glentickle
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Apr 22, 2001
- Messages
- 173
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Tickling W___ (nonconsensual, true)
Good morning, tickle lovers. Good morning to each and every one of you, my bretheren-and-sisteren-who-let-me-know-I'm-not-alone-in-the-world-with-my-freakiness. Today is a beautiful spring day here in New York, and it reminds me of another beautiful spring day in New York about fifteen years ago, when I was still very much alone with my freakiness. Still very much tormented by my freakiness. I'm talking about back when just saying the word "tickle" gave me this wiggly-giggly giddiness. And that's a crucial part of this story.
In between high school and college I spent the summer working at G____, in the town of M____. I was a clerk. Filed papers. Made lists of things. But I thought I'd move up in the company and make lots and lots and lots of money, so when the summer was over I put off college to work for another year. But I have to admit it wasn't entirely the money. There was a young woman at the office named W____ with whom I was completely infatuated.
I say she was young, but this is misleading. She was younger than I am now; she was 27 back then, the summer I turned seventeen. (Before anyone raises objections: I finished high school a couple of years early. But it's not what you think. I dropped out and got my equivalency diploma, and pretty much got lucky when I was accepted into college. But that's another story.) Anyway, it was W____ that I stayed around for. I'm sure of it. I'm dying to say her name...but then she'd know for sure it's her I'm writing about. -But why should I care now? So she'll know I have a tickling fetish...well, she's from that time when the fear of disclosure would cripple me, when the thought of anyone actually KNOWING that tickling was...well...you know, sexually exciting...I was embarrassed, ashamed. Crippled. Maybe some of that still remains.
She was untouchable. Very smooth, tanned skin...Puerto Rican (I've always had a special thing for Latinas). Perfect, round mouth, full lips, silky black hair that she grew down to her waist during the year I worked there. Very cute little body...she was short, with thick thighs, toned and muscular...tiny feet. Strong legs, skinny waist, little feet. Always in stockings, business suits and stockings. I was obsessed with her feet. I actually moved my desk over behind hers, claiming the light was better over there, just so I could stare at them. She always sat with her feet pulled back under her chair, with ankles crossed, the top of one foot resting on the heel of the other. The bottom foot had its toes on the floor, and the weight of the top foot would make the other shoe "pop" off...I wish I could draw you a picture. The shoe never came completely off; the toes stayed in, but the entire sole was exposed, stretched tight. What a gorgeous sight! I'd stare and stare at that smooth, exposed sole, hoping it would be ticklish (ironically, since it was obvious I could never realistically think of tickling it), completely unable to concentrate on anything else. You guys out there know what I'm talking about, oh yes you do. You've done it yourself -- flunked classes and lost good jobs because of it. W____ was an utter fantasy: she was my superior at the office; I worked for her. She was ten years older than I -- an adult, really, while I was still just a teenager. She was gorgeous, she was married. I didn't even have a girlfriend.
So I did what I could do. I befriended her, or tried to; she was cold as a dead fish. She must have known I had a crush on her, and she made sure not to encourage me. She'd snap at me, announce that I was annoying her. That used to kill me -- to think that I annoyed her. But I ended up getting used to that role, and so I'd annoy her more. It was the only way I could interact with her. We actually ended up becoming sort of friends on that basis; she said I was the bratty baby brother she'd never had. (Looking back, I should have seen this as an opportunity. I was, in fact, a bratty kid brother, and my older sister was the first girl I'd ever tickled...how do I sum this up? I used to tickle my sister all the time. Especially when I was very young, but even into my early teens. Sometimes she'd let me but most of the time she wouldn't, and I'm sure she played a crucial role in the development of my tickling fetish. If W____was relating to me as a little brother, I should have known that certain boundaries could be broken. But I was too young for such objectivity....)
Our office was two miles down the road from the main office, and I had to make the trip back and forth a few times a day. During the summer and into the fall I'd use an old bicycle that someone brought in for me, but once the weather turned cold I'd have to wait for someone else to drive down so I could catch a ride. I rode with W____ as often as I could, and worked my way up from there to asking her to drive me back to the city each day. (The office was about thirty miles out of New York City, and I'd take public transportation out there each morning. By and by it became the regular routine for W____to drive me back to the city each evening. We didn't live near each other, but she'd drop me off at the subway. The 6 train, after which Jennifer Lopez named her last album, for those of you who get the reference.)
