gently, because I knew I could with impunity.

So, it must have been sometime in mid-2012, maybe? That Sarah was once again visiting us. It was a somewhat more protracted visit than usual; she was following up some potential job leads as she was considering making a move from her current career situation back home. It was yet another uneventful visit -- relaxing, reassuring, torment-free. Sarah was doing a lot of knocking around town on her own so we were each on different schedules much of the time.

One night, shortly before she was due to go back home, I was in the house alone, on the sofa, watching TV; my wife had just recently gotten into teaching yoga and/or Pilates or some such thing (I support her fully in her hobbies but I confess I don't speak Exercise) at a local fitness center and was off teaching an evening class. The door opened and Sarah trudged in, weary and discouraged after a generally unsuccessful day of trying to network her way to some new job opportunities.

"Hey," I called to her.

"Hey," she said.

I heard her drop her messenger bag on the floor by the door; I heard her clomp into the kitchen. I heard the freezer door open. And then I heard:

"Goddamnit!"

And then she was looming over me.

"Wade, did you finish that ice cream?"

"Uh," I said, "maybe."

"That was mine," she said.

"I thought Amanda bought it," I said.

"Amanda bought it but it was mine," she said. "She bought one for her and one for me and that one was mine."

"Um," I said. "Oops?"

"You dick," she cried, and lunged at me.

I couldn't help laughing as I caught her wrists in my hands and stumbled to get away from the sofa. "What are you doing?" I said.

"All I wanted," she said through gritted teeth, "when I got back, was that fucking ice cream." She kept trying to reach for me as if she were going to throttle me but I fought to keep her at bay.

"I think we have some yogurt," I said.

Her eyes blazed with disbelief and fury. "Okay, that does it," she said.

She was advancing on me, which meant I was stumbling backwards, her arms fighting stiffly against my grip. I was still chuckling; it was just so ridiculous. I wasn't even fighting back, because, I figured, what could she do to me? She was neutered, she was defanged. "Sarah," I said, "what are you doing?"

"I'm planning on murdering you," she said, still pressing forward.

I caught my hip on the corner of the sofa as I shambled backwards; I lost my balance. "That, that sounds messy," I said. "Hey, wait, look out, I'm gonna fall."

"Good," Sarah said.

"No seriously Sarah I'm gonna--" I slipped down on one knee with a painful thud and she took advantage of her leverage to wrestle me down onto my back. Which I kind of let her do. Fighting her off seemed like a hassle, and it would prolong this nonsense, and my show was on. I let her drop me and hoped we were almost done with this. She huffed officiously as she decidedly and deliberately straddled me with her legs and sat firmly on my chest.

"Oof!"

She straddled my chest, her hands planted on her thighs. My elbows rested uncomfortably against her bejeaned knees. For the first time all night she smiled a little bit. "Just like old times," she said.

"Ugh," I said, shifting my weight to try and get my chest to a comfortable place under her weight. "Yeah," I said. "Okay. You win. Too bad you can't do anything about it. Now get off."

"No," she said.

"Sarah," I said. "I was watching something, now get off!"

"No," she said. "Maybe I'll sit here until you starve to death." She pursed her lips in a smug little smile. "Or, I don't know, maybe I'll tickle you."

The very suggestion sent a vestigial thrill of panic through me. "Yeah, right," I said.

"Yeah right what?" she said.

"You can't," I said. "Frances said so."

"No she didn't," Sarah said.

"This is stupid," I said. "Yes she did, you told me yourself, I talked to her myself, you're not supposed to, it's not good for you."

"She changed her mind about that," Sarah said.

I tried not to look worried. "She did not," I said. "When?"

"When you went in and talked to her. As soon as you left her office," Sarah said. "I sat down and she said I could stop worrying about tickling you, that it wasn't a productive use of my psychological energy."

"She did not," I said. "I was there, I talked to her, everything was fine, why would she say that?"

"She said it seemed clear that you and I contributed equally to all the facets of our interpersonal dynamic, or some shit like that, and that I didn't have to be assuming full responsibility for it all the time or whatever."

I scrutinized Sarah's face for signs of joking. "I don't believe you," I said. "You're messing with me."

