Po Lazarus
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- May 24, 2011
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This is the first half of a story I've just posted in the fiction stories section, part of my "Almost True Series". The difference with this particular section of the story is that it's not "Almost True" - it is true, every word. So I figured I'd put it here, as I'm aware that some people will never peruse the fiction section, and I always wanted to contribute to the True Stories section: my favourite area of the TMF.
For the British readers out there who may recognise the name of the main character: Yes – I have changed the name of the girl who this happened with to ‘Priti’, because she looked like Priti Patel – the most ideologically-odious-yet-simultaneously-bangable member of the Conservative Party cabinet. Perhaps the most well-known American who shares her striking ethnicity is Kamala Harris, so perhaps picture her if you hail from the other side of the pond, if you like.
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Telekinetic Gargalesis
I was Twenty-One years old, and something was about to happen to me that had never happened to me before, and probably won’t happen to me ever again. I was about to watch a foot-tickling that I had somehow initiated through telekinesis. Scoff all you like, and believe what you will, but it happened. Even if you don’t believe me, it makes a good yarn – as hopefully you’ll come to agree…
At Twenty-One, you’re in that sweet spot of having just finished Uni (‘College’), but aren’t yet thrust into the pain-in-the-arseness of the impending responsibilities of proper adulthood. They do begin to loom ever-closer, ready to come and prick your snot-nosed bubble, but for a while, as a Postgraduate, as long as you can make rent, you can keep the party going for a year or two yet before shit gets real and you have to start thinking about actually growing up. That was the thinking of my first serious girlfriend, Marylin (now my Fiancé) and her best friend, Priti, when they decided to combine financial forces and rent an overpriced flat in a bustling City centre, with the express purpose of “Work Hard, Play Harder”. An awesome mission statement, which was easily accomplished in their year or so sharing the flat.
The two chief beneficiaries of this mission were myself, who could come and go as I pleased, and Matt, who Priti met on the first night out in the city in question, and from then on became an increasingly serious boyfriend. They made a cute couple. Matt was your typical blandly tall, dark and handsome guy, but Priti was stunning. A third generation British-born Indian chick, she had rich light-brown skin, jet-black hair, a heart-shaped face, high cheek bones, gorgeous smile, and great feet.
Being an unofficial Room Mate myself, I was privy to these whenever I was there, as for general cultural reasons South Asian people (particularly women) are almost always barefoot in the home. This did mean that sometimes they would get into a state and need pedicuring, but aesthetically, they rocked. They were a perfect size, with cute, nicely proportioned toes, but the killer was her soles. Her soles simply had a glow about them, which I perhaps can’t really describe adequately. They just looked lush; I think it was something to do with the contrast between the light-brown of the rest of Priti’s body and the paler, almost golden-brown colour of them. I couldn’t help but occasionally fantasise over them and I wondered how ticklish they were. It wouldn’t be long before I would find out.
I miss those days, viscerally. Nights out were always a riot, but I preferred our nights in, which would typically involve partaking of large quantities of beer, wine, weed, fast food and cigarettes, accompanied by video game tournaments, box set binging, movie marathons, and the usual time-wasting you get up to at that age. A lovely little bubble developed: the four of us had much in common and perfected the art of hanging out, always comfortable in each other’s company and communally smitten with the notion that the only thing on the agenda was to have a good time every night. Which was why most evenings would usually culminate in retiring to the adjacent bedrooms and competing to see who could make the most noise through the paper-thin walls. We were as close as semi-co-habiting couples could be.
Which was how I came to quickly realise that Matt was an ardent tickler. It didn’t take long before he would regularly punctuate our blissful evenings by dishing out a comprehensive tickling to Priti for the most minor of infractions, imagined or otherwise. He didn’t seem to care whether the sometimes eyebrow-raising length of the punishments indeed raised any eyebrows or not, nor was he bothered about how Marylin and I might respond to the clear, unvarnished relish he took from doing it. As long as he could outwardly justify it, he would tickle her to his heart’s content.
