MistressValerie1
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On IM the other night, someone asked me who at TT I would most want to tickle; of the three names that I mentioned, yours was one 😉
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Ah, the casual cruelty of college friends (F/M)
On IM the other night, someone asked me who at TT I would most want to tickle; of the three names that I mentioned, yours was one 😉
Wade1
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Flattered! Overwhelmed! Also intimidated & a little scared!
You sure you wouldn't prefer a guy who's more of a challenge? Who doesn't devolve into shuddering laughter at the first pass of spidering fingertips?
MistressValerie1
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I prefer a guy who I know will react strongly because his reactions are a big part of what turns me on 😱
Wade1
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Well, strong reactions I could promise! No choice in the matter, in fact.
sockticklingirl
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you should get her i have faith wade who knows maybe her feet are worse than her knees
sockticklingirl
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you said yourself you dont know if her feet are ticklish try and if she shows any weakness keep on tickling and dont let up until she is begging after all this time wade i want to here about your puny tiny ler side
Wade1
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Very cute, stg, but I think it's probably smarter for me to quit while I'm far, far, far behind...
Wade1
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At one point over the protracted holiday season, Sarah came into town. She, my wife, my wife's sister, and I were sitting around idly one night, watching the world go by.
I was sitting on the couch, and suddenly, apropos of nothing, my wife and her sister descended on me from either side and their fingers were upon my sides and stomach and I was thrown instantly into twitching and squirming.
Trying not to giggle, trying to block their nimble hands from my ribs and abdomen, writhing ridiculously, I launched into the ticklish person's usual litany of instinctive protests: "Stop! Don't! Stop! Quit it!" And then, burbling laughter starting to break through my words against my will: "Why am I always the one getting tickled?"
The attack abated somewhat--though it did not stop altogether; there were still fingers spidering at my sides, forcing my torso to twist and twitch--and my sister-in-law said, "Because you're ticklish."
Squirming, biting back the giggles, my hands darting from one set of encroaching fingers to another, I said, "But you're both ticklish why don't we tickle one of you??"
"Umm," my wife said, "Nope." And the fluttering fingertips ramped up again, scrambling across my stomach, plucking ruthlessly on my sides; I felt myself flinging back against the sofa cushions; I saw the battle rapidly being lost.
And across the room, past my tormentors' crisscrossed arms, I saw Sarah sitting serenely and benignly on the ottoman. The panic of the relentlessly tickled set in and:
"Sarah's ticklish!" I cried.
They stopped. Looming over me on the couch they stopped tickling me and looked at each other and looked at me. And then all three of us looked at Sarah.
Sarah's bearing was so authoritative, her self-control so rigorous, her moods so forbidding, that the notion of her being ticklish was mind-blowing to my wife and her sister. They'd stopped tickling me out of shock and surprise; they would have had the same reaction if I'd cried out instead "I'm a ficus plant!" The possibility of Sarah being ticklish was just as unlikely.
"Really??" my sister-in-law said in eager disbelief.
Of course, when the possibility of someone's being ticklish is raised, the next step is always the experimental tickling of that person. Between my knowledge of how sensitive Sarah's knees were and the fact that we outnumbered her 3-to-1, I was sure we could have her helpless in no time. All I had to do was confirm what I'd said, reassert my outlandish allegation, and the tide would turn.
My wife and sister-in-law were staring at Sarah, but Sarah was staring directly at me. She hadn't moved a muscle but her eyebrows were raised and her look spoke volumes: with those raised eyebrows she was reminding me of the last time she'd tickled me, of the promise she'd extracted from me never to tickle her again. She was silently but clearly threatening me with complete ticklish destruction at her hands at some unforeseen moment in the future. Nothing playful, nothing frivolous--just methodical and ruthless punishment, and we both knew she could and would do it and that I couldn't stop her.
"Really?" my wife said.
Sarah stared silently at me. I stared back. I blinked. I swallowed.
"No, of course not," I said. "I'm kidding."
And instantly the two women had turned back to me and their hands were everywhere everywhere frigging EVERYwhere, stomach sides sides stomach neck knees sides. My wife and her sister giggled and taunted me.
"Liar."
"Big liar."
"You know what happens to liars? You know what we do to liars?"
"NO ee ee hee ee PLEASE!" (That last quote was from me.)
I thrashed and wriggled; I writhed and shrieked. I felt myself sliding off the sofa to the floor, my shirt riding up on my abdomen, someone's fingers spidering mercilessly across my convulsing tummy.
"Get his arms," I heard my wife say. "Hold his arms."
And through it all I glimpsed Sarah sitting blithely on the ottoman across the room, watching it all go down approvingly.
I was sitting on the couch, and suddenly, apropos of nothing, my wife and her sister descended on me from either side and their fingers were upon my sides and stomach and I was thrown instantly into twitching and squirming.
Trying not to giggle, trying to block their nimble hands from my ribs and abdomen, writhing ridiculously, I launched into the ticklish person's usual litany of instinctive protests: "Stop! Don't! Stop! Quit it!" And then, burbling laughter starting to break through my words against my will: "Why am I always the one getting tickled?"
The attack abated somewhat--though it did not stop altogether; there were still fingers spidering at my sides, forcing my torso to twist and twitch--and my sister-in-law said, "Because you're ticklish."
Squirming, biting back the giggles, my hands darting from one set of encroaching fingers to another, I said, "But you're both ticklish why don't we tickle one of you??"