It was during those rides that we developed something that can be called a friendship. She was always condescending to me, but it was her defense against my questions. I'd try to get her to talk about things...her dreams, her goals, her life...but this was threatening to her. She wasn't happy with her job, or her marriage, or her life in general. Although successful professionally (a lawyer), she didn't derive satisfaction from it. She looked on me with some wonder, I think, because I was so young and already in college, yet I didn't care about going. I was going to be a rock star. I smoked a joint every morning, sometimes another at lunch. I read Ayn Rand and figured out that most people in the world were worthless. But I wanted to save W____ from her terrible life, so I'd ask her the most personal, probing questions, trying to inspire her to dream of something fantastic. She always remained as closed as she could be, hiding something, but as the months passed I found little cracks, and I wedged things in there to make them spread wider. One day she blurted out to me that she was sterile -- incapable of conceiving a child. And all she wanted to do in life was be a mother. And this made her life miserable. And she had no hope of it ever changing.
In a detached, professional tone I asked about her sex life, as though mature adults should be able to discuss such things. She said she hated sex.
"How can you hate sex?"
"I just do. I don't like it."
"Why don't you like it?" (Trying to keep her from changing the subject.)
"Glen, not everyone enjoys sex, you know." (Getting a bit irritated.)
"If you don't like it, it means you're not doing it right." (Pretending I know something.)
"I AM doing it right. It's just different for different people." (Cracks in the armor.)
"Of course it's different for different people, but it should be enjoyable for everyone. You must be doing something wrong." (Smug. Provoking.)
"I do enjoy it. It's just...one, two, and it's over. And then you're all sweaty!" (Faking a laugh, trying to make a joke out of it.)
"You need to do other things, to make it last longer."
"Yes, Glen, I KNOW about foreplay." (With open irritation, impatience.)
"Well, do you do any?"
"Any what?"
"Any foreplay."
"Glen, I'm not discussing this with you!"
"Look, I'm just trying to help. I feel bad, thinking you don't enjoy sex."
"It's none of your business. Dios mio! You're such a child!"
"I think you're the one being childish. Here I am, offering to help, and you're just snapping at me." (Pretending to be oh-so-mature.)
"Oh, sure, you want to help? Fine. What do YOU think I should do? I'd like to hear this." (Thinking she'll call my bluff, intimidate me, make me back down.)
"Well, you need to try foreplay." (A bit lost.)
"Go on." (Getting the upper hand.)
"You know, do more stuff before the sex starts." (Struggling.)
"Like what, exactly?" (Smiling, confident now that she's got me flustered.)
"Well, um..." (Stammering. A dim idea forming.)
"Yes?" (Expectant, mocking.)
"You could try..." (Getting short of breath, dizzy with anticipation.)
"You don't know what you're talking about!" (Laughing, confident. Challenging me.)
"Does your husband ever tickle you?" (WHAT DID I JUST SAY?)
"Wha-- what?!" (Suddenly nervous, half-laughing, half-gasping.)
"You know, tickle you?" The words came out meekly, softly, fearfully. I could barely get them out; my mouth had gone dry and I was literally hyperventilating. Such was the effect on me of merely saying that word. I had said it out loud. To Wanda. Actually asked her if her husband ever tickles her. I was making her talk about sex, and asking her about tickling. And she had practically dared me into it. But it didn't stop there.
"He did, once. But he knows better." (Angels singing...so she IS ticklish! But how could she be ticklish? She's too pretty to be ticklish. Too cold. Always composed. Always in control of herself. I had to hear more.)
"Why? What happened?"
Silence.
"Wanda, what happened!"
But she would not respond. I could get nothing more out of her. So I was desperate.
"I think you need to be tickled."
Silence.
"I think it would solve all your problems."
Silence.
"One of these days, I'm going to tickle you."
Irritation.
"For like, ten seconds."
Scowling.
"No, twenty." Thrilling myself, out of control. "Maybe longer."
She suddenly laughed out loud. It just sprang out of her, as if at some thought of her own. I said nothing else. We drove the rest of the way in silence.
The day finally did come. It was the following spring, months later. All through the winter I didn't let her forget about the tickling I'd promised her, though I suppose I never really knew if I'd do it. It was a fantasy. I thrilled myself with the thought of it, but doing it was another thing altogether. But the chance came, and I took it. On a warm spring day, much like today, she drove me down to the main office. I suppose I could have taken the bicycle, but that day she drove me. She'd bought new spring clothes, and wore a tight, lime-green skirt, and a white cotton tee-shirt, with a belt cinched around the waist. White pumps. Bare legs. Her hair was down to the middle of her back by then. We pulled into the parking lot, and I hoped she'd take a secluded spot. She didn't. Parked in the first spot right in front. It wasn't the right time, but I was young....She turned off the engine, and there was a moment's hesitation. I didn't get out. I said her name. She said what, I said nothing. "Nothing," I said. We still sat there. Again she said "What?" Waiting. Then I turned to her and said "You know what?" She just looked at me. Two seconds passed, during which I had no idea whether I'd actually do it.
