Eternal Tomboy
TMF Master
- Joined
- Aug 5, 2001
- Messages
- 980
- Points
- 18
I'm dedicating this story to the handful of guys on the TMF that I've gotten to know through the years via emails/chats. You have kept me sane, and made life in the bubble a little bit more bearable..... Thank you 
The Girl in the Bubble
I’ve been married for over 20-years, and at least a decade has passed since I’ve felt anything even loosely resembling passion or excitement. It’s like I’ve been watching the world go by from inside a bubble, safe and protected from most of life’s highs and lows. Life is very stable in here…. it’s also boring as hell.
I had almost resigned myself to living like an emotional zombie for the rest of my life, but then you came along, broke the fragile barrier that separated me from everyone else, and stirred up feelings long since forgotten. I’m standing here with butterflies in my stomach – butterflies! Do you have any idea how long it’s been since those suckers have taken flight?! YEARS. I didn’t even know they were still alive. They must be making up for lost time because they’re going nuts in there!
As I wait for you to arrive, my emotions range from exhilaration to almost crippling fear – with flashes of guilt and anticipation thrown into the chaotic and intoxicating mix. I bounce from one emotion to the next, unable to focus on any one of them for more than a few seconds at a time. It seems when you popped my bubble, everything rushed inside all at once, and now I’m having a hell of a time sorting out the mess…. and make no mistake, it is a fucking mess in here!
I’ve always been very practical; the kind of person who thinks about all the possible consequences of an action before I do anything. I don’t just look before I leap - I make detailed maps of the path I’m going to take and pack an emergency first aid kit, just in case the landing is a little harder than I originally anticipated. Which is why I can’t quite figure out how I ended up here. The practical, control freak inside of me can’t wrap her mind around the fact that I’m standing in a hotel lobby, waiting to meet up with a man I’ve only passed a few emails with…. okay, maybe more than a few. There have probably been dozens over the course of who knows how many months. Might even be close to a year at this point – I’ve completely lost track of time.
Others have tried to get me where I am right now but failed, because my inner control freak wouldn’t shut the fuck up about all the risks involved in doing something this insane. She kept reminding me about all the crazy people in the world, and all episodes of Criminal Minds that usually begin with a girl making the same incredibly stupid mistake – trusting someone. Trust has never come very easy for me. I don’t know if it’s the fact that I grew up in New York or that I just watch way too much crazy shit on TV, but I tend to keep most people at arm’s length – just far enough away that they can’t hurt me…. guess they can’t do much else to me either.
But you’ve taught me that there is apparently one thing more powerful than fear – fetish. The proof lies in the fact that I’m currently pacing the floor of a Comfort Inn (feeling anything but comfortable), and giddy with the anticipation of you walking through the hotel door. My tickling fetish, and the decades of deprivation that preceded this day have managed to put a muzzle on the control freak – probably temporarily. I’m sure if this meeting with you goes south, she’ll be more than happy to tell me “I told you so” for the rest of my life. Self-righteous bitch.
The promise of you making good on every ticklish threat you’ve typed over the course of the last several months was obviously too tempting for me to pass up. There’s just so long a girl can deprive herself of the one pleasure in life that she craves most – before today, the record stood at about 20-years. Not exactly Mother Theresa, but not too shabby either. Guess there goes my shot at sainthood though…. oh who am I kidding, that shot was gone a long time ago. Saints don’t log onto fetish websites and flirt with total strangers, but they’d probably be a lot less miserable if they did.
Some days, emailing with you was the only thing that kept me sane. I fantasized about all the different ways you were going to tickle me or try to find a way around my vicious stubborn streak and get me to beg for mercy. You were the last thought on my mind when I closed my eyes at night, which is why I usually went to bed with a smile on my face. Those fantasies were an escape from the monotony of my life – a chance to feel something, anything. But there’s just so far fantasies can take me before they become almost as frustrating as my reality. I desperately needed more.
Which basically brings us up to the reason I’m here, pacing the floor and checking my phone to see how much time has passed since the last time I looked – it never seems to be more than a minute or two. Needing some outlet for my nerves, I unzip my purse and start rummaging around for a piece of gum to chew… it’s either that, or bite off all my fingernails, and I know for certain I’m going to need those later. After practically dumping the contents of my purse on the floor in frustration, I finally find a piece of gum hiding at the bottom along with my spare change. Not caring if the gum tastes more like metal than mint, I hastily remove the mangled wrapper and pop the gum into my mouth. When I zip my purse back up, and look towards the door, my heart breaks into a sprint, and feels like it’s going to jackhammer its way through my ribcage. You’re standing there, a few feet away from me, with a bemused grin on your face.
In trying to greet you, I practically swallow the piece of gum I worked so desperately to find. Finally, I manage to choke out a simple and rather sheepish, “Hi.”