"Umm," my wife said, "Nope." And the fluttering fingertips ramped up again, scrambling across my stomach, plucking ruthlessly on my sides; I felt myself flinging back against the sofa cushions; I saw the battle rapidly being lost.
And across the room, past my tormentors' crisscrossed arms, I saw Sarah sitting serenely and benignly on the ottoman. The panic of the relentlessly tickled set in and:
"Sarah's ticklish!" I cried.
They stopped. Looming over me on the couch they stopped tickling me and looked at each other and looked at me. And then all three of us looked at Sarah.
Sarah's bearing was so authoritative, her self-control so rigorous, her moods so forbidding, that the notion of her being ticklish was mind-blowing to my wife and her sister. They'd stopped tickling me out of shock and surprise; they would have had the same reaction if I'd cried out instead "I'm a ficus plant!" The possibility of Sarah being ticklish was just as unlikely.
"Really??" my sister-in-law said in eager disbelief.
Of course, when the possibility of someone's being ticklish is raised, the next step is always the experimental tickling of that person. Between my knowledge of how sensitive Sarah's knees were and the fact that we outnumbered her 3-to-1, I was sure we could have her helpless in no time. All I had to do was confirm what I'd said, reassert my outlandish allegation, and the tide would turn.
My wife and sister-in-law were staring at Sarah, but Sarah was staring directly at me. She hadn't moved a muscle but her eyebrows were raised and her look spoke volumes: with those raised eyebrows she was reminding me of the last time she'd tickled me, of the promise she'd extracted from me never to tickle her again. She was silently but clearly threatening me with complete ticklish destruction at her hands at some unforeseen moment in the future. Nothing playful, nothing frivolous--just methodical and ruthless punishment, and we both knew she could and would do it and that I couldn't stop her.
"Really?" my wife said.
Sarah stared silently at me. I stared back. I blinked. I swallowed.
"No, of course not," I said. "I'm kidding."
And instantly the two women had turned back to me and their hands were everywhere everywhere frigging EVERYwhere, stomach sides sides stomach neck knees sides. My wife and her sister giggled and taunted me.
"Liar."
"Big liar."
"You know what happens to liars? You know what we do to liars?"
"NO ee ee hee ee PLEASE!" (That last quote was from me.)
I thrashed and wriggled; I writhed and shrieked. I felt myself sliding off the sofa to the floor, my shirt riding up on my abdomen, someone's fingers spidering mercilessly across my convulsing tummy.
"Get his arms," I heard my wife say. "Hold his arms."
And through it all I glimpsed Sarah sitting blithely on the ottoman across the room, watching it all go down approvingly.
CellarDweller
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I love when you tell us about the goings on in your tickle life, Wade!
Wade1
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Sorry CD--I shoulda responded before.
But thanks much. I guess it's a good thing if my complete and utter haplessness can bring some happiness to the world...
CellarDweller
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🙂
Wade1
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My wife and I got together with Sarah and hung out for a while recently.
There was no tickling of any kind.
She's apparently making good on her pledge not to, y'know, mercilessly torture people. And by "people" I mean "me."
Who knows... maybe Sarah's therapy is making a difference, helping her to be a less angry and/or wicked person. Much to the dismay of one or two people around here, no doubt!
There was no tickling of any kind.
She's apparently making good on her pledge not to, y'know, mercilessly torture people. And by "people" I mean "me."
Who knows... maybe Sarah's therapy is making a difference, helping her to be a less angry and/or wicked person. Much to the dismay of one or two people around here, no doubt!
Wade1
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Well this isn't really a story but...
I've reconnected with my old college girlfriend over Facebook, because Facebook makes things like that happen, and not long ago she messaged me a hello when we were both logged on. We hadn't communicated in forever, so we caught up briefly in a back-and-forth chat and then I mentioned to her that I'd stayed in touch with Sarah (who I only knew initially because this old girlfriend introduced us). The conversation from then on went something like this:
GF: omg I can't believe that, I thought you hated each other.
ME: So did I. I think maybe we still do sometimes. She and [my wife] are pals now though.
GF: That's hilarious.
ME: She actually still tickles me sometimes if you can beieve it.
GF: I love it. I still remember the day she asked me to show her how ticklish you were.
ME: ?
GF: I mentioned you were ticklish and she said she'd like to see that sometime so the next time we were all together I showed her. Later she was like, that's a real weakness he has.
So the way I'd misremembered it was that my girlfriend was tickling me and Sarah happened to walk in on us, but apparently instead we were all in the same room and my girlfriend looked over at Sarah, following up on her earlier request, and said "Watch this" and started tickling me for Sarah's benefit, backing me into a chair and not letting up until I'd provided a full demonstration of my helplessness. I of course reacted like a spaz, Sarah made careful note of it, and unbeknownst to any of us at the time, apparently my fate was sealed for the next several decades.
Had another ignominious encounter with Sarah (almost a year ago now); will try to share details soon.
I've reconnected with my old college girlfriend over Facebook, because Facebook makes things like that happen, and not long ago she messaged me a hello when we were both logged on. We hadn't communicated in forever, so we caught up briefly in a back-and-forth chat and then I mentioned to her that I'd stayed in touch with Sarah (who I only knew initially because this old girlfriend introduced us). The conversation from then on went something like this:
GF: omg I can't believe that, I thought you hated each other.
ME: So did I. I think maybe we still do sometimes. She and [my wife] are pals now though.
GF: That's hilarious.
ME: She actually still tickles me sometimes if you can beieve it.
