David.s
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Behold... my first pigeony tickling story thing! It's not exactly fantastic, but hey. Kindly note it was written under the influence of a sore throat, a headache and copious amounts of almost toxic lemsip, which may go some way towards explaining its almost complete lack of tickling. Anyway, I've never written a story like this before - actually, never written any kind of story before, other than being forced to years ago at school maybe, and I doubt I ever finished any of those anyway - so please don't be too alarmed by its potential rubbishness. Compulsory self-deprecation over now? Sure? Good. Comments would be appreciated.
(edit: finally changed the bold to italics, thanks SharonP)
(edit: finally changed the bold to italics, thanks SharonP)
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Eurgh, I’m so bored it’s ridiculous. I wish he'd hurry up and get here.
My hair is tangled and drapes across my face; I guess I don’t look my best. The desk I’m sitting at, now almost as messed up as my hairstyle, is steadily amassing a clutter of textbooks, pencils and scribbled notes – for once I’m doing my homework.
You know, I really should do something about my hair. Meh, can’t be bothered though – all this beauty stuff is too much effort and, hey, I look nice enough already. I mean, my breasts totally make up for it! Maybe. Anyway, some guys might find messy hair kinda hot…
I’m beginning to get tired of straining to see past my stupid fringe though, and soon I’ve tucked the offending hairs back behind my ears. This reveals a pair of mischievous, almost boyish blue eyes – yeah, my eyes kick ass and that’s final – which probably seem more alert than you’d expect from a bored student working her way through the uncomfortable prose of some (probably) dead French philosopher. I guess I have other things on my mind. Still, I persevere.
Oh my God, what is this guy on? I can’t understand any of this stuff.
I kinda get the impression I’m not supposed to.
“Sartre is such a dick you know.”
Finally!
Martyn, my boyfriend – can I call him that yet? – has arrived.
“Wait, you read this stuff?” I smirk a little. He doesn’t even study this. Dork.
“Hey, don’t sound so surprised; I’m not just an ugly face you know”. I smile at his goofy expression and put down my book.
Sure, he’s a bit weird, but he’s really intelligent and interesting and nice and has this totally cool quirkiness and energy about him and… yeah, he’s a total freak. Though with this whole tickling… thing… I have going on I can hardly talk.
Uncomfortable, I get off the chair and lie down on my bed, happy to absorb the warmth and comfort of the quilt. He sits down next to me and smiles.
Anyway. Tickling. Yeah. I should probably tell him about that pretty soon. Today? Maybe. I need to find that perfect moment though. I better get a few tickles tonight either way.
As we talk I casually remove my slippers to reveal my – you’ve guessed it – feet, manoeuvring them towards the end of the bed closer to him.
Don’t be too obvious, Jessica. Gotta be subtle! You don’t want him to know you want this, do you? Not yet anyway.
I delicately place my feet on his lap as we talk, hoping he’ll take the hint.
Nothing happens.
Too subtle I guess. Maybe if I wiggle them about a bit…
Still nothing.
Eurgh, what’s wrong with this guy?
Getting impatient, I thrust my feet in front of his face and wave them around.
“So, how long do you think I could stand you tickling my feet without laughing?”
Not long probably, although – wait, what the – wasn’t the idea to be subtle? This is ridiculous.
He grabs both ankles and flashes me a menacing grin.
Eeeeh, well at least it looks like it worked. Bring on the tickles!
“You know what Jessica?”
Oh my God, he actually looks excited – really excited. Maybe he likes this too. Maybe he likes this the way I do. Maybe this is the cliché I’ve been waiting for. Maybe this is the moment.
“You have really pretty feet.”
Oh COME ON! Don’t tell me has a foot thing. That’s at least twice as fucked as wanting to get tickled. Oh my God, now he’s admitting it! I want him to tickle them, not stare at them! Eurgh, why can’t he jus-
“Eeeeeeep!” I squirm around and fall against his shoulder, laughing. “Stooooppit!”
“I guess you didn’t last as long as you thought, huh?”
What, over already? Shit. I need to learn to stop laughing. That or tell him how I’m almost as perverted as he is. But later.
Soon the conversation moves away from my feet – eww, why is he still looking at them though? – and I start thinking of other ways to get tickled. No luck though. We talk for a while longer. Some crap about existentialism I think.