Why the hell did I suddenly feel like a 13 year-old girl at her first school dance? Perhaps it’s the fact that we had spent so many months divulging our most intimate fantasies to one another, and without my usual shroud of secrecy around me, I feel as though I’m standing here stark naked in front of you. But it could also be the way you’re staring down at me like you’re silently debating whether to hug me or skip past the pleasantries and race us both to the nearest hotel room.
“Hi,” you said warmly as you close the small gap between us.
You open your arms and I slip instinctively into them as though we had done this a thousand times, even though this is the first time we’ve ever made physical contact. With your arms wrapped around my waist, and mine around your neck, my nerves begin to calm, and my heart slows down to a more natural rhythm.
“I can’t believe you’re actually here,” I say.
“Would you like me to pinch you so you know it’s not a dream?” you joke and then tickle my ribs.
The rush of adrenaline and endorphins that hit me is intense and immediate – and it feels like all of it is gathering in my crotch. It’s been eons since a man who wasn’t my husband tickled me, and my body is making me acutely aware of how much of a turn-on those first few exploratory tickles can be. If this is how responsive my body is with just a few quick tickles to the ribs, how am I going to be when you finally get me tied down??
I try to hide my growing excitement and bury my face in your chest. I giggle and squirm in your arms. “Hey, that’s not a pinch!” I protest, half-heartedly.
“Same effect, but much more fun,” you say and tickle me again.
“Don’t!” I say even though we both know I don’t want you to stop. But a ‘lee has to keep up appearances of mock-protest (to make the game fun), so I try to free myself from your ticklish bear hug. After a few more seconds of making me squirm, you relent and let me go. “Boy, you don’t waste any time, do you?” I joke.
“Well, I’m only here for a little while, so I thought I’d better make the most it,” you smile.
We head immediately to the hotel bar and during our first hour together, you take several opportunities to sneak in quick tickles while we rapidly progress passed the awkward “getting to know you” phase. You keep the tickles light and teasing, and stop whenever I flinch or giggle - which is smart, otherwise I’d probably end up making a scene and catching a few curious stares from the other patrons. I shoot you mock glares and hollow threats whenever you discover a spot that gets a reaction out of me. I’m not quite ready to surrender my tough NY attitude just yet…. even though we both know it’s mostly just an act.
By the time we finish our second round, we decide it’s time to head up to our room. The butterflies in my stomach are back, and seem to be multiplying and growing more frenzied with each step towards the hotel lobby. When we get to the front desk, there’s a problem processing our reservation, and my impatience is becoming more and more evident with each passing minute. But instead of giving in to my overwhelming desire to reach over the counter and choke the hotel clerk, I drum my fingernails on the counter and tap my foot (universal sign for hurry the fuck up!). While the clerk continues to futilely tap on her computer keyboard, you look over and chuckle at me.
“What?” I ask, momentarily ceasing my impatient fidgeting.
“A bit eager to get upstairs, are we?” you ask.
I laugh and blush, “Sorry, I’ve never been very good with patience.”
After another five minutes of profuse apologies from the hotel clerk and evil-eye glares from me in her direction, you and I finally manage to secure our room key.
When we get into the elevator, you casually say, “You might not be so anxious to get upstairs if you really knew what you were getting yourself into.”
I giggle, “Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea.”
“Couldn’t possibly. Because if you did, you’d be running in the other direction.”
“Sorry, you just don’t strike me as the scary type.”
You grin at me, “You don’t think I have a dark side?”
I burst out laughing. “No, sorry. You want to see a real dark side, go hang out in Manhattan at two a.m.”
“Well, I’m not talking about the gang-banging, serial killer, crack-whore kind of dark side. More the tickle torture you until you beg for mercy kind,” you say and shoot me a mischievous look that sends a brief thrill of fear down my spine. There go those damn butterflies again!
Momentarily stunned into silence, I quickly break eye contact and look away to better disguise the blush coloring my face. The elevator stops on the third floor and the doors open. We head down a long hallway and finally reach our room at the end.
“Here we are,” I say lamely because I have no idea what else to say.
You hand me the room’s electronic key, and lean casually against the wall. As I reach out to put the key into the door slot, you tickle my underarm. I let out a small squeak, and quickly drop my arm to protect myself.
“Problem?” you ask innocently.
“Only if you want to actually get inside the room,” I smile. “If you keep that up, this is gonna take awhile.”
“I’m in no hurry,” you tease.
Thinking I’m being smart, I switch hands and use the arm that’s furthest away from you to better protect myself against another tickle attack. As I attempt to open the door again, you reach over and lightly scribble your fingers around my neck and collarbone, instantly forcing my shoulders to scrunch up and my knees to practically buckle beneath me. This time I drop the damn card key. I glower over at you, but can hardly do so seriously because of the grin on my face. I stand there stubbornly and cross my arms over my chest like a pouting teenager.
