The merry merciless attentions of my lively loving wife (F/M)

[Wade]

Starting a thread to collect some of my encounters with my sweet and lovely spouse which I've recounted in other threads -- and hopefully add some new ones.

I was lying on my back on the sofa; my wife was lying on top of me, her hands folded on my chest, her chin perched on her hands, her eyes locked on mine. The light glinted prettily off the soft golden hairs on her gorgeous wrists. I had my arms around her, my hands meeting on her back. We were talking about mundane everyday stuff; did something I say set her off or give her the idea? No clue, but for some reason she lifted her head a bit, removed her hands from my chest, extended her arms down by our sides, and started scampering her fingers against my sides, just above my waist -- a very very very very very susceptible spot for me, as she -- more than anyone else on earth -- too well knows.

The effect was instantaneous, as she knew it would be. Instantly my every muscle tensed, my hands flew instinctively from her back to clench as fists near my shoulders, and I was laughing, instantly, laughing loud and hard, a bellowing laughter pouring forth from my wide-open mouth, helpless to do anything about the relentless sensations tormenting my terribly ticklish sides except to squirm violently and laugh.

She was grinning, a serene but amused grin, her face just a short distance from mine as I writhed and laughed and laughed and writhed and laughed. She didn't say anything -- I probably couldn't have heard her anyway. Those fingertips of hers just kept fluttering mischievously, unimpeded, against my twitching sides.

My constant, cascading laughter came in waves with the rhythms of my breathing -- "AAHHahahaha, AAHHahahaha, AAHHahahaha, AAHHahahaha." I pressed my hands against her shoulders, tried to push her away, but all of her weight was against me, I couldn't do it. I gave up and my hands curled into helpless fists once again. I wriggled urgently under her weight but couldn't get away, couldn't move, couldn't do anything, really, except be ticklish and be tickled, until she felt like stopping.

Which she did, ultimately. She returned her hands to my chest, folded them under her chin again, and resumed our conversation, my accelerated breathing and heartbeat the only evidence of her wicked little interlude.

 

[Mavran3]

Sounds like a lot of fun! Thanks for sharing!

 

[milagros317]

Wonderful story! I envy you the experience.

 

[Wade]

A couple weeks ago my wife and I were sitting on the sofa -- I was reading; she was flipping TV channels with increasing dissatisfaction. At some point, unbeknownst to me, she gave up on the TV and cast her gaze in my direction. Then she flexed two of her fingers into little crooks, reached across to me, and started twiddling them against my side, just above my waist. Of course I flinched convulsively, an involuntary giggle spilling from my mouth, instinctively contorting to twist my side out of her reach.

"Wh-what are you doing??"

"You've got something on your shirt," she said with a smile, leaning over to flicker those two fingertips against my side again. My book flew to the floor and I convulsed further, emitting a series of mirthful yelps.

"No I don't!" I cried, scrambling to shield myself with my hands.

"Quit moving, it's right there," she said, and by now her smile couldn't be any bigger.

Well, maybe mine was bigger. Her fingers fluttered against my writhing side. My eyes squeezed shut with the force of my involuntary laughter, which was building in intensity and desperation, my body juttering with each rising snicker. I must have looked like someone who was loving a good joke when really I was in the helpless grip of the frolicsome effects of those infernal incessant fingertips. I seized her forearm with my hand, distantly registering the warm feel of her skin against mine: the soft golden fur on her gorgeous, elegantly muscled arms is one of my 1,000 favorite things about my wife's body, but at this point all I could think about was trying to pry her hand out of range of my twitching side. I strained but her fingers remained just barely within reach, tickling away, sending agitating signals through my body, throwing my every muscle into high alert.

I fell back against the sofa -- she pounced after me. "Uh-oh, the spot moved," she said, reaching across to spider all her fingers against my stomach. "Now it's over here!" I threw my head back and laughed -- a ringing, uninhibited laugh. I lost my grip on her arm and bent my elbows against my abdomen, crossing my arms, attempting in futility to defend myself.

"Stop," I hiccuped through the laughter. "Stop."

"Why?" she said, her hand darting from one twingeing spot to another.

"I can't--" I said. "I can't--"

I can't finish a sentence, I might as well have said, as the giggles overtook me.

"I'm just trying to get at this thing on your shirt," she said over my laughter.

I slipped tumbling and giggling to the floor -- she followed. My hands darting here and there, always a half-second behind her tickling fingers.

Finally, she stopped, still kneeling over me. I caught my breath.

"I'm sorry, hon," she said. "Turns out there wasn't anything on your shirt after all."

"You don't say," I panted.

"Nope," she said. "It turns out..." And suddenly she was grabbing my shirt, lifting it with one hand, her other hand plunging inside, her fingers scrabbling across my bare skin -- "It's under your shirt!"

I howled with shrieking laughter. And so did she.

 

[milagros317]

Lucky you! I envy you.

 

[dragonguy]

A couple weeks ago my wife and I were sitting on the sofa -- I was reading; she was flipping TV channels with increasing dissatisfaction. At some point, unbeknownst to me, she gave up on the TV and cast her gaze in my direction. Then she flexed two of her fingers into little crooks, reached across to me, and started twiddling them against my side, just above my waist. Of course I flinched convulsively, an involuntary giggle spilling from my mouth, instinctively contorting to twist my side out of her reach.

"Wh-what are you doing??"

"You've got something on your shirt," she said with a smile, leaning over to flicker those two fingertips against my side again. My book flew to the floor and I convulsed further, emitting a series of mirthful yelps.

"No I don't!" I cried, scrambling to shield myself with my hands.

"Quit moving, it's right there," she said, and by now her smile couldn't be any bigger.

Well, maybe mine was bigger. Her fingers fluttered against my writhing side. My eyes squeezed shut with the force of my involuntary laughter, which was building in intensity and desperation, my body juttering with each rising snicker. I must have looked like someone who was loving a good joke when really I was in the helpless grip of the frolicsome effects of those infernal incessant fingertips. I seized her forearm with my hand, distantly registering the warm feel of her skin against mine: the soft golden fur on her gorgeous, elegantly muscled arms is one of my 1,000 favorite things about my wife's body, but at this point all I could think about was trying to pry her hand out of range of my twitching side. I strained but her fingers remained just barely within reach, tickling away, sending agitating signals through my body, throwing my every muscle into high alert.

I fell back against the sofa -- she pounced after me. "Uh-oh, the spot moved," she said, reaching across to spider all her fingers against my stomach. "Now it's over here!" I threw my head back and laughed -- a ringing, uninhibited laugh. I lost my grip on her arm and bent my elbows against my abdomen, crossing my arms, attempting in futility to defend myself.

"Stop," I hiccuped through the laughter. "Stop."

"Why?" she said, her hand darting from one twingeing spot to another.

"I can't--" I said. "I can't--"

I can't finish a sentence, I might as well have said, as the giggles overtook me.

"I'm just trying to get at this thing on your shirt," she said over my laughter.

I slipped tumbling and giggling to the floor -- she followed. My hands darting here and there, always a half-second behind her tickling fingers.

Finally, she stopped, still kneeling over me. I caught my breath.

"I'm sorry, hon," she said. "Turns out there wasn't anything on your shirt after all."

"You don't say," I panted.

"Nope," she said. "It turns out..." And suddenly