GF: I love it. I still remember the day she asked me to show her how ticklish you were.
ME: ?
GF: I mentioned you were ticklish and she said she'd like to see that sometime so the next time we were all together I showed her. Later she was like, that's a real weakness he has.
So the way I'd misremembered it was that my girlfriend was tickling me and Sarah happened to walk in on us, but apparently instead we were all in the same room and my girlfriend looked over at Sarah, following up on her earlier request, and said "Watch this" and started tickling me for Sarah's benefit, backing me into a chair and not letting up until I'd provided a full demonstration of my helplessness. I of course reacted like a spaz, Sarah made careful note of it, and unbeknownst to any of us at the time, apparently my fate was sealed for the next several decades.
Had another ignominious encounter with Sarah (almost a year ago now); will try to share details soon.
Wade1
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Sarah returns
Okay, so this was probably about a year ago or so, maybe more. The previous time we'd seen Sarah had been just a few weeks earlier, when we swung by her place on a trip through her hometown. During that visit we'd all been watching TV that night and a conflict erupted between me and Sarah about what to watch. I had the remote and tried to keep it from her; she, of course, endlessly practical, seized my sides and started tickling. Shrieking, I immediately released the remote and thrashed and writhed; she kept tickling for just a few milliseconds longer than she really needed to. And then that was all behind us.
So now Sarah was coming to visit us for a few days. Sarah was due to arrive at our place soon for a visit, but I thought I had enough time to take a quick shower. While I did that, my wife was running around the house tidying up in a last-minute we're-about-to-have-guests-and-they-might-notice-we-live-like-pigs kind of mode. In her haste she scooped up the mound of dirty clothes I'd left on the bathroom floor, not noticing I guess that I didn't have any other clothes, dirty or otherwise, in the room.
When I turned off the shower I heard voices downstairs and realized that Sarah had arrived. I also discovered that my clothes were gone and, alas, so was my bath towel--another casualty of the eleventh-hour guest-is-coming better-do-some-laundry cleaning frenzy. The only thing I had at my disposal was sort of an oversized hand towel--pretty big, as hand towels go, but not as big as you'd want something to be to dry yourself off with, much less to be the only thing between your nakedness and the rest of the world.
Still, it seemed like I'd be safe. It wasn't a long dash from the bathroom to our bedroom. And Sarah would linger downstairs catching up with my wife for a while. So I dried off as best I could, held the towel around my waist--an awkward maneuver that required both hands, since it wasn't quite big enough for both ends to meet in the back--and I sprinted from the bathroom down the hall to our bedroom. Safe!
Except--
I burst into the bedroom to find Sarah standing in front of the mirror at my wife's dresser, arms overhead, pulling her hair back with one of my wife's hair ties. A big long drive, apparently the first thing she needed to do was ask my wife if she could borrow something to pull her hair back? Is this what women do?
So there I am with my towel, yelping in surprise. Sarah, hands overhead, messing with her hair, looked my way, registered the spectacle, and just started laughing. So did I, though not as freely.
"--Sorry," she chortled. "I'm sorry, Wade, I'll get out of here."
"No problem," I said, sheepish. "Uh, good to see you."
"Yeah, thanks," she said, making a beeline for the door. I stepped forward and sidled to the side and pressed my back against the wall, still holding the towel's ends behind me, prickling with involuntary anxiety about my position and her increasing proximity. I tried to relax by reminding myself: she's not a big tickler, she doesn't read the stories on TickleTheater, that's not where her brain's at, not every situation is an opportunity for tickling for her, this is perfectly safe, it's not even going to occur to her to tickle you. Relax. It's not even going to occur to her.
And as she passed, I said "Don't tickle me." Cringed slightly as I said it, my abdominal muscles contracting.
It was a reflex, entirely involuntary, an accident; it came out just like breathing. And as soon as it came out I knew how dire a mistake it was.
Sarah stopped and turned to face me, a wry grin on her face.
"No?" she said. "And why not?"
"I..." I stammered. "Nothing, never mind, just go and I, I'll..."
She crossed her arms and tilted her head, looking at me appraisingly. "It's a serious question, Furry," she said. "Why shouldn't I tickle you, exactly?"
"Because, because, you'd have to own up and talk about being mean in therapy," I said. "You hate that."
"I do," she said. "Of course, I'm overdue to talk about that anyway with our little fight over the remote last month, I haven't brought that up yet. So I'm going to have to do this anyway, could throw this in as a freebie."
"Sarah, c'mon," I said. "My hands are... I'm kind of helpless here and..."
"Mm, not really talking me out of it here, Wade."
"I don't think Amanda would appreciate it," I said.
"Amanda!" Sarah hollered to my wife without moving from her spot. "Okay if I tickle your husband within an inch of his life?"
I heard my wife call up "Sure, go for it!"
I was feeling increasingly panicky. "She's only saying that because she, she doesn't now that I, y'know, that I'm mostly..."
Sarah called out again: "He's pretty much close to naked. Is that still okay?"
"Yeah, sure," my wife yelled cheerfully. "Just don't break him."
Sarah smiled smugly, her arms still crossed. "That settles that," she said.
I'd scooched along the wall until I was in a corner, which was unfortunate. I twisted slightly from side to side, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. "Sarah, c'mon."
Sarah planted her hands on her hips. "Wade, you're completely ridiculous. I have no intention of tickling you."
"Okay, uh, thanks..."
