shapeshifter
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I finally decided to break down and write the novella I've had stewing in my head. I'm going to post first drafts of chapters here, hoping to get feedback or suggestions from anyone who is interested. Or you can just read them for enjoyment!
The story is about an "ethically challenged" young man who dies in a motorcycle and is sent to Purgatory. There, he must undergo a series of trials to earn resurrection and a chance to lead a better life, else be banished to the "Bad Place" for eternity. Because his greatest fear is tickle torture (and his inability to wrestle with the pleasure/pain dynamic it creates), his trials revolve around tickling. Langamore is a town that he thinks is in upstate New York, but it obviously doesn't exist. As the plot unfolds, he learns more and more about what is going on.
BTW - Dr. Langamore was a researcher who studied tickling robots, so that should tell you something about what's coming... It's also just a cool name for a town, I thought.
Escape From Langamore - Chapter One: Poking and Prodding
Scott awoke face down in a mound of snow on the side of a woodland highway, his foggy mind unaware of existence. Where was here? Why…how did I get here? Everything was nothing, until the frigid moisture on his cheeks and the strong scent of pine left no doubt that it was a forest, and there was snow. When he stood up to further orient himself, he remembered the motorcycle, the furious tour of the back roads of the Adirondacks, a hundred miles from a city that had an office building higher than three stories. Yes, it was winter, he remembered. Cold. He remembered the loud roar of the engine echoing in the canyons of towering pines that rose high into the night sky on either side of the road.
What he didn’t remember, though, was a crash. It obviously was one: unconscious on the side of the road… What else could it be? But there was no evidence: no bike, no skid marks, trails, footsteps. It seemed as if he’d fallen from the sky, or been placed on the side of the road, by someone who apparently didn’t make footprints.
Whatever it was, he knew freezing and thinking about it wouldn’t help, so he hustled down the road, hoping to find a gas station, or a town. Gnawing dread persisted in his chest, and his timid strides became a jog as he worried that he might be miles from anything, abandoned to a terrible, icy death. Onward he went, hoping for something with warmth, and to find a human being who could explain what the heck might be going on.
Right on cue he heard the distant hum of a car approaching from behind. He eagerly watched the headlights approach, standing in the middle of the road to make sure it didn’t cruelly speed by. It could be the last car he’d see for who knows how long, he thought. It turned out to be a monochrome, diarrhea-brown sedan. He couldn’t place the make and model. Oddly, the identifying trim on the rear of the car was absent; and the license plate wasn’t American for sure – it was plain white with black letters, like one of those unidentifiable European plates that could be from any one of a dozen countries. No bumper stickers, tire brand: it looked like someone had endeavored to build the most boring, anonymous vehicle possible – and succeeded.
As he bent down to look at the driver, the window descended revealing a blonde woman with skin like ivory: pristine white, as if protecting a body that didn’t bother to use blood. Her eyes were an odd purplish blue, and her lips were too red for such white skin. Most prominent were her hands: fingers unusually long, like two preying mantises attached to her wrists. Preying mantises with long, shimmering silver fingernails. Staring at them sent a chill through Scott that overarched the actual chill from the frigid air.
“Need a lift?” she said in a wispy voice. Scott nodded.
“Please,” he said with great effort, as if he’d forgotten how to speak.
He circled around the car, climbed in, and it accelerated into the dark night.
“How the hell did you get out there?” the woman said, her eyes fixed upon the road. Scott couldn’t help but look at the utter banality of the interior. It was even more anonymous than the exterior. How was it possible to make leather seats match exactly the color of the exterior paint?
“I think it was a motorcycle accident.”
“You think?” she said, a hint of incredulity and derision in her voice.
“I mean, the last thing I remember was driving my motorcycle on a road like this, then, bam! I woke up on the side of the road. But my bike wasn’t there. I didn’t break a bone, my jacket isn’t scarred, I have no cuts. There aren’t even any skid marks.”
“That’s really weird.”
“Did you hear about someone crashing? Maybe on the news, or… I don’t know.”
“No. But I obviously don’t hear everything. Your story just seems very strange, though. All of those coincidences… you sure you didn’t get dumped from a car on the side of the road. Am I driving with an axe murderer, or someone who double crossed drug dealers?”
“I swear to God, no.”
She wore no sign of fear. He wondered if her expression would have changed if he said he was an axe murderer.
“Well, if you swear to God, that must mean something - if you are an orthodox Christian. Because otherwise swearing to God doesn’t mean very much to a poor girl like me, all alone with Scott, the miracle motorcyclist.”