“Oh, allow me,” you say with mock chivalry. You pick the card up off the floor, and hold it out for me.
“Gee, thanks,” I say sarcastically and try not to laugh. I snatch the card from your hand, and just stare at you for a couple seconds. “Are you gonna be good?”
“Hmmm…. I’m afraid the chances of that are fairly slim. Sorry,” you grin.
I chuckle, “That’s kinda what I thought.”
“But I’ll try to limit the temptation to do it again. Here, I’ll sit down on the floor,” you say and sit down with your back against the wall, arms crossed over your chest, and legs stretched out straight in front of you.
I eye you skeptically, but decide to give it another go anyway. The chances of you reaching my ribs or underarms from that position before I get to the slot are slim. I give you one last glance and then try again. The key nearly makes it into the slot this time before you reach over and scribble your fingers along the tops of my feet, which have nothing more than a pair of flip-flops to protect them. For all the protection they afford me, I may as well be barefoot. A surprised laugh escapes my mouth, and I start hopping around frantically, like a firewalker that suddenly lost her concentration on her way across a hot bed of coals.
You grab hold of one of my ankles and soon a tug of war begins. I’m trying to free my foot from your grip, and you’re trying to free my foot from my flip-flop. If I win, I gain probable entrance into the hotel room. If you win, I lose what’s left of my ability to be discreet, and this little hallway scene will soon be broadcast in surround sound for the rest of the hotel’s occupants to hear. Anticipatory giggles start to bubble out of my mouth when I realize with rising panic that you’re winning. A moment later, my flip-flop and I lose the short-lived battle, and both of us end up toppling onto the carpet.
When I hit the floor, I try to belly crawl away from you, but your grip on my ankle holds firm. “Where do you think you’re going?” you ask with a laugh.
Both of your hands pull on my ankle, dragging me back the few inches I managed to gain in my effort to escape. My panic reaches new heights when you lock my ankle between your out stretched legs.
“Hmm, what have I got here?” you ask rhetorically and give the sole of my bare foot a gentle scratch from heel to toe.
“Don’t!” I try to command through my laughter, but even to my own ears, the directive sounds pathetic.
In an effort to keep the noise level down, I try burying my face in my arms. The last thing I want is an audience! I’m very shy about being tickled in public; so much so that I feel like death would be a preferred option to the embarrassment I’m going to feel if someone decides to poke their head out to see what all the fuss is about.
“Don’t what? Do this?” you ask, and give my trapped foot a no-holds-barred, duel handed tickle attack.
Even through my arms, my scream is loud, and punctuated by an equally loud stream of full-blown laughter. Your twenty rapidly moving fingers manage to find and exploit every ticklish spot on my foot. I’m writhing in hysterics on the hallway carpet when I hear the sound of a heavy door close. You pause your tickling fingers, and I look up to find an elderly couple heading toward us down the hallway. I’m not sure if they’re heading for the elevator, or coming to my rescue. I quickly flip myself over and sit up before they reach us…. although I’m not sure what that’s supposed to accomplish. Am I trying to somehow look more normal sitting on the hotel floor with my foot in a leg lock?
“Hello,” you greet the couple in a surprisingly calm voice, like this sort of thing happens everyday.
Neither one of them respond to you verbally – the woman just looks down at us with a derisive shake of her head as though we’re fornicating with farm animals right here in the hallway, and the man looks you square in the eyes, and gives you a small grin and a wink. You chuckle, and I blush red hot. After they pass us, I playfully cuff you on the shoulder.
“I’m SO gonna get you back for that!” I threaten and give you a quick rib tickle.
You jump a bit and laugh. “I look forward to it.”
You take the hotel card key out of my hand, and help me up off the floor. I guess you’ve finally decided that you’d rather take this little get together into a more private location. I breathe a sigh of relief that there will be no more embarrassing run-ins with any of the other hotel patrons. You open the door, but then step aside and allow me to enter first. The room is pretty nice, nothing too fancy; but then again, we don’t need much. I immediately check out the bed and see whether or not the restraints I brought will work with it – I’m not sure if that’s weird or practical of me to think about.
As I walk over to the bed to get a closer look at the frame, you sneak up behind me and tackle me onto the mattress. A surprised laugh escapes me and I launch into defense mode, trying like hell to gain the upper hand. Despite my best efforts, the fight for dominance doesn’t last long. In a matter of seconds, you’ve got me pinned on my belly and you’re straddling my waist. In a last ditch attempt to thrown you off balance, I reach my hands back and try to tickle your knees, or anywhere else I can reach. You quickly pin my arms at my sides with your legs. Now I’m totally fucked.
“I’d like to just take a minute to savor this moment. I’ve thought about having you here like this since the first time you PMed me on the TMF. Although as much shit as you talk, I didn’t think it would be this easy to pin you down,” you tease.
