GuitarPeteTklr met me at my office to take me to the Employee Recognition Dinner. I was wearing a black, sleeveless dress cut just above my knee with a sheer jacket over the top. My freshly pedicured feet, with their bright red nails, were tucked into black beaded satin sling back pumps. I introduced him to Julie, my department director and Maria, the personnel manager. They invited us to join them for a drink before the dinner. We stood at the bar in the brewpub and Pete engaged the ladies in conversation. His gaze never left them, but his arm was around my shoulder. What they couldn’t see was his feathery, light touch, teasing the crease where my arm rested against my body. At first, the light tickle was delightful, but as I became more and more sensitized, it became harder and harder to stand still and keep my composure. I could feel my face redden. People standing behind us had a clear view of his torturous touch. I focused intently on my breathing and trying to appear calm and normal. When he knew I was near my wits end, he directed a question toward me. I had no choice but to answer, my voice slightly strained, almost cracking with the effort to make a sound but not laugh. He dropped his hand from my shoulder and took my hand. “At last”, I thought, “relief.” I was so wrong. With his finger, he began to inscribe tiny, light circles in the horribly sensitive palm of my left hand. Again, I found myself so focused on controlling my urges to squiggle away and control my need to giggle; I was unable to participate in the conversation. Julie or Maria would occasionally address a statement directly to me and I was breathless with the effort to remain in control while I answered. Pete stood quietly by with that evil grin on his face. “What’s the matter, Karen, a little sensitive tonight?” he asked so innocently. As I lifted my drink to take a sip, he circled one finger maddeningly around my elbow. It was all I could do to not drop the glass. I shot him an evil glare, but his only response was to raise an eyebrow and carry on. Just when I thought I would explode he gave me a moment’s reprieve. I took a deep breath and composed myself. My respite was short lived. He slowly and ever so lightly ran a finger up and down my spine in full view of everyone behind us. I shivered involuntarily and Julie asked, “Are you cold, Karen?”
On the short walk to the Casino, where the dinner was being held, I tried to bargain my way out of a night of torture. Julie and Maria walked a few paces ahead of us. Pete held my hand and kept circling his finger in my palm relentlessly. “Please, please don’t make me laugh in front of all these people”, I begged. “I’ll do anything, I’ll give you anything, if you just don’t embarrass me in front of my boss!”
“Now, Karen, what could you possibly offer me that would be more fun than making you lose control tonight?” He laughed at my predicament. “Silly, silly girl.”
“Anything,” I pleaded, “just don’t torture me tonight.” “Next weekend, tickle torture, no safe word,” I offered hopefully.
“Hmmmm, let me think about that. Would that be more fun?” He looked at me teasingly, “Sure is a delightful thought. And such a generous offer from you. Well, maybe. Let me think…...nope! A bird in the hand………” He punctuated his reply with a quick poke to my extremely ticklish ribs.
I steeled myself for a nightmare as we entered the casino. As we wandered among the happy hour crowd, he frequently put his arm over my shoulder or his hand lightly on my back. I just knew everyone could see that he was grazing the edge of my armpit, when his arm was on my shoulder, or his fingers danced so lightly up and down my spine when his hand rested on my back. The more he tickled, with the lightest touch, the more sensitive I became. We sat down to dinner and, oh, what blessed relief, he chatted away with Julie and Maria, his hand resting on my thigh, just above the knee, but not tickling. I began to relax a bit and join in the conversation. Occasionally, he would dig behind my right knee, just to see me jump almost imperceptibly, but mostly I was safe. What a mistake it was to let my guard down.