He turned to her, mouth agape.
“How did you know my name?”
“You told me, silly.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“When.”
“As soon as you hopped in the car. ‘Hi, my name is Scott’ you said as I pulled away.”
Scott furrowed his brow and considered the events of the past minute or so. He knew he didn’t give her his name. 100% certain. No doubt. Who the hell was this woman?
“Look, who are you? Have we met before?”
“Do you recognize me?”
“No. I think I would.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because…”
“It’s the scar, isn’t it?”
For the first time, he noticed a wicked scar that spanned from behind her ear to her collarbone. He’d taken a good look at her already and didn’t see it. It seemed impossible to miss it, but sure enough, there it was: a six-inch gash across her jugular vein. He wondered how someone could survive such a cut. A dull anxiety grew in his breast. First, the mystery introduction by name. Now the incredible disappearing neck scar that would have almost certainly been a mortal wound… Something was amiss.
“No, I-“
“It’s ok, people have been staring at it for years. I’m used to it.”
“May I ask what happened?”
“My ex-husband. He pushed me through a window.”
Scott froze, his voice paralyzed.
“It’s ok, you don’t need to pity me. Or apologize. I’m glad you didn’t try to make me feel better. It makes me think less about that horrible night where, I suppose, I almost died.”
“Look, I am sorry. I was so shocked I didn’t know what to say.”
She smiled and stared at him, azure eyes flickering, cheeks flushed. He realized that it was the first time she’d displayed even a hint of a human expression. It disarmed him, and he sighed as his guilt disappeared.
“You’re fine.”
She pointed at the glove compartment. He couldn’t believe how long her finger was. He wondered if she could encircle his hips with her hands.
“Can you grab my cell phone? I want to check the GPS.”
He firmly yanked at the latch, shaking it, trying to pry it open, but it wouldn’t budge.
“It’s okay, let me break my own glove box.”
As she reached over to open it, the car plowed over a small tree limb, causing it to lurch. She planted her palm on his ribcage to brace herself from falling. A few pokes from all five fingers caused him to squirm away in defense as she sat up.
“I’m sorry,” she said as she sat up.
“It’s okay. You can’t help tree branches from falling.”
For some reason, she smiled at this.
“No, I mean for tickling you. You jumped pretty good there when I touched you.”
He shivered at the word tickle. Just hearing it made him queasy. It always did. He could still detect a lingering pressure where her fingers had poked him, and it was almost 30 seconds later.
“It’s okay.”
“You seem pretty ticklish, Scott.”
“Yeah, so what?”
“It’s okay. I am too. No need to get defensive.”
“I’m not being defensive. I just…don’t…”
“Like to admit you’re ticklish? It’s okay. I’m ticklish. I admit it.”
He stared out the window, random muscles quivering from all this talk of tickling. What he definitely didn’t want her to know, though, was that the part of his body that tingled the most was his crotch. Though he screamed and thrashed as if being eaten alive by a shark when tickled well, if it was a woman, it aroused him like almost nothing else. God, he hated feeling so vulnerable, but the pleasure could be worth enduring. Maybe he did want her to know, this mysterious woman with the curious eyes and fingers like tree stalks. Alone, on a deserted snowy road… Would it be the end of the world if they pulled over and went at it like animals before driving into town, more relaxed for sure? Maybe not, but he still didn’t know a damn thing about her. Maybe she was an axe murderer.
“Can we not talk about this, please?”
“Why not?” she said and smiled. She peppered his ribs with quick pokes and scratches and giggled when he slapped her hand away.
“Look at that little boy smile. I bet you liked it.”
“Don’t fucking touch me,” he snapped.
She lurched back, surprised, but still wearing the hint of a wry smile.
“Ok, ok. I won’t touch you.”
“Look, I just met you, and I’m a little freaked out about the situation.”
“I understand. I guess being tickled by a strange person can be discomforting. Gives your body weird, mixed messages. I know what it’s like. If someone tickles my ribs, I get wild too. Or my tummy, oh my God! You can make me lose my mind that way. My feet, too. I’m shivering just thinking about fingers scratching the base of my toes.”
He stared out the window again with a stern look.
“Where are you ticklish, Scott?”
“Look, this is a freaking weird conversation, and I’m not answering that.”
“What’s weird?”
“That we’re talking about, you know…”
“Tickling?”
“That.”
“Well, what do you want to talk about?”