“Yeah, well anyone can get the upper hand when they blitz attack someone from behind. Obviously you didn’t feel confident enough in your ‘ler skills to try and beat me fair and square,” I tease back.
“Oh I don’t know – I’m feeling pretty good that my ‘ler skills are going to get you to safeword in the next five minutes.... you DO remember your safeword, right?” you ask and start to scribble your nails lightly over my back.
I breakout into goosebumps at your light touch, and my stomach does a nervous flip when I realize what you’re about to make me do. I definitely remember the safeword, and the thought of saying it revives the butterflies in my stomach again. We had made up the safeword the first week we started chatting, - when you discovered that I was incapable of saying the word “tickle” or any variation of it. We both knew that if we made a phrase like, “It tickles” or “I’m too ticklish” as the safeword, I’d go through hell first before caving in and saying it.
A steady stream of nervous giggles begins to bubble out of my mouth. “The safeword? Hmmm…. it was ‘eggplant’, right?” I joke.
You chuckle, “No, definitely not eggplant. Let me see if I can refresh your memory,” you say and begin to scribble your nails on the back of my thighs. You quickly cover every spot from right under my ass to the back of my knees with both of your hands.
The goosebumps you caused when you lightly tickled my back are gone, and the feeling is replaced with intense tickling. I immediately start to kick my legs and laugh. It’s SO unfair that you’re kicking this game off with one of the worst ticklish spots on my body. I’m seriously regretting all the insider information I gave you in our emails about all the ticklish spots that drive me nuts. After just a few seconds, I realize that I’m not going to be as much of a challenge as I originally thought. My ego is quickly becoming a distant memory, and my submissive side is right there to take its place.
“Well, you were right on target when you described how ticklish the back of your legs are,” you say and continue to torture me. “I wonder if the other spot you described was accurate also.”
OH FUCK. I know exactly where you’re headed next, and it’s basically my worst nightmare as a ‘lee - I amp up my struggles to see if there’s any chance of bucking you off me. If you go where I think you’re going, it’s game over. I’m going to safeword, and then I’ll have to deal with you gloating for the rest of the day.
“Please, don’t!! Go for my feet! Go for my feet!” I plead through my hysterical laughter. I know if I have any hope of keeping you away from the number one ticklish spot on my body, I’m going to have to appeal to your foot fetish. As ticklish as my feet are, they’re nothing compared to the spot you’ve got your sites set on now.
You laugh, “Man, you must really not want me to go here,” you tease and gently wrap both your hands around my hips.
You don’t move your hands at all, but just having you resting your fingers on my hipbones stirs up ticklish feelings. “Fuck!!” I blurt out and continue to laugh.
“Even though I’ve been waiting months to get my hands on this spot, I’d be willing to abandon it if you say the words “Please tickle my feet.””
Knowing that I’m stuck between either getting tickle tortured or having to say the ONE word that makes squirm, pisses me off. “You’re such an asshole! Do you have any idea how much I hate you right now?” I say, but can’t help giggling a little because your hands haven’t moved from my hips.
“I don’t think it’s wise to get mad at me right now because I might be forced to try and cheer you up,” you threaten and then start to gently wiggle your fingers over my hips.
An initial scream comes out of my mouth, but it’s quickly followed by helpless laughter and, “Okay, okay!! I’m not mad!”
This is pure ticklish hell, and I know I’m not going to last much longer without giving you what you want. When I describe the love/hate relationship I have with being tickled, this spot is the one exception – there is no love, only hate. Mostly because I know my hips are the instant way around my stubborn streak, and they turn me into the most submissive ‘lee alive while they’re being tortured.
“You might be a little mad when you find out I’m not going to stop tickling you until you say it. C’mon, four little words and no more hips…. you know you want to,” you say and continue the torture.
Your fingers scribble and squeeze my hips, causing me to fall into silent laughter. When I manage to take a breath, a garbled mess of screaming, laughter and four-letter expletives stream out with the next forced exhale.
“PLEASE….FEET….” is all I can manage to scream out while I’m laughing.
You stop tickling me and take your hands off my hips. “What was that? I think that was only two out of the four words you need to say to buy yourself a little break.”
With your hands off my hips, I take the first big breath of air I’ve had since the torture began. I can’t stop my nervous giggling though because I’m afraid if I don’t get the words out soon, you’re going to start tickling me again.
“I’m getting there! Just give me a couple of seconds….” I say to buy myself some time so I can work up the courage to say it.
“Okay, I can wait a couple seconds. One….” you tease and put one hand back on one of my hips. “Two….” you continue and put the other hand back.
In a total panic, I blurt out “Please tickle my feet!!!!” I feel my face blush, and I bury it into the comforter on the bed so you can’t see my embarrassment.
You lean down and whisper in my ear, “With pleasure.”