It didn’t help that Priti tended to bring it on herself: she was naturally a cheeky girl and this, tied in with her competitiveness when it came to gaming, led her into getting many decent penalty ticklings over the year that we shared the flat. It transpired that she had the relationship with tickling that most girls have: she didn’t like it, but tolerated it in the name of flirtation; she wasn’t one of those girls that absolutely freaked out over it. Obviously as a fellow tickler, I enjoyed being around this, even if I could never bring myself to be as brazenly extroverted with Marylin, who knew about and indulged my fetish, but respected that I only felt comfortable doing so in private.
Priti did eventually openly speculate as to whether Matt had a tickling fetish to Marylin and I, although not accusing him publicly, and as far as I’m aware, never getting a confirmation to her suspicions. We played as dumb as we could, given that Marylin was in fact complicit with me in hiding my own. Tickling her in front of other people has always just felt weird to me, tantamount to public foreplay, and I remain reticent about my sexual proclivities. Conversely, if Matt did share the kink, he didn’t share the desire that most of us have to keep other people from discovering it. I’d imagine there’s a good chance he’s on this forum, superior self-confidence and all.
As the months went by, I got to see witnessing the regular ticklings Priti got from him as just another awesome thing about sharing the flat, and appreciated every one of them. They were plentiful, and Matt excelled as a tickler, partly because he was much bigger than Priti and never had an issue overpowering her, and partly as he got to know her body, he found her worst spots and exploited them. As much as I enjoyed each one, none of them, however, compared to the first, which, for two reasons, I’ll never forget for as long as I may live.
It was probably three or four weeks after we had started hanging out regularly in the flat. Marylin was working a late shift, so it was just me, Matt and Priti in the flat, together just the three of us, for the first time. We’d had the usual evening’s indulgences: takeaway pizza, gaming, and I was making my way through a nice fat bag of weed I’d just procured – by myself, as Matt and Priti didn’t smoke. It was Marylin and I who were the stoner half of the foursome, and seeing as she was at work I was going it alone that night, wrapping up J’s the night long and going out to the front door of the flat to peacefully imbibe them in the late-night City air.
After one such trip outside – probably the fourth or fifth such sojourn – something plain weird came over me, an indescribably odd feeling, although a distantly familiar one. It wasn’t just the green, although that clearly influenced what occurred in my head, beyond question. I was suddenly aware of an otherworldly sense, near-imperceptible, that I was on some kind of other plane, and I knew what was about to happen when I returned inside. Not only that, but I was somehow able to indirectly control it.
Now, I know how this sounds. So if you’ll allow me, I’ll quickly interject on the events of that night for a moment. I’m not claiming that I’m telepathic, or psychic, or whatever. I have little knowledge or interest in any form of spirituality, telepathy, any of that stuff. With hindsight, I choose to believe that on the two occasions that this has happened to me, it’s almost certainly been purely borne of coincidence, not anything otherworldly. But this did happen, as did the first incident in my life which had provided me with some prior familiarity with the warm, disarming feeling, which I’ll quickly relay, for curiosity’s sake.
I was nine years old, and a thought flashed into my head one afternoon: “You’re going to be in a car accident tomorrow.” I was calm about it, not suffering any anxiety over it, and obviously at that age I was not a regular cannabis user (That started when I was ten – Ha-ha). It was just a random thought that popped into my head quite matter-of-factly. But I thought I’d better be on the safe side, so I thought inwardly to myself “But it’s OK, there’s no need to worry: no one will be seriously hurt” (Or some nine-year-old version thereof).
The next day, my mother and I were in a car accident. Luckily, no one was hurt. I have never forgotten that strange feeling, that popped into my head the afternoon before, which at the time I attributed blame for the accident to; I felt I was somehow responsible for it. As I said, I still can’t explain these phenomena, and I’m not sure that I care to. But it has happened to me twice in my life: when I had the car accident, and twelve years later, on the evening that our story begins. No more, no less. One was certainly preferable to the other, and I’ll continue now with the aim of contrasting why…
The hazy feeling I had had in my youth unexpectedly came over me as I stubbed out my joint, squashing it into the ground with my shoe. As I did so, I thought to myself “It would be amazing if I go back in there and he’s tickling her feet.” A pause, reflecting this. A chuckle, then: “Actually, that is going to happen when I go back inside. He’s really going to get her, too. Go for it, Matt, tickle the shit out of her!!”. I willed it to be so, and I still have no idea how or why, but I knew it was going to happen.
