Hair Cut, with a Difference, from the Half-Truths Collection - True Start Stories F/M
Ever look back on an incident and daydreamed a much better ending?
And each time you re-play the daydream, does it get more and more exaggerated, eventually having no resemblance to reality?
The first paragraph of the following story actually happened to me. The three continuation daydreams that follow are ever more elaborate fantasies.
The first daydream is mostly consensual, the second partially consensual, and the third nonconsensual. F/M, but some implied M/F “off stage”
These are not elaborate stories, just simple daydreams.
Hair Cut, with a Difference.
Long ago, I was getting my hair cut by a hair stylist that I had seen regularly. I forget her name, but I’ll call her Jan. She was a tall, fair skinned, slender brunette, who usually wore loose white blouses and skin tight jeans. She moved with the grace of a willow in the breeze, her long tapered fingers and manicured nails fluttering with dexterity and skill. She was always cheerful and pleasant, and I always looked forward to my appointment. She wore a wedding ring, much to my disappointment, but I still enjoyed her washing and cutting my hair. Each barber chair had it’s own little room. Through the very thin walls, we could hear a man talking to a woman while he cut her hair. I was lying back with my head in the sink, getting a final rinse. There was a silence, then the woman started laughing for no apparent reason. Jan heard this and started tickling my neck. My neck was wet, which seemed to stop the ticklishness. I wished it did tickle more. She whispered jokes to try to make me laugh, but they weren’t that funny. The woman in the next room was laughing again.
Daydream 1:
Jan seemed frustrated at my lack of reaction. She looked at me intently, and started poking at my side with one finger. I began to squirm and writhe in the chair and grinned and grimaced. I was still laying with my neck on the sink, getting my hair rinsed, so I felt a little trapped. She paused. I said nothing but couldn’t help smiling. She smiled back and poked with all her fingers on both sides, just a couple of times. I laughed. She waited again. I was too embarrassed to tell her how much I liked it, but I smiled my approval. She smiled in return and experimented with different spots and techniques. She would grin whenever she found a particularly sensitive spot, but didn’t stay there long. I realized she was locating all my hot spots for future reference. Seemingly satisfied she had enough to work with, she began in ernest. I tried to keep still so I wouldn’t bang my neck on the sink. It was an effective virtual restraint and I think she knew it. She seemed to really enjoy herself, poking, skittering, rapidly rubbing each spot, milking each one for maximum effect, trying different combinations. I was quickly becoming a giggling helpless wreck, my eyes tearing up as though I had shampoo in them.
“You OK down there?” she said, leaning over me, continuing to tickle me and stifling her own laughter.
“Oh, oh AhAAHHAAHAAA!”, I tried to reply, but finally just managed to nod.
“OK, here comes the next level” she said, grinning just a little evilly.
“There’a another level?”, I thought to myself, eyes widening in disbelief.
Her tickling become much more random and rapid. I suddenly laughed with complete and uncontrollable abandon, rising in pitch and volume, seemingly without limit. Rational thought was receding far away. My universe had contracted to contain just her wild fingers, her ecstatically grinning face and my helpless, frantic response. I began banging my neck on the sink lip.
“Whoa, I think you’ve had enough.” she said, stopping immediately, “Did you hurt yourself?” she said with concern, straightening the chair so I could sit up.
I shook my head and was slowly able to stop laughing. “I’m fine, but that was more intense than I expected.”
She toweled my hair dry and combed it. “You were great! I’m so glad you were a good sport about this. I kind of have a thing about this.”
“Yeah, me too”, I said, getting up to leave.
“Don’t you want your hair cut?” she said, “I only washed it so far.”
“Oh, yeah”, I said with some embarrassment, “I guess I was a little distracted.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll just get a normal haircut” she said impishly.
I laughed and nodded. I imagined that sharp scissors and tickling probably don’t mix.
She began cutting my hair. When she occasionally touched my neck, I noticed now that it was dry, it was ticklish again. I didn’t think she realized it.
“So, half over the ears, right.”, she said, smoothing my hair, and studying me in the mirror.