"Or I didn't," Sarah said, "until you said that." And suddenly her fingers were on my ribs, dancing and scrabbling. Surprised and panicked I emitted an urgent laugh that was sort of a high-pitched gurgle, a sound that no adult male should ever be heard to make. It was absurd enough that Sarah paused in her playful assault.
"Wow," she said. "New sounds from Wade."
"Sarah don't!" I cried. "I'll drop my towel."
Her look turned steely. "Don't," she said with a stern schoolmarmish finger pointing at me. "Do not under any circumstances drop that towel. I'll have nightmares for weeks, and you will be subject to my mockery for the rest of your life."
"Sarah, don't, I can't help it..."
"Help it," she ordered, and her fingers were scrabbling along my ribs again. I held tight to the towel with both hands, driven by compulsive modesty and fear of mortification, but as a result my sides were completely defenseless. I twisted from side to side--though not too far, as my ass was not entirely covered behind me--but nothing I did could shake those scampering fingers from my ribs. My giggles were coming in a steady stream now as my body jerked into a staccato series of tortured poses, swiveling, ducking, bending at the waist, but she just wouldn't stop. At this point the sounds I was making fell into the classic "heeheehee" category, a merry-sounding giggle that just encouraged Sarah to keep tickling and keep tickling.
Until she stopped.
Thank God.
I straightened up a little, trying not to seem winded. "Okay," I said wearily--but she interrupted me.
"You're probably feeling pretty lucky," she said.
"Yeah, I'm the luckiest boy in the world," I deadpanned. "I'll see you downstairs."
"Lucky," she continued, gesturing at my stomach with her open hand in a circular motion, "because I'm not tickling your whole abdominal area there."
I was struck by a giddy dread: apparently we weren't done here.
"I don't know if you're aware," Sarah continued, "but you happen to be afflicted with a drastically ticklish stomach."
"Okay, Sarah..."
"This is extremely rare," she said, raising the volume of her spiel to shut me up. "Because this condition is typically found only in eight-year-olds and in college cheerleaders."
I felt my cheeks flush warm. "Hey," I said.
This taunting and teasing wasn't Sarah's usual M.O. I had apparently caught her in either a really good or a really bad mood, and whichever it was she was unleashing it on me. Whichever it was, it didn't bode well. It was sometime around this point that the notion flashed through my head: This seems like a story from TickleTheater, I thought. It's like I'm living a story from TickleTheater.
But Sarah was still talking. "So you're very lucky," she said, "that I've been avoiding that area."
Her mouth twisted with a smile she seemed to be trying to suppress.
"Until now," she said. And her hands darted toward my stomach.
She was right, of course; she spoke from experience. My entire abdominal area is a tickle disaster zone. So standing there with my hands fixed behind me and her fingers rushing toward my bare stomach, I couldn't help it: I twitched violently and, well... I'm not proud of this, but... I squealed. Yes, that's right. I admit it. Apparently I'm a squealer.
Again, my repertoire of noises froze Sarah in her tracks. "Well," she said. "This is fun."
And her hands darted at a different abdominal spot and I twisted and squealed again. And she did it again, and I responded just as she wanted me to. Dart, twitch, squeal. Dart, twitch, squeal. Each time she stopped short of actually touching me, and each time I couldn't help but react anyway.
"Sarah," I said again, growing desperate.
"I didn't realize the air around you was actually ticklish as well," she said. Dart, twitch, squeal.
Here's the thing though about the dart-twitch-squeal game: unlike actual tickling, the effect does wear off. Eventually--belatedly, if you as me, but anyway--my body gets hip to the fact that her fingers are never actually making contact with my flesh, and the twitch/squeal response gets dialed way back. This disappointed her, I think.
"Okay," I said. "It's not working anymOOOOORE NO!!"
Which sounded like that because Sarah--sensibly, predictably--switched to actual tickling; her hands darted in and just kept going, and now her fingers were scampering and spidering across my stomach and sides, steady, unyielding, indomitable, the touches light and feathery in character but firm and steely in their relentlessness.
I'd thought I was giggling and shrieking before but now I was out of control. Jerking, thrashing, twisting, flinching, my torso undulating in the corner as if it had any hope whatsoever of evading Sarah's fingertips.
"Please!" I hiccuped through the cascading laughter. When most people tickle me I'm quick to plead with them--whatever it takes. But my longstanding adversarial friendship with Sarah has always made me loathe to give her the satisfaction of my begging. So when I start in with the "pleases"--which I nearly always do, eventually--it means I really don't think I can take much more.
Of course, she doesn't know that. Or she doesn't care.
"Ple-e-e-e-ease," I giggled hysterically, slumping against the wall, twisting each time her fingers wandered over a new sensitive spot.
"Don't drop that towel," she kept saying. "Don't you drop it."
And I didn't. All I wanted to do was throw my hands in front of me, try to fend her off, but the overriding imperative--hold the towel! Shield your gonads!--prevented me. And so as I slid writhing to the floor I couldn't do anything but squeal and laugh.
And I was laughing so hard, the giggles pouring deliriously forth in an uninterrupted mirthful-sounding stream, I couldn't really hear anything else but I swear it seemed like Sarah sighed contentedly as her scrabbling fingers followed me down to the floor, moving efficiently from a twitching spot near my navel to the love handles that she may have remembered were so deadly to me--or if she didn't remember, she rediscovered it pretty quick, because it seemed like her strong swift hands kept returning to my waist with increasing frequency and for increasing durations, lingering there as I arched my back and howled, my hands now pressing the towel against my front because wriggling on the floor increased the risk of my modesty's exposure.