Sarah lifted her hands from her thighs and leaned back slightly. "Yeah," she said. "You're probably right." And with that I felt the old familiar agitating feeling of her fingertips brushing against my stomach through my shirt; every muscle in my body contracted and instantly the helpless giggles were pouring forth. "Ah!" I giggled. "Ah no ah no no no ah ah ah!"

Sarah removed her hands from my abdomen and crossed her arms, looking at me with a certain superiority. "Or then again," she said, "maybe I'm telling the truth."

"You can't do that," I said, my coolness gone, my breathing shallower. "You're going to have to report that to Frances, she's going to disapprove."

"I told you, Wade," she said, "Frances is out of the business of being your tickle monitor."

"That doesn't make any sense!" I cried. "That was months ago, that I was there. If she released you then why haven't you tickled me at all since?"

"Haven't felt like it," she said. She tilted her head back and forth and wiggled her shoulders in an attempt to look saucy. "Now, though, I feel like it." She uncrossed her arms, displayed her fingers in ready formation. "I really feel like it."

"NO!" I said, squirming uneasily under her weight. "I don't believe you, I have to talk to Frances about this."

"I'll give you her email," she said. "I'll give you her phone number. Talk to her all you want. But." She flashed those fingers again and feinted back toward my abdomen. "In the meantime..."

"Oh no Sarah," I said, words pouring forth unbidden and instinctive. "No no wait."

She paused. "Although," she said.

"Yes, yeah," I said. "Although what?"

"What time is Amanda coming home?"

"She's due back any second now," I said. "She should be walking through the door any time now."

Sarah's eyes narrowed. She reached behind her again. "No really," she said. "What time?" And her fingers went to town on my stomach and sides again.

I was desperate to protect my abdomen from her practiced onslaught but helpless to do anything about it; my fists were balled up against my chest in a gesture of embarrassing impotence. I couldn't do anything but laugh, anyhow; Sarah was barely exerting herself and already I was in a mindless place of laughter and giddy suffering. I wriggled and thrashed under her weight but all I could do was take it. Then I remembered she was tickling me just to get the information she wanted -- what time was my wife coming home? Her tactics were flawless: the tickling drove me to a place where I needed needed needed to do something to make it stop, but it also scrambled my thinking so that I couldn't come up with a lie -- all I could do to make it stop was say the truth, the truth, which was --

"Nine o'clock," I brayed, and immediately the fingers receded from my sensitive spots. "She gets out at nine o'clock," I panted.

Sarah glanced at her watch. "Good," she said. "Because don't get me wrong: Amanda is great and all, but she's compassionate, and she seems very fond of you for some reason, and I can't imagine she'd be willing to let this go on as long as it needs to."

"Sarah, please, you've made your point..."

She crossed her arms again. "Now, how long has it been that I've been restraining myself, Wade? Two, three years? A long time, right?"

"Sarah, look..."

"Some guys in your situation would have taken advantage of all that time to develop some self-control, to cultivate some discipline, to master their weakness so that they wouldn't be so vulnerable if and when their protection went away," she said. "Other guys, I guess, would just spend all that time being bratty and annoying to me because they felt bulletproof and they assumed that was never ever going to change."

She looked down at me. I looked up at her. A delighted smile crinkled her eyes. Her arms were uncrossed again; she was leaning back again.

"Let's find out which kind of guy you are, shall we?"

"No no Sarah NO--"

And her fingers were upon me again, moving unimpeded up and down my sides and across my writhing stomach, fingertips in constant motion, bringing all manner of hysterics flooding to the surface in spite of my wild desire to fight the sensations. My head thrashed back and forth and my eyes were squeezed shut or nearly but it made the torture worse to know that Sarah was gazing placidly down at me from her perch above, relishing how her calm and constant unseen fingerwork behind her wrought such delightfully uncontrollable reactions. I hated being so helpless; I couldn't stand the smile that spread unbidden across my face, resented the high-pitched HEE-HEE-HEE giggling coming from my throat, the way my torso wriggled back in forth in a spastic parody of evasive maneuvers, the way my fists clenched pointlessly against my chest, my arms pressed awkwardly against her knees...

Wait a second, I thought: her knees!

Maybe I could get out of this.

Her fingertips scampered mercilessly down my sides, throwing my constant giggles into a higher pitch and sending me into a new involuntary convulsion that lifted my right shoulder off the floor and pressed the left one harder against it, but I had enough presence of mind left to grip both her kneecaps with my hands and start squeezing.