“Ye-es.”, I said, turning the word into two syllables, with the accent on the last syllable. She had accidentally dragged her fingernail down my neck while I replied. It tickled enough to affect my voice. At least I thought it was an accident.
“You get it layered, don’t you?”, she asked innocently.
“I think so.”, I replied, with a little more volume on “so”, due to another “accident”.
She continued cutting my hair, seemingly without further incident, but I wondered if she noticed me wincing slightly when she touched my neck in certain ways. All those touches were having a cumulative effect.
“Now bend your head down.” she said, turning on the electric razor. She trimmed the back of my neck, then suspended the buzzing razor just above my skin and lowered it until it barely touched. The vibrations were starting to tickle like crazy. I sputtered and tried not to giggle.
“Oh, no”, she said, “Are you having a problem?”
“No”, I said weakly, “No problem hmmm.” I was starting to feel very giddy from the thrumming, tickling electric razor, expertly wielded by my mock adversary.
“Good, I’ll be done in just a minute”, she lied, moving the razor slightly, and leaning around to better see my face.
I felt the pressure to laugh building more and more. She began humming merrily, moving the electric razor just right.
“OK, I give” I said with difficulty.
“Whatever do you mean, kind sir?” she said, keeping the razor right where it was.
“Bwwaahahaaha” I laughed, doubling over, “Hahaha, oh, some normal hair cut!”
She laughed. “OK, OK you can sit up now. Oh, there’s some loose hair on your neck, let me get it off.” Putting down the razor, she used both hands on my neck now, stroking and scribbling with her fingernails. “Hold still now!”
I giggled and tried to shield my neck with my shoulders, but her fingers moved so fast and so cunningly. She was clearly very experienced and I was no match for her. I was quickly reduced to a silly helpless state, giggling in a high pitched falsetto. I finally got my hands out from under the apron, and tried to fend her off, and tickle her back, but she was so quick and I was becoming less and less coordinated. It wasn’t a tickle fight, it was a tickle massacre, as I sank weakly back in to the chair and waited for some sign of mercy.
“There,” she said, “almost got it, that’s better!” she said only stopping after being sure I was completely defeated.
“OK, ok, heh hee hee hee heh”, I said, unable to keep from giggling even after she stopped tickling me.
She bent down in front of me, caught my eye and suddenly wiggled her fingers in my face.
“Heh hee hee hee hee heh. Hey, now stop that!” I said, trying to sound firm, but failing.
“Someone has the giggles,” she taunted, leaning down again and giggling right in my face, “Hahahaha!”
“Stop heh hee hee hee hee you’re gonna give me the hiccups.” I warned her.
“Oh, no! Not the hiccups!”, she said, tickling my neck again.
“Hahaha hic ahahah hic, oh, great, hic.”
“Sorry if I went too far. I kinda have a thing about giving people the hiccups too. They can’t help it and it just sounds so funny!”
“You have a lot of hobbies, don’t hic you. I’ll hic survive. That was fun, though, hic, oh dear.”
She tried not to laugh at me as I paid her and tipped generously.
“Please come again” she said, “Please?”
“Yes, I think I hic will”, I said sheepishly. I had seen her wedding ring, and knew this was just for fun, but I was definitely coming back.
Daydream 2:
After the rinse, when I was sitting up, I whispered to Jan, “I’m actually much more ticklish between my lower back and side.” She smiled but seemed reluctant at first. I shrugged my shoulders and sighed. She tentatively reached down and squeezed my lower side. I squirmed and my face distorted from that giddy, uncontrollable feeling. I laughed breifly. We heard the woman laugh again. This encouraged Jan. She tickled my side harder and longer now, and seemed happy to hear how much louder I laughed. The woman laughed louder than before. I saw now it was becoming a contest. Was this some kind of pre-arranged competition between them, or some bet?
Jan tickled with both hands now, seeking and finding a sweet spot. I grew more hysterical, twisting and jerking, my tearing eyes squeezed almost shut, my deep belly laughs drowning out the woman’s laughter. But now the woman was laughing even louder. It was an arms race with no end in sight. Who can make their victim laugh the loudest? In an attempt to control my thrashing about, Jan wrapped one arm around my chest, pulled me back against the chair, one hand in my armpit, and her other hand on my hip. Then she leaned in close and whispered “Tickle tickle tickle!”, as her hands begin digging in. I laughed louder than I thought possible. Jan stopped and waited for a response from the next room.