"Have you gained a little weight, Wade?" Sarah said matter-of-factly as her hands wandered systematically from ticklish spot to ticklish spot, making chatty conversation as though I weren't laughing wildly on the floor. "You should try a spin class." Tickle, tickle; yelp, shriek. "You do this to me," she muttered, shaking her head, fingers darting and scribbling. "Why do you do this to me? You practically dare me to, and then I can't stop." Fingers dancing and scampering, me wriggling back and forth on the floor laughing helplessly, my bare abdomen an unmissable and defenseless target. Tickling me there like this was the easiest thing in the world; every brush of her fingers brought forth a new pitch of hysterics. "How could anyone stop, Wade?" Tickling tickling; hoarse and desperate giggling.
I don't know how long Sarah's fingers had been dancing cruelly around and above my waist when I noticed my wife crouching next to us; I dimly perceived an amused smile on her face. "Okay, don't kill him," she said, but it was as if her mouth and her hands were following different instructions, because even as she sweetly counseled Sarah to give me a break I realized her fingers were thrumming lightly up my ribs and toward my underarms.
I thin I've mentioned before that however ticklish I used to be with my wife, now that we're married her power over me has increased exponentially. Her well-placed fingertips can reduce me to a heap in record time, whereas when we were dating I usually had at least a semblance of a fighting chance.
So what I'm trying to say is, with Sarah attacking my abdomen and my wife's feathery fingers advancing maddeningly on my underarms, it is only understandable that that's the moment at which I let go of the towel.
It didn't go anywhere right away, but it was unsecured, and Sarah noticed immediately as if an alarm had gone off. Her hands were clapped to her eyes and she was fumbling her way out of the room--"Oh! The towel! He dropped the towel!"
After Sarah was gone my wife's fingers kept sweetly and savagely dive-bombing me for a few more seconds, their light and intolerable spidering throwing me into renewed hysterics, writhing naked on the floor as my pitiful towel was flung aside. But she stopped and kissed me head and cupped my flushed cheek in her hand as she said brightly: "Honey? We have a guest. Come on down now."
And my wife flounced away. And sheepishly I got dressed. And that night I think the three of us had some kind of couscous. Which I made, by the way.
Okay, so this was probably about a year ago or so, maybe more. The previous time we'd seen Sarah had been just a few weeks earlier, when we swung by her place on a trip through her hometown. During that visit we'd all been watching TV that night and a conflict erupted between me and Sarah about what to watch. I had the remote and tried to keep it from her; she, of course, endlessly practical, seized my sides and started tickling. Shrieking, I immediately released the remote and thrashed and writhed; she kept tickling for just a few milliseconds longer than she really needed to. And then that was all behind us.
So now Sarah was coming to visit us for a few days. Sarah was due to arrive at our place soon for a visit, but I thought I had enough time to take a quick shower. While I did that, my wife was running around the house tidying up in a last-minute we're-about-to-have-guests-and-they-might-notice-we-live-like-pigs kind of mode. In her haste she scooped up the mound of dirty clothes I'd left on the bathroom floor, not noticing I guess that I didn't have any other clothes, dirty or otherwise, in the room.
When I turned off the shower I heard voices downstairs and realized that Sarah had arrived. I also discovered that my clothes were gone and, alas, so was my bath towel--another casualty of the eleventh-hour guest-is-coming better-do-some-laundry cleaning frenzy. The only thing I had at my disposal was sort of an oversized hand towel--pretty big, as hand towels go, but not as big as you'd want something to be to dry yourself off with, much less to be the only thing between your nakedness and the rest of the world.
Still, it seemed like I'd be safe. It wasn't a long dash from the bathroom to our bedroom. And Sarah would linger downstairs catching up with my wife for a while. So I dried off as best I could, held the towel around my waist--an awkward maneuver that required both hands, since it wasn't quite big enough for both ends to meet in the back--and I sprinted from the bathroom down the hall to our bedroom. Safe!
Except--
I burst into the bedroom to find Sarah standing in front of the mirror at my wife's dresser, arms overhead, pulling her hair back with one of my wife's hair ties. A big long drive, apparently the first thing she needed to do was ask my wife if she could borrow something to pull her hair back? Is this what women do?
So there I am with my towel, yelping in surprise. Sarah, hands overhead, messing with her hair, looked my way, registered the spectacle, and just started laughing. So did I, though not as freely.
"--Sorry," she chortled. "I'm sorry, Wade, I'll get out of here."
"No problem," I said, sheepish. "Uh, good to see you."
"Yeah, thanks," she said, making a beeline for the door. I stepped forward and sidled to the side and pressed my back against the wall, still holding the towel's ends behind me, prickling with involuntary anxiety about my position and her increasing proximity. I tried to relax by reminding myself: she's not a big tickler, she doesn't read the stories on TickleTheater, that's not where her brain's at, not every situation is an opportunity for tickling for her, this is perfectly safe, it's not even going to occur to her to tickle you. Relax. It's not even going to occur to her.
And as she passed, I said "Don't tickle me." Cringed slightly as I said it, my abdominal muscles contracting.
It was a reflex, entirely involuntary, an accident; it came out just like breathing. And as soon as it came out I knew how dire a mistake it was.
Sarah stopped and turned to face me, a wry grin on her face.
"No?" she said. "And why not?"
"I..." I stammered. "Nothing, never mind, just go and I, I'll..."