The effect was immediate: I felt her touch recede instantly from my abdomen as she lurched forward with an involuntary "Ah! Ah! Ahhh! Wade, STOP!"

I kept up the pressure, though, and I saw her grimacing with the effort of suppressing her laughter; she clawed at my hands, trying to pry them away from her knees, and I kept squeezing, and she couldn't get my hands off her knees, and I thought I felt her balance getting unstable, when suddenly she shifted tactics -- she steeled herself, removed her hands from my hands despite the debilitating ticklish sensations I was inflicting on her knees, and she reached behind her and seized my sides, hard. As far as she was concerned this was tickling for her life, and she kneaded my sides with a newfound firmness and ferocity that surprised and destabilized me; I shrieked, and -- my nervous system going haywire -- I instinctively released her knees, my hands abandoning that mission to leap to my torso's defense, even though there was nothing they could do.

Triumphant, Sarah released my sides, seized my hands, and with quick and brutal strength she deposited each of my arms under the pressure of one of her knees; both of my arms, at my sides, were now solidly pinned to the floor by her weight. I thrashed and wriggled but to no avail; I was now completely pinned down. In that position, the sight of Sarah looming above me, her hands free and fluttering and dangerous, was a little terrifying.

Sarah smirked with satisfaction at my new predicament. "Hey there, Wade," she said. "Helpless much?"

I squirmed wildly. "Sarah, Sarah, you've made your point...!"

"You know what," she said. "It's been so long since I've done this that I'm completely forgetting stuff. Like I totally forgot to do this..." And she reached behind her; I felt her fingers plucking at my T-shirt and tugging it up, exposing my stomach and sides. "I'm so sorry," she said. "I guess I'm pretty rusty. I'll do better next time."

I squirmed even more. Even the very prospect of feeling her firm brisk fingertips against my bare stomach was more than I could take. "Sarah, no, Sarah, wait, Sarah, don't touch my--!"

But that last sentence ended in an embarrassingly high-pitched trill of hysterical giggling as her fingertips alit on my bare stomach. That tickling was every bit as intolerable as I'd expected it to be, and the laughter that cascaded out of me had a wild and desperate edge to it.

"Don't touch your what?" Sarah spoke up so I could hear her over my own giggly caterwauling. "Don't touch your stomach?" Even through my hysterics I could see her eyebrows pinching together in an exaggeration of pretended regret. "Oooooh, Wade, I'm so sorry, but stomach-touching is a big part of the plan tonight. The agenda is pretty much all stomach-touching. I hope that's not going to be a problem."

Her fingertips made their way in a leisurely and methodical fashion all around my twitching abdomen. Like most people, Sarah didn't have a lot of different M.O.'s when it came to tickling -- it was an instinctive act and usually she went at it the way I could feel that she was doing now: her fingers together, their tips brushing back and forth against the surface of my skin almost like she was doing a hand-puppet. The pressure was light but relentless and one of the things that made it so intolerable was the way she'd just never stop: her hands made their way all across my sides and stomach and ribs and waist and back again, never stopping that indomitable brushing movement, never taking a break, creating explosive and incapacitating eruptions of ticklish sensations everywhere they went.

My hands were trapped and my abdomen was exposed and all I could do was wriggle under her weight and laugh; forming words was already beyond me. The laughter was constant and mindless; it paused only when I took a breath, and then it resumed with my next exhalation, the house echoing with my giggles.

Sarah finally stopped; I panted with relief. "You win," I said. "You win. Let me up."

Sarah glanced at her watch. "Oh, don't worry, we've got plenty of time, Wade. We're not done yet."

I writhed furiously under her weight; she didn't even budge. "C'mon, this is enough! You got me, let me go!"

"How long did we say it's been? Since last we did this?" She perched her hands on her hips. "Two, three years? I don't think we've made up for a couple of years already, do you?"

"Sarah this is AAAIEEHEE!"

Her fingers were on my stomach again and my body responded obligingly: convulsions, sharp and squealing giggles. Sarah smiled and shook her head, pausing in the tickling yet again to plant her palms on her thighs. "God, dude, you really do have such a sensitive tummy."

It wasn't like Sarah to use cutesy diminutives like "tummy," and hearing her use it to describe me was reflexively and unexpectedly embarrassing; I felt warmth rush to my cheeks and I turned my head to look at the wall, trying to hide it from her. I don't even think she noticed.

