TeeHeeLawrence
TMF Expert
- Joined
- Oct 8, 2003
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***The following */f tickle tale is copyright 2008 by the author.
***This tale is meant only for readers 18 and older, no matter how long they’ve had their own phones. Both callers herein are well past their teens, too.
***I know I should be working on other tales long promised (Stop tapping your foot, T.G!), but this wee diversion forced its way to the fore, and who am I –especially slow poke me! —to deny a tale demanding to be told.
WHEN A TICKLER CALLS
A Divertissement by Tee Hee Lawrence
The phone trilled. Expecting a call, she didn’t glance at its screen before answering.
“You gonna be late, sis’?” She crossed her legs.
A warm voice seductively crooned, “Kitchey-kitchey-cooooo!”
She felt a flutter in her tummy. “Oh-uh, it’s you…Derrick. I thought we decided you wouldn’t call.”
“YOU decided, honey,” he purred. “Tickle-tickle-tickle.”
She uncrossed her legs and sat up, shivering and curling her toes. “S-stop. Stop…calling.”
“But, Amanda,” he teased, “wouldn’t you like your belly tickled? Cootchy-cootchy!”
She pressed her lips together, and then cleared her throat. “T-that’s enough! It’s OVER, Derrick. Now, stop calling or I’ll call the POLICE.”
He chuckled, “Heh-heh. You don’t like my fingertips feathering your hips any more, dear?”
She squeezed the phone.
“Or my forefingers slowly circling into your underarms while you try to yank apart the headboard?”
She closed her eyes, murmuring, “No…no…”
“You really don’t want me kissing the inside of your wrists or the tops of your toes?”
Sitting back on the couch, she crossed her legs again, croaking, “S-stop. I-I’m hanging up.”
“Or ever so lightly walking my fingertips up the insides of your thighs?”
Her raised flat flipped off her foot. She gasped, “Will you…stop, Derrick? Please?”
She could hear his smile as he persisted. “Stop what, Mandy? Twirling this loooong, stiiiiff white feather in your wriggling belly button?”
She chuckled in spite of herself. “Heh, will youhoo s-stop? It’s OVER! Understand? Now, goodBYE!”
His voice grew deeper, more assured. “Sure, Mandy. But, remember…I know WHERE you live…I know what you LIKE…I know how TICKLISH you are…and WHERE you’re ticklish. Kitchey-kitchey-coo!”
She slipped her other foot out of her flat and pulled her bare feet onto the couch. “The police, Derrick. I’m calling them. Now.”
He intoned, “I’ll quickly slip the soft nylon ropes over your wrists and ankles and you’ll be stretched out…helpless…unable to stop the…tickle-tickle-tickle…tickle-tickle-tickle….”
Wiggling her bare toes, she coughed and insisted, “You’re sick, Derrick. You need help. That’s why I’m calling the police. Before you do something awful….”
He chuckled again. “Hehheh. Maybe, Mandy, you’ll still be in your work clothes. I’ll unbutton your jacket and roughly tickle your ribs through your Ann Taylor blouse. Then, I’ll march my fingers down your tan nylons and slip off your sensible shoes and skate my fingertips up and down the nylon on your soles…barely touching them for loooong minutes…teasing you unBEARably…before I dig my fingers under your scrunching toes--just the way you like it….”
She flexed her feet and arched her back. “N-no! N-never! I’m calling them NOW, Derrick. You’d better ditch your phone and run away.”
He almost breathlessly added, “And then I’ll slowly slip all ten of my frisky fingers under your blouse
and…suddenly—tickletickletickle--madly dance them all over your tummy and your sides and skitter them under your arms and back down to your belly—cootchiecootchie—and up your sides…over and over…tickling and tickling…as you laugh and laugh and scream and holler, begging me to stop…but I tickletickletickle on and on….”
She could not stop her smile, but she stammered, “S-stop! J-just stop it!
Headlights swept across the living room. She stood and peered out the bay window. “Oh, my sister is here with the attorney. Gotta go!”
He sighed, and then said softly, “OK. Same time tomorrow?”
“Better make it 9:00. I’ve a class after work.”
He sighed again. “OK. ’Should be able to fly out of here by Saturday.”
“’Counting the days. Don’t work too hard, hon’.”
“’Love you, giggle gal.”
“’Love you, too, you wicked man.”
“Ciao!”
“Hehheh! ‘Bye!”
(“Please hang up. There appears to be a receiver off the hook. Please check your main telephone and your extension, then try your call again. Thank you. This is a recording. …Please hang up. There appears to be a receiver off the hook….”)
