When I was dating her, Laura was a law student. She had keen brown eyes and an adorably bewitching way of arching her eyebrow. She dimpled when giving a crooked smile, which was the only kind of smile she gave. Her hair was straight and brown and unassuming, usually thrown back in a no-nonsense ponytail, and she had this marvelously distinctive nose, full at the end and bumpy in the middle, which was a different shape depending on what angle you watched it from.
She had a sexy solid build, big-boned and well-muscled, fit and gorgeously curvy. Baby, as the kids used to say, had back. But I think the first thing I noticed about her was her arms: sandy-colored, shapely and muscular, with nice big smooth hands--elegant knuckles, strong pretty fingers. And when you looked closely in the sunlight her arms and wrists were flecked with short, delicate golden hairs that could melt your heart.
We had a lot of fun together, but she was often thoroughly serious; law school was a lot of work and she devoted a lot of hours to it. She studied every night and so we'd rarely get together before eleven p.m.
She wasn't a tickler, in the sense that folks around here would understand the behavior. I never saw her tickle anyone else and I suspect she didn't tickle her past boyfriends. She never discussed tickling; tickling was never a part of our sexual relationship. Indeed, when my ticklishness would emerge during moments of intimacy, as my abdominal muscles twitched or contracted under her mouth or fingertips, or a giggle escaped when she brushed my hip a certain way, it tended to annoy her. She never tickled me in public or enlisted her friends in tickling me the way other girlfriends have done. Generally tickling seemed to play no role whatsoever in her life.
Except.
She discovered, inevitably, how ticklish my feet were; she was giving me a foot massage, witnessed my tortured writhing and stifled giggles, and--being a bright and insightful law student who could weigh evidence and draw conclusions--discerned my weakness. At that moment, she realized that she could either keep trying to give me a massage without tickling me (very difficult) or abandon the massage and tickle me until I lost my mind (appealingly easy). She chose the latter and kept it up until I was a shrieking basket case.
And from that point on, tickling my feet became one of her hobbies, along with knitting and playing first-person shooter games. It wasn't something she did every day, or even every week. If she'd enjoyed tickling for its own sake she could have gone after my sides or my absurdly ticklish abdomen anytime day or night, but that would have been too much work: I would fight back and try to flee; whether she knew it or not I would always lose, but she didn't have the interest in expending that much effort. Instead she attacked sporadically, opportunistically, only when she had the opportunity to besiege my immobilized feet and even then only when the mood struck her.
When she had the opportunity, though, and when the mood struck her, I was inevitably a goner.
It would go something like this:
I'd be lying on the bed reading, and the next thing I knew she'd sprawled on top of my legs, pinning my ankles. Either my feet were bare or socked, or she'd pluck off my shoes and/or socks.
And she'd say something like "You know what happens next, don't you?"
I'd beg, of course. "No, Laura, no, don't, Laura, don't tickle, Laura don't tickle MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE."
If she were a tickler there'd be more taunting. There'd be more manipulating of the pace, of my reactions. But she wasn't a tickler. She was just tickling. And I can still remember, vividly, the relentless feeling of her fingertips dancing briskly up and down my twitching wriggling feet and my own embarrassing howls of helpless laughter as I squirmed and thrashed under her weight. I can picture her smooth rounded tan wrists bent cheerfully over my flailing feet, her fingers delighting in their ability to drive me into hysterical paroxysms of forced mirth.
I remember her saying, once, "Thank you, God, for sending me a boyfriend with ticklish feet." It was a novelty to her, ticklishness--she definitely wasn't ticklish, and she'd probably never tried tickling her other friends and boyfriends, so as far as she was concerned, mine were the first and only feet she could torture like this, that she could compel to kick and wriggle and produce wild laughter, and as fun as it was, that was an opportunity she simply wasn't going to pass up.