She crossed her arms and tilted her head, looking at me appraisingly. "It's a serious question, Furry," she said. "Why shouldn't I tickle you, exactly?"
"Because, because, you'd have to own up and talk about being mean in therapy," I said. "You hate that."
"I do," she said. "Of course, I'm overdue to talk about that anyway with our little fight over the remote last month, I haven't brought that up yet. So I'm going to have to do this anyway, could throw this in as a freebie."
"Sarah, c'mon," I said. "My hands are... I'm kind of helpless here and..."
"Mm, not really talking me out of it here, Wade."
"I don't think Amanda would appreciate it," I said.
"Amanda!" Sarah hollered to my wife without moving from her spot. "Okay if I tickle your husband within an inch of his life?"
I heard my wife call up "Sure, go for it!"
I was feeling increasingly panicky. "She's only saying that because she, she doesn't now that I, y'know, that I'm mostly..."
Sarah called out again: "He's pretty much close to naked. Is that still okay?"
"Yeah, sure," my wife yelled cheerfully. "Just don't break him."
Sarah smiled smugly, her arms still crossed. "That settles that," she said.
I'd scooched along the wall until I was in a corner, which was unfortunate. I twisted slightly from side to side, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. "Sarah, c'mon."
Sarah planted her hands on her hips. "Wade, you're completely ridiculous. I have no intention of tickling you."
"Okay, uh, thanks..."
"Or I didn't," Sarah said, "until you said that." And suddenly her fingers were on my ribs, dancing and scrabbling. Surprised and panicked I emitted an urgent laugh that was sort of a high-pitched gurgle, a sound that no adult male should ever be heard to make. It was absurd enough that Sarah paused in her playful assault.
"Wow," she said. "New sounds from Wade."
"Sarah don't!" I cried. "I'll drop my towel."
Her look turned steely. "Don't," she said with a stern schoolmarmish finger pointing at me. "Do not under any circumstances drop that towel. I'll have nightmares for weeks, and you will be subject to my mockery for the rest of your life."
"Sarah, don't, I can't help it..."
"Help it," she ordered, and her fingers were scrabbling along my ribs again. I held tight to the towel with both hands, driven by compulsive modesty and fear of mortification, but as a result my sides were completely defenseless. I twisted from side to side--though not too far, as my ass was not entirely covered behind me--but nothing I did could shake those scampering fingers from my ribs. My giggles were coming in a steady stream now as my body jerked into a staccato series of tortured poses, swiveling, ducking, bending at the waist, but she just wouldn't stop. At this point the sounds I was making fell into the classic "heeheehee" category, a merry-sounding giggle that just encouraged Sarah to keep tickling and keep tickling.
Until she stopped.
Thank God.
I straightened up a little, trying not to seem winded. "Okay," I said wearily--but she interrupted me.
"You're probably feeling pretty lucky," she said.
"Yeah, I'm the luckiest boy in the world," I deadpanned. "I'll see you downstairs."
"Lucky," she continued, gesturing at my stomach with her open hand in a circular motion, "because I'm not tickling your whole abdominal area there."
I was struck by a giddy dread: apparently we weren't done here.
"I don't know if you're aware," Sarah continued, "but you happen to be afflicted with a drastically ticklish stomach."
"Okay, Sarah..."
"This is extremely rare," she said, raising the volume of her spiel to shut me up. "Because this condition is typically found only in eight-year-olds and in college cheerleaders."
I felt my cheeks flush warm. "Hey," I said.
This taunting and teasing wasn't Sarah's usual M.O. I had apparently caught her in either a really good or a really bad mood, and whichever it was she was unleashing it on me. Whichever it was, it didn't bode well. It was sometime around this point that the notion flashed through my head: This seems like a story from TickleTheater, I thought. It's like I'm living a story from TickleTheater.
But Sarah was still talking. "So you're very lucky," she said, "that I've been avoiding that area."
Her mouth twisted with a smile she seemed to be trying to suppress.
"Until now," she said. And her hands darted toward my stomach.
She was right, of course; she spoke from experience. My entire abdominal area is a tickle disaster zone. So standing there with my hands fixed behind me and her fingers rushing toward my bare stomach, I couldn't help it: I twitched violently and, well... I'm not proud of this, but... I squealed. Yes, that's right. I admit it. Apparently I'm a squealer.
Again, my repertoire of noises froze Sarah in her tracks. "Well," she said. "This is fun."
And her hands darted at a different abdominal spot and I twisted and squealed again. And she did it again, and I responded just as she wanted me to. Dart, twitch, squeal. Dart, twitch, squeal. Each time she stopped short of actually touching me, and each time I couldn't help but react anyway.
"Sarah," I said again, growing desperate.
"I didn't realize the air around you was actually ticklish as well," she said. Dart, twitch, squeal.
Here's the thing though about the dart-twitch-squeal game: unlike actual tickling, the effect does wear off. Eventually--belatedly, if you as me, but anyway--my body gets hip to the fact that her fingers are never actually making contact with my flesh, and the twitch/squeal response gets dialed way back. This disappointed her, I think.
"Okay," I said. "It's not working anymOOOOORE NO!!"
Which sounded like that because Sarah--sensibly, predictably--switched to actual tickling; her hands darted in and just kept going, and now her fingers were scampering and spidering across my stomach and sides, steady, unyielding, indomitable, the touches light and feathery in character but firm and steely in their relentlessness.