And then I pounced. She sqealed "I knew it!" and began fighting back. I didn't even tickle right away -- I just tried to get my hands around her waist. She pushed them away, forcefully, squirming in her seat. Little gasps of laughter came out of her, just from the struggle, though she had her arms wrapped firmly around her waist for protection and I could feel how strong she was. I had my left arm around her back, trying to get at her ribs, while I pulled at her defending arms with my other hand. But she was wrapped up tight. I poked at her side, which was well protected, and she continued her short, high-pitched little laugh. Keeping my left arm around her back, with my right I grabbed at her knees -- would they be ticklish? They were. Both hands came to their defense, leaving the sides and stomach exposed, falling for the trick. Quickly I had both hands around her middle, and when she wrapped her arms up again my hands were already inside hers. I tickled her freely, around her ribs and sides, and her little high-pitched laugh changed to a long, low one...the strength went out of her arms, and she could do nothing but sit back, laugh and laugh, and wait for me to stop...I was tickling her. I was tickling her. It was ecstasy.
It has remained, to this day, the best tickle of my life. The perfect blend of consensual/nonconsensual tickling. The crossing of boundaries, without utter violation. She was not the most ticklish woman I've ever tickled, and it was not the longest tickling I've ever given. It was actually cut short, unfortunately, when one of the company Directors drove into the lot and had to pass us on his way back to the front door. But maybe it was just long enough.
Two or three years later I ran into one of my old co-workers from G____. He told me about this person and that, catching up on the details. He'd stayed in touch with a lot of people. Wanda had left the company, he said. Now, say what you will of this; I'm not insisting on anything. It's all hopeful conjecture. But Wanda, he said, left on maternity leave and never came back. She had a girl, and mother and baby were doing just fine.
Sworn and attested that every word is true,
glen
[email protected]
Good morning, tickle lovers. Good morning to each and every one of you, my bretheren-and-sisteren-who-let-me-know-I'm-not-alone-in-the-world-with-my-freakiness. Today is a beautiful spring day here in New York, and it reminds me of another beautiful spring day in New York about fifteen years ago, when I was still very much alone with my freakiness. Still very much tormented by my freakiness. I'm talking about back when just saying the word "tickle" gave me this wiggly-giggly giddiness. And that's a crucial part of this story.
In between high school and college I spent the summer working at G____, in the town of M____. I was a clerk. Filed papers. Made lists of things. But I thought I'd move up in the company and make lots and lots and lots of money, so when the summer was over I put off college to work for another year. But I have to admit it wasn't entirely the money. There was a young woman at the office named W____ with whom I was completely infatuated.
I say she was young, but this is misleading. She was younger than I am now; she was 27 back then, the summer I turned seventeen. (Before anyone raises objections: I finished high school a couple of years early. But it's not what you think. I dropped out and got my equivalency diploma, and pretty much got lucky when I was accepted into college. But that's another story.) Anyway, it was W____ that I stayed around for. I'm sure of it. I'm dying to say her name...but then she'd know for sure it's her I'm writing about. -But why should I care now? So she'll know I have a tickling fetish...well, she's from that time when the fear of disclosure would cripple me, when the thought of anyone actually KNOWING that tickling was...well...you know, sexually exciting...I was embarrassed, ashamed. Crippled. Maybe some of that still remains.
She was untouchable. Very smooth, tanned skin...Puerto Rican (I've always had a special thing for Latinas). Perfect, round mouth, full lips, silky black hair that she grew down to her waist during the year I worked there. Very cute little body...she was short, with thick thighs, toned and muscular...tiny feet. Strong legs, skinny waist, little feet. Always in stockings, business suits and stockings. I was obsessed with her feet. I actually moved my desk over behind hers, claiming the light was better over there, just so I could stare at them. She always sat with her feet pulled back under her chair, with ankles crossed, the top of one foot resting on the heel of the other. The bottom foot had its toes on the floor, and the weight of the top foot would make the other shoe "pop" off...I wish I could draw you a picture. The shoe never came completely off; the toes stayed in, but the entire sole was exposed, stretched tight. What a gorgeous sight! I'd stare and stare at that smooth, exposed sole, hoping it would be ticklish (ironically, since it was obvious I could never realistically think of tickling it), completely unable to concentrate on anything else. You guys out there know what I'm talking about, oh yes you do. You've done it yourself -- flunked classes and lost good jobs because of it. W____ was an utter fantasy: she was my superior at the office; I worked for her. She was ten years older than I -- an adult, really, while I was still just a teenager. She was gorgeous, she was married. I didn't even have a girlfriend.
