For the First Time m/f

she walked into the room clutching her purse like a security blanket. was she ready for this? was she really?

she scanned the room. she was early.

walking over to take a seat at the bar she adjusted the bright red scarf around her neck. this was to be the way he would know her. ‘how very Daniel Steel.’ she mused as she fidgeted. the scarf had been her idea. so cloak and dagger... but that was how this meeting made her feel. so it fit.

she sat on the stool, keeping her purse on her lap, and took a deep breath. she wanted this so badly... so why was she terrified? why did her nerves feel like a rubber-band stretched to the point of snapping? ‘it’s not too late, girl. you could turn around and walk right out that door if you really wanted to.’ she assured herself. but she would never forgive herself, if she did. and she knew it. “I owe this to myself... and damn it, I want this!” she whispered. calmed by the conviction she heard in her own whispered statement, she motioned for the bartender. “Absolut and cranberry, please.” a little liquid courage couldn’t hurt.

drink in hand, she turned to scan the room once again.

he sat at a table not twenty feet behind her. looking right at her and smiling. he raised his glass. “to battling those inner demons... and winning.” she raised her own glass in agreement and then promptly took a huge a gulp. “to winning.” she laughed, and walked over to his table.

he stood and extended his hand. “well, here we are.” she was struck by the kind understanding in his eyes and was surprisingly at ease because of it. “yes, here we are.” she placed her hand in his and sat down. she knew, without asking, that he had been patiently watching her. giving her time to either strengthen her resolve or to flee. she was filled with gratitude for his patience and but even more so for the inner strength she had managed to summon.

they talked for hours like this. holding hands over the table and losing themselves in conversation. he told her of Rome, of a young man with the wander-lust, trying to find himself. she spoke of dreams, of books and of finally, at 33 years of age, feeling that she truly knows who she is and what she wants.

the evening was slipping away and while there so many things to say... there was one thing being left unsaid. it was on both their minds... but she was the first to broach it. “what do you say we get out of here?” she said, trying to sound flippant while her heart pounded.

he smiled. “I think that is a wonderful idea.”

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they walked into the hotel room.

she sat at a small table by the window and was, for the first time since extending her hand to him, at a complete loss for words. she picked up the room service menu and began to read it while he hung their coats.

he sat down across from her. "are you hungry?" he smiled.

"no..." she examined her nails and flushed. "I'm just not sure what I am supposed to do right now..."

"what do you want to do?"

she turned a deeper shade of red and laughed. "what do I want to do... " she glanced over toward the bed and, for the first time, noticed the open briefcase. "what is this?" she walked over to take a closer look and with a trembling hand she was doing her best to still... she took four lengths of rope from the briefcase. smiling, she examined the rest of the contents. a mascara brush, a variety of pens and a very red, very stiff feather among them. "I see you came prepared."

he took her hands and turned her so she was facing him. "at every second of this. every second. you are in control. no matter how it feels... you need to know that. ...I want you to know that." he put his fingers under her chin and raised her lowered head until she looked at him. "even now. right now. if you say it stops... it stops."

she looked into his eyes and knew. "I don't want it to stop." she tried to look down again but he gently raised her face so she had to look at him. she looked into his eyes and said the words that she thought she would never be able to say to a man... "I want you to tickle me."

she felt the change. there was a sudden electricity to the air. and his eyes, while still kind, took on a hardness that both terrified and thrilled her.

"and I will." he said.

his fingers wandered through her hair and he kissed her. gently at first... and then harder, deeper. she reached up to wrap her arms around his neck and felt herself slipping away. he took her hands from his neck and led her backwards toward the foot of the bed until she had to sit down. pushing her down, he climbed on top of her and held her hands over her head as kissed her again.

he looked into her eyes. "every second." he said simply.

she smiled and nodded. "yes."

holding her wrists with one hand now, he ran just one finger down the underside of her arm. she inhaled sharply and then let out a very long, very shaking breath. soaking the sensation in. the tingles. owning them. she knew she wanted more. needed more.

he paused just over her underarm and looked at her. her eyes were closed and she had a jumbled mix of fear, lust and determination on her face. he whispered. "tell me."

"tell you? ...oh God... now?" she took a couple of deep breaths and steeled herself. she opened her eyes and looked at him. "please, ...please," she summoned every bit of need, years of need, and found the courage to say it once more. "please tickle me." before she could take another breath... he did. his fingers digging under her arm and down her side. she was immediately plunged into sensory overload. a small part of her fought to regain control of her body... while her heart and soul surrendered completely to the sensations shooting through her body.

she struggled to free her hands. tried to squirm out from under him. fought to keep her laughter from robbing her of air... but would not tell him to stop. could not tell him to stop. "please, please, oh God... I can't. I can't... " her laughter slipping further and further out of her control with every second.

"do you want me to stop?" he asked, knowing that she did not.

"no... " she breathed.

"do you want me to tickle you?" his fingers wandering so very slowly, so very lightly now.

"yes, I do." she breathed deeply between giggles and shivers. "I want you to tickle me... "

"baby, I am going to tickle you for as long as you want me to." his fingers had found her hips.

'for as long I want him to... ' she thought, and then even thinking became impossible.

Hey Ayla this is one great start to your story..I can't wait for the next part...I mean there is going to be more to this isn't there?..surely you can't leave her waiting for satisfaction now!

Cave Bear,

You know I love your writing. Your fantasies are so precious to you and so full of passion that they actually come to life, living and breathing on the page, as real as you and me.

This one is very real, like all your others. It's also, dare I say, prescient?

Ice, I've got a feeling that there WILL be more to this story, and that the narrator WILL ultimately receive complete satisfaction and then some. . .

We'll have to check in with cute little Ayla later.

Like, around May 6th or so.

Boom

Very nicely written, O Queen of the Cafe Circuit. I'd love to see how this plays out. I like the interaction between the characters and the set-up in general. You really should write more, my dear. Excellent!

thank you so much for the kind words about my story. I don’t know if I will be writing a second part to this. I kind of like leaving some to the imagination. but I do imagine her finding satisfaction. the poor fetish riddled girl...

oh, and if you do check in on me on May 6th... I will most likely be napping.

Ayla - the coffee swilling, care bear.

Aylaaaaaa!

whew....love the story!! ... but is it fiction or non-fiction??

Frrriinnnk!

it does seem a little autobiographical doesn't it? but it is fiction. prescient fiction.

Hey, Ayla. Thought I'd come out of hiding to post some comments on this latest story of yours. Love your work, as usual. But what is it, specifically, that is so appreciated? It's the feeling I get while reading, the feeling that I'm looking in on someone else's thoughts, thoughts that are normally hidden, kept secret. Your greatest talent is your honesty; you give the guys out here a chance to understand, to vicariously experience, the emotions a woman goes through. The fears. As a tickler, my personal interest is completely different from yours. As a dominant male (to use the common terminology), the sexual excitement that comes from tickling (to put it as bluntly as possible) has to do with the power that I feel over my "victim." She is helpless, she is at my mercy, she will feel whatever it is I make her feel -- tickling, sexual arousal, the combination of the two. But I can only speculate on what a woman feels, and you provide a window of insight into that. It is this insight that I appreciate most in your stories.

For example, the part of this latest work in which, right before the female lead character passes the point of no return, there is a poignant moment when the man tells her, calmly reassures her:

he took her hands and turned her so she was facing him. "at every second of this. every second. you are in control. no matter how it feels... you need to know that. ...I want you to know that." he put his fingers under her chin and raised her lowered head until she looked at him. "even now. right now. if you say it stops... it stops."

I loved that. LOVED it. As if she needed that reassurance in order to make the experience complete, to make it perfect. A woman who submits to bonadge for tickling makes herself so utterly vulnerable, I imagine there must be a tremendous fear of...something going wrong. Not being let out. Being abused in some way. How could a woman fulfill her fantasy when there is a fear of the man abusing his power? So you resolve that in your story; you have the man give his explicit reassurance that nothing of that sort would happen, could happen. And the reader is touched by the brutal honesty of the moment, the brutal honesty that the author seems to be confessing about herself. (Hence the other comments you've received about the story being autobiographical.)

In terms of the development of the story, the style of the writing itself, I think you've found a sparse, minimalist approach that works well. A simple narrative, going from point to point to point, lets the reader follow the action without growing impatient. The subject matter itself is compelling; the story, one could say, IS the story. The story itself is the reason for writing the story. There's no need for flowery language, for excessive detail, for big impressive words or complicated syntax. Short paragraphs and simple, descriptive paragraphs work well; they don't distract the reader from the story at hand.

So what's lacking? What more do I want from your stories? Well, exactly that: more. You've done so much with these short, secret-glimpse-through-the-window scenarios. Your stories have made me feel that I understand WHAT the character is going through. But I want to know WHY she's going through it. HOW she came to be the person who experiences the emotions you've been so good at portraying. It isn't enough to just imagine "well, some people are born with an intense erotic interest in tickling, and some people aren't." I don't think tickling fetishists (or whatever they should be called) are like homosexuals; it's not a sexual orientation that one is born with, it isn't part of someone's genetic makeup. One develops (my claim here) an erotic connection with tickling as the result of some especially influential formative experience, or experiences over a period of time, perhaps in early childhood. As a reader, I have the desire to see that avenue explored. --Now, maybe as a writer, your desire is merely to give voice to a secret fantasy world. But I'd urge you to dig deeper than that, expose the raw sources beneath. Your stories, the ones I've read, are like the beautiful blossoms of flowers; what about the roots unseen beneath? You could shake them in their clinging to the earth. (I'm stealing that last line from Kahlil Gibran.)

Anyhow...sorry about being so presumptuous, giving you this long un-asked-for opinion. Nice thing about the anonymity of the internet, though; you can spout off, free from fear of personal reprisal.

All the best,
glen

Glen, it is so good to see you again. I appreciate everything you wrote so very much. you are right in thinking that these stories are “to give voice to a secret fantasy world.” they are also my way of exploring, and sharing, my thoughts and feelings about this thing. this obsession. that these feelings are understood, even appreciated, means so much to me. each one is, in some way, autobiographical. the stories are not true... but the feelings behind them are.

they are a short “secret-glimpse-through-the-window.” right now. as I grow bolder and grow more comfortable with sharing this... they may become more.

I hope you are out of hiding for good. I have missed reading your stories, posts and lessons in philosophy.

Ayla