“Getting to a motel. Calling a friend to see what the fuck happened. I mean, I don’t even know your damn name.”
“Mazevla.”
“Ma what?”
“Ma-se-vla. It means ‘gather’ in Greek.”
“Gather? Gather what?”
“I don’t know, love from my mommy and daddy? Ask them.”
“Well, Masevla, can I please use that phone?”
“There is no phone.”
“What? So why did you try to open…you just wanted to tickle me, didn’t you?”
She shrugged and smiled.
“What the fuck, Masevla? Don’t you think that’s creepy?”
“I suppose. I’m really sorry. I just wanted to put a smile on your face. I can’t even imagine the trauma you’ve been through. Lost, no help, no memory of what happened, abandoned to freeze to death. Pardon me for trying to get a little smile out of you.”
He sighed, guilt creeping into him again. Anyway, the conversation didn’t creep him out so much. It was different. Intriguing. And certainly exciting. He could feel his cock growing as he recalled Masevlas hand on his ribs, the huge, soft palm and fingers. Maybe if they could creep down a bit lower…
“I’ve never had a conversation about tickling, I guess. Who does? Have you?”
“No. That’s why it’s exciting!”
“What do you want to know? Let me guess, where are you ticklish?” he said in a sarcastic voice.
“Well?” she said and smiled.
“You first.”
“Okay, I’ll tell you where I’m ticklish, and you tell me if you are ticklish there, too.”
He shook his head, shrugged, and held his hands up in disbelief.
“I still don’t know why you want this information, because you sure as hell aren’t going to tickle me.”
“Oh really, tough guy?”
“If you try, I’m going to tickle the crap out of you first.”
“Deal,” she said, a ridiculous mock pouty look on her face. “Let’s work from the ground up. Toes?”
He shook his head sheepishly.
“On a scale of 1-10. I’m an eight. You?”
“About that.”
“Soles, arches, heels, feet in general?”
“About a seven I would say.”
“Calves and knees area.”
“Just kinda makes me squirm a little bit, but not so bad.”
“Not even behind the knees, or if someone grabs your kneecaps?”
“I guess a six or so.”
“How about thighs? Outer, front.”
“Five.”
She paused and stared at him with a wry smile.
“Yes, you psycho, a good nine on the inner thighs.” She giggled.
“And the family jewels?”
“If any guy tells you his dick isn’t ticklish, he’s full of shit. And his life is a living hell.”
“Do you feel tingly right now?”
“What?”
“Are you hard?”
“Excuse me?”
“Fine, don’t tell me.”
“Ok, I am.”
“This conversation turns you on then.”
“I guess so.”
“Does being tickled turn you on?” He sighed and turned away.
“Are you turned on now?”
“Look Masevla, the answers are yes and yes. And as much as I honestly am dying to fuck you right here, we should get into town. It’s been an awful night and I just want to go home. Maybe we can meet up again, because yes, I am attracted to you and you sure as hell aren’t like any other woman I know.”
“Fair enough, Scott. I understand. Well, for next time… tummy, waist and hips.”
“All three make me giggle, but an ex really had me laughing once when she tied me up and tickled my tummy relentlessly. Of course, being worked up makes you ticklish everywhere. And light strokes on my tummy makes me really fucking horny.”
“Don’t I know it! That makes me lose it, too, if you’re keeping score.”
“That’s okay. I’ll worry about it when we are in bed together.”
“Well, since we may never be in bed together, and I’m having so much fun right now grilling you, let’s continue.”
“Fair enough.”
“Ribs and armpits.”
“The second worst and worst. 9.5 and a perfect 10. That time she tied me up, she tickled me under my arms for 10 minutes and I cursed and screamed and made every threat I could think of to make her stop. Of course, when she untied me, it all went away as we…reconvened.”
“Nice! She sounds like quite a hottie.”
“She was.”
“Finally, neck and arms.”
“Neck is more of a turn on and arms a little. Moreso if I’m being tickled elsewhere. So, is the inquisition over?”
“Yes. Thanks for being so cool, Scott. Maybe we’ll test your knowledge one of these days.”
“Interesting way to tease a guy. Undress him by revealing his vulnerable tickle spots.”
“Complaining?”
“No.”
He looked up and saw lights flickering ahead.
“Is that a town?”
“Langamore.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s a small one. Nice people, tough as nails. You need to be to live up here. My dad retired in Langamore, believe it or not. Most people go to Florida or Arizona. My crazy dad is the only one who likes to shovel snow at 75.”