Grr, tickling is so much cooler than philosophy.
A little later I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
Looking good Jessica! Hair still messy though; it could probably do with a brush…
I grin to myself.
I have an idea.
I reach down into my jacket and pull out my pocket comb. It’s a little purple for my tastes, but I guess it gets the job done.
I bring my hands up to my head, slowly revealing my soft, hairless underarms – erugh, I hate the word armpit – and try to look as cute as I can. I know, there’s not really much you can do to try to look cute – especially when you’re in the middle of brushing your hair – but I give it my best shot and pull a stupid girly grin.
He better get me this time. Properly too.
It seems to take forever messing about with the stupid comb – at least my hair is pretty again now – but eventually he starts to take notice of my exposed underarms, getting that devilish look in his eyes all boys have when they want to give a girl a good tickle. I’m sure he wants to. I just need to give him a good reason.
“So, when are you going to get me back for calling you a dork?”
He looks mad in a good way.
“You didn’t call me that.”
“Didn’t I? Oh, I’m sorry, dork.” And I stick out my tongue.
Predictable or what?
“Now you’ve asked for it.”
I’ve been asking for it for the past ten minutes! Jeez.
He lunges forward and I close my eyes tightly, hoping to feel some wonderfully light tickly touches soon. Real soon. Any second…
Oh my God, what’s taking this guy so long? Doesn’t he know how to tickle or something? If it’s this hard getting him to give me the odd playful touch, God knows how he’s going to react if I tell him I want him to-
“Yaaaaaarrgh!” More than a few squeals escape from my mouth as I feel two sets of fingers skating their way across my sensitive underarms. I’m giggling and squirming and, you know, all that stuff. His light, flirty touches send electric through my entire body and I love it.
I hope this lasts longer than last time.
It does.
A few hours pass, maybe. Everything is kind of a haze but something must have gone well. I have this huge Cheshire cat grin on my face anyway.
Mmmm, that was fun. I think.
I tell Martyn I love him. I don’t know why he looks so pleased; I’ve told him before. No biggie.
Wait, isn’t there something else I’m supposed to be telling him?
Growing a little more lucid I sit up and look around. The sheets are on the floor and my whole bed is a mess. My clothing feels loose. I’m hot and sweaty and my hair is plastered to my forehead – after I spent all that time combing it too! – and I couldn’t feel better. Martyn looks excited in more ways than one – well, so do I – and is grinning like crazy. His wriggling fingers seem to be getting closer and closer and closer…
Actually, I think he might already know.
Eurgh, I’m so bored it’s ridiculous. I wish he'd hurry up and get here.
My hair is tangled and drapes across my face; I guess I don’t look my best. The desk I’m sitting at, now almost as messed up as my hairstyle, is steadily amassing a clutter of textbooks, pencils and scribbled notes – for once I’m doing my homework.
You know, I really should do something about my hair. Meh, can’t be bothered though – all this beauty stuff is too much effort and, hey, I look nice enough already. I mean, my breasts totally make up for it! Maybe. Anyway, some guys might find messy hair kinda hot…
I’m beginning to get tired of straining to see past my stupid fringe though, and soon I’ve tucked the offending hairs back behind my ears. This reveals a pair of mischievous, almost boyish blue eyes – yeah, my eyes kick ass and that’s final – which probably seem more alert than you’d expect from a bored student working her way through the uncomfortable prose of some (probably) dead French philosopher. I guess I have other things on my mind. Still, I persevere.
Oh my God, what is this guy on? I can’t understand any of this stuff.
I kinda get the impression I’m not supposed to.
“Sartre is such a dick you know.”
Finally!
Martyn, my boyfriend – can I call him that yet? – has arrived.
“Wait, you read this stuff?” I smirk a little. He doesn’t even study this. Dork.
“Hey, don’t sound so surprised; I’m not just an ugly face you know”. I smile at his goofy expression and put down my book.
Sure, he’s a bit weird, but he’s really intelligent and interesting and nice and has this totally cool quirkiness and energy about him and… yeah, he’s a total freak. Though with this whole tickling… thing… I have going on I can hardly talk.
Uncomfortable, I get off the chair and lie down on my bed, happy to absorb the warmth and comfort of the quilt. He sits down next to me and smiles.
Anyway. Tickling. Yeah. I should probably tell him about that pretty soon. Today? Maybe. I need to find that perfect moment though. I better get a few tickles tonight either way.