The shriek we heard was half banshee, half werewolf, and full-on scary. I seriously doubted Jan would be able to elicit anywhere near that level of hysteria from me. I should have had more faith in her. She had a fierce competitive spirit and would not be denied, no matter what the cost to my lungs and vocal cords.
She grabbed my shirt and undershirt on both sides and pulled them up with impressive force. I was suddenly cocooned from the shoulders up, my arms trapped, my eyes staring at a button on my shirt and a cool breeze threatening to tickle my belly. I have no idea what Jan actually did next, but it felt like a whirlwind tickle attack from one of those many-armed gods from India. I imagined her hands making the same whooshing sounds you hear in cheap martial arts films. The affect of that much rapid, skilled, extreme, merciless tickling, stunned my brain, delaying a reaction. I don’t remember making any sound at all, but innocent bystanders later described it as if a police siren and air horn had learned to laugh. It was an ecstatic, narcotic, traumatic experience of violent sensory overload. I could not tolerate another second of it, and I never wanted it to end. Jan stopped tickling and let me wind down. I almost had withdrawal symptoms, reluctant to come back to normal reality. We listened for a response from the next room, but either the woman was quiet or I had gone deaf from my vocal blast. Jan pulled my shirts down. I was tempted to tell her that was better than most sex, but instead asked, “Did we win?” She smiled, very broadly. I tipped more than usual. I went home and, after my throat had healed, I experimented with rapid hair growth lotions.
Daydream 3:
“What is he doing to her?” I wondered aloud, hearing the woman’s frantic laugh from the next room.
Jan straightened my chair, dried my hair, and whispered. “Look, I have some money on this bet. All you have to do is laugh for me, louder than she does.”
I whispered back, “That hardly seems honest. His jokes must be better than yours.”
“You don’t like my jokes, fine! I actually like doing things the hard way, but I was afraid of getting carried away.” She pulled off her fashionable belt and wrapped it around my torso and the chair, trapping my arms and cinching it tightly on the back of the chair. “Tell me where you’re ticklish and I’ll make this quick and merciful.” she whispered.
“Hey, I didn’t volunteer for this.” Being tied up was making me feel claustrophobic. I tried to stand up and slip out of the belt but was quickly distracted by her grabbing at my sides. She was tickling all the coordination out of me as I squirmed and giggled, and sunk back into the chair, quickly becoming too tickle-weakened to escape.
“That took all the fight out of you, didn’t it?”, she marveled, redoubling her efforts. “Aww, look who doesn’t think my jokes are funny?” she taunted, “Coochie? Coochie? I’m so glad you’re so amazingly ticklish. You really are, aren’t you?”
“T-t-t-tell me more jokes” I pleaded.
“Too late for that!” She kept exploring my sides and lower back until she hit the spot she was looking for.
“NAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAHAHAAAA!”, I laughed with increasing volume and desperation, arching my back, straining against the belt, in a futile attempt to avoid her rapid, wiggling, digging fingers. She was relentless, driving me to higher volumes, but we could still hear the woman next door. Jan kept switching her attack, hunting for more spots and keeping me off balance, but the laughter next door was louder still. She stopped tickling for a moment, undecided on what to do next, allowing me to catch my breath. Jan was looking at me up and down, analyzing me. I looked at her quizzically, but said nothing, fearing that might end the welcome break.
She answered my questioning eyes. “I have a theory that body language and certain physical characteristics can reveal special vulnerabilities. Once I decide what type you are, I’ll know exactly what to do.”
I didn’t recognize her. She didn’t seem like the hair stylist I had known. She spoke like a mad scientist, using objective methods to serve some dark, secret, obsessive passion. I began to fantasize about her private life.