***This tale is meant only for readers 18 and older, no matter how long they’ve had their own phones. Both callers herein are well past their teens, too.
***I know I should be working on other tales long promised (Stop tapping your foot, T.G!), but this wee diversion forced its way to the fore, and who am I –especially slow poke me! —to deny a tale demanding to be told.
WHEN A TICKLER CALLS
A Divertissement by Tee Hee Lawrence
The phone trilled. Expecting a call, she didn’t glance at its screen before answering.
“You gonna be late, sis’?” She crossed her legs.
A warm voice seductively crooned, “Kitchey-kitchey-cooooo!”
She felt a flutter in her tummy. “Oh-uh, it’s you…Derrick. I thought we decided you wouldn’t call.”
“YOU decided, honey,” he purred. “Tickle-tickle-tickle.”
She uncrossed her legs and sat up, shivering and curling her toes. “S-stop. Stop…calling.”
“But, Amanda,” he teased, “wouldn’t you like your belly tickled? Cootchy-cootchy!”
She pressed her lips together, and then cleared her throat. “T-that’s enough! It’s OVER, Derrick. Now, stop calling or I’ll call the POLICE.”
He chuckled, “Heh-heh. You don’t like my fingertips feathering your hips any more, dear?”
She squeezed the phone.
“Or my forefingers slowly circling into your underarms while you try to yank apart the headboard?”
She closed her eyes, murmuring, “No…no…”
“You really don’t want me kissing the inside of your wrists or the tops of your toes?”
Sitting back on the couch, she crossed her legs again, croaking, “S-stop. I-I’m hanging up.”
“Or ever so lightly walking my fingertips up the insides of your thighs?”
Her raised flat flipped off her foot. She gasped, “Will you…stop, Derrick? Please?”
She could hear his smile as he persisted. “Stop what, Mandy? Twirling this loooong, stiiiiff white feather in your wriggling belly button?”
She chuckled in spite of herself. “Heh, will youhoo s-stop? It’s OVER! Understand? Now, goodBYE!”
His voice grew deeper, more assured. “Sure, Mandy. But, remember…I know WHERE you live…I know what you LIKE…I know how TICKLISH you are…and WHERE you’re ticklish. Kitchey-kitchey-coo!”
She slipped her other foot out of her flat and pulled her bare feet onto the couch. “The police, Derrick. I’m calling them. Now.”
He intoned, “I’ll quickly slip the soft nylon ropes over your wrists and ankles and you’ll be stretched out…helpless…unable to stop the…tickle-tickle-tickle…tickle-tickle-tickle….”
Wiggling her bare toes, she coughed and insisted, “You’re sick, Derrick. You need help. That’s why I’m calling the police. Before you do something awful….”
He chuckled again. “Hehheh. Maybe, Mandy, you’ll still be in your work clothes. I’ll unbutton your jacket and roughly tickle your ribs through your Ann Taylor blouse. Then, I’ll march my fingers down your tan nylons and slip off your sensible shoes and skate my fingertips up and down the nylon on your soles…barely touching them for loooong minutes…teasing you unBEARably…before I dig my fingers under your scrunching toes--just the way you like it….”
She flexed her feet and arched her back. “N-no! N-never! I’m calling them NOW, Derrick. You’d better ditch your phone and run away.”
He almost breathlessly added, “And then I’ll slowly slip all ten of my frisky fingers under your blouse
and…suddenly—tickletickletickle--madly dance them all over your tummy and your sides and skitter them under your arms and back down to your belly—cootchiecootchie—and up your sides…over and over…tickling and tickling…as you laugh and laugh and scream and holler, begging me to stop…but I tickletickletickle on and on….”
She could not stop her smile, but she stammered, “S-stop! J-just stop it!
Headlights swept across the living room. She stood and peered out the bay window. “Oh, my sister is here with the attorney. Gotta go!”
He sighed, and then said softly, “OK. Same time tomorrow?”
“Better make it 9:00. I’ve a class after work.”
He sighed again. “OK. ’Should be able to fly out of here by Saturday.”
“’Counting the days. Don’t work too hard, hon’.”
“’Love you, giggle gal.”
“’Love you, too, you wicked man.”
“Ciao!”
“Hehheh! ‘Bye!”
(“Please hang up. There appears to be a receiver off the hook. Please check your main telephone and your extension, then try your call again. Thank you. This is a recording. …Please hang up. There appears to be a receiver off the hook….”)