Enzo_Noir
TMF Poster
- Joined
- Jun 9, 2004
- Messages
- 107
- Points
- 18
It was a late summer night a few years back. I had just moved in with my (now ex) girl, a free-spirited flowerchild in her mid-twenties. We sat on her bed smoking weed and eating fast food with her slightly younger cousin, a short/thicc hipster chick who also lived with us. The conversation evolved organically as it tends to in the AM hours and eventually we got on the subject of weird craigslist posts. My girlfriend mentioned that she once came across a listing offering $250 to a young woman willing to be tied up and tickled for one hour. Externally I remained calm and disinterested but internally my heart raced, I felt torn between not wanting to out myself as a fetishist (I had yet to reveal my kink to either of them) and wanting to hear every syllable of this unsolicited input on my favorite subject by two total babes who were completely unaffiliated with the fetish. I listened intently. “might need to pay a lil’ more than $200, cuz being tickled for an hour sounds pretty fuckin’ awful” her cousin lamented. “Oh I’m not very ticklish, so I would just lay there like *tee-hee*” the older girl declared confidently. “Oh, well....um...” the younger one stammered, evidently embarrassed over the inadvertent admission of her own ticklishness. I have to say, I was disappointed with the object of my affection’s claim. However, I was compelled by the consolation of visualizing her cousin, a categorically negative ‘sadgirl’ who prided herself on deadpan reactions and emotionless responses (painfully preoccupied with appearing cool), being reduced to a perpetually giggling schoolgirl through relentless tickling; a wide smile and loud laughter betraying her otherwise apathetic demeanor. I couldn’t help but wonder what past experiences had shaped her dread upon imagining being tied up and tickled for an hour straight.
Fast forward to a few weeks later, my girlfriend and I sit in the living room unwinding after work. She’s slipped out of her sexy business casual attire into a forest green thermal and tribal-print tights and I’ve ditched my uniform for sweatpants and a tattered t-shirt. We’re youtubing music videos on the smartTV, taking turns picking tracks we’ve settled on an 80s playlist for whatever reason. It was my turn to pick so I queued up “Hungry Like the Wolf” by Duran Duran, a fitting soundtrack for the animalistic exchange that was about to take place. In spite of her declaration to not be very ticklish, tickling had (naturally) become part of our foreplay in the weeks following that initial conversation. We started making out when she flirtatiously reached through a hole in my shirt and began to tickle my ribs. I humored her for a minute while I laid my trap. Once her guard was down I flipped the script. As if by instinct I pinned her beneath me and inserted my thumbs deep within the crevices of her underarms while firmly clutching her shoulder blades, so as to maximize the sense that her space was being invaded. I began twiddling both thumbs in alternating circular motions causing her arms to lock reflexively, reinforcing my position. I watched with sadistic pleasure while her composure quickly melted away. Her forehead wrinkled in bewilderment as her rosy lips contorted into a forced smile from which clumsy repeated laughter flowed freely. She seemed surprised by her inability to control her own reactions to my tickling gesture. Perhaps she didn’t realize how ticklish she truly was, or maybe she had just forgotten, but she’d probably intentionally mislead me in hopes of avoiding this sort of situation. At any rate, I was about to teach her a lesson. Instead of using her free hands to deflect my tickles she clasped them over her mouth, presumably to keep our roommates from hearing her helpless hysterics. She had postured herself as den mother of the house, and to be heard giggling uncontrollably like an air-headed valley girl flew in the face of that. I persisted with the twiddling motion that had, at long last, inspired ticklish hysteria in my lovely partner. She continued to giggle as the chorus swelled. Her laugh was so repetitive that it sounded as though it had been sampled and looped, and try as she might she was totally powerless to suppress it. As the song drew to a close I felt like I had properly demonstrated that she was, for all intents and purposes, very ticklish. I let up so she could catch her breath. She stuck out her tongue like a parched cartoon character and gulped for air. She spoke in quick panicked statements punctuated by gasping breaths. “Oh my god—being tickled is horrible—I’m so lightheaded—I can barely breathe.” Unthinking, I reached out to comfort her, grasping her by the ribs. The instant my fingertips made contact with her ribcage she launched into a string of explosively immaculate involuntary laughter, totally different than the provincial guffaw I'd induced by tickling her armpits. As gratifying as it was to hear such a genuine and unadulterated ticklish reaction (especially coming from someone who claimed she wasn’t) her precious feminine giggling was short-lived. She finally pushed me off of her, swiftly rolled out from underneath me, and darted to the other side of the room. Once she got her bearings she explained that her whole entire body was now on “high alert” and every little touch tickled intensely, music to my ears. Upon noticing my throbbing erection she raced back to the couch, tore off my sweats, and began to go down on me; the happiest possible ending to an amazing afternoon.
