So, some time had passed. Sarah had demonstrated, via the great ice cream fiasco and her wicked closet game, that she was willing and able to tickle me into hysterics and beyond. But she didn't do it often. It sometimes seemed as though she enjoyed having this power over me more if she didn't exercise it too often -- she liked that she could narrow her eyes or quirk an eyebrow in my direction and make me nervous, but attack me so infrequently that I never knew when it might be coming. Once or twice she did indulge in throwing her outstretched fingers in my direction, causing me to convulse without even touching me. But another year or more went by with very little actual tickle-torture from her.
Until one night when Sarah was over to hang out with us and watch TV -- did I mention she lives here now? That she moved here, that we live in the same town now? Ai yi yi -- and my wife, in a lively and playful mood, was getting rowdy and mischievous as she sometimes does, cutely but relentlessly, and soon her frisky fingers were darting at my sides and abdomen. "Hey! Hey!" I barked, fending her off with some success even though every so often she would penetrate my defenses and throw me into a convulsive twitch, and the whole business was turning me into a thrashing and squirmy perpetual-motion machine. Experience has turned me into a mildly effective self-defense ninja against a single pair of tickling hands, especially when those hands belong to my wife, who's more invested in the play of the game than the victory. But the longer it goes on, the more steadily my defenses crumble, and Amanda wasn't stopping and her fingertips were slipping past my shields with increasing frequency and I was slipping off the sofa onto the floor (and Sarah was right there in the room which ratcheted up the element of danger considerably) and lying on my back on the rug and finally I had to seize Amanda's wrists to put a stop to it.
Gripping her wrists, holding them aloft, grinning at her as she beamed down at me, I thought we were done. Sarah, usually quick to seize an opportunity to torment me, was barely putting up with these shenanigans because we were binge-watching "Orphan Black" and she really wanted to get back to that. So I waited for Amanda to recede and relent. But instead she grinned even bigger and shot a look at Sarah and said, "Sarah, could you help me get him under his arms?"
Sarah smiled serenely at Amanda. And then at me. My fate in her hands.
"He's sooooo ticklish there but I can never get him there," Amanda said.
It's true. With semi-regularity my wife would try to get at my armpits and I would deploy the classic ticklish person's maneuver of locking my forearms tight against my sides. She'd pry and pry but she couldn't get my arms up and would eventually move on to other pursuits.
"Can you help me get him under his arms?"
I panicked. Bad enough that my underarms were being targeted in a two-against-one scenario. Worse yet: there was a time, millions of years ago, when Sarah knew I was outrageously ticklish under my arms, but she'd seemed to have forgotten, or to disregard that fact, preferring to focus on my abdomen when she sought to torture me. Just releasing this information into the air here was enormously perilous for me; my wife had no idea how vulnerable she was rendering me from this time forward.
Sarah got up from her chair, oh shit oh shit.
"No, c'mon," I said. "Amanda, let me up. Let me up."
Sarah knelt, her knees almost touching the top of my head. She reached over calmly and gripped my arms; together, straining but steady, she and Amanda started working to force my arms over my head. I resisted mightily. The two of them combined are surely stronger than me -- Sarah's probably at least as strong as I am, or nearly -- but I had the urgency of desperation on my side. I was highly motivated. I had some David Banner superhuman surge of strength stuff going on -- I was not gonna let them expose my underarms.
Sarah chortled. "Geez," she said. "He really really does not want us to get him there."
"I told you," Amanda said. "He makes it really difficult. Here, let me try this."
As Sarah continued pulling steadily on my wrists, Amanda let go and sent her fingertips scampering across my abdomen, back and forth, up and down. A ragged stream of giggles escaped my lips. It tensed every muscle in my body, but it also diffused my attention, undermining my defenses; I felt the strength in my arms diminishing. My arms started to be moved, steadily, over my head.
"We got him," Sarah said. "We almost got him."
Amanda stopped tickling. My arms were pinned to the floor over my head. Sarah planted a knee on each of my forearms. They weren't going anywhere. I started to squirm like crazy.
"Amanda, don't, please, seriously," I said. "Not in front of Sarah."
Amanda smiled, so sweetly. "Aw, Wade, you don't have to be embarrassed in front of Sarah. Sarah's like family."
