"9:28pm", Or, My First Foray Into Posting Here Even Though They Aren't Really Stories
Hi, everyone. This is my first foray into posting my writing here. I tend to write quick, playful bits that are more prose than story, to be read by a sensitive 'lee in hopes of arousing ticklish thoughts. Hope you enjoy! -Bebop
*****
I walk into the living room, a steaming mug of chamomile tea in each hand, to find that you’ve shifted positions. When I got up to get us tea, you had been sitting on the couch, feet on the floor; now you’re laying across the couch, propped up on your elbows, feet resting in the spot I’d occupied only moments before.
I put the tea down on the ottoman in front of us and raise an eyebrow at you.
“And where am I supposed to sit?” I ask, as though I have no idea what I’m about to do.
You stick your tongue out at me, as though you have no idea either.
The air is thick with anticipation for a moment, then I sit down on the couch, my knees across your ankles, trapping your legs to the couch. You sit up, keeping yourself propped up with your arms, and bump my shoulder with your head.
I reach my arm around your torso, holding you up, and rest my other hand on your feet poking out from under my legs. I feel your breathing quicken in an instant. I look you in the eyes.
“Hey, can I ask you something?”
All pretense of casual conversation is gone. You look back at me with the intense, fearful, eager eyes I recognize so well. You just nod, not breaking eye contact.
“Are you my good little lee?”
And that’s the moment you know you’re in trouble. I see it all over your face - I feel it in the way your body stiffens. You’re panicking. You don’t know what to say. I lean in so our foreheads are barely touching.
“It’s okay. I think you are.” With the hand wrapped around you, holding you to me, I trace one finger delicately along the edge of your ribs. “I just have to make sure. That’s why I have to find out.” I find a crease in between two ribs and apply a drop of pressure that makes you breathe in sharply. “You don’t mind, do you?”
You look so adorable, shaking your trembling head. You hardly know which way is up anymore, and I’ve barely touched you. Poor thing. You never stood a chance. I smile at you.
“Good. Then I’m going to tickle you.”
You make a tiny noise. I love it. I love this. I hold you tight with the hand on your ribs.
“Say it with me now: five… four…” You screw your eyes shut, mouthing along with me.
“Three…”
I feel you clench your hands. Your toes curl. Delicious.
“Two…AAH!”
I couldn’t wait any longer. As soon as we said two, my left hand dug into your ribs, moving slowly, slowly, but firmly across them, pushing into them and around them with the pads of my fingers, sending jolts of electricity through you. You squeal aloud and collapse forward, resting your head on my shoulder, moving in closer to the tickles as I play with your ribs from every angle.
I find a particularly sensitive spot at the bottom of your ribs and form a claw, squeezing in. When that gets a barking laugh out of you, I do it again, and again, delighting in the way I can drive you to helpless bouts of laughter with just one hand.
Suddenly I stop, and hold your side tight with my palm, as if to shield you from any other ticklers but me. You’re leaning on my shoulder, catching your breath, when you feel my other hand rest atop your toes, poking out from under my legs.
You breathe in sharply. Ah, fuck.
“You didn’t think I was just going to forget about these cute little feet here, did you?”
You groan, and then your groan becomes a Hey, wait! as you feel my fingers hook inside the hem of your sock, and start sliding it off. Your socked foot moves to protect its bare counterpart, but I’ve seen your toes now, and nothing is going to stop me from getting my fingers in between them.
“Count with me now. Five… four…”
Our tea sits on the ottoman, long forgotten.
Hi, everyone. This is my first foray into posting my writing here. I tend to write quick, playful bits that are more prose than story, to be read by a sensitive 'lee in hopes of arousing ticklish thoughts. Hope you enjoy! -Bebop
*****
I walk into the living room, a steaming mug of chamomile tea in each hand, to find that you’ve shifted positions. When I got up to get us tea, you had been sitting on the couch, feet on the floor; now you’re laying across the couch, propped up on your elbows, feet resting in the spot I’d occupied only moments before.
I put the tea down on the ottoman in front of us and raise an eyebrow at you.
“And where am I supposed to sit?” I ask, as though I have no idea what I’m about to do.
You stick your tongue out at me, as though you have no idea either.
The air is thick with anticipation for a moment, then I sit down on the couch, my knees across your ankles, trapping your legs to the couch. You sit up, keeping yourself propped up with your arms, and bump my shoulder with your head.
I reach my arm around your torso, holding you up, and rest my other hand on your feet poking out from under my legs. I feel your breathing quicken in an instant. I look you in the eyes.
“Hey, can I ask you something?”
All pretense of casual conversation is gone. You look back at me with the intense, fearful, eager eyes I recognize so well. You just nod, not breaking eye contact.
“Are you my good little lee?”
And that’s the moment you know you’re in trouble. I see it all over your face - I feel it in the way your body stiffens. You’re panicking. You don’t know what to say. I lean in so our foreheads are barely touching.
“It’s okay. I think you are.” With the hand wrapped around you, holding you to me, I trace one finger delicately along the edge of your ribs. “I just have to make sure. That’s why I have to find out.” I find a crease in between two ribs and apply a drop of pressure that makes you breathe in sharply. “You don’t mind, do you?”
You look so adorable, shaking your trembling head. You hardly know which way is up anymore, and I’ve barely touched you. Poor thing. You never stood a chance. I smile at you.
“Good. Then I’m going to tickle you.”
You make a tiny noise. I love it. I love this. I hold you tight with the hand on your ribs.
“Say it with me now: five… four…” You screw your eyes shut, mouthing along with me.
“Three…”
I feel you clench your hands. Your toes curl. Delicious.
“Two…AAH!”
I couldn’t wait any longer. As soon as we said two, my left hand dug into your ribs, moving slowly, slowly, but firmly across them, pushing into them and around them with the pads of my fingers, sending jolts of electricity through you. You squeal aloud and collapse forward, resting your head on my shoulder, moving in closer to the tickles as I play with your ribs from every angle.
I find a particularly sensitive spot at the bottom of your ribs and form a claw, squeezing in. When that gets a barking laugh out of you, I do it again, and again, delighting in the way I can drive you to helpless bouts of laughter with just one hand.
Suddenly I stop, and hold your side tight with my palm, as if to shield you from any other ticklers but me. You’re leaning on my shoulder, catching your breath, when you feel my other hand rest atop your toes, poking out from under my legs.
You breathe in sharply. Ah, fuck.
“You didn’t think I was just going to forget about these cute little feet here, did you?”
You groan, and then your groan becomes a Hey, wait! as you feel my fingers hook inside the hem of your sock, and start sliding it off. Your socked foot moves to protect its bare counterpart, but I’ve seen your toes now, and nothing is going to stop me from getting my fingers in between them.
“Count with me now. Five… four…”
Our tea sits on the ottoman, long forgotten.