Near the end of dinner, I slipped my shoes off under the table. The soft, plush carpet felt heavenly under my toes and soles after being trapped in heels all day. Such a bad habit I have, always slipping my shoes off. Never so bad as that night. I had become quite comfortable, able to deal with his occasional dig, now that I knew what to expect. Dinner was over and the speeches had begun. I pulled my chair very close to his so I could see the video presentation at the front of the room. Without thinking, I crossed my legs. Like a frog on a lily pad, zapping a fly with a lightening strike of his tongue, he snagged my and ankle and held it in a vise-like grip. I felt like a deer caught in the headlights. I knew I was in big trouble. At first, he just stroked my foot a bit, not quite a tickle. He traced the shape of the arch he likes so much, with a gentle touch, but firm enough to not tickle. “Mmmmmmm, that feels so nice,” I whispered. His only response was that evil grin of his. For a brief second I hoped that the fact I was wearing nylons would make him lose interest. Wrong. He began scribbling at the ball of my foot with his nail. My toes flexed back and forth, involuntarily; my foot twisting at the ankle, trying to squiggle out of his grip. “Going somewhere, Karen?” he asked.
“Stop it, you little freak!” I whispered from behind clenched teeth. “ I hate you!”
“Sucks to be you, doesn’t it, Karen?” He dragged his nail around and around the outer edge of my heel. I gripped the chair so hard with both hands, my wrists would ache the next morning. My body was so tense, I practically floated a millimeter above the seat. He ran his finger up my sole and I clenched my teeth so hard my jaw ached, all the while concentrating on keeping a straight face. He constantly engaged Julie and Maria in conversation so their attention was always on us.
Pete is a maniac when he plays the guitar. His hands have incredible dexterity. Five of Pete’s fingers feel like fifteen of anybody else’s. He went for the sensitive area under my toes and I tried desperately to clench them into a tiny fist. With one hand, he managed to uncurl my toes and continue to tickle underneath them.
“Oh, my God, you have to stop!” I begged. He cast me a sideways glance, never missed a step in his conversation, and proceeded to tickle the tops of my toes. My biggest fear was that someone would say something funny. If I broke and laughed it would be all over. I would never stop. “Anything! What will make you give me a break?”
“Ticklish tonight, Karen?" He worked his way up the tops of my feet and tickled around the incredibly sensitive bones of my ankle. I pinched his arm in a death grip through his suit jacket. “You seem a bit tense tonight, Darlin’. Something annoying you?” he laughed. The key to his van is three feet long. Okay, maybe it’s only three inches long, but raked up the sole, it puts medieval instruments of torture to shame. I heard the jingle at his waist. I thought I would cry. “ Do you hear something?” he wondered as he played with his keys. I wasn’t sure if I was going to laugh, cry or jump away from the table and run, but I knew I could not maintain decorum when he raked me with that key.
My face was on fire with a furious blush. I was trying to plan an escape but he was torturing me so, I couldn’t think. “You are so f&*%ing mean!” My voice sounded as loud as thunder in my head, but barely registered above a whisper.
He laughed gently, kissed me on the cheek and said, “Put your shoes on. It’s your turn to go up front for your award.”
On the short walk to the Casino, where the dinner was being held, I tried to bargain my way out of a night of torture. Julie and Maria walked a few paces ahead of us. Pete held my hand and kept circling his finger in my palm relentlessly. “Please, please don’t make me laugh in front of all these people”, I begged. “I’ll do anything, I’ll give you anything, if you just don’t embarrass me in front of my boss!”
“Now, Karen, what could you possibly offer me that would be more fun than making you lose control tonight?” He laughed at my predicament. “Silly, silly girl.”
“Anything,” I pleaded, “just don’t torture me tonight.” “Next weekend, tickle torture, no safe word,” I offered hopefully.
“Hmmmm, let me think about that. Would that be more fun?” He looked at me teasingly, “Sure is a delightful thought. And such a generous offer from you. Well, maybe. Let me think…...nope! A bird in the hand………” He punctuated his reply with a quick poke to my extremely ticklish ribs.