As I opened the door, I did so quieter than usual, and was met with the sound of Priti laughing steadily. At this point I didn’t assume success on my part; she could have been laughing at the TV or just otherwise at Matt. The open plan lounge/kitchenette was at the end of a small hallway, and I slipped off my shoes and treaded lightly down it on the carpet, ensuring that if the laughter was what I thought it was (the nearer I got, the more I liked the way it sounded), I wouldn’t make a noise and rouse them from their youthful romantic bonding, which it just so happened I had a vested interest in. I wanted to witness some passive tickling, and I wanted to see if I had actually somehow done it and started a tickling through mind control, or whatever the hell it was.
I crept down the dark corridor, up to the doorway of the lounge, and peered through the gap between door and frame. I had a full view of them. What I saw was that Matt had apparently won some sort of wrestling match on the couch, and was lying on his back, with one of Priti’s legs in a scissor hold. This had positioned one of her feet on his chest, and he was holding it by the ankle with one hand, and tickling every inch of it with the other, his big fingers getting all over it as far as I could see, although I wasn’t close enough to see the intricacies of his technique, as Priti was nearest to the door I was hidden behind, her head thrown back, emanating the laughter that had gleefully greeted me as I’d walked in.
Priti was making some pathetic attempts to fight him off as she cackled, but he had her stuck fast. In between laughs, she was shouting “Matt, no!!!” and “Stop it!!!” etc; the usual protests of a ticklee. But he was absolutely not for stopping, and had a grin the size of continental Europe on his face. He was doing what good first-time ticklers do: alternating his gaze between the appendage that he was tormenting, and looking over at his victim’s face to check that he was successfully eliciting appropriate hilarity from her.
This was the first time I had seen him in action as a tickler, and I paid attention to his reaction. Even at this early stage, I had an inkling that this may be more than just a casual form of lover’s horseplay to him. The longer it went on, the more enamoured he seemed, a look of bliss coming over his face as he received first-hand confirmation that his new girlfriend had ticklish feet. I couldn’t blame him for a second – is there a more joyous discovery to be made than this? I think even for newly paired Vanilla couples, a confirmation of ticklishness is an event that is always remarked upon, and often savoured. For “Us”, of course, it’s much more. It looked to Matt like it was more than just lighted-hearted fun for him. He was overjoyed.
I switched my focus to Priti. Being inordinately attracted to him and in the early stages of falling in love, she was enjoying-but-not-enjoying the tickling too much to make any form of meaningful protest, although she was clearly being tickled proficiently. As the tickling went on, her protests developed increasingly from verbal to physical: the free leg that Matt hadn’t secured was kicking limply on the floor alongside the couch, and she waved her hands around, thumping her fists into the plush base of the couch, occasionally holding a hand to her forehead to try and mediate the tickling sensation.
Her laughter was constant and true, and she looked adorable with her eyes shut tight, helpless to do anything but endure the loving but efficient torture inflicted on her by her new man. She had that “I can’t believe this is happening” look across her face, and I think this was both to do with being rumbled over her ticklishness, and also due to a mild level of indignation that Matt was making it last so long, drawing it out perhaps longer than she considered socially acceptable.
After a few minutes, she tried doing something to get out of it – she tickled Matt’s foot, which was within reach as it was planted in the couch, all the better to hold her captive leg. He felt it, but it clearly didn’t have the effect she had hoped for.
“Nuh-Uh. It doesn’t work on me!” Smug, radiant, luminous in his newfound dominance. “But you’ll pay for that all the same!” He chuckled audibly, and I saw him appear to grip the foot harder.
Priti suddenly yelled: “NOT THE TOE-OES!!!!”
As I said, I couldn’t see Matt’s hands too well as he was on the far side of the room from the door, however it was clear he had started exploring the Northern recesses of Priti’s foot and had struck gold at her cute digits. What precisely he was doing to her toes was unclear, but her reaction was anything but. She really started to hoot and yell, shaking her fists in the air and slapping Matt’s legs with a view to getting him to alter his course. He did not do this, and Priti was soon in the throes of silent laughter, defeated.