The Girl in the Bubble
I’ve been married for over 20-years, and at least a decade has passed since I’ve felt anything even loosely resembling passion or excitement. It’s like I’ve been watching the world go by from inside a bubble, safe and protected from most of life’s highs and lows. Life is very stable in here…. it’s also boring as hell.
I had almost resigned myself to living like an emotional zombie for the rest of my life, but then you came along, broke the fragile barrier that separated me from everyone else, and stirred up feelings long since forgotten. I’m standing here with butterflies in my stomach – butterflies! Do you have any idea how long it’s been since those suckers have taken flight?! YEARS. I didn’t even know they were still alive. They must be making up for lost time because they’re going nuts in there!
As I wait for you to arrive, my emotions range from exhilaration to almost crippling fear – with flashes of guilt and anticipation thrown into the chaotic and intoxicating mix. I bounce from one emotion to the next, unable to focus on any one of them for more than a few seconds at a time. It seems when you popped my bubble, everything rushed inside all at once, and now I’m having a hell of a time sorting out the mess…. and make no mistake, it is a fucking mess in here!
I’ve always been very practical; the kind of person who thinks about all the possible consequences of an action before I do anything. I don’t just look before I leap - I make detailed maps of the path I’m going to take and pack an emergency first aid kit, just in case the landing is a little harder than I originally anticipated. Which is why I can’t quite figure out how I ended up here. The practical, control freak inside of me can’t wrap her mind around the fact that I’m standing in a hotel lobby, waiting to meet up with a man I’ve only passed a few emails with…. okay, maybe more than a few. There have probably been dozens over the course of who knows how many months. Might even be close to a year at this point – I’ve completely lost track of time.
Others have tried to get me where I am right now but failed, because my inner control freak wouldn’t shut the fuck up about all the risks involved in doing something this insane. She kept reminding me about all the crazy people in the world, and all episodes of Criminal Minds that usually begin with a girl making the same incredibly stupid mistake – trusting someone. Trust has never come very easy for me. I don’t know if it’s the fact that I grew up in New York or that I just watch way too much crazy shit on TV, but I tend to keep most people at arm’s length – just far enough away that they can’t hurt me…. guess they can’t do much else to me either.
But you’ve taught me that there is apparently one thing more powerful than fear – fetish. The proof lies in the fact that I’m currently pacing the floor of a Comfort Inn (feeling anything but comfortable), and giddy with the anticipation of you walking through the hotel door. My tickling fetish, and the decades of deprivation that preceded this day have managed to put a muzzle on the control freak – probably temporarily. I’m sure if this meeting with you goes south, she’ll be more than happy to tell me “I told you so” for the rest of my life. Self-righteous bitch.
The promise of you making good on every ticklish threat you’ve typed over the course of the last several months was obviously too tempting for me to pass up. There’s just so long a girl can deprive herself of the one pleasure in life that she craves most – before today, the record stood at about 20-years. Not exactly Mother Theresa, but not too shabby either. Guess there goes my shot at sainthood though…. oh who am I kidding, that shot was gone a long time ago. Saints don’t log onto fetish websites and flirt with total strangers, but they’d probably be a lot less miserable if they did.
Some days, emailing with you was the only thing that kept me sane. I fantasized about all the different ways you were going to tickle me or try to find a way around my vicious stubborn streak and get me to beg for mercy. You were the last thought on my mind when I closed my eyes at night, which is why I usually went to bed with a smile on my face. Those fantasies were an escape from the monotony of my life – a chance to feel something, anything. But there’s just so far fantasies can take me before they become almost as frustrating as my reality. I desperately needed more.
Which basically brings us up to the reason I’m here, pacing the floor and checking my phone to see how much time has passed since the last time I looked – it never seems to be more than a minute or two. Needing some outlet for my nerves, I unzip my purse and start rummaging around for a piece of gum to chew… it’s either that, or bite off all my fingernails, and I know for certain I’m going to need those later. After practically dumping the contents of my purse on the floor in frustration, I finally find a piece of gum hiding at the bottom along with my spare change. Not caring if the gum tastes more like metal than mint, I hastily remove the mangled wrapper and pop the gum into my mouth. When I zip my purse back up, and look towards the door, my heart breaks into a sprint, and feels like it’s going to jackhammer its way through my ribcage. You’re standing there, a few feet away from me, with a bemused grin on your face.
In trying to greet you, I practically swallow the piece of gum I worked so desperately to find. Finally, I manage to choke out a simple and rather sheepish, “Hi.”
Why the hell did I suddenly feel like a 13 year-old girl at her first school dance? Perhaps it’s the fact that we had spent so many months divulging our most intimate fantasies to one another, and without my usual shroud of secrecy around me, I feel as though I’m standing here stark naked in front of you. But it could also be the way you’re staring down at me like you’re silently debating whether to hug me or skip past the pleasantries and race us both to the nearest hotel room.