She pulled up my shirt and studied my stomach, which was neither six-pack nor beer keg. Keeping her hands flat, straight and parallel to my sides, she pressed her fingertips deep into the front edges of my abdomen, on either side of my stomach. Looking into my eyes, she smiled at my growing apprehension. She let the moment linger, gradually raising her eyebrows, gradually parting her lips, and then wiggling her fingertips ever so slightly back and forth. It felt like little bursts of electric, manic joy. I lost control of my body as it automatically squirmed to evade her, but she matched my movements, her fingertips staying in position, wiggling harder and faster. The electric joy was building into a frantic hysteria. “Stop, stop, stop, STAAAHAAHAAHAAAHAAHAHAAHAA!”, I laughed, easily drowning out the competition in the next room. She watched me intently, pausing to give me one breath whenever I began to fall into silent laughter.
Over my laughter, I could hear the man’s voice shouting from the next room, “I yield.”
Jan seemed far too distracted to hear him. Something had changed in her. Her eyes had an almost feral fierceness. She was an obsessed musician, locked into playing this compulsive music, stroking her helpless instrument to ever greater heights of passionate intensity. Desperation began edging into my laughter as I howled and screamed and wailed.
The man’s voice laughed, “Jan! Don’t break him!”
Jan pulled her hands away, again and again, but they kept coming back to my sides like they had a mind of their own.
“Jan!” the man shouted insistently.
“Ok, ok!” Jan smoothed her hands down her sides as if to give them something else to do. “Stop laughing, please”, she pleaded. Now my laughter seemed to be triggering some kind of tickling compulsion in her. This was the “carried away” she had worried about. I stared at her silently for a moment, then, as an experiment, I giggled briefly. She pressed her lips together, closed her eyes and grunted. I giggled longer and higher pitched. “You don’t want to do that.” she warned, walking around the chair and unbuckling the belt. She reached around my waist, pulling the belt away, but dragging her clawed hand hard across my belly. I tried to stifle the giggle, but it kept breaking out in sputtering bursts. She slowed her hand and slightly wiggled her fingers as though daring me to laugh, daring me to trigger another marathon. I squeaked and sputtered, and struggled not to laugh as she slowly pulled the belt away.
I paid quickly and left without further comment, happy to leave.
I was determined to never go to that barber shop again. But I daydream about it. I daydream about walking in, sitting down and daring to laugh, just enough.
Ever look back on an incident and daydreamed a much better ending?
And each time you re-play the daydream, does it get more and more exaggerated, eventually having no resemblance to reality?
The first paragraph of the following story actually happened to me. The three continuation daydreams that follow are ever more elaborate fantasies.
The first daydream is mostly consensual, the second partially consensual, and the third nonconsensual. F/M, but some implied M/F “off stage”
These are not elaborate stories, just simple daydreams.
Hair Cut, with a Difference.
Long ago, I was getting my hair cut by a hair stylist that I had seen regularly. I forget her name, but I’ll call her Jan. She was a tall, fair skinned, slender brunette, who usually wore loose white blouses and skin tight jeans. She moved with the grace of a willow in the breeze, her long tapered fingers and manicured nails fluttering with dexterity and skill. She was always cheerful and pleasant, and I always looked forward to my appointment. She wore a wedding ring, much to my disappointment, but I still enjoyed her washing and cutting my hair. Each barber chair had it’s own little room. Through the very thin walls, we could hear a man talking to a woman while he cut her hair. I was lying back with my head in the sink, getting a final rinse. There was a silence, then the woman started laughing for no apparent reason. Jan heard this and started tickling my neck. My neck was wet, which seemed to stop the ticklishness. I wished it did tickle more. She whispered jokes to try to make me laugh, but they weren’t that funny. The woman in the next room was laughing again.
Daydream 1:
Jan seemed frustrated at my lack of reaction. She looked at me intently, and started poking at my side with one finger. I began to squirm and writhe in the chair and grinned and grimaced. I was still laying with my neck on the sink, getting my hair rinsed, so I felt a little trapped. She paused. I said nothing but couldn’t help smiling. She smiled back and poked with all her fingers on both sides, just a couple of times. I laughed. She waited again. I was too embarrassed to tell her how much I liked it, but I smiled my approval. She smiled in return and experimented with different spots and techniques. She would grin whenever she found a particularly sensitive spot, but didn’t stay there long. I realized she was locating all my hot spots for future reference. Seemingly satisfied she had enough to work with, she began in ernest. I tried to keep still so I wouldn’t bang my neck on the sink. It was an effective virtual restraint and I think she knew it. She seemed to really enjoy herself, poking, skittering, rapidly rubbing each spot, milking each one for maximum effect, trying different combinations. I was quickly becoming a giggling helpless wreck, my eyes tearing up as though I had shampoo in them.