As we talk I casually remove my slippers to reveal my – you’ve guessed it – feet, manoeuvring them towards the end of the bed closer to him.
Don’t be too obvious, Jessica. Gotta be subtle! You don’t want him to know you want this, do you? Not yet anyway.
I delicately place my feet on his lap as we talk, hoping he’ll take the hint.
Nothing happens.
Too subtle I guess. Maybe if I wiggle them about a bit…
Still nothing.
Eurgh, what’s wrong with this guy?
Getting impatient, I thrust my feet in front of his face and wave them around.
“So, how long do you think I could stand you tickling my feet without laughing?”
Not long probably, although – wait, what the – wasn’t the idea to be subtle? This is ridiculous.
He grabs both ankles and flashes me a menacing grin.
Eeeeh, well at least it looks like it worked. Bring on the tickles!
“You know what Jessica?”
Oh my God, he actually looks excited – really excited. Maybe he likes this too. Maybe he likes this the way I do. Maybe this is the cliché I’ve been waiting for. Maybe this is the moment.
“You have really pretty feet.”
Oh COME ON! Don’t tell me has a foot thing. That’s at least twice as fucked as wanting to get tickled. Oh my God, now he’s admitting it! I want him to tickle them, not stare at them! Eurgh, why can’t he jus-
“Eeeeeeep!” I squirm around and fall against his shoulder, laughing. “Stooooppit!”
“I guess you didn’t last as long as you thought, huh?”
What, over already? Shit. I need to learn to stop laughing. That or tell him how I’m almost as perverted as he is. But later.
Soon the conversation moves away from my feet – eww, why is he still looking at them though? – and I start thinking of other ways to get tickled. No luck though. We talk for a while longer. Some crap about existentialism I think.
Grr, tickling is so much cooler than philosophy.
A little later I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
Looking good Jessica! Hair still messy though; it could probably do with a brush…
I grin to myself.
I have an idea.
I reach down into my jacket and pull out my pocket comb. It’s a little purple for my tastes, but I guess it gets the job done.
I bring my hands up to my head, slowly revealing my soft, hairless underarms – erugh, I hate the word armpit – and try to look as cute as I can. I know, there’s not really much you can do to try to look cute – especially when you’re in the middle of brushing your hair – but I give it my best shot and pull a stupid girly grin.
He better get me this time. Properly too.
It seems to take forever messing about with the stupid comb – at least my hair is pretty again now – but eventually he starts to take notice of my exposed underarms, getting that devilish look in his eyes all boys have when they want to give a girl a good tickle. I’m sure he wants to. I just need to give him a good reason.
“So, when are you going to get me back for calling you a dork?”
He looks mad in a good way.
“You didn’t call me that.”
“Didn’t I? Oh, I’m sorry, dork.” And I stick out my tongue.
Predictable or what?
“Now you’ve asked for it.”
I’ve been asking for it for the past ten minutes! Jeez.
He lunges forward and I close my eyes tightly, hoping to feel some wonderfully light tickly touches soon. Real soon. Any second…
Oh my God, what’s taking this guy so long? Doesn’t he know how to tickle or something? If it’s this hard getting him to give me the odd playful touch, God knows how he’s going to react if I tell him I want him to-
“Yaaaaaarrgh!” More than a few squeals escape from my mouth as I feel two sets of fingers skating their way across my sensitive underarms. I’m giggling and squirming and, you know, all that stuff. His light, flirty touches send electric through my entire body and I love it.
I hope this lasts longer than last time.
It does.
A few hours pass, maybe. Everything is kind of a haze but something must have gone well. I have this huge Cheshire cat grin on my face anyway.
Mmmm, that was fun. I think.
I tell Martyn I love him. I don’t know why he looks so pleased; I’ve told him before. No biggie.
Wait, isn’t there something else I’m supposed to be telling him?
Growing a little more lucid I sit up and look around. The sheets are on the floor and my whole bed is a mess. My clothing feels loose. I’m hot and sweaty and my hair is plastered to my forehead – after I spent all that time combing it too! – and I couldn’t feel better. Martyn looks excited in more ways than one – well, so do I – and is grinning like crazy. His wriggling fingers seem to be getting closer and closer and closer…
Actually, I think he might already know.
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