I'd thought I was giggling and shrieking before but now I was out of control. Jerking, thrashing, twisting, flinching, my torso undulating in the corner as if it had any hope whatsoever of evading Sarah's fingertips.
"Please!" I hiccuped through the cascading laughter. When most people tickle me I'm quick to plead with them--whatever it takes. But my longstanding adversarial friendship with Sarah has always made me loathe to give her the satisfaction of my begging. So when I start in with the "pleases"--which I nearly always do, eventually--it means I really don't think I can take much more.
Of course, she doesn't know that. Or she doesn't care.
"Ple-e-e-e-ease," I giggled hysterically, slumping against the wall, twisting each time her fingers wandered over a new sensitive spot.
"Don't drop that towel," she kept saying. "Don't you drop it."
And I didn't. All I wanted to do was throw my hands in front of me, try to fend her off, but the overriding imperative--hold the towel! Shield your gonads!--prevented me. And so as I slid writhing to the floor I couldn't do anything but squeal and laugh.
And I was laughing so hard, the giggles pouring deliriously forth in an uninterrupted mirthful-sounding stream, I couldn't really hear anything else but I swear it seemed like Sarah sighed contentedly as her scrabbling fingers followed me down to the floor, moving efficiently from a twitching spot near my navel to the love handles that she may have remembered were so deadly to me--or if she didn't remember, she rediscovered it pretty quick, because it seemed like her strong swift hands kept returning to my waist with increasing frequency and for increasing durations, lingering there as I arched my back and howled, my hands now pressing the towel against my front because wriggling on the floor increased the risk of my modesty's exposure.
"Have you gained a little weight, Wade?" Sarah said matter-of-factly as her hands wandered systematically from ticklish spot to ticklish spot, making chatty conversation as though I weren't laughing wildly on the floor. "You should try a spin class." Tickle, tickle; yelp, shriek. "You do this to me," she muttered, shaking her head, fingers darting and scribbling. "Why do you do this to me? You practically dare me to, and then I can't stop." Fingers dancing and scampering, me wriggling back and forth on the floor laughing helplessly, my bare abdomen an unmissable and defenseless target. Tickling me there like this was the easiest thing in the world; every brush of her fingers brought forth a new pitch of hysterics. "How could anyone stop, Wade?" Tickling tickling; hoarse and desperate giggling.
I don't know how long Sarah's fingers had been dancing cruelly around and above my waist when I noticed my wife crouching next to us; I dimly perceived an amused smile on her face. "Okay, don't kill him," she said, but it was as if her mouth and her hands were following different instructions, because even as she sweetly counseled Sarah to give me a break I realized her fingers were thrumming lightly up my ribs and toward my underarms.
I thin I've mentioned before that however ticklish I used to be with my wife, now that we're married her power over me has increased exponentially. Her well-placed fingertips can reduce me to a heap in record time, whereas when we were dating I usually had at least a semblance of a fighting chance.
So what I'm trying to say is, with Sarah attacking my abdomen and my wife's feathery fingers advancing maddeningly on my underarms, it is only understandable that that's the moment at which I let go of the towel.
It didn't go anywhere right away, but it was unsecured, and Sarah noticed immediately as if an alarm had gone off. Her hands were clapped to her eyes and she was fumbling her way out of the room--"Oh! The towel! He dropped the towel!"
After Sarah was gone my wife's fingers kept sweetly and savagely dive-bombing me for a few more seconds, their light and intolerable spidering throwing me into renewed hysterics, writhing naked on the floor as my pitiful towel was flung aside. But she stopped and kissed me head and cupped my flushed cheek in her hand as she said brightly: "Honey? We have a guest. Come on down now."
And my wife flounced away. And sheepishly I got dressed. And that night I think the three of us had some kind of couscous. Which I made, by the way.
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CellarDweller
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Oh damn! One hell of a story, Wade!
Worth the wait!
Worth the wait!
MistressValerie1
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That was a magnificent story, Wade; thanks for sharing it :blush
sockticklingirl
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thanks Wade!!!!
Wade1
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During a subsequent Skype conversation I took the liberty of asking Sarah if she'd felt obligated to mention her most recent assault on me to her therapist. "Yes," Sarah said, sounding very annoyed.
What did she say about it, I asked.
"What do you think she said? She didn't like it, she thought it was mean and I'm not supposed to be mean. She said I was exercising my least charitable impulses. No, she said I was letting you goad me into exercising my least charitable impulses."
What? I did nothing to invite this, I protested; there was no goading involved.
Sarah snorted. "Yeah, okay, whatever. She actually asked me if the reason I do this to you sometimes is because you actually like it."
What'd you say?
"I said God, I hope not! If he liked it this would all be a huge waste of time! And she was like, well, in that case if he's really as ticklish as all that then this is really cruel behavior and I should make a priority of not doing it."
And what'd you say?
"I said then I don't have any way to punish you when you're being annoying."
But I'm never annoying.
"If I were there I would so punish you for that."
Did she say anything else?
"She said that if this were pain I were inflicting on you instead of tickling that I wouldn't be so quick to forgive myself for it, and really torturing you with tickling is no different from torturing you with pain."
And what'd you say?
"I said it's totally different, I would never torture you with pain, because pain wouldn't embarrass and humiliate you enough."
Yeah, I don't see what your therapist is talking about; you're obviously a total sweetheart.
"Whatever. I pretty much need to stop torturing you just so I can quit wasting money talking about you to my therapist."
That's fine by me.