“I can’t wait to meet him.”
“I bet.”
The story is about an "ethically challenged" young man who dies in a motorcycle and is sent to Purgatory. There, he must undergo a series of trials to earn resurrection and a chance to lead a better life, else be banished to the "Bad Place" for eternity. Because his greatest fear is tickle torture (and his inability to wrestle with the pleasure/pain dynamic it creates), his trials revolve around tickling. Langamore is a town that he thinks is in upstate New York, but it obviously doesn't exist. As the plot unfolds, he learns more and more about what is going on.
BTW - Dr. Langamore was a researcher who studied tickling robots, so that should tell you something about what's coming... It's also just a cool name for a town, I thought.
Escape From Langamore - Chapter One: Poking and Prodding
Scott awoke face down in a mound of snow on the side of a woodland highway, his foggy mind unaware of existence. Where was here? Why…how did I get here? Everything was nothing, until the frigid moisture on his cheeks and the strong scent of pine left no doubt that it was a forest, and there was snow. When he stood up to further orient himself, he remembered the motorcycle, the furious tour of the back roads of the Adirondacks, a hundred miles from a city that had an office building higher than three stories. Yes, it was winter, he remembered. Cold. He remembered the loud roar of the engine echoing in the canyons of towering pines that rose high into the night sky on either side of the road.
What he didn’t remember, though, was a crash. It obviously was one: unconscious on the side of the road… What else could it be? But there was no evidence: no bike, no skid marks, trails, footsteps. It seemed as if he’d fallen from the sky, or been placed on the side of the road, by someone who apparently didn’t make footprints.
Whatever it was, he knew freezing and thinking about it wouldn’t help, so he hustled down the road, hoping to find a gas station, or a town. Gnawing dread persisted in his chest, and his timid strides became a jog as he worried that he might be miles from anything, abandoned to a terrible, icy death. Onward he went, hoping for something with warmth, and to find a human being who could explain what the heck might be going on.
Right on cue he heard the distant hum of a car approaching from behind. He eagerly watched the headlights approach, standing in the middle of the road to make sure it didn’t cruelly speed by. It could be the last car he’d see for who knows how long, he thought. It turned out to be a monochrome, diarrhea-brown sedan. He couldn’t place the make and model. Oddly, the identifying trim on the rear of the car was absent; and the license plate wasn’t American for sure – it was plain white with black letters, like one of those unidentifiable European plates that could be from any one of a dozen countries. No bumper stickers, tire brand: it looked like someone had endeavored to build the most boring, anonymous vehicle possible – and succeeded.
As he bent down to look at the driver, the window descended revealing a blonde woman with skin like ivory: pristine white, as if protecting a body that didn’t bother to use blood. Her eyes were an odd purplish blue, and her lips were too red for such white skin. Most prominent were her hands: fingers unusually long, like two preying mantises attached to her wrists. Preying mantises with long, shimmering silver fingernails. Staring at them sent a chill through Scott that overarched the actual chill from the frigid air.
“Need a lift?” she said in a wispy voice. Scott nodded.
“Please,” he said with great effort, as if he’d forgotten how to speak.
He circled around the car, climbed in, and it accelerated into the dark night.
“How the hell did you get out there?” the woman said, her eyes fixed upon the road. Scott couldn’t help but look at the utter banality of the interior. It was even more anonymous than the exterior. How was it possible to make leather seats match exactly the color of the exterior paint?
“I think it was a motorcycle accident.”
“You think?” she said, a hint of incredulity and derision in her voice.
“I mean, the last thing I remember was driving my motorcycle on a road like this, then, bam! I woke up on the side of the road. But my bike wasn’t there. I didn’t break a bone, my jacket isn’t scarred, I have no cuts. There aren’t even any skid marks.”
“That’s really weird.”
“Did you hear about someone crashing? Maybe on the news, or… I don’t know.”
“No. But I obviously don’t hear everything. Your story just seems very strange, though. All of those coincidences… you sure you didn’t get dumped from a car on the side of the road. Am I driving with an axe murderer, or someone who double crossed drug dealers?”
“I swear to God, no.”
She wore no sign of fear. He wondered if her expression would have changed if he said he was an axe murderer.
“Well, if you swear to God, that must mean something - if you are an orthodox Christian. Because otherwise swearing to God doesn’t mean very much to a poor girl like me, all alone with Scott, the miracle motorcyclist.”