I steeled myself for a nightmare as we entered the casino. As we wandered among the happy hour crowd, he frequently put his arm over my shoulder or his hand lightly on my back. I just knew everyone could see that he was grazing the edge of my armpit, when his arm was on my shoulder, or his fingers danced so lightly up and down my spine when his hand rested on my back. The more he tickled, with the lightest touch, the more sensitive I became. We sat down to dinner and, oh, what blessed relief, he chatted away with Julie and Maria, his hand resting on my thigh, just above the knee, but not tickling. I began to relax a bit and join in the conversation. Occasionally, he would dig behind my right knee, just to see me jump almost imperceptibly, but mostly I was safe. What a mistake it was to let my guard down.
Near the end of dinner, I slipped my shoes off under the table. The soft, plush carpet felt heavenly under my toes and soles after being trapped in heels all day. Such a bad habit I have, always slipping my shoes off. Never so bad as that night. I had become quite comfortable, able to deal with his occasional dig, now that I knew what to expect. Dinner was over and the speeches had begun. I pulled my chair very close to his so I could see the video presentation at the front of the room. Without thinking, I crossed my legs. Like a frog on a lily pad, zapping a fly with a lightening strike of his tongue, he snagged my and ankle and held it in a vise-like grip. I felt like a deer caught in the headlights. I knew I was in big trouble. At first, he just stroked my foot a bit, not quite a tickle. He traced the shape of the arch he likes so much, with a gentle touch, but firm enough to not tickle. “Mmmmmmm, that feels so nice,” I whispered. His only response was that evil grin of his. For a brief second I hoped that the fact I was wearing nylons would make him lose interest. Wrong. He began scribbling at the ball of my foot with his nail. My toes flexed back and forth, involuntarily; my foot twisting at the ankle, trying to squiggle out of his grip. “Going somewhere, Karen?” he asked.
“Stop it, you little freak!” I whispered from behind clenched teeth. “ I hate you!”
“Sucks to be you, doesn’t it, Karen?” He dragged his nail around and around the outer edge of my heel. I gripped the chair so hard with both hands, my wrists would ache the next morning. My body was so tense, I practically floated a millimeter above the seat. He ran his finger up my sole and I clenched my teeth so hard my jaw ached, all the while concentrating on keeping a straight face. He constantly engaged Julie and Maria in conversation so their attention was always on us.
Pete is a maniac when he plays the guitar. His hands have incredible dexterity. Five of Pete’s fingers feel like fifteen of anybody else’s. He went for the sensitive area under my toes and I tried desperately to clench them into a tiny fist. With one hand, he managed to uncurl my toes and continue to tickle underneath them.
“Oh, my God, you have to stop!” I begged. He cast me a sideways glance, never missed a step in his conversation, and proceeded to tickle the tops of my toes. My biggest fear was that someone would say something funny. If I broke and laughed it would be all over. I would never stop. “Anything! What will make you give me a break?”
“Ticklish tonight, Karen?" He worked his way up the tops of my feet and tickled around the incredibly sensitive bones of my ankle. I pinched his arm in a death grip through his suit jacket. “You seem a bit tense tonight, Darlin’. Something annoying you?” he laughed. The key to his van is three feet long. Okay, maybe it’s only three inches long, but raked up the sole, it puts medieval instruments of torture to shame. I heard the jingle at his waist. I thought I would cry. “ Do you hear something?” he wondered as he played with his keys. I wasn’t sure if I was going to laugh, cry or jump away from the table and run, but I knew I could not maintain decorum when he raked me with that key.
My face was on fire with a furious blush. I was trying to plan an escape but he was torturing me so, I couldn’t think. “You are so f&*%ing mean!” My voice sounded as loud as thunder in my head, but barely registered above a whisper.
He laughed gently, kissed me on the cheek and said, “Put your shoes on. It’s your turn to go up front for your award.”
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Aw, you guys are all so sweet. Thanks for your support and encouragement.
This is the first time I've posted a story and your thoughtful comments have just made it all the richer for me