About a month later I finally worked up the courage to come out to her about my fetish which initiated a slow but worthwhile process of integrating tickling (and BDSM in general) into our sexual practice. Over the course of our years-long relationship we often revisited the “craigslist” scenario through roleplaying. I’d be the mysterious kinkster looking to solicit a vanilla ticklee through a classified ad. She’d be the naive, unsuspecting young lady, strapped for cash, thinking it would be easy money, not knowing what she was signing herself up for. She used to joke that instead of ‘just laying there like *tee-hee*’ she would have been more like “tee-hee-HAAHAHAHAHAHAHHH!!”
Does anyone else have stories about a friend or partner who claimed they weren’t ticklish, only to be proven dead wrong?
Fast forward to a few weeks later, my girlfriend and I sit in the living room unwinding after work. She’s slipped out of her sexy business casual attire into a forest green thermal and tribal-print tights and I’ve ditched my uniform for sweatpants and a tattered t-shirt. We’re youtubing music videos on the smartTV, taking turns picking tracks we’ve settled on an 80s playlist for whatever reason. It was my turn to pick so I queued up “Hungry Like the Wolf” by Duran Duran, a fitting soundtrack for the animalistic exchange that was about to take place. In spite of her declaration to not be very ticklish, tickling had (naturally) become part of our foreplay in the weeks following that initial conversation. We started making out when she flirtatiously reached through a hole in my shirt and began to tickle my ribs. I humored her for a minute while I laid my trap. Once her guard was down I flipped the script. As if by instinct I pinned her beneath me and inserted my thumbs deep within the crevices of her underarms while firmly clutching her shoulder blades, so as to maximize the sense that her space was being invaded. I began twiddling both thumbs in alternating circular motions causing her arms to lock reflexively, reinforcing my position. I watched with sadistic pleasure while her composure quickly melted away. Her forehead wrinkled in bewilderment as her rosy lips contorted into a forced smile from which clumsy repeated laughter flowed freely. She seemed surprised by her inability to control her own reactions to my tickling gesture. Perhaps she didn’t realize how ticklish she truly was, or maybe she had just forgotten, but she’d probably intentionally mislead me in hopes of avoiding this sort of situation. At any rate, I was about to teach her a lesson. Instead of using her free hands to deflect my tickles she clasped them over her mouth, presumably to keep our roommates from hearing her helpless hysterics. She had postured herself as den mother of the house, and to be heard giggling uncontrollably like an air-headed valley girl flew in the face of that. I persisted with the twiddling motion that had, at long last, inspired ticklish hysteria in my lovely partner. She continued to giggle as the chorus swelled. Her laugh was so repetitive that it sounded as though it had been sampled and looped, and try as she might she was totally powerless to suppress it. As the song drew to a close I felt like I had properly demonstrated that she was, for all intents and purposes, very ticklish. I let up so she could catch her breath. She stuck out her tongue like a parched cartoon character and gulped for air. She spoke in quick panicked statements punctuated by gasping breaths. “Oh my god—being tickled is horrible—I’m so lightheaded—I can barely breathe.” Unthinking, I reached out to comfort her, grasping her by the ribs. The instant my fingertips made contact with her ribcage she launched into a string of explosively immaculate involuntary laughter, totally different than the provincial guffaw I'd induced by tickling her armpits. As gratifying as it was to hear such a genuine and unadulterated ticklish reaction (especially coming from someone who claimed she wasn’t) her precious feminine giggling was short-lived. She finally pushed me off of her, swiftly rolled out from underneath me, and darted to the other side of the room. Once she got her bearings she explained that her whole entire body was now on “high alert” and every little touch tickled intensely, music to my ears. Upon noticing my throbbing erection she raced back to the couch, tore off my sweats, and began to go down on me; the happiest possible ending to an amazing afternoon.
About a month later I finally worked up the courage to come out to her about my fetish which initiated a slow but worthwhile process of integrating tickling (and BDSM in general) into our sexual practice. Over the course of our years-long relationship we often revisited the “craigslist” scenario through roleplaying. I’d be the mysterious kinkster looking to solicit a vanilla ticklee through a classified ad. She’d be the naive, unsuspecting young lady, strapped for cash, thinking it would be easy money, not knowing what she was signing herself up for. She used to joke that instead of ‘just laying there like *tee-hee*’ she would have been more like “tee-hee-HAAHAHAHAHAHAHHH!!”
Does anyone else have stories about a friend or partner who claimed they weren’t ticklish, only to be proven dead wrong?
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