"I wonder what that's about," she went on. "I mean: why? I mean, look at you: obviously it's not like it confers some kind of evolutionary advantage, right?" She positioned her hands behind her again in a pose of readiness; my whole body tensed up. "I'd be happy to look into that, see if I can get some answers for the next time we do this."

"We don't have to do this a next time!" I cried out.

"Have you not met us?" Sarah said, but almost like she was talking to herself. "Of course there'll be a next time." And the fingers were on my sides and stomach again: sides and stomach, stomach and sides, and I jerked and wriggled and lost myself in laughter once again.

"This is like a walk down memory lane after all these months," she said. "There are all these little places that I remember. Like there's this spot... somewhere around here..." And I felt a pair of fingers flicking insistently in the vicinity above and around my navel, forcing a softer but just as helpless stream of shuddering giggles out of me. "...This spot," she continued, "where if you hit it right you can feel your stomach muscles just like wigging out underneath, this like violent electrical twitch. Hard to find it, though..." that pair of fingers kept exploring as my torso jerked back and forth in empty protest and my suffering laughter just kept coming. "...It's almost like it moves around. Is this it?" A sharp bark of laughter from me. "Not sure, it's hard to tell," she said.

"And then of course there's this place," she said. "Like my home away from home."

I knew I knew I knew where she was going. "Sarah Sarah Sarah Sarah no don't Sarah please--!"

But her hands found their targets, the soft swells of flesh on either side just above the waist of my pants, and once again my protests dissolved in piercing cackles. As always her tactics changed upon landing there: her fingers went from brushing back and forth in formation and shifted to more of an arpeggio, each finger cycling softly against my side in an endless wavelike pattern.

My arms pinned, my abdomen bare, and the newly unleashed Sarah's fingers letting loose on one of my most maddening spots: I lost it.

It was all laughter. It was all giggles. I struggled because that's what my animal brain told my body to do but I didn't have any hope of getting away anymore; I sank helplessly into the tickling as if it were a thick warm ocean, its surface closing over my head. All I could do was laugh so that's all I did; her fingers on my sides weren't stopping and wouldn't stop and I vaguely remembered this feeling from the last time Sarah had sat on me and let me have it, something that nudged the torture toward something almost resembling bearability, and this time what that almost merciful feeling came from was a loss of hope. As long as I thought she might stop tickling me, as long as I thought I could bargain or threaten or talk her out of it, as long as I held out some hope of slipping away from the burden of my ticklishness, I couldn't stand it. It was too much. But hoping was ridiculous, and if I surrendered hope then the torture became just a little less acute.

And why not surrender hope? Sarah knew me too well--there's a weird intimacy we've developed over the years as she's explored and discovered the extent and profundity of my weakness; there's only one person in the world who's better equipped to incapacitate me with tickling, and that's my wife, and even she hasn't been tickling me for as many years as Sarah has. So it was pointless to hope to be able to resist Sarah's tickling, and it was pointless to hope that she might show mercy and relent. The behaviors I couldn't help submitting to -- the braying, girlish giggles; the impotent struggling -- were the very things that prodded Sarah to keep tickling me. Desperate as I was to escape it, my own body's involuntary responses ensured that it would keep coming. I couldn't fight it, this wasn't going to stop, and as soon as I acknowledged that, I sank into the wild and helpless laughter with something resembling acceptance. I heard my own convulsive giggles with an almost out-of-body clinical distance: EEEE-heeheehee, EEEE-heeheehee, is that always what I sound like when this happens to me? Is that what Sarah wants to make me do? EEEE-heeheehee, EEEE-heeheehee. Apparently so.

Eventually she stopped again and I took a ragged breath. "Okay," I panted. "Okay," I said. I wasn't sure if I could say anything else; language seemed remote and out of reach.

Sarah crossed her arms. "I think that's pretty close to long enough to make up for a couple of years off," she said. "How about you?"

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah."

"Okay," she said, and reached behind her again, her fingertips once again brushing my skin.

I jerked wildly. "Wait what are you doing, you said--?!"

"Oh," Sarah said. "Yeah. That was enough for the couple of years off," she said. "But now I gotta get you for grabbing my knees."

Panic overtook me. "Sarah, no, come on, please!"

Sarah shrugged. "Consequences, Wade. Can't have you thinking you can get my knees."