So I did what I could do. I befriended her, or tried to; she was cold as a dead fish. She must have known I had a crush on her, and she made sure not to encourage me. She'd snap at me, announce that I was annoying her. That used to kill me -- to think that I annoyed her. But I ended up getting used to that role, and so I'd annoy her more. It was the only way I could interact with her. We actually ended up becoming sort of friends on that basis; she said I was the bratty baby brother she'd never had. (Looking back, I should have seen this as an opportunity. I was, in fact, a bratty kid brother, and my older sister was the first girl I'd ever tickled...how do I sum this up? I used to tickle my sister all the time. Especially when I was very young, but even into my early teens. Sometimes she'd let me but most of the time she wouldn't, and I'm sure she played a crucial role in the development of my tickling fetish. If W____was relating to me as a little brother, I should have known that certain boundaries could be broken. But I was too young for such objectivity....)
Our office was two miles down the road from the main office, and I had to make the trip back and forth a few times a day. During the summer and into the fall I'd use an old bicycle that someone brought in for me, but once the weather turned cold I'd have to wait for someone else to drive down so I could catch a ride. I rode with W____ as often as I could, and worked my way up from there to asking her to drive me back to the city each day. (The office was about thirty miles out of New York City, and I'd take public transportation out there each morning. By and by it became the regular routine for W____to drive me back to the city each evening. We didn't live near each other, but she'd drop me off at the subway. The 6 train, after which Jennifer Lopez named her last album, for those of you who get the reference.)
It was during those rides that we developed something that can be called a friendship. She was always condescending to me, but it was her defense against my questions. I'd try to get her to talk about things...her dreams, her goals, her life...but this was threatening to her. She wasn't happy with her job, or her marriage, or her life in general. Although successful professionally (a lawyer), she didn't derive satisfaction from it. She looked on me with some wonder, I think, because I was so young and already in college, yet I didn't care about going. I was going to be a rock star. I smoked a joint every morning, sometimes another at lunch. I read Ayn Rand and figured out that most people in the world were worthless. But I wanted to save W____ from her terrible life, so I'd ask her the most personal, probing questions, trying to inspire her to dream of something fantastic. She always remained as closed as she could be, hiding something, but as the months passed I found little cracks, and I wedged things in there to make them spread wider. One day she blurted out to me that she was sterile -- incapable of conceiving a child. And all she wanted to do in life was be a mother. And this made her life miserable. And she had no hope of it ever changing.
In a detached, professional tone I asked about her sex life, as though mature adults should be able to discuss such things. She said she hated sex.
"How can you hate sex?"
"I just do. I don't like it."
"Why don't you like it?" (Trying to keep her from changing the subject.)
"Glen, not everyone enjoys sex, you know." (Getting a bit irritated.)
"If you don't like it, it means you're not doing it right." (Pretending I know something.)
"I AM doing it right. It's just different for different people." (Cracks in the armor.)
"Of course it's different for different people, but it should be enjoyable for everyone. You must be doing something wrong." (Smug. Provoking.)
"I do enjoy it. It's just...one, two, and it's over. And then you're all sweaty!" (Faking a laugh, trying to make a joke out of it.)
"You need to do other things, to make it last longer."
"Yes, Glen, I KNOW about foreplay." (With open irritation, impatience.)
"Well, do you do any?"
"Any what?"
"Any foreplay."
"Glen, I'm not discussing this with you!"
"Look, I'm just trying to help. I feel bad, thinking you don't enjoy sex."
"It's none of your business. Dios mio! You're such a child!"
"I think you're the one being childish. Here I am, offering to help, and you're just snapping at me." (Pretending to be oh-so-mature.)
"Oh, sure, you want to help? Fine. What do YOU think I should do? I'd like to hear this." (Thinking she'll call my bluff, intimidate me, make me back down.)
"Well, you need to try foreplay." (A bit lost.)