The tickling casually petered out at that point; presumably he felt he had satisfied his curiosity as to Priti’s ticklishness, and he didn’t want it to go on too long: he had probably pushed the time as much as he dared (At least at that stage). He stopped tickling Priti’s foot, and let her loose. She theatrically slumped off the couch to the floor, adopting the foetal position and slowly getting her breath back.
My head was on fire, for three reasons. I was pretty high, I had just witnessed one of the better ticklings that I had ever seen, and beyond that: I felt that I may have somehow caused it to happen. As I said earlier, I have since strayed from that viewpoint, but at the time, in the moment, I was convinced it was all down to me and I had temporarily made Matt a man-possessed. He became unpossessed quickly however, as he swigged his beer, and looked towards the door, saying “Po’s been a while, maybe I should see if he’s OK. I hope he’s not whitied.”
For a second I was worried he’d see me, but since the corridor was so dark I was apparently camouflaged, as he was looking right at the crack I was looking through. Rapidly, I backtracked down the corridor a few paces to where the bathroom was, entering and pulling the door almost closed, so it didn’t make a noise. A quick flush of the toilet, and a mock hand-washing, and I emerged from the bathroom to find Matt stood in the hall.
“You OK, mate?”
“Yeah I’m fine, but that pizza’s already on its way out. If you need the bog, I’d leave it a minute...” (I’m a pretty decent instinctive white liar).
Matt chuckled. “No, I don’t, I was just coming to make sure you hadn’t whitied or something. You’ve had a few of those, now!”
“I’m cool. Need a beer.”
We headed back into the lounge, and of course I was obliged to feign surprise at seeing Priti on the floor, looking slightly dishevelled.
“What are you doing on the floor?” I asked her, with as much fake, casual intrigue as I could.
“She got herself tickled!” Matt said, before she could answer, beaming at me as he passed me a one of the beers he’d gotten from the fridge in
the kitchenette.
I laughed, and looked at Priti, still panting slightly “Well, sucks to be you! I’m sure you deserved it anyway”
“Fuck off, Po…”
I couldn’t help but look down and notice how cute her feet looked. I had no way of knowing it then, but I’d go on to go one better than telepathically encouraging her boyfriend to tickle her feet: I’d get a go myself.
For the British readers out there who may recognise the name of the main character: Yes – I have changed the name of the girl who this happened with to ‘Priti’, because she looked like Priti Patel – the most ideologically-odious-yet-simultaneously-bangable member of the Conservative Party cabinet. Perhaps the most well-known American who shares her striking ethnicity is Kamala Harris, so perhaps picture her if you hail from the other side of the pond, if you like.
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Telekinetic Gargalesis
I was Twenty-One years old, and something was about to happen to me that had never happened to me before, and probably won’t happen to me ever again. I was about to watch a foot-tickling that I had somehow initiated through telekinesis. Scoff all you like, and believe what you will, but it happened. Even if you don’t believe me, it makes a good yarn – as hopefully you’ll come to agree…
At Twenty-One, you’re in that sweet spot of having just finished Uni (‘College’), but aren’t yet thrust into the pain-in-the-arseness of the impending responsibilities of proper adulthood. They do begin to loom ever-closer, ready to come and prick your snot-nosed bubble, but for a while, as a Postgraduate, as long as you can make rent, you can keep the party going for a year or two yet before shit gets real and you have to start thinking about actually growing up. That was the thinking of my first serious girlfriend, Marylin (now my Fiancé) and her best friend, Priti, when they decided to combine financial forces and rent an overpriced flat in a bustling City centre, with the express purpose of “Work Hard, Play Harder”. An awesome mission statement, which was easily accomplished in their year or so sharing the flat.
The two chief beneficiaries of this mission were myself, who could come and go as I pleased, and Matt, who Priti met on the first night out in the city in question, and from then on became an increasingly serious boyfriend. They made a cute couple. Matt was your typical blandly tall, dark and handsome guy, but Priti was stunning. A third generation British-born Indian chick, she had rich light-brown skin, jet-black hair, a heart-shaped face, high cheek bones, gorgeous smile, and great feet.
