Starting a thread to collect some of my encounters with my sweet and lovely spouse which I've recounted in other threads -- and hopefully add some new ones.
I was lying on my back on the sofa; my wife was lying on top of me, her hands folded on my chest, her chin perched on her hands, her eyes locked on mine. The light glinted prettily off the soft golden hairs on her gorgeous wrists. I had my arms around her, my hands meeting on her back. We were talking about mundane everyday stuff; did something I say set her off or give her the idea? No clue, but for some reason she lifted her head a bit, removed her hands from my chest, extended her arms down by our sides, and started scampering her fingers against my sides, just above my waist -- a very very very very very susceptible spot for me, as she -- more than anyone else on earth -- too well knows.
The effect was instantaneous, as she knew it would be. Instantly my every muscle tensed, my hands flew instinctively from her back to clench as fists near my shoulders, and I was laughing, instantly, laughing loud and hard, a bellowing laughter pouring forth from my wide-open mouth, helpless to do anything about the relentless sensations tormenting my terribly ticklish sides except to squirm violently and laugh.
She was grinning, a serene but amused grin, her face just a short distance from mine as I writhed and laughed and laughed and writhed and laughed. She didn't say anything -- I probably couldn't have heard her anyway. Those fingertips of hers just kept fluttering mischievously, unimpeded, against my twitching sides.
My constant, cascading laughter came in waves with the rhythms of my breathing -- "AAHHahahaha, AAHHahahaha, AAHHahahaha, AAHHahahaha." I pressed my hands against her shoulders, tried to push her away, but all of her weight was against me, I couldn't do it. I gave up and my hands curled into helpless fists once again. I wriggled urgently under her weight but couldn't get away, couldn't move, couldn't do anything, really, except be ticklish and be tickled, until she felt like stopping.
Which she did, ultimately. She returned her hands to my chest, folded them under her chin again, and resumed our conversation, my accelerated breathing and heartbeat the only evidence of her wicked little interlude.
I was lying on my back on the sofa; my wife was lying on top of me, her hands folded on my chest, her chin perched on her hands, her eyes locked on mine. The light glinted prettily off the soft golden hairs on her gorgeous wrists. I had my arms around her, my hands meeting on her back. We were talking about mundane everyday stuff; did something I say set her off or give her the idea? No clue, but for some reason she lifted her head a bit, removed her hands from my chest, extended her arms down by our sides, and started scampering her fingers against my sides, just above my waist -- a very very very very very susceptible spot for me, as she -- more than anyone else on earth -- too well knows.
The effect was instantaneous, as she knew it would be. Instantly my every muscle tensed, my hands flew instinctively from her back to clench as fists near my shoulders, and I was laughing, instantly, laughing loud and hard, a bellowing laughter pouring forth from my wide-open mouth, helpless to do anything about the relentless sensations tormenting my terribly ticklish sides except to squirm violently and laugh.
She was grinning, a serene but amused grin, her face just a short distance from mine as I writhed and laughed and laughed and writhed and laughed. She didn't say anything -- I probably couldn't have heard her anyway. Those fingertips of hers just kept fluttering mischievously, unimpeded, against my twitching sides.
My constant, cascading laughter came in waves with the rhythms of my breathing -- "AAHHahahaha, AAHHahahaha, AAHHahahaha, AAHHahahaha." I pressed my hands against her shoulders, tried to push her away, but all of her weight was against me, I couldn't do it. I gave up and my hands curled into helpless fists once again. I wriggled urgently under her weight but couldn't get away, couldn't move, couldn't do anything, really, except be ticklish and be tickled, until she felt like stopping.
Which she did, ultimately. She returned her hands to my chest, folded them under her chin again, and resumed our conversation, my accelerated breathing and heartbeat the only evidence of her wicked little interlude.