He turned to her, mouth agape.
“How did you know my name?”
“You told me, silly.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“When.”
“As soon as you hopped in the car. ‘Hi, my name is Scott’ you said as I pulled away.”
Scott furrowed his brow and considered the events of the past minute or so. He knew he didn’t give her his name. 100% certain. No doubt. Who the hell was this woman?
“Look, who are you? Have we met before?”
“Do you recognize me?”
“No. I think I would.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because…”
“It’s the scar, isn’t it?”
For the first time, he noticed a wicked scar that spanned from behind her ear to her collarbone. He’d taken a good look at her already and didn’t see it. It seemed impossible to miss it, but sure enough, there it was: a six-inch gash across her jugular vein. He wondered how someone could survive such a cut. A dull anxiety grew in his breast. First, the mystery introduction by name. Now the incredible disappearing neck scar that would have almost certainly been a mortal wound… Something was amiss.
“No, I-“
“It’s ok, people have been staring at it for years. I’m used to it.”
“May I ask what happened?”
“My ex-husband. He pushed me through a window.”
Scott froze, his voice paralyzed.
“It’s ok, you don’t need to pity me. Or apologize. I’m glad you didn’t try to make me feel better. It makes me think less about that horrible night where, I suppose, I almost died.”
“Look, I am sorry. I was so shocked I didn’t know what to say.”
She smiled and stared at him, azure eyes flickering, cheeks flushed. He realized that it was the first time she’d displayed even a hint of a human expression. It disarmed him, and he sighed as his guilt disappeared.
“You’re fine.”
She pointed at the glove compartment. He couldn’t believe how long her finger was. He wondered if she could encircle his hips with her hands.
“Can you grab my cell phone? I want to check the GPS.”
He firmly yanked at the latch, shaking it, trying to pry it open, but it wouldn’t budge.
“It’s okay, let me break my own glove box.”
As she reached over to open it, the car plowed over a small tree limb, causing it to lurch. She planted her palm on his ribcage to brace herself from falling. A few pokes from all five fingers caused him to squirm away in defense as she sat up.
“I’m sorry,” she said as she sat up.
“It’s okay. You can’t help tree branches from falling.”
For some reason, she smiled at this.
“No, I mean for tickling you. You jumped pretty good there when I touched you.”
He shivered at the word tickle. Just hearing it made him queasy. It always did. He could still detect a lingering pressure where her fingers had poked him, and it was almost 30 seconds later.
“It’s okay.”
“You seem pretty ticklish, Scott.”
“Yeah, so what?”
“It’s okay. I am too. No need to get defensive.”
“I’m not being defensive. I just…don’t…”
“Like to admit you’re ticklish? It’s okay. I’m ticklish. I admit it.”
He stared out the window, random muscles quivering from all this talk of tickling. What he definitely didn’t want her to know, though, was that the part of his body that tingled the most was his crotch. Though he screamed and thrashed as if being eaten alive by a shark when tickled well, if it was a woman, it aroused him like almost nothing else. God, he hated feeling so vulnerable, but the pleasure could be worth enduring. Maybe he did want her to know, this mysterious woman with the curious eyes and fingers like tree stalks. Alone, on a deserted snowy road… Would it be the end of the world if they pulled over and went at it like animals before driving into town, more relaxed for sure? Maybe not, but he still didn’t know a damn thing about her. Maybe she was an axe murderer.
“Can we not talk about this, please?”
“Why not?” she said and smiled. She peppered his ribs with quick pokes and scratches and giggled when he slapped her hand away.
“Look at that little boy smile. I bet you liked it.”
“Don’t fucking touch me,” he snapped.
She lurched back, surprised, but still wearing the hint of a wry smile.
“Ok, ok. I won’t touch you.”
“Look, I just met you, and I’m a little freaked out about the situation.”
“I understand. I guess being tickled by a strange person can be discomforting. Gives your body weird, mixed messages. I know what it’s like. If someone tickles my ribs, I get wild too. Or my tummy, oh my God! You can make me lose my mind that way. My feet, too. I’m shivering just thinking about fingers scratching the base of my toes.”
He stared out the window again with a stern look.
“Where are you ticklish, Scott?”
“Look, this is a freaking weird conversation, and I’m not answering that.”
“What’s weird?”
“That we’re talking about, you know…”
“Tickling?”
“That.”
“Well, what do you want to talk about?”
“Getting to a motel. Calling a friend to see what the fuck happened. I mean, I don’t even know your damn name.”