“You OK down there?” she said, leaning over me, continuing to tickle me and stifling her own laughter.
“Oh, oh AhAAHHAAHAAA!”, I tried to reply, but finally just managed to nod.
“OK, here comes the next level” she said, grinning just a little evilly.
“There’a another level?”, I thought to myself, eyes widening in disbelief.
Her tickling become much more random and rapid. I suddenly laughed with complete and uncontrollable abandon, rising in pitch and volume, seemingly without limit. Rational thought was receding far away. My universe had contracted to contain just her wild fingers, her ecstatically grinning face and my helpless, frantic response. I began banging my neck on the sink lip.
“Whoa, I think you’ve had enough.” she said, stopping immediately, “Did you hurt yourself?” she said with concern, straightening the chair so I could sit up.
I shook my head and was slowly able to stop laughing. “I’m fine, but that was more intense than I expected.”
She toweled my hair dry and combed it. “You were great! I’m so glad you were a good sport about this. I kind of have a thing about this.”
“Yeah, me too”, I said, getting up to leave.
“Don’t you want your hair cut?” she said, “I only washed it so far.”
“Oh, yeah”, I said with some embarrassment, “I guess I was a little distracted.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll just get a normal haircut” she said impishly.
I laughed and nodded. I imagined that sharp scissors and tickling probably don’t mix.
She began cutting my hair. When she occasionally touched my neck, I noticed now that it was dry, it was ticklish again. I didn’t think she realized it.
“So, half over the ears, right.”, she said, smoothing my hair, and studying me in the mirror.
“Ye-es.”, I said, turning the word into two syllables, with the accent on the last syllable. She had accidentally dragged her fingernail down my neck while I replied. It tickled enough to affect my voice. At least I thought it was an accident.
“You get it layered, don’t you?”, she asked innocently.
“I think so.”, I replied, with a little more volume on “so”, due to another “accident”.
She continued cutting my hair, seemingly without further incident, but I wondered if she noticed me wincing slightly when she touched my neck in certain ways. All those touches were having a cumulative effect.
“Now bend your head down.” she said, turning on the electric razor. She trimmed the back of my neck, then suspended the buzzing razor just above my skin and lowered it until it barely touched. The vibrations were starting to tickle like crazy. I sputtered and tried not to giggle.
“Oh, no”, she said, “Are you having a problem?”
“No”, I said weakly, “No problem hmmm.” I was starting to feel very giddy from the thrumming, tickling electric razor, expertly wielded by my mock adversary.
“Good, I’ll be done in just a minute”, she lied, moving the razor slightly, and leaning around to better see my face.
I felt the pressure to laugh building more and more. She began humming merrily, moving the electric razor just right.
“OK, I give” I said with difficulty.
“Whatever do you mean, kind sir?” she said, keeping the razor right where it was.
“Bwwaahahaaha” I laughed, doubling over, “Hahaha, oh, some normal hair cut!”
She laughed. “OK, OK you can sit up now. Oh, there’s some loose hair on your neck, let me get it off.” Putting down the razor, she used both hands on my neck now, stroking and scribbling with her fingernails. “Hold still now!”
I giggled and tried to shield my neck with my shoulders, but her fingers moved so fast and so cunningly. She was clearly very experienced and I was no match for her. I was quickly reduced to a silly helpless state, giggling in a high pitched falsetto. I finally got my hands out from under the apron, and tried to fend her off, and tickle her back, but she was so quick and I was becoming less and less coordinated. It wasn’t a tickle fight, it was a tickle massacre, as I sank weakly back in to the chair and waited for some sign of mercy.
“There,” she said, “almost got it, that’s better!” she said only stopping after being sure I was completely defeated.
“OK, ok, heh hee hee hee heh”, I said, unable to keep from giggling even after she stopped tickling me.