My arms were now firmly pinned to the floor, over my head. Sarah loomed into my field of vision from above, upside-down, also smiling sweetly, too sweetly.
"Yeah! I'm the sadistic older sister you never had," she said.
A delighted smile spread across my wife's face as she poised her nimble fingers in tickling position. "This is so great," Amanda said gleefully, and lowered her fingertips to gently brush against my defenseless armpits. As soon as they made contact I convulsed and yelped. Her hands withdrew as she burst into delighted giggles. Sarah was laughing too. Apparently I'm hilarious.
"Oh, my," Sarah said.
"I told you," Amanda said, and then her fingers were scampering softly in the hollows under my arms. I burst forth with gale-force giggling -- my wife's fingers are my Kryptonite, nobody can incapacitate me as immediately and as fully as she can, and under my arms is just about one of the worst places -- well, one of the four or five or six worst places -- she could target. Profoundly embarrassed, I didn't want to perform the giddy victim role in front of Sarah but I had no choice; the ladies were in charge and my nerve endings were their playthings. "Don't," I pleaded through the wild laughter. "Don't, don't, it tickles too much, it tickles too much." File that under Useless Things To Say To Someone Who's Tickling You. It's not like she could really understand what I was saying anyway.
"See, I never get to do this, he defends himself too much," Amanda said, raising her voice to be heard over my burbling laughter.
"Doesn't seem like he defends himself so great," Sarah replied as I twisted and twitched and squealed.
Amanda relented. "I love his laugh."
"It's a fine and noble laugh," Sarah said, grinning down at my reddened face as I squirmed and panted.
"You should try this sometime," Amanda said.
"Oh, who knows, maybe I will," Sarah said evenly, meeting my gaze with a look of suppressed wickedness. "That's a real weak spot he's got there."
"Oh, he is sooo ticklish there," my wife said. She alit one fingertip under each arm and giggled delightedly as I convulsed and yelped. She did it again -- convulse, yelp -- and again -- convulseyelp. Like she was lightly pressing a button marked "YELP."
"All right, we should let him up," Amanda said.
"Yeah, maybe." Sarah maintained her firm grip on my arms. "On the other hand, when's the next time you're going to get him in this position?" she said. "I'm just saying."
Amanda nodded. "That's a good point."
"No it's not!" I said. "Not a good point. Not a good p--"
And that's where I started shrieking again as my wife's infuriatingly soft fingertips started dancing under my arms again, playfully but insistently torturing my most vulnerable spots (well, one of my four to eight most vulnerable spots). My torso twitched back and forth, helpless to go anywhere, as my eyes squeezed shut tight and I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed. "Please stop it," I tried to say. "Please stop it, please stop it, please stop it," but it was incomprehensible -- a meaningless string of consonant sounds swallowed up in the steady torrent of my cheerful-sounding, high-pitched giggles.
And as I shrieked and squealed and wriggled and guffawed, my laughter inflected with an embarrassing gurgling helplessness, Sarah loomed overhead, smiling contentedly, so satisfied.
Finally, Amanda stopped, her cheeks flushed with laughter of her own. "Okay, okay, he can't take it, let him up," she said. With a crooked -- dare I say reluctant? -- grin, Sarah let go of my arms; they shot down to my sides as I sat up... and suddenly felt Sarah's fingers skittering up my sides from behind. I curled involuntarily into a defensive ball.
"Sarah, NO!" I cried, my voice pitched in an embarrassingly high register.
My wife laughed again and started darting her fingers at my sides and abdomen. I was no longer restrained, but I was outnumbered and highly disadvantaged.
"Guys! No! Stop! Why?" I tried to crawl away but the four hands scrabbling after my weak spots drove me impeded my progress with twitching and weak defensive maneuvers.
"We're not holding you," Sarah crowed. "It's a fair fight."
"N-n-not a fa-fa-ha-ha-hair fihihihihight!!"
In no time I was rolling around on the rug, knees pulled up and arms folded in front of my chest, the playful pokes and tickles of two merry merciless women sending me into renewed fits of forced mirth. "UH-hee-hee-hee, UH-hee-hee-hee-hee!" Even as I'd clumsily maneuver a desperate hand to shield a spot from some maddening fingers there were three other hands reliably delivering me into fits of constant giggles. "UH-hee-hee-hee, UH-hee-hee-hee-hee."
