So, tonight was one of those wild, unexpected nights that just took off out of nowhere. I was over at my sister-in-law Jess’s place—she’s 20, short, barely clears five feet, but she’s got this scrappy energy that makes her seem bigger. She’s always been the type to mess with me, and we’ve had this stupid back-and-forth thing going forever where we try to one-up each other. Well, tonight, I got her good. It turned into a full-on tickle torture session at her house, and I’m still cracking up thinking about it as I write this.
It all kicked off in her tiny living room. We were slumped on her beat-up old couch, some trashy reality show droning on her TV, and she kept jabbing me in the side with her elbow, trying to rile me up. She’s got these short little legs, always barefoot around her place, and she knows I hate it when she gets in my space like that. I gave her a heads-up—“Jess, you’re begging for it”—but she just smirked, all cocky, and said, “Oh, please, you won’t do squat.” Wrong move.
I went for her fast, grabbing her ankles before she could squirm away. Her feet are small, kinda stubby with a high arch, and I pinned one under my arm, dragging my fingers across the sole—quick, scratchy little strokes right down the middle. She freaked. Instantly, she was howling, this loud, “Nooo, stop it, you jerk!” laugh that’s half shriek, half cackle. Her toes scrunched up tight, trying to shield herself, but I kept at it, digging into the tender spot just under them. Her feet were cool from the tile floor in her place, but they heated up fast with all her kicking. I could feel every little jolt as she yanked against me, her laughter getting wilder and more frantic.
She twisted free after a bit, tumbling off the couch onto the carpet, but that just left her ribs wide open. I pounced, pinning her short legs down with my knees so she couldn’t wriggle out, and went to town. Jess is petite, and her ribs are so ticklish it’s ridiculous. I pressed my fingers into the gaps between them, wiggling hard, and she started thrashing, her face going pink. “Not the ribs! Stop!” she yelped, but it was all choked up in these uncontrollable, snorty laughs. I could feel her ribs moving under my hands, every bony little ridge, and I kept mixing it up—light scratches, then deeper jabs—to keep her off balance. Her tank top slid up a little, so I raked my nails along her exposed sides too, slow and deliberate, and she let out this ear-piercing squeal that probably woke her cat sleeping in the corner.
Then I hit her thighs. She had on these baggy sleep shorts, and even though her legs are short, they’re solid from all the random dancing she does around the house. I grabbed just above her knees and squeezed, working my thumbs into the soft flesh there. She bolted upright—or tried to—but she was laughing too hard to do much. I could feel her thighs flexing under my grip, warm and smooth, and I kept tickling higher, right at the edge of her shorts. That spot wrecked her—she started smacking the carpet, gasping, “I can’t—oh my God, stop!” through these breathless giggles. I’d switch from quick, fluttery touches to harder squeezes, and her legs kept flailing, toes pointed, like she was trying to outrun the sensation.
I didn’t stop there—I went everywhere. Her stomach, all soft and flat, quivering every time I skimmed my fingers across it. Her underarms when she threw her hands up to shove me off, leaving them defenseless for me to dig into. Even her neck, where I flicked my fingers along the sides, and she turtled up, snickering like crazy. She’s got this messy bob of dark hair that kept falling in her eyes, and every time she tried to yell at me to quit, it just came out as these hiccupping, helpless laughs.
After what felt like ages—probably ten minutes tops—I finally let her off the hook. She collapsed on the carpet, sprawled out, breathing hard, her face all blotchy and her hair sticking to her forehead. She shot me this death glare, muttering, “You’re dead for this,” but she was still half-smiling, so I know she wasn’t too pissed. I’m betting she’s already scheming to get me back next time I’m over, though—she’s sneaky like that. For now, I’m just sitting here, replaying the whole thing, and man, it was gold. Her feet, her ribs, her thighs—every spot was a win. Best night at her place yet.
It all kicked off in her tiny living room. We were slumped on her beat-up old couch, some trashy reality show droning on her TV, and she kept jabbing me in the side with her elbow, trying to rile me up. She’s got these short little legs, always barefoot around her place, and she knows I hate it when she gets in my space like that. I gave her a heads-up—“Jess, you’re begging for it”—but she just smirked, all cocky, and said, “Oh, please, you won’t do squat.” Wrong move.
I went for her fast, grabbing her ankles before she could squirm away. Her feet are small, kinda stubby with a high arch, and I pinned one under my arm, dragging my fingers across the sole—quick, scratchy little strokes right down the middle. She freaked. Instantly, she was howling, this loud, “Nooo, stop it, you jerk!” laugh that’s half shriek, half cackle. Her toes scrunched up tight, trying to shield herself, but I kept at it, digging into the tender spot just under them. Her feet were cool from the tile floor in her place, but they heated up fast with all her kicking. I could feel every little jolt as she yanked against me, her laughter getting wilder and more frantic.
She twisted free after a bit, tumbling off the couch onto the carpet, but that just left her ribs wide open. I pounced, pinning her short legs down with my knees so she couldn’t wriggle out, and went to town. Jess is petite, and her ribs are so ticklish it’s ridiculous. I pressed my fingers into the gaps between them, wiggling hard, and she started thrashing, her face going pink. “Not the ribs! Stop!” she yelped, but it was all choked up in these uncontrollable, snorty laughs. I could feel her ribs moving under my hands, every bony little ridge, and I kept mixing it up—light scratches, then deeper jabs—to keep her off balance. Her tank top slid up a little, so I raked my nails along her exposed sides too, slow and deliberate, and she let out this ear-piercing squeal that probably woke her cat sleeping in the corner.
Then I hit her thighs. She had on these baggy sleep shorts, and even though her legs are short, they’re solid from all the random dancing she does around the house. I grabbed just above her knees and squeezed, working my thumbs into the soft flesh there. She bolted upright—or tried to—but she was laughing too hard to do much. I could feel her thighs flexing under my grip, warm and smooth, and I kept tickling higher, right at the edge of her shorts. That spot wrecked her—she started smacking the carpet, gasping, “I can’t—oh my God, stop!” through these breathless giggles. I’d switch from quick, fluttery touches to harder squeezes, and her legs kept flailing, toes pointed, like she was trying to outrun the sensation.
I didn’t stop there—I went everywhere. Her stomach, all soft and flat, quivering every time I skimmed my fingers across it. Her underarms when she threw her hands up to shove me off, leaving them defenseless for me to dig into. Even her neck, where I flicked my fingers along the sides, and she turtled up, snickering like crazy. She’s got this messy bob of dark hair that kept falling in her eyes, and every time she tried to yell at me to quit, it just came out as these hiccupping, helpless laughs.
After what felt like ages—probably ten minutes tops—I finally let her off the hook. She collapsed on the carpet, sprawled out, breathing hard, her face all blotchy and her hair sticking to her forehead. She shot me this death glare, muttering, “You’re dead for this,” but she was still half-smiling, so I know she wasn’t too pissed. I’m betting she’s already scheming to get me back next time I’m over, though—she’s sneaky like that. For now, I’m just sitting here, replaying the whole thing, and man, it was gold. Her feet, her ribs, her thighs—every spot was a win. Best night at her place yet.
Thanks for sharing your experience here. 