She bent down in front of me, caught my eye and suddenly wiggled her fingers in my face.
“Heh hee hee hee hee heh. Hey, now stop that!” I said, trying to sound firm, but failing.
“Someone has the giggles,” she taunted, leaning down again and giggling right in my face, “Hahahaha!”
“Stop heh hee hee hee hee you’re gonna give me the hiccups.” I warned her.
“Oh, no! Not the hiccups!”, she said, tickling my neck again.
“Hahaha hic ahahah hic, oh, great, hic.”
“Sorry if I went too far. I kinda have a thing about giving people the hiccups too. They can’t help it and it just sounds so funny!”
“You have a lot of hobbies, don’t hic you. I’ll hic survive. That was fun, though, hic, oh dear.”
She tried not to laugh at me as I paid her and tipped generously.
“Please come again” she said, “Please?”
“Yes, I think I hic will”, I said sheepishly. I had seen her wedding ring, and knew this was just for fun, but I was definitely coming back.
Daydream 2:
After the rinse, when I was sitting up, I whispered to Jan, “I’m actually much more ticklish between my lower back and side.” She smiled but seemed reluctant at first. I shrugged my shoulders and sighed. She tentatively reached down and squeezed my lower side. I squirmed and my face distorted from that giddy, uncontrollable feeling. I laughed breifly. We heard the woman laugh again. This encouraged Jan. She tickled my side harder and longer now, and seemed happy to hear how much louder I laughed. The woman laughed louder than before. I saw now it was becoming a contest. Was this some kind of pre-arranged competition between them, or some bet?
Jan tickled with both hands now, seeking and finding a sweet spot. I grew more hysterical, twisting and jerking, my tearing eyes squeezed almost shut, my deep belly laughs drowning out the woman’s laughter. But now the woman was laughing even louder. It was an arms race with no end in sight. Who can make their victim laugh the loudest? In an attempt to control my thrashing about, Jan wrapped one arm around my chest, pulled me back against the chair, one hand in my armpit, and her other hand on my hip. Then she leaned in close and whispered “Tickle tickle tickle!”, as her hands begin digging in. I laughed louder than I thought possible. Jan stopped and waited for a response from the next room.
The shriek we heard was half banshee, half werewolf, and full-on scary. I seriously doubted Jan would be able to elicit anywhere near that level of hysteria from me. I should have had more faith in her. She had a fierce competitive spirit and would not be denied, no matter what the cost to my lungs and vocal cords.
She grabbed my shirt and undershirt on both sides and pulled them up with impressive force. I was suddenly cocooned from the shoulders up, my arms trapped, my eyes staring at a button on my shirt and a cool breeze threatening to tickle my belly. I have no idea what Jan actually did next, but it felt like a whirlwind tickle attack from one of those many-armed gods from India. I imagined her hands making the same whooshing sounds you hear in cheap martial arts films. The affect of that much rapid, skilled, extreme, merciless tickling, stunned my brain, delaying a reaction. I don’t remember making any sound at all, but innocent bystanders later described it as if a police siren and air horn had learned to laugh. It was an ecstatic, narcotic, traumatic experience of violent sensory overload. I could not tolerate another second of it, and I never wanted it to end. Jan stopped tickling and let me wind down. I almost had withdrawal symptoms, reluctant to come back to normal reality. We listened for a response from the next room, but either the woman was quiet or I had gone deaf from my vocal blast. Jan pulled my shirts down. I was tempted to tell her that was better than most sex, but instead asked, “Did we win?” She smiled, very broadly. I tipped more than usual. I went home and, after my throat had healed, I experimented with rapid hair growth lotions.
Daydream 3:
“What is he doing to her?” I wondered aloud, hearing the woman’s frantic laugh from the next room.
Jan straightened my chair, dried my hair, and whispered. “Look, I have some money on this bet. All you have to do is laugh for me, louder than she does.”
I whispered back, “That hardly seems honest. His jokes must be better than yours.”