When it was over and I sprawled, blushing and dignity-free, on the floor, my wife caught her breath and said "Ohhhhh, Sarah, we should have you over every night."
"Yeah," I said ruefully. "That would be freaking fantastic."
Collective laughter rang throughout the house.
Until one night when Sarah was over to hang out with us and watch TV -- did I mention she lives here now? That she moved here, that we live in the same town now? Ai yi yi -- and my wife, in a lively and playful mood, was getting rowdy and mischievous as she sometimes does, cutely but relentlessly, and soon her frisky fingers were darting at my sides and abdomen. "Hey! Hey!" I barked, fending her off with some success even though every so often she would penetrate my defenses and throw me into a convulsive twitch, and the whole business was turning me into a thrashing and squirmy perpetual-motion machine. Experience has turned me into a mildly effective self-defense ninja against a single pair of tickling hands, especially when those hands belong to my wife, who's more invested in the play of the game than the victory. But the longer it goes on, the more steadily my defenses crumble, and Amanda wasn't stopping and her fingertips were slipping past my shields with increasing frequency and I was slipping off the sofa onto the floor (and Sarah was right there in the room which ratcheted up the element of danger considerably) and lying on my back on the rug and finally I had to seize Amanda's wrists to put a stop to it.
Gripping her wrists, holding them aloft, grinning at her as she beamed down at me, I thought we were done. Sarah, usually quick to seize an opportunity to torment me, was barely putting up with these shenanigans because we were binge-watching "Orphan Black" and she really wanted to get back to that. So I waited for Amanda to recede and relent. But instead she grinned even bigger and shot a look at Sarah and said, "Sarah, could you help me get him under his arms?"
Sarah smiled serenely at Amanda. And then at me. My fate in her hands.
"He's sooooo ticklish there but I can never get him there," Amanda said.
It's true. With semi-regularity my wife would try to get at my armpits and I would deploy the classic ticklish person's maneuver of locking my forearms tight against my sides. She'd pry and pry but she couldn't get my arms up and would eventually move on to other pursuits.
"Can you help me get him under his arms?"
I panicked. Bad enough that my underarms were being targeted in a two-against-one scenario. Worse yet: there was a time, millions of years ago, when Sarah knew I was outrageously ticklish under my arms, but she'd seemed to have forgotten, or to disregard that fact, preferring to focus on my abdomen when she sought to torture me. Just releasing this information into the air here was enormously perilous for me; my wife had no idea how vulnerable she was rendering me from this time forward.
Sarah got up from her chair, oh shit oh shit.
"No, c'mon," I said. "Amanda, let me up. Let me up."
Sarah knelt, her knees almost touching the top of my head. She reached over calmly and gripped my arms; together, straining but steady, she and Amanda started working to force my arms over my head. I resisted mightily. The two of them combined are surely stronger than me -- Sarah's probably at least as strong as I am, or nearly -- but I had the urgency of desperation on my side. I was highly motivated. I had some David Banner superhuman surge of strength stuff going on -- I was not gonna let them expose my underarms.
Sarah chortled. "Geez," she said. "He really really does not want us to get him there."
"I told you," Amanda said. "He makes it really difficult. Here, let me try this."
As Sarah continued pulling steadily on my wrists, Amanda let go and sent her fingertips scampering across my abdomen, back and forth, up and down. A ragged stream of giggles escaped my lips. It tensed every muscle in my body, but it also diffused my attention, undermining my defenses; I felt the strength in my arms diminishing. My arms started to be moved, steadily, over my head.
"We got him," Sarah said. "We almost got him."
Amanda stopped tickling. My arms were pinned to the floor over my head. Sarah planted a knee on each of my forearms. They weren't going anywhere. I started to squirm like crazy.
"Amanda, don't, please, seriously," I said. "Not in front of Sarah."
Amanda smiled, so sweetly. "Aw, Wade, you don't have to be embarrassed in front of Sarah. Sarah's like family."
My arms were now firmly pinned to the floor, over my head. Sarah loomed into my field of vision from above, upside-down, also smiling sweetly, too sweetly.
"Yeah! I'm the sadistic older sister you never had," she said.