Being an unofficial Room Mate myself, I was privy to these whenever I was there, as for general cultural reasons South Asian people (particularly women) are almost always barefoot in the home. This did mean that sometimes they would get into a state and need pedicuring, but aesthetically, they rocked. They were a perfect size, with cute, nicely proportioned toes, but the killer was her soles. Her soles simply had a glow about them, which I perhaps can’t really describe adequately. They just looked lush; I think it was something to do with the contrast between the light-brown of the rest of Priti’s body and the paler, almost golden-brown colour of them. I couldn’t help but occasionally fantasise over them and I wondered how ticklish they were. It wouldn’t be long before I would find out.
I miss those days, viscerally. Nights out were always a riot, but I preferred our nights in, which would typically involve partaking of large quantities of beer, wine, weed, fast food and cigarettes, accompanied by video game tournaments, box set binging, movie marathons, and the usual time-wasting you get up to at that age. A lovely little bubble developed: the four of us had much in common and perfected the art of hanging out, always comfortable in each other’s company and communally smitten with the notion that the only thing on the agenda was to have a good time every night. Which was why most evenings would usually culminate in retiring to the adjacent bedrooms and competing to see who could make the most noise through the paper-thin walls. We were as close as semi-co-habiting couples could be.
Which was how I came to quickly realise that Matt was an ardent tickler. It didn’t take long before he would regularly punctuate our blissful evenings by dishing out a comprehensive tickling to Priti for the most minor of infractions, imagined or otherwise. He didn’t seem to care whether the sometimes eyebrow-raising length of the punishments indeed raised any eyebrows or not, nor was he bothered about how Marylin and I might respond to the clear, unvarnished relish he took from doing it. As long as he could outwardly justify it, he would tickle her to his heart’s content.
It didn’t help that Priti tended to bring it on herself: she was naturally a cheeky girl and this, tied in with her competitiveness when it came to gaming, led her into getting many decent penalty ticklings over the year that we shared the flat. It transpired that she had the relationship with tickling that most girls have: she didn’t like it, but tolerated it in the name of flirtation; she wasn’t one of those girls that absolutely freaked out over it. Obviously as a fellow tickler, I enjoyed being around this, even if I could never bring myself to be as brazenly extroverted with Marylin, who knew about and indulged my fetish, but respected that I only felt comfortable doing so in private.
Priti did eventually openly speculate as to whether Matt had a tickling fetish to Marylin and I, although not accusing him publicly, and as far as I’m aware, never getting a confirmation to her suspicions. We played as dumb as we could, given that Marylin was in fact complicit with me in hiding my own. Tickling her in front of other people has always just felt weird to me, tantamount to public foreplay, and I remain reticent about my sexual proclivities. Conversely, if Matt did share the kink, he didn’t share the desire that most of us have to keep other people from discovering it. I’d imagine there’s a good chance he’s on this forum, superior self-confidence and all.
As the months went by, I got to see witnessing the regular ticklings Priti got from him as just another awesome thing about sharing the flat, and appreciated every one of them. They were plentiful, and Matt excelled as a tickler, partly because he was much bigger than Priti and never had an issue overpowering her, and partly as he got to know her body, he found her worst spots and exploited them. As much as I enjoyed each one, none of them, however, compared to the first, which, for two reasons, I’ll never forget for as long as I may live.
It was probably three or four weeks after we had started hanging out regularly in the flat. Marylin was working a late shift, so it was just me, Matt and Priti in the flat, together just the three of us, for the first time. We’d had the usual evening’s indulgences: takeaway pizza, gaming, and I was making my way through a nice fat bag of weed I’d just procured – by myself, as Matt and Priti didn’t smoke. It was Marylin and I who were the stoner half of the foursome, and seeing as she was at work I was going it alone that night, wrapping up J’s the night long and going out to the front door of the flat to peacefully imbibe them in the late-night City air.
After one such trip outside – probably the fourth or fifth such sojourn – something plain weird came over me, an indescribably odd feeling, although a distantly familiar one. It wasn’t just the green, although that clearly influenced what occurred in my head, beyond question. I was suddenly aware of an otherworldly sense, near-imperceptible, that I was on some kind of other plane, and I knew what was about to happen when I returned inside. Not only that, but I was somehow able to indirectly control it.