“Mazevla.”
“Ma what?”
“Ma-se-vla. It means ‘gather’ in Greek.”
“Gather? Gather what?”
“I don’t know, love from my mommy and daddy? Ask them.”
“Well, Masevla, can I please use that phone?”
“There is no phone.”
“What? So why did you try to open…you just wanted to tickle me, didn’t you?”
She shrugged and smiled.
“What the fuck, Masevla? Don’t you think that’s creepy?”
“I suppose. I’m really sorry. I just wanted to put a smile on your face. I can’t even imagine the trauma you’ve been through. Lost, no help, no memory of what happened, abandoned to freeze to death. Pardon me for trying to get a little smile out of you.”
He sighed, guilt creeping into him again. Anyway, the conversation didn’t creep him out so much. It was different. Intriguing. And certainly exciting. He could feel his cock growing as he recalled Masevlas hand on his ribs, the huge, soft palm and fingers. Maybe if they could creep down a bit lower…
“I’ve never had a conversation about tickling, I guess. Who does? Have you?”
“No. That’s why it’s exciting!”
“What do you want to know? Let me guess, where are you ticklish?” he said in a sarcastic voice.
“Well?” she said and smiled.
“You first.”
“Okay, I’ll tell you where I’m ticklish, and you tell me if you are ticklish there, too.”
He shook his head, shrugged, and held his hands up in disbelief.
“I still don’t know why you want this information, because you sure as hell aren’t going to tickle me.”
“Oh really, tough guy?”
“If you try, I’m going to tickle the crap out of you first.”
“Deal,” she said, a ridiculous mock pouty look on her face. “Let’s work from the ground up. Toes?”
He shook his head sheepishly.
“On a scale of 1-10. I’m an eight. You?”
“About that.”
“Soles, arches, heels, feet in general?”
“About a seven I would say.”
“Calves and knees area.”
“Just kinda makes me squirm a little bit, but not so bad.”
“Not even behind the knees, or if someone grabs your kneecaps?”
“I guess a six or so.”
“How about thighs? Outer, front.”
“Five.”
She paused and stared at him with a wry smile.
“Yes, you psycho, a good nine on the inner thighs.” She giggled.
“And the family jewels?”
“If any guy tells you his dick isn’t ticklish, he’s full of shit. And his life is a living hell.”
“Do you feel tingly right now?”
“What?”
“Are you hard?”
“Excuse me?”
“Fine, don’t tell me.”
“Ok, I am.”
“This conversation turns you on then.”
“I guess so.”
“Does being tickled turn you on?” He sighed and turned away.
“Are you turned on now?”
“Look Masevla, the answers are yes and yes. And as much as I honestly am dying to fuck you right here, we should get into town. It’s been an awful night and I just want to go home. Maybe we can meet up again, because yes, I am attracted to you and you sure as hell aren’t like any other woman I know.”
“Fair enough, Scott. I understand. Well, for next time… tummy, waist and hips.”
“All three make me giggle, but an ex really had me laughing once when she tied me up and tickled my tummy relentlessly. Of course, being worked up makes you ticklish everywhere. And light strokes on my tummy makes me really fucking horny.”
“Don’t I know it! That makes me lose it, too, if you’re keeping score.”
“That’s okay. I’ll worry about it when we are in bed together.”
“Well, since we may never be in bed together, and I’m having so much fun right now grilling you, let’s continue.”
“Fair enough.”
“Ribs and armpits.”
“The second worst and worst. 9.5 and a perfect 10. That time she tied me up, she tickled me under my arms for 10 minutes and I cursed and screamed and made every threat I could think of to make her stop. Of course, when she untied me, it all went away as we…reconvened.”
“Nice! She sounds like quite a hottie.”
“She was.”
“Finally, neck and arms.”
“Neck is more of a turn on and arms a little. Moreso if I’m being tickled elsewhere. So, is the inquisition over?”
“Yes. Thanks for being so cool, Scott. Maybe we’ll test your knowledge one of these days.”
“Interesting way to tease a guy. Undress him by revealing his vulnerable tickle spots.”
“Complaining?”
“No.”
He looked up and saw lights flickering ahead.
“Is that a town?”
“Langamore.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s a small one. Nice people, tough as nails. You need to be to live up here. My dad retired in Langamore, believe it or not. Most people go to Florida or Arizona. My crazy dad is the only one who likes to shovel snow at 75.”
“I can’t wait to meet him.”
“I bet.”
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