"I know it is! Which also pisses me off. Go get your wife, I didn't want to talk to you in the first place."
What did she say about it, I asked.
"What do you think she said? She didn't like it, she thought it was mean and I'm not supposed to be mean. She said I was exercising my least charitable impulses. No, she said I was letting you goad me into exercising my least charitable impulses."
What? I did nothing to invite this, I protested; there was no goading involved.
Sarah snorted. "Yeah, okay, whatever. She actually asked me if the reason I do this to you sometimes is because you actually like it."
What'd you say?
"I said God, I hope not! If he liked it this would all be a huge waste of time! And she was like, well, in that case if he's really as ticklish as all that then this is really cruel behavior and I should make a priority of not doing it."
And what'd you say?
"I said then I don't have any way to punish you when you're being annoying."
But I'm never annoying.
"If I were there I would so punish you for that."
Did she say anything else?
"She said that if this were pain I were inflicting on you instead of tickling that I wouldn't be so quick to forgive myself for it, and really torturing you with tickling is no different from torturing you with pain."
And what'd you say?
"I said it's totally different, I would never torture you with pain, because pain wouldn't embarrass and humiliate you enough."
Yeah, I don't see what your therapist is talking about; you're obviously a total sweetheart.
"Whatever. I pretty much need to stop torturing you just so I can quit wasting money talking about you to my therapist."
That's fine by me.
"I know it is! Which also pisses me off. Go get your wife, I didn't want to talk to you in the first place."
AiritheDestoyer
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ahahahahaha i liked that
Wade1
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I bet you did. You and Sarah would probably get along great.
sadi
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So sad this Sarah has to 'reign' herself in and mentally reprimand herself - or her therapist succinctly does the same, while she's forced to pay this other person to be scolded.
You know, I REALLY think that this relationship should continue between Sarah and yourself the way it's 'mainly' been (you either two remaining tentatively congenial to each other, or desisting from any meeting between the two of you) and you should let a new Sarah take her place instead: namely, me. 😀
- Oh, and don't worry, I won't have to worry about feeling 'bad' about it afterwards, or even change my inclinations at all (my one "friend" seems to do more than enough of that as it is - in the context of our relationship now 🙄). If anything, it'll help give me new ideas of how I can eventually gt back at him, or maybe he could join in as well, though it seems that you need 'no' other help restraining you, you act so piteous as soon as a single nail strokes across your 'body', it seems. :lol
So, how's it sound? Plan on meeting eventually, then we could 'finally' see if you're really as ticklish as all these stories seem to 'profess' you are. Maybe this is all but a dastardly scheme to lull people's overconfidence if they were to meet you in reality; then we'd all be terribly shocked to find out that the tables have been switched on us and it is 'we' who are acting more similar to this persona of 'Wade' you describe in your stories...?
- So, want to prove to everyone you're really like this or not? :evil:
You know, I REALLY think that this relationship should continue between Sarah and yourself the way it's 'mainly' been (you either two remaining tentatively congenial to each other, or desisting from any meeting between the two of you) and you should let a new Sarah take her place instead: namely, me. 😀
- Oh, and don't worry, I won't have to worry about feeling 'bad' about it afterwards, or even change my inclinations at all (my one "friend" seems to do more than enough of that as it is - in the context of our relationship now 🙄). If anything, it'll help give me new ideas of how I can eventually gt back at him, or maybe he could join in as well, though it seems that you need 'no' other help restraining you, you act so piteous as soon as a single nail strokes across your 'body', it seems. :lol
So, how's it sound? Plan on meeting eventually, then we could 'finally' see if you're really as ticklish as all these stories seem to 'profess' you are. Maybe this is all but a dastardly scheme to lull people's overconfidence if they were to meet you in reality; then we'd all be terribly shocked to find out that the tables have been switched on us and it is 'we' who are acting more similar to this persona of 'Wade' you describe in your stories...?
- So, want to prove to everyone you're really like this or not? :evil:
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Wade1
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Well, you might be happy to hear then that the latest news from Sarah is that, at her therapist's encouragement, she is once again (as she put it) "on the wagon, meanness-wise," or in other words she is striving to categorically avoid indulging in (as her therapist put it) "gratuitously cruel behavior," a category that apparently includes (but is not limited to) tickling me into hysterics. So on those occasions that we se Sarah over the coming months, she will apparently be on her best behavior. Maybe forever.
Still, I'm sorry to say that I am not currently accepting applications for candidates to take Sarah's place as a persistent tormentor, for reasons having to do with my dignity and sanity.
And anyway, I'm happy to report, ST ol' buddy, that you've seen through my facade. I'm actually not the least bit ticklish at all and it has all been a ruse. Therefore, while meeting in person someday would be delightful, you can rest assured that it would be a waste of time to attempt tickling me on such an occasion. In fact, you might as well stay more than an arm's length away from me for the duration of any such meeting. Good idea?
Still, I'm sorry to say that I am not currently accepting applications for candidates to take Sarah's place as a persistent tormentor, for reasons having to do with my dignity and sanity.
And anyway, I'm happy to report, ST ol' buddy, that you've seen through my facade. I'm actually not the least bit ticklish at all and it has all been a ruse. Therefore, while meeting in person someday would be delightful, you can rest assured that it would be a waste of time to attempt tickling me on such an occasion. In fact, you might as well stay more than an arm's length away from me for the duration of any such meeting. Good idea?
tickle_fan031
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Like we need your permission to be your tormentor :stickout besides you don't have any sanity?!!hehe