“You don’t like my jokes, fine! I actually like doing things the hard way, but I was afraid of getting carried away.” She pulled off her fashionable belt and wrapped it around my torso and the chair, trapping my arms and cinching it tightly on the back of the chair. “Tell me where you’re ticklish and I’ll make this quick and merciful.” she whispered.
“Hey, I didn’t volunteer for this.” Being tied up was making me feel claustrophobic. I tried to stand up and slip out of the belt but was quickly distracted by her grabbing at my sides. She was tickling all the coordination out of me as I squirmed and giggled, and sunk back into the chair, quickly becoming too tickle-weakened to escape.
“That took all the fight out of you, didn’t it?”, she marveled, redoubling her efforts. “Aww, look who doesn’t think my jokes are funny?” she taunted, “Coochie? Coochie? I’m so glad you’re so amazingly ticklish. You really are, aren’t you?”
“T-t-t-tell me more jokes” I pleaded.
“Too late for that!” She kept exploring my sides and lower back until she hit the spot she was looking for.
“NAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAHAHAAAA!”, I laughed with increasing volume and desperation, arching my back, straining against the belt, in a futile attempt to avoid her rapid, wiggling, digging fingers. She was relentless, driving me to higher volumes, but we could still hear the woman next door. Jan kept switching her attack, hunting for more spots and keeping me off balance, but the laughter next door was louder still. She stopped tickling for a moment, undecided on what to do next, allowing me to catch my breath. Jan was looking at me up and down, analyzing me. I looked at her quizzically, but said nothing, fearing that might end the welcome break.
She answered my questioning eyes. “I have a theory that body language and certain physical characteristics can reveal special vulnerabilities. Once I decide what type you are, I’ll know exactly what to do.”
I didn’t recognize her. She didn’t seem like the hair stylist I had known. She spoke like a mad scientist, using objective methods to serve some dark, secret, obsessive passion. I began to fantasize about her private life.
She pulled up my shirt and studied my stomach, which was neither six-pack nor beer keg. Keeping her hands flat, straight and parallel to my sides, she pressed her fingertips deep into the front edges of my abdomen, on either side of my stomach. Looking into my eyes, she smiled at my growing apprehension. She let the moment linger, gradually raising her eyebrows, gradually parting her lips, and then wiggling her fingertips ever so slightly back and forth. It felt like little bursts of electric, manic joy. I lost control of my body as it automatically squirmed to evade her, but she matched my movements, her fingertips staying in position, wiggling harder and faster. The electric joy was building into a frantic hysteria. “Stop, stop, stop, STAAAHAAHAAHAAAHAAHAHAAHAA!”, I laughed, easily drowning out the competition in the next room. She watched me intently, pausing to give me one breath whenever I began to fall into silent laughter.
Over my laughter, I could hear the man’s voice shouting from the next room, “I yield.”
Jan seemed far too distracted to hear him. Something had changed in her. Her eyes had an almost feral fierceness. She was an obsessed musician, locked into playing this compulsive music, stroking her helpless instrument to ever greater heights of passionate intensity. Desperation began edging into my laughter as I howled and screamed and wailed.
The man’s voice laughed, “Jan! Don’t break him!”
Jan pulled her hands away, again and again, but they kept coming back to my sides like they had a mind of their own.
“Jan!” the man shouted insistently.
“Ok, ok!” Jan smoothed her hands down her sides as if to give them something else to do. “Stop laughing, please”, she pleaded. Now my laughter seemed to be triggering some kind of tickling compulsion in her. This was the “carried away” she had worried about. I stared at her silently for a moment, then, as an experiment, I giggled briefly. She pressed her lips together, closed her eyes and grunted. I giggled longer and higher pitched. “You don’t want to do that.” she warned, walking around the chair and unbuckling the belt. She reached around my waist, pulling the belt away, but dragging her clawed hand hard across my belly. I tried to stifle the giggle, but it kept breaking out in sputtering bursts. She slowed her hand and slightly wiggled her fingers as though daring me to laugh, daring me to trigger another marathon. I squeaked and sputtered, and struggled not to laugh as she slowly pulled the belt away.
I paid quickly and left without further comment, happy to leave.
I was determined to never go to that barber shop again. But I daydream about it. I daydream about walking in, sitting down and daring to laugh, just enough.
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