Now, I know how this sounds. So if you’ll allow me, I’ll quickly interject on the events of that night for a moment. I’m not claiming that I’m telepathic, or psychic, or whatever. I have little knowledge or interest in any form of spirituality, telepathy, any of that stuff. With hindsight, I choose to believe that on the two occasions that this has happened to me, it’s almost certainly been purely borne of coincidence, not anything otherworldly. But this did happen, as did the first incident in my life which had provided me with some prior familiarity with the warm, disarming feeling, which I’ll quickly relay, for curiosity’s sake.
I was nine years old, and a thought flashed into my head one afternoon: “You’re going to be in a car accident tomorrow.” I was calm about it, not suffering any anxiety over it, and obviously at that age I was not a regular cannabis user (That started when I was ten – Ha-ha). It was just a random thought that popped into my head quite matter-of-factly. But I thought I’d better be on the safe side, so I thought inwardly to myself “But it’s OK, there’s no need to worry: no one will be seriously hurt” (Or some nine-year-old version thereof).
The next day, my mother and I were in a car accident. Luckily, no one was hurt. I have never forgotten that strange feeling, that popped into my head the afternoon before, which at the time I attributed blame for the accident to; I felt I was somehow responsible for it. As I said, I still can’t explain these phenomena, and I’m not sure that I care to. But it has happened to me twice in my life: when I had the car accident, and twelve years later, on the evening that our story begins. No more, no less. One was certainly preferable to the other, and I’ll continue now with the aim of contrasting why…
The hazy feeling I had had in my youth unexpectedly came over me as I stubbed out my joint, squashing it into the ground with my shoe. As I did so, I thought to myself “It would be amazing if I go back in there and he’s tickling her feet.” A pause, reflecting this. A chuckle, then: “Actually, that is going to happen when I go back inside. He’s really going to get her, too. Go for it, Matt, tickle the shit out of her!!”. I willed it to be so, and I still have no idea how or why, but I knew it was going to happen.
As I opened the door, I did so quieter than usual, and was met with the sound of Priti laughing steadily. At this point I didn’t assume success on my part; she could have been laughing at the TV or just otherwise at Matt. The open plan lounge/kitchenette was at the end of a small hallway, and I slipped off my shoes and treaded lightly down it on the carpet, ensuring that if the laughter was what I thought it was (the nearer I got, the more I liked the way it sounded), I wouldn’t make a noise and rouse them from their youthful romantic bonding, which it just so happened I had a vested interest in. I wanted to witness some passive tickling, and I wanted to see if I had actually somehow done it and started a tickling through mind control, or whatever the hell it was.
I crept down the dark corridor, up to the doorway of the lounge, and peered through the gap between door and frame. I had a full view of them. What I saw was that Matt had apparently won some sort of wrestling match on the couch, and was lying on his back, with one of Priti’s legs in a scissor hold. This had positioned one of her feet on his chest, and he was holding it by the ankle with one hand, and tickling every inch of it with the other, his big fingers getting all over it as far as I could see, although I wasn’t close enough to see the intricacies of his technique, as Priti was nearest to the door I was hidden behind, her head thrown back, emanating the laughter that had gleefully greeted me as I’d walked in.
Priti was making some pathetic attempts to fight him off as she cackled, but he had her stuck fast. In between laughs, she was shouting “Matt, no!!!” and “Stop it!!!” etc; the usual protests of a ticklee. But he was absolutely not for stopping, and had a grin the size of continental Europe on his face. He was doing what good first-time ticklers do: alternating his gaze between the appendage that he was tormenting, and looking over at his victim’s face to check that he was successfully eliciting appropriate hilarity from her.
This was the first time I had seen him in action as a tickler, and I paid attention to his reaction. Even at this early stage, I had an inkling that this may be more than just a casual form of lover’s horseplay to him. The longer it went on, the more enamoured he seemed, a look of bliss coming over his face as he received first-hand confirmation that his new girlfriend had ticklish feet. I couldn’t blame him for a second – is there a more joyous discovery to be made than this? I think even for newly paired Vanilla couples, a confirmation of ticklishness is an event that is always remarked upon, and often savoured. For “Us”, of course, it’s much more. It looked to Matt like it was more than just lighted-hearted fun for him. He was overjoyed.