“Hi,” you said warmly as you close the small gap between us.
You open your arms and I slip instinctively into them as though we had done this a thousand times, even though this is the first time we’ve ever made physical contact. With your arms wrapped around my waist, and mine around your neck, my nerves begin to calm, and my heart slows down to a more natural rhythm.
“I can’t believe you’re actually here,” I say.
“Would you like me to pinch you so you know it’s not a dream?” you joke and then tickle my ribs.
The rush of adrenaline and endorphins that hit me is intense and immediate – and it feels like all of it is gathering in my crotch. It’s been eons since a man who wasn’t my husband tickled me, and my body is making me acutely aware of how much of a turn-on those first few exploratory tickles can be. If this is how responsive my body is with just a few quick tickles to the ribs, how am I going to be when you finally get me tied down??
I try to hide my growing excitement and bury my face in your chest. I giggle and squirm in your arms. “Hey, that’s not a pinch!” I protest, half-heartedly.
“Same effect, but much more fun,” you say and tickle me again.
“Don’t!” I say even though we both know I don’t want you to stop. But a ‘lee has to keep up appearances of mock-protest (to make the game fun), so I try to free myself from your ticklish bear hug. After a few more seconds of making me squirm, you relent and let me go. “Boy, you don’t waste any time, do you?” I joke.
“Well, I’m only here for a little while, so I thought I’d better make the most it,” you smile.
We head immediately to the hotel bar and during our first hour together, you take several opportunities to sneak in quick tickles while we rapidly progress passed the awkward “getting to know you” phase. You keep the tickles light and teasing, and stop whenever I flinch or giggle - which is smart, otherwise I’d probably end up making a scene and catching a few curious stares from the other patrons. I shoot you mock glares and hollow threats whenever you discover a spot that gets a reaction out of me. I’m not quite ready to surrender my tough NY attitude just yet…. even though we both know it’s mostly just an act.
By the time we finish our second round, we decide it’s time to head up to our room. The butterflies in my stomach are back, and seem to be multiplying and growing more frenzied with each step towards the hotel lobby. When we get to the front desk, there’s a problem processing our reservation, and my impatience is becoming more and more evident with each passing minute. But instead of giving in to my overwhelming desire to reach over the counter and choke the hotel clerk, I drum my fingernails on the counter and tap my foot (universal sign for hurry the fuck up!). While the clerk continues to futilely tap on her computer keyboard, you look over and chuckle at me.
“What?” I ask, momentarily ceasing my impatient fidgeting.
“A bit eager to get upstairs, are we?” you ask.
I laugh and blush, “Sorry, I’ve never been very good with patience.”
After another five minutes of profuse apologies from the hotel clerk and evil-eye glares from me in her direction, you and I finally manage to secure our room key.
When we get into the elevator, you casually say, “You might not be so anxious to get upstairs if you really knew what you were getting yourself into.”
I giggle, “Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea.”
“Couldn’t possibly. Because if you did, you’d be running in the other direction.”
“Sorry, you just don’t strike me as the scary type.”
You grin at me, “You don’t think I have a dark side?”
I burst out laughing. “No, sorry. You want to see a real dark side, go hang out in Manhattan at two a.m.”
“Well, I’m not talking about the gang-banging, serial killer, crack-whore kind of dark side. More the tickle torture you until you beg for mercy kind,” you say and shoot me a mischievous look that sends a brief thrill of fear down my spine. There go those damn butterflies again!
Momentarily stunned into silence, I quickly break eye contact and look away to better disguise the blush coloring my face. The elevator stops on the third floor and the doors open. We head down a long hallway and finally reach our room at the end.
“Here we are,” I say lamely because I have no idea what else to say.
You hand me the room’s electronic key, and lean casually against the wall. As I reach out to put the key into the door slot, you tickle my underarm. I let out a small squeak, and quickly drop my arm to protect myself.
“Problem?” you ask innocently.
“Only if you want to actually get inside the room,” I smile. “If you keep that up, this is gonna take awhile.”
“I’m in no hurry,” you tease.
Thinking I’m being smart, I switch hands and use the arm that’s furthest away from you to better protect myself against another tickle attack. As I attempt to open the door again, you reach over and lightly scribble your fingers around my neck and collarbone, instantly forcing my shoulders to scrunch up and my knees to practically buckle beneath me. This time I drop the damn card key. I glower over at you, but can hardly do so seriously because of the grin on my face. I stand there stubbornly and cross my arms over my chest like a pouting teenager.
“Oh, allow me,” you say with mock chivalry. You pick the card up off the floor, and hold it out for me.
“Gee, thanks,” I say sarcastically and try not to laugh. I snatch the card from your hand, and just stare at you for a couple seconds. “Are you gonna be good?”
“Hmmm…. I’m afraid the chances of that are fairly slim. Sorry,” you grin.
I chuckle, “That’s kinda what I thought.”