"I won't I won't do that I won't ever do that aGAAAAHAHAHA!"

Because her fingers were on me again, roaming around, setting off those eruptions. I thrashed under her, shrieking and laughing. I wasn't in that place anymore, the place where I was ticklishness and hope was gone and everything was almost bearable. That suggestion that we were done -- and the sudden taking away of that promise -- undid all that and suddenly I was just twitchy helpless giggling ticklish again and every taunting brush of her fingertips was giddy torture.

And she wasn't stopping.

I tried to beg her to stop but the laughter got in the way, and it was getting worse, it was taking over, soon (again) laughter would be all I could do. Besides, I'd begged her before, I'd always begged her, it never worked and so even if I could communicate with her how could she understand this tickling, more than all the other ticklings in which I writhed and giggled and squealed in exactly the same way, was pushing me beyond the edge of tolerability?

Didn't matter anyway because the laughter took over and language was gone and I couldn't move my vulnerable stomach and she knew exactly where and how to torture it, and when those fingertips resumed arpeggiating briskly against my sides above my waist I glimpsed blurry through squeezed-tight eyes Sarah's face up above me and she wasn't even watching me anymore, she was sort of gazing at an empty spot on the floor off to the side, in some kind of a reverie maybe, I didn't know, but increasingly I felt like if she didn't snap out of it and remove her fingers from my abdomen I was going to lose my mind.

And she did, finally -- snap out of it, remove her fingers from my skin, clap her hands once more on her thighs, and say "So have we learned something today? About other people's ice cream?"

"Yes, yeah, I promise," I mumbled.

She got off me and extended a hand and helped me up.

"Might've gone a little too far there, sorry," she said, looking uncharacteristically sheepish. "Probably won't be quite that bad next time."

"I really don't think there has to be a next time," I said.

Sarah smiled. "Have you not met us?" she said again.
 
MistressValerie said:
Reading that made me horny :blush
Click to expand...

Wow, what a compliment. I mean, I guess I can't claim much credit beyond "This happened to me and I wrote it down," but still -- you made my night. Thanks, MistressVal.
 
Oo! Good read,Wadey. Always glad, enjoying reading your misfortunes! :stickout
 
Thanks, everyone. Glad my misfortunes aren't completely without merit...
 
Oh. You just love being the 'fake' unwilling victim, Wadey! I mean, you're practically Hollywood, here! Why don't you share some more of your 'pleasant' (so not)misadventures, hmm? You know, you've broadcasted to everyone 'just' where your bad spots are... wouldn't want any of your attentive readers to get 'itchy' fingers, would you? :evil:
 
Following up with Frances

I did follow up with Frances the therapist -- basically through an extended back-and-forth on email with a brief phone conversation somewhere in the middle. There were points at which she couldn't elaborate or answer my questions because of confidentiality, but our conversation, summarized and paraphrased, amounted to something like this:

Much to my surprise, she confirmed that she'd freed Sarah from her previous moratorium against tickling me. I assumed that once I told her how Sarah had resumed torturing me, Frances would see the error of her ways and restore her prohibition. But I was wrong.

Frances indicated (I guess Sarah had cleared her to tell me this much) that originally, her instructions to Sarah to work on not tickling me into hysterics were part of a larger effort on Sarah's part to control her anger and to, basically, not be mean to people. I infer that's still something Sarah's working on, but Frances told me that our face-to-face conversation had led her to conclude that Sarah's habit of tickling me was not relevant to her anger and niceness issues -- in fact, she decided it was becoming a distraction -- so she suggested that Sarah not worry about that any more.

"But it is mean, when she does this, I told you that," I said. "Just last week she sat on me and tickled me until I couldn't take it anymore. She tickled me past the point of endurance."

"Well, but consider the fact that Sarah and I arrived at this new approach months ago, back when you were in Boston," Frances said. "It's been quite a while. It's not like she rushed straight out to attack you."

"That doesn't mean it wasn't mean," I said.

Frances explained to me that our face-to-face meeting had led her to conclude that this tickling thing that exists between me and Sarah, while certainly fraught and edged at times with elements of genuine hostility, is ultimately a friendly competition.

"A competition I always lose!" I said.

"Well, apparently, yes," Frances said, "but notwithstanding, that doesn't change the character of the interaction."