"Go on." (Getting the upper hand.)
"You know, do more stuff before the sex starts." (Struggling.)
"Like what, exactly?" (Smiling, confident now that she's got me flustered.)
"Well, um..." (Stammering. A dim idea forming.)
"Yes?" (Expectant, mocking.)
"You could try..." (Getting short of breath, dizzy with anticipation.)
"You don't know what you're talking about!" (Laughing, confident. Challenging me.)
"Does your husband ever tickle you?" (WHAT DID I JUST SAY?)
"Wha-- what?!" (Suddenly nervous, half-laughing, half-gasping.)
"You know, tickle you?" The words came out meekly, softly, fearfully. I could barely get them out; my mouth had gone dry and I was literally hyperventilating. Such was the effect on me of merely saying that word. I had said it out loud. To Wanda. Actually asked her if her husband ever tickles her. I was making her talk about sex, and asking her about tickling. And she had practically dared me into it. But it didn't stop there.
"He did, once. But he knows better." (Angels singing...so she IS ticklish! But how could she be ticklish? She's too pretty to be ticklish. Too cold. Always composed. Always in control of herself. I had to hear more.)
"Why? What happened?"
Silence.
"Wanda, what happened!"
But she would not respond. I could get nothing more out of her. So I was desperate.
"I think you need to be tickled."
Silence.
"I think it would solve all your problems."
Silence.
"One of these days, I'm going to tickle you."
Irritation.
"For like, ten seconds."
Scowling.
"No, twenty." Thrilling myself, out of control. "Maybe longer."
She suddenly laughed out loud. It just sprang out of her, as if at some thought of her own. I said nothing else. We drove the rest of the way in silence.
The day finally did come. It was the following spring, months later. All through the winter I didn't let her forget about the tickling I'd promised her, though I suppose I never really knew if I'd do it. It was a fantasy. I thrilled myself with the thought of it, but doing it was another thing altogether. But the chance came, and I took it. On a warm spring day, much like today, she drove me down to the main office. I suppose I could have taken the bicycle, but that day she drove me. She'd bought new spring clothes, and wore a tight, lime-green skirt, and a white cotton tee-shirt, with a belt cinched around the waist. White pumps. Bare legs. Her hair was down to the middle of her back by then. We pulled into the parking lot, and I hoped she'd take a secluded spot. She didn't. Parked in the first spot right in front. It wasn't the right time, but I was young....She turned off the engine, and there was a moment's hesitation. I didn't get out. I said her name. She said what, I said nothing. "Nothing," I said. We still sat there. Again she said "What?" Waiting. Then I turned to her and said "You know what?" She just looked at me. Two seconds passed, during which I had no idea whether I'd actually do it.
And then I pounced. She sqealed "I knew it!" and began fighting back. I didn't even tickle right away -- I just tried to get my hands around her waist. She pushed them away, forcefully, squirming in her seat. Little gasps of laughter came out of her, just from the struggle, though she had her arms wrapped firmly around her waist for protection and I could feel how strong she was. I had my left arm around her back, trying to get at her ribs, while I pulled at her defending arms with my other hand. But she was wrapped up tight. I poked at her side, which was well protected, and she continued her short, high-pitched little laugh. Keeping my left arm around her back, with my right I grabbed at her knees -- would they be ticklish? They were. Both hands came to their defense, leaving the sides and stomach exposed, falling for the trick. Quickly I had both hands around her middle, and when she wrapped her arms up again my hands were already inside hers. I tickled her freely, around her ribs and sides, and her little high-pitched laugh changed to a long, low one...the strength went out of her arms, and she could do nothing but sit back, laugh and laugh, and wait for me to stop...I was tickling her. I was tickling her. It was ecstasy.
It has remained, to this day, the best tickle of my life. The perfect blend of consensual/nonconsensual tickling. The crossing of boundaries, without utter violation. She was not the most ticklish woman I've ever tickled, and it was not the longest tickling I've ever given. It was actually cut short, unfortunately, when one of the company Directors drove into the lot and had to pass us on his way back to the front door. But maybe it was just long enough.
Two or three years later I ran into one of my old co-workers from G____. He told me about this person and that, catching up on the details. He'd stayed in touch with a lot of people. Wanda had left the company, he said. Now, say what you will of this; I'm not insisting on anything. It's all hopeful conjecture. But Wanda, he said, left on maternity leave and never came back. She had a girl, and mother and baby were doing just fine.
Sworn and attested that every word is true,
glen
[email protected]
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