“But I’ll try to limit the temptation to do it again. Here, I’ll sit down on the floor,” you say and sit down with your back against the wall, arms crossed over your chest, and legs stretched out straight in front of you.
I eye you skeptically, but decide to give it another go anyway. The chances of you reaching my ribs or underarms from that position before I get to the slot are slim. I give you one last glance and then try again. The key nearly makes it into the slot this time before you reach over and scribble your fingers along the tops of my feet, which have nothing more than a pair of flip-flops to protect them. For all the protection they afford me, I may as well be barefoot. A surprised laugh escapes my mouth, and I start hopping around frantically, like a firewalker that suddenly lost her concentration on her way across a hot bed of coals.
You grab hold of one of my ankles and soon a tug of war begins. I’m trying to free my foot from your grip, and you’re trying to free my foot from my flip-flop. If I win, I gain probable entrance into the hotel room. If you win, I lose what’s left of my ability to be discreet, and this little hallway scene will soon be broadcast in surround sound for the rest of the hotel’s occupants to hear. Anticipatory giggles start to bubble out of my mouth when I realize with rising panic that you’re winning. A moment later, my flip-flop and I lose the short-lived battle, and both of us end up toppling onto the carpet.
When I hit the floor, I try to belly crawl away from you, but your grip on my ankle holds firm. “Where do you think you’re going?” you ask with a laugh.
Both of your hands pull on my ankle, dragging me back the few inches I managed to gain in my effort to escape. My panic reaches new heights when you lock my ankle between your out stretched legs.
“Hmm, what have I got here?” you ask rhetorically and give the sole of my bare foot a gentle scratch from heel to toe.
“Don’t!” I try to command through my laughter, but even to my own ears, the directive sounds pathetic.
In an effort to keep the noise level down, I try burying my face in my arms. The last thing I want is an audience! I’m very shy about being tickled in public; so much so that I feel like death would be a preferred option to the embarrassment I’m going to feel if someone decides to poke their head out to see what all the fuss is about.
“Don’t what? Do this?” you ask, and give my trapped foot a no-holds-barred, duel handed tickle attack.
Even through my arms, my scream is loud, and punctuated by an equally loud stream of full-blown laughter. Your twenty rapidly moving fingers manage to find and exploit every ticklish spot on my foot. I’m writhing in hysterics on the hallway carpet when I hear the sound of a heavy door close. You pause your tickling fingers, and I look up to find an elderly couple heading toward us down the hallway. I’m not sure if they’re heading for the elevator, or coming to my rescue. I quickly flip myself over and sit up before they reach us…. although I’m not sure what that’s supposed to accomplish. Am I trying to somehow look more normal sitting on the hotel floor with my foot in a leg lock?
“Hello,” you greet the couple in a surprisingly calm voice, like this sort of thing happens everyday.
Neither one of them respond to you verbally – the woman just looks down at us with a derisive shake of her head as though we’re fornicating with farm animals right here in the hallway, and the man looks you square in the eyes, and gives you a small grin and a wink. You chuckle, and I blush red hot. After they pass us, I playfully cuff you on the shoulder.
“I’m SO gonna get you back for that!” I threaten and give you a quick rib tickle.
You jump a bit and laugh. “I look forward to it.”
You take the hotel card key out of my hand, and help me up off the floor. I guess you’ve finally decided that you’d rather take this little get together into a more private location. I breathe a sigh of relief that there will be no more embarrassing run-ins with any of the other hotel patrons. You open the door, but then step aside and allow me to enter first. The room is pretty nice, nothing too fancy; but then again, we don’t need much. I immediately check out the bed and see whether or not the restraints I brought will work with it – I’m not sure if that’s weird or practical of me to think about.
As I walk over to the bed to get a closer look at the frame, you sneak up behind me and tackle me onto the mattress. A surprised laugh escapes me and I launch into defense mode, trying like hell to gain the upper hand. Despite my best efforts, the fight for dominance doesn’t last long. In a matter of seconds, you’ve got me pinned on my belly and you’re straddling my waist. In a last ditch attempt to thrown you off balance, I reach my hands back and try to tickle your knees, or anywhere else I can reach. You quickly pin my arms at my sides with your legs. Now I’m totally fucked.
“I’d like to just take a minute to savor this moment. I’ve thought about having you here like this since the first time you PMed me on the TMF. Although as much shit as you talk, I didn’t think it would be this easy to pin you down,” you tease.
“Yeah, well anyone can get the upper hand when they blitz attack someone from behind. Obviously you didn’t feel confident enough in your ‘ler skills to try and beat me fair and square,” I tease back.
“Oh I don’t know – I’m feeling pretty good that my ‘ler skills are going to get you to safeword in the next five minutes.... you DO remember your safeword, right?” you ask and start to scribble your nails lightly over my back.