"The character of the interaction is that Sarah wants to make me suffer," I said.

"In a playful way," Frances said. "You told me yourself: she's not choosing to hurt you in any way. She confronts you in what is basically classic play-combat, and if she bests you she torments you in a fashion that is temporarily intolerable to you but ultimately harmless."

"Because she knows it's what I can't stand, and she knows it's embarrassing to me," I said.

"And the very fact that she knows those things is a reflection of your level of intimacy together," Frances said. "Someone who genuinely didn't like you, who was truly your enemy, probably wouldn't know the severity of your ticklishness or where to tickle you to have the most debilitating effect. Sarah knows those things about you only because you're close. People who are very close, like siblings, can often be the most ruthless with one another, but that's because they're so close in the first place, and it doesn't necessarily cross the line into cruelty or abusiveness."

"But sometimes it does," I said.

"Sometimes, sure," Frances said. "But not, in my judgment, here."

Frances said she really began considering my situation differently when she found out that other people in my life tickle me -- not just my wife or relatives but co-workers.

"That's just something that happens when you're ticklish," I said.

"Is it, though?" I could picture Frances's skeptical frown. "There are millions of people who are ticklish, but they don't all get tickled in their workplace."

"That doesn't mean Sarah's not mean," I said. "It just means maybe they're mean too."

"But you're the common variable in all these situations," Frances said. "What's most likely: that you happen to be surrounded by weird compulsive tickle-bandits in every arena of your daily life, or that you somehow, implicitly or overtly I don't know, encourage people to treat you in this fashion?"

Frances explained that she's therefore convinced the playful, friendly element of the encounters between me and Sarah is mutual. She said the way I kept inviting her to share whether or not she was ticklish, or whether she ever tickled anybody, was a playful overture even if I didn't consciously intend it that way. "If you were extending those overtures to me, a friendly but distant new acquaintance in a professional setting, it seems extremely likely that you send similar signals to Sarah. And my expecting Sarah to struggle to refrain from engaging in these tickle contests..."

"They're not contests; I always lose!"

"...while you're subtly inviting her to engage in them -- that's not fair, that's just setting her up for failure, and on the false premise that there's something vicious about tickling you when really it's a social game you're mutually playing."

"Why would I invite her to do it when I can't stand it?"

"You're not my patient so I'm not qualified to answer that. It's possible you feel like you deserve to suffer, or that you deserve to be humiliated. That's completely a hypothesis, I don't know you well enough to have informed insights into your feelings. It strikes me as likely that your friendship with Sarah is such that you like to compete with her and you'd like to be victorious over her, but it doesn't usually end that way because of the effectiveness of her tactics."

She also said "I have no doubt you would probably benefit from unpacking some of the experiences that lead you to encourage Sarah to antagonize you like this, and that's nothing to be self-conscious about; we all benefit from exploring our feelings with professional assistance. I could probably put together some references in your area if you're interested in pursuing that."

"Thanks anyway," I said, feeling increasingly defeated; Frances the therapist had basically condemned me to indefinite torture at Sarah's hands. But she doesn't think so.

"If you're really interested in making Sarah's treatment of you stop," Frances said, "I'm convinced you can do so."

"How?"

"Sit down with her sometime -- sometime when she's NOT tickling you -- and speak to her like an adult, and tell her how very upsetting it is when she does this to you, and you feel it's a violation of your wishes and your body, and as a friend you are asking her seriously not to do it anymore."

I was silent.

"I guarantee you it will work," Frances said. "I guarantee she will stop tickling you."

"I'm not convinced," I said. "I think if I bring it up she will start tickling me immediately."

"Well, Wade, I want you to think about something," Frances said. "It's up to you. Do what you think is best. But if you decide not to try my suggestion, I want you to consider whether it's because you really don't think it will work, or because you're afraid that it will."

Ultimately I told Frances I thought her opinions on the subject were skewed because basically she didn't think what Sarah was doing to me was so bad.

"Well, Wade," Frances said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. "I mean, it is only tickling."
 
A professional therapist said it was "okay" to tickle you, so I'm first in line! I say if Ari still wants to help, the more the better. And from the sounds of it, Val would like in on the immediate action, too.
So when are you putting up a date to tickle you, hmm? I'd pay to see that. Have other people giving you your 'just' deserts is well worth whatever the video would charge, I think.