I switched my focus to Priti. Being inordinately attracted to him and in the early stages of falling in love, she was enjoying-but-not-enjoying the tickling too much to make any form of meaningful protest, although she was clearly being tickled proficiently. As the tickling went on, her protests developed increasingly from verbal to physical: the free leg that Matt hadn’t secured was kicking limply on the floor alongside the couch, and she waved her hands around, thumping her fists into the plush base of the couch, occasionally holding a hand to her forehead to try and mediate the tickling sensation.
Her laughter was constant and true, and she looked adorable with her eyes shut tight, helpless to do anything but endure the loving but efficient torture inflicted on her by her new man. She had that “I can’t believe this is happening” look across her face, and I think this was both to do with being rumbled over her ticklishness, and also due to a mild level of indignation that Matt was making it last so long, drawing it out perhaps longer than she considered socially acceptable.
After a few minutes, she tried doing something to get out of it – she tickled Matt’s foot, which was within reach as it was planted in the couch, all the better to hold her captive leg. He felt it, but it clearly didn’t have the effect she had hoped for.
“Nuh-Uh. It doesn’t work on me!” Smug, radiant, luminous in his newfound dominance. “But you’ll pay for that all the same!” He chuckled audibly, and I saw him appear to grip the foot harder.
Priti suddenly yelled: “NOT THE TOE-OES!!!!”
As I said, I couldn’t see Matt’s hands too well as he was on the far side of the room from the door, however it was clear he had started exploring the Northern recesses of Priti’s foot and had struck gold at her cute digits. What precisely he was doing to her toes was unclear, but her reaction was anything but. She really started to hoot and yell, shaking her fists in the air and slapping Matt’s legs with a view to getting him to alter his course. He did not do this, and Priti was soon in the throes of silent laughter, defeated.
The tickling casually petered out at that point; presumably he felt he had satisfied his curiosity as to Priti’s ticklishness, and he didn’t want it to go on too long: he had probably pushed the time as much as he dared (At least at that stage). He stopped tickling Priti’s foot, and let her loose. She theatrically slumped off the couch to the floor, adopting the foetal position and slowly getting her breath back.
My head was on fire, for three reasons. I was pretty high, I had just witnessed one of the better ticklings that I had ever seen, and beyond that: I felt that I may have somehow caused it to happen. As I said earlier, I have since strayed from that viewpoint, but at the time, in the moment, I was convinced it was all down to me and I had temporarily made Matt a man-possessed. He became unpossessed quickly however, as he swigged his beer, and looked towards the door, saying “Po’s been a while, maybe I should see if he’s OK. I hope he’s not whitied.”
For a second I was worried he’d see me, but since the corridor was so dark I was apparently camouflaged, as he was looking right at the crack I was looking through. Rapidly, I backtracked down the corridor a few paces to where the bathroom was, entering and pulling the door almost closed, so it didn’t make a noise. A quick flush of the toilet, and a mock hand-washing, and I emerged from the bathroom to find Matt stood in the hall.
“You OK, mate?”
“Yeah I’m fine, but that pizza’s already on its way out. If you need the bog, I’d leave it a minute...” (I’m a pretty decent instinctive white liar).
Matt chuckled. “No, I don’t, I was just coming to make sure you hadn’t whitied or something. You’ve had a few of those, now!”
“I’m cool. Need a beer.”
We headed back into the lounge, and of course I was obliged to feign surprise at seeing Priti on the floor, looking slightly dishevelled.
“What are you doing on the floor?” I asked her, with as much fake, casual intrigue as I could.
“She got herself tickled!” Matt said, before she could answer, beaming at me as he passed me a one of the beers he’d gotten from the fridge in
the kitchenette.
I laughed, and looked at Priti, still panting slightly “Well, sucks to be you! I’m sure you deserved it anyway”
“Fuck off, Po…”
I couldn’t help but look down and notice how cute her feet looked. I had no way of knowing it then, but I’d go on to go one better than telepathically encouraging her boyfriend to tickle her feet: I’d get a go myself.
Thanks for sharing your experience here. 