I breakout into goosebumps at your light touch, and my stomach does a nervous flip when I realize what you’re about to make me do. I definitely remember the safeword, and the thought of saying it revives the butterflies in my stomach again. We had made up the safeword the first week we started chatting, - when you discovered that I was incapable of saying the word “tickle” or any variation of it. We both knew that if we made a phrase like, “It tickles” or “I’m too ticklish” as the safeword, I’d go through hell first before caving in and saying it.
A steady stream of nervous giggles begins to bubble out of my mouth. “The safeword? Hmmm…. it was ‘eggplant’, right?” I joke.
You chuckle, “No, definitely not eggplant. Let me see if I can refresh your memory,” you say and begin to scribble your nails on the back of my thighs. You quickly cover every spot from right under my ass to the back of my knees with both of your hands.
The goosebumps you caused when you lightly tickled my back are gone, and the feeling is replaced with intense tickling. I immediately start to kick my legs and laugh. It’s SO unfair that you’re kicking this game off with one of the worst ticklish spots on my body. I’m seriously regretting all the insider information I gave you in our emails about all the ticklish spots that drive me nuts. After just a few seconds, I realize that I’m not going to be as much of a challenge as I originally thought. My ego is quickly becoming a distant memory, and my submissive side is right there to take its place.
“Well, you were right on target when you described how ticklish the back of your legs are,” you say and continue to torture me. “I wonder if the other spot you described was accurate also.”
OH FUCK. I know exactly where you’re headed next, and it’s basically my worst nightmare as a ‘lee - I amp up my struggles to see if there’s any chance of bucking you off me. If you go where I think you’re going, it’s game over. I’m going to safeword, and then I’ll have to deal with you gloating for the rest of the day.
“Please, don’t!! Go for my feet! Go for my feet!” I plead through my hysterical laughter. I know if I have any hope of keeping you away from the number one ticklish spot on my body, I’m going to have to appeal to your foot fetish. As ticklish as my feet are, they’re nothing compared to the spot you’ve got your sites set on now.
You laugh, “Man, you must really not want me to go here,” you tease and gently wrap both your hands around my hips.
You don’t move your hands at all, but just having you resting your fingers on my hipbones stirs up ticklish feelings. “Fuck!!” I blurt out and continue to laugh.
“Even though I’ve been waiting months to get my hands on this spot, I’d be willing to abandon it if you say the words “Please tickle my feet.””
Knowing that I’m stuck between either getting tickle tortured or having to say the ONE word that makes squirm, pisses me off. “You’re such an asshole! Do you have any idea how much I hate you right now?” I say, but can’t help giggling a little because your hands haven’t moved from my hips.
“I don’t think it’s wise to get mad at me right now because I might be forced to try and cheer you up,” you threaten and then start to gently wiggle your fingers over my hips.
An initial scream comes out of my mouth, but it’s quickly followed by helpless laughter and, “Okay, okay!! I’m not mad!”
This is pure ticklish hell, and I know I’m not going to last much longer without giving you what you want. When I describe the love/hate relationship I have with being tickled, this spot is the one exception – there is no love, only hate. Mostly because I know my hips are the instant way around my stubborn streak, and they turn me into the most submissive ‘lee alive while they’re being tortured.
“You might be a little mad when you find out I’m not going to stop tickling you until you say it. C’mon, four little words and no more hips…. you know you want to,” you say and continue the torture.
Your fingers scribble and squeeze my hips, causing me to fall into silent laughter. When I manage to take a breath, a garbled mess of screaming, laughter and four-letter expletives stream out with the next forced exhale.
“PLEASE….FEET….” is all I can manage to scream out while I’m laughing.
You stop tickling me and take your hands off my hips. “What was that? I think that was only two out of the four words you need to say to buy yourself a little break.”
With your hands off my hips, I take the first big breath of air I’ve had since the torture began. I can’t stop my nervous giggling though because I’m afraid if I don’t get the words out soon, you’re going to start tickling me again.
“I’m getting there! Just give me a couple of seconds….” I say to buy myself some time so I can work up the courage to say it.
“Okay, I can wait a couple seconds. One….” you tease and put one hand back on one of my hips. “Two….” you continue and put the other hand back.
In a total panic, I blurt out “Please tickle my feet!!!!” I feel my face blush, and I bury it into the comforter on the bed so you can’t see my embarrassment.
You lean down and whisper in my ear, “With pleasure.”
)
Sadly, part two isn't written yet. I thought about waiting to post this part of the story before finishing the rest of it, but I decided that even if I did't get to the next part anytime soon, this part was able to kind of stand on its own. In the second part, I wanted to have a revenge sequence with F/M tickling. Even though I consider myself about 80% lee, 20% ler, I do REALLY enjoy getting a guy back for putting me through tickle hell 
. Thank you for sharing this and your other stories and, blushes aside, I look forward to reading more.