Way to take a step forward! Glad you got some great advice from a Professional! Bring on de' giggles!!
 
M'kay so I just read the part about the therapist, and I gotta say you answered those questions in the WORST way you possibly could have.

Fact of the matter is simply this:

Sarah is a domineering person, she likes to be in control, and feel powerful.

You, on the other hand, like to be dominated (at least as far as tickling is concerned).

When Sarah tickles you, she subconsciously picks up on the fact that you're enjoying it as much if not more than she is. That's why she continues to do it. It's a mutually beneficial relationship for both of you, and you both know that, consciously or not. You made it seem to the therapist like she was exerting power over you just out of meanness, and that you genuinely DID NOT like it, which is 100% backwards from the truth.
(I can only imagine the things that were running through your head while talking to that therapist)

Actually, this relationship provides Sarah the perfect outlet to feel powerful, (which will make her happier, and in turn improve her overall quality of life, which will then snowball into even greater successes) while it gives you the ride of your life, so to speak. (also the aforementioned snowball effect)

Sarah like top
Wade like bottom
Sarah+Wade=Perfect symbiotic relationship.
I'm not trying to say leave your wife though. I'm just saying that there may be even greater rewards if this system between you two was explored further. I would advise including your wife in a way that she's happy with.

Hell, if you REALLY wanna make this a story worth writing about, get a nice system going for the three of you, then once you have it all ironed out, proposition that therapist. Directly. Don't give her a chance to weasel her way out of it like she did multiple times in that meeting. (she's a VERY skilled double-talker) REALLY put her on the defensive. All three of you.
 
sadi said:
A professional therapist said it was "okay" to tickle you, so I'm first in line!
Click to expand...

I don't know that she was saying it was okay! I mean, I guess she was saying it's not NOT okay... but really she was just talking about Sarah... I think you'd each need to secure an individual permission slip before we could even consider moving forward...
 
Cryptic7 said:
When Sarah tickles you, she subconsciously picks up on the fact that you're enjoying it as much if not more than she is. That's why she continues to do it. It's a mutually beneficial relationship for both of you, and you both know that, consciously or not.
Click to expand...

I think you're articulating pretty much the exact same thing the therapist was saying, or a version of it, so clearly whatever signals I'm putting out, consciously or otherwise, are legible loud and clear to both you and her.

I will admit the fantasy, unrealistic though it is, of engaging with this therapist on a more intimate and playful level is secretly an appealing one for me -- I definitely developed a big crush on her during our brief conversation.
 
Wade said:
I think you're articulating pretty much the exact same thing the therapist was saying, or a version of it, so clearly whatever signals I'm putting out, consciously or otherwise, are legible loud and clear to both you and her.

I will admit the fantasy, unrealistic though it is, of engaging with this therapist on a more intimate and playful level is secretly an appealing one for me -- I definitely developed a big crush on her during our brief conversation.
Click to expand...



If the therapist WAS really on the same page as I am, then she'd have known that this is a mutually beneficial arrangement for both of you, and would never have suggested you stop in the first place. If she DID understand the truth of the situation, and still told you to stop, then she was deliberately attempting to sabotage your lives in a pretty despicable way.
It's blatantly obvious that she's one DAMN smart lady. More than smart enough for her to deduce the truth like I did even IF you described the situation poorly to her. Smart does not necessarily mean virtuous. It's entirely possible that her life sucks, and she just wanted to hurt yours in the most discreet way possible. After all, she did dodge any attempt on your part to gather any information about her. That's a (small) sign that she might be hiding something. Of course, people don't hide shit unless they're embarrassed, ashamed, or it would make them look bad / get them in trouble.

And in regards to the whole fantasy thing... The way I look at a lot of things in life is simply this: If you don't ask, the answer is no.

My gut tells me that you have more of a chance than you may think, and my instincts are rarely ever wrong. Only problem is, her defenses are top-tier. It will take a masterful play to get her to talk about it. Therapists do tend to have a bit of a superiority complex, same as the majority of teachers do. Getting around that complex, and getting her to see you as a person rather than a patient is step one. (and that's not an easy step at all)

Before I wrap this up, I have another little phrase of wisdom that has been proven true throughout the ages: "Those who seek to help other people the most, often have the most problems themselves." Just look at Robin Williams. Find her weak spot, and exploit it. I guarantee she has one.
 
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