Every single time she would tickle until I couldn't plead any more, until my ability to speak at all was swallowed up in the helpless laughter; I always knew she wouldn't relent any sooner than that, though I also always knew she would stop shortly thereafter. And she'd hop off and kiss my forehead and say something like "That's so awesome."
She had a sexy solid build, big-boned and well-muscled, fit and gorgeously curvy. Baby, as the kids used to say, had back. But I think the first thing I noticed about her was her arms: sandy-colored, shapely and muscular, with nice big smooth hands--elegant knuckles, strong pretty fingers. And when you looked closely in the sunlight her arms and wrists were flecked with short, delicate golden hairs that could melt your heart.
We had a lot of fun together, but she was often thoroughly serious; law school was a lot of work and she devoted a lot of hours to it. She studied every night and so we'd rarely get together before eleven p.m.
She wasn't a tickler, in the sense that folks around here would understand the behavior. I never saw her tickle anyone else and I suspect she didn't tickle her past boyfriends. She never discussed tickling; tickling was never a part of our sexual relationship. Indeed, when my ticklishness would emerge during moments of intimacy, as my abdominal muscles twitched or contracted under her mouth or fingertips, or a giggle escaped when she brushed my hip a certain way, it tended to annoy her. She never tickled me in public or enlisted her friends in tickling me the way other girlfriends have done. Generally tickling seemed to play no role whatsoever in her life.
Except.
She discovered, inevitably, how ticklish my feet were; she was giving me a foot massage, witnessed my tortured writhing and stifled giggles, and--being a bright and insightful law student who could weigh evidence and draw conclusions--discerned my weakness. At that moment, she realized that she could either keep trying to give me a massage without tickling me (very difficult) or abandon the massage and tickle me until I lost my mind (appealingly easy). She chose the latter and kept it up until I was a shrieking basket case.
And from that point on, tickling my feet became one of her hobbies, along with knitting and playing first-person shooter games. It wasn't something she did every day, or even every week. If she'd enjoyed tickling for its own sake she could have gone after my sides or my absurdly ticklish abdomen anytime day or night, but that would have been too much work: I would fight back and try to flee; whether she knew it or not I would always lose, but she didn't have the interest in expending that much effort. Instead she attacked sporadically, opportunistically, only when she had the opportunity to besiege my immobilized feet and even then only when the mood struck her.
When she had the opportunity, though, and when the mood struck her, I was inevitably a goner.
It would go something like this:
I'd be lying on the bed reading, and the next thing I knew she'd sprawled on top of my legs, pinning my ankles. Either my feet were bare or socked, or she'd pluck off my shoes and/or socks.
And she'd say something like "You know what happens next, don't you?"
I'd beg, of course. "No, Laura, no, don't, Laura, don't tickle, Laura don't tickle MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE."
If she were a tickler there'd be more taunting. There'd be more manipulating of the pace, of my reactions. But she wasn't a tickler. She was just tickling. And I can still remember, vividly, the relentless feeling of her fingertips dancing briskly up and down my twitching wriggling feet and my own embarrassing howls of helpless laughter as I squirmed and thrashed under her weight. I can picture her smooth rounded tan wrists bent cheerfully over my flailing feet, her fingers delighting in their ability to drive me into hysterical paroxysms of forced mirth.
I remember her saying, once, "Thank you, God, for sending me a boyfriend with ticklish feet." It was a novelty to her, ticklishness--she definitely wasn't ticklish, and she'd probably never tried tickling her other friends and boyfriends, so as far as she was concerned, mine were the first and only feet she could torture like this, that she could compel to kick and wriggle and produce wild laughter, and as fun as it was, that was an opportunity she simply wasn't going to pass up.
Every single time she would tickle until I couldn't plead any more, until my ability to speak at all was swallowed up in the helpless laughter; I always knew she wouldn't relent any sooner than that, though I also always knew she would stop shortly thereafter. And she'd hop off and kiss my forehead and say something like "That's so awesome."