A delighted smile spread across my wife's face as she poised her nimble fingers in tickling position. "This is so great," Amanda said gleefully, and lowered her fingertips to gently brush against my defenseless armpits. As soon as they made contact I convulsed and yelped. Her hands withdrew as she burst into delighted giggles. Sarah was laughing too. Apparently I'm hilarious.
"Oh, my," Sarah said.
"I told you," Amanda said, and then her fingers were scampering softly in the hollows under my arms. I burst forth with gale-force giggling -- my wife's fingers are my Kryptonite, nobody can incapacitate me as immediately and as fully as she can, and under my arms is just about one of the worst places -- well, one of the four or five or six worst places -- she could target. Profoundly embarrassed, I didn't want to perform the giddy victim role in front of Sarah but I had no choice; the ladies were in charge and my nerve endings were their playthings. "Don't," I pleaded through the wild laughter. "Don't, don't, it tickles too much, it tickles too much." File that under Useless Things To Say To Someone Who's Tickling You. It's not like she could really understand what I was saying anyway.
"See, I never get to do this, he defends himself too much," Amanda said, raising her voice to be heard over my burbling laughter.
"Doesn't seem like he defends himself so great," Sarah replied as I twisted and twitched and squealed.
Amanda relented. "I love his laugh."
"It's a fine and noble laugh," Sarah said, grinning down at my reddened face as I squirmed and panted.
"You should try this sometime," Amanda said.
"Oh, who knows, maybe I will," Sarah said evenly, meeting my gaze with a look of suppressed wickedness. "That's a real weak spot he's got there."
"Oh, he is sooo ticklish there," my wife said. She alit one fingertip under each arm and giggled delightedly as I convulsed and yelped. She did it again -- convulse, yelp -- and again -- convulseyelp. Like she was lightly pressing a button marked "YELP."
"All right, we should let him up," Amanda said.
"Yeah, maybe." Sarah maintained her firm grip on my arms. "On the other hand, when's the next time you're going to get him in this position?" she said. "I'm just saying."
Amanda nodded. "That's a good point."
"No it's not!" I said. "Not a good point. Not a good p--"
And that's where I started shrieking again as my wife's infuriatingly soft fingertips started dancing under my arms again, playfully but insistently torturing my most vulnerable spots (well, one of my four to eight most vulnerable spots). My torso twitched back and forth, helpless to go anywhere, as my eyes squeezed shut tight and I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed. "Please stop it," I tried to say. "Please stop it, please stop it, please stop it," but it was incomprehensible -- a meaningless string of consonant sounds swallowed up in the steady torrent of my cheerful-sounding, high-pitched giggles.
And as I shrieked and squealed and wriggled and guffawed, my laughter inflected with an embarrassing gurgling helplessness, Sarah loomed overhead, smiling contentedly, so satisfied.
Finally, Amanda stopped, her cheeks flushed with laughter of her own. "Okay, okay, he can't take it, let him up," she said. With a crooked -- dare I say reluctant? -- grin, Sarah let go of my arms; they shot down to my sides as I sat up... and suddenly felt Sarah's fingers skittering up my sides from behind. I curled involuntarily into a defensive ball.
"Sarah, NO!" I cried, my voice pitched in an embarrassingly high register.
My wife laughed again and started darting her fingers at my sides and abdomen. I was no longer restrained, but I was outnumbered and highly disadvantaged.
"Guys! No! Stop! Why?" I tried to crawl away but the four hands scrabbling after my weak spots drove me impeded my progress with twitching and weak defensive maneuvers.
"We're not holding you," Sarah crowed. "It's a fair fight."
"N-n-not a fa-fa-ha-ha-hair fihihihihight!!"
In no time I was rolling around on the rug, knees pulled up and arms folded in front of my chest, the playful pokes and tickles of two merry merciless women sending me into renewed fits of forced mirth. "UH-hee-hee-hee, UH-hee-hee-hee-hee!" Even as I'd clumsily maneuver a desperate hand to shield a spot from some maddening fingers there were three other hands reliably delivering me into fits of constant giggles. "UH-hee-hee-hee, UH-hee-hee-hee-hee."
When it was over and I sprawled, blushing and dignity-free, on the floor, my wife caught her breath and said "Ohhhhh, Sarah, we should have you over every night."
"Yeah," I said ruefully. "That would be freaking fantastic."
Collective laughter rang throughout the house.
