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Tickling in Paris (True)

glentickle

TMF Regular
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A bunch of years ago I kicked off a summer of traveling in Europe with ten days in Paris. I stayed at this ramshackle hostel called The Three Ducks, and I'll bet there's at least a couple of folks reading this who've been there. Sort of famous place. Total hole in the wall, dirty and disgusting, but they've got their own bar right next to an outdoor atrium that's one big party every night.

I was traveling by myself, meeting new people every night, and The Three Ducks was perfect for that. On my second night in Paris I met three Canadian girls who had all been working as au pairs in The Netherlands that year. Two sisters and their friend. One of the sisters was blonde, short, chubby and cute; the other sister had dyed-red hair and was a bit of a snobby intellectual; the friend was tall, awkward, giggly -- she wasn't used to talking to boys. I was 26 at the time, and they were all in their late teens.

We started drinking red wine in the early evening, and put away two bottles while it turned dark. People were filing into the atrium all this time, and the scene was getting rowdier; beer-pounding contests, stuff like that. But I stayed in a corner with the three Canadiennes, and that chubby little blonde got cuter and cuter the more I drank. She wasn't as pretty as her sister with the frizzy red hair, but she had such a sweet disposition that I just wanted to put her on my lap, wrap my hands around her waist, and give her little strokes and pokes under her ribs. Anyway, eventually we were joined by this other Canadian guy I'd been hanging out with the night before, and he had another friend with him (a guy, also from Canada), and the six of us decided to grab a few more bottles and head out to the lawn under the Eiffel Tower. Someone took a bedsheet, and we were on our way.

So the six of us were lying on this blanket, on a soft lawn, under the Eiffel Tower, warm summer night. We'd all kicked off our shoes -- the girls had, anyway (I don't know about the guys). The dyed-red head was arguing about Existentialism, trying to show off what she'd probably read just the night before, but no one was arguing back. So she sort of pontificated to the whole group, while we all kept drinking red wine out of little plastic cups. I saw the little blonde sister roll her eyes, pretty blue eyes, and I asked "does she always do this?" "ALL-ways," she said in her sweet little sing-song voice, giggling. I figured that was as much of an opening as I needed. "I know how to fix that!" I said, and grabbed the red-head's foot. Pink socks. Took her ankle in one hand, but she pulled it away. Pulled it away so quickly, so forcefully -- you know that feeling, when you haven't even tickled a girl yet, but already she's freaking out? She tucked her feet underneath her, sort of sitting on them, looking at me nervously.

"Whatsa matter?" I asked, innocently, grinning at her.
"I HATE having my feet touched!" She quickly answered.
"Now, why would that be?" I asked, and leaned towards her, patiently letting the moment build.
"I'm not ticklish, you know. I just don't like having my feet touched." I forget what exactly happened after that, but you can imagine. I said she was lying, she said no really, I again said she was lying, dared her to prove it. Then she surprised me, said okay, and held out her foot. What, did she think I'd back down, as if I'd been bluffing all the time? Did she expect me to say "oh, I guess you really were telling the truth, if you're about to LET me tickle you"? I didn't grab her ankle this time, but just reached out and slowly started to scratch the middle of her sole, just under the arch. She didn't budge, didn't make a sound. The others were just sitting around us, watching this whole scene. I think Rob (the guy from Canada) said something like why don't I just leave her alone...yeah, right! I scratched a little harder, up around the balls of her feet, but still no reaction. So I finally grabbed her ankle again, locked on tight, and went to work; all around her arch, her heel, in between her toes -- absolutely no reaction! I looked at her, and she had this smile that said "ha, ha, I tricked you!" She'd played it all along as if she were trying to hide being ticklish, and really got me to fall for it. I couldn't believe it. The disappointment was overwhelming. "You see, I'm really NOT ticklish," she said. "But you know who is?"

And suddenly she pounced -- on her sister! The little blonde shrieked -- and I mean SHRIEKED. Her sister knew right where to go: had an arm around her thighs, holding them together to keep her from jumping up, while with her other hand she went straight to the back of the knees. The reaction was incredible! That chubby little blonde was the most beautiful girl in the world, rolling on the floor laughing and struggling to get out of her sister's grasp. She couldn't even get out the words "no -- please -- don't!" from laughing. The red-head looked up at me, wicked smile, and said "she's ticklish on her sides! Get her sides!" I jumped on her, straddled her around the waist (she was lying on her back), and started tickling. Her shirt rode up, soft bare skin, and all I had to do was touch her, stroke her stomach, lightly with fingertips on the skin around her sides and ribs -- she went nuts. Her sister was still tickling her knees, and now she had this guy sitting on top of her getting under her shirt. Such soft skin! And I'd never tickled a girl that size before. She wasn't fat; just nice and round; the way she shook, trying so hard to roll away, the futility of her effort -- she was held down, utterly helpless, getting tickled by two drunk people who were getting too caught up in the thrill of it. She laughed, screamed, gasped for air, laughed some more, swore at her sister, pleaded with me. I just looked down at her, with her smiling face, pretty blue eyes, tears in them....

I guess we let her up, eventually. We must have, because now I'm here and she's not. But we must have tickled her nonstop for at least ten minutes. Afterwards she jokingly tried to straighten her clothes, neaten her hair; it was funny how dissheveled she was. As we all walked back to the hostel I went up beside her, put my arm around her shoulder and sympathetically told her I was sorry (though I sort of laughed while saying it). "Sure, sure you are," she said, but she put her arm around me too, and we stayed like that the rest of the night.

glentickle
 
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Glen, I thought it was great how your disappointment of the pontificating redhead not being ticklish quickly turned to satisfaction in your helping to torment the little blonde sister. Heh! heh! heh! Perfect. I have to admit however I would've been great to tickle that redhead into hysterics. However I find it great that she assisted in your having a great experience. Ah! There's nothing better than laughter in the Paris air! Au Revoir!

MO:cool:
 
Yeah...I always wonder whether I shouldn't have given up on the other sister so easily. There's no way her feet were ticklish, but for some insane reason I didn't think to try her sides. Maybe I would have, and maybe she knew I was going to, and that's why she turned it on her little sister. Anyway, the three of them left to go back to Amsterdam the next day, so I never got the chance to find out. Some tickles happen, and some, unfortunately...

glen
 
It just goes to show glen how fleeting tickling moments can be. Thank God for memories huh?

MO:cool:
 
Yes my friend and I'm down on bended knee each day thanking him for it! Now what did I do with that latest tape?

MO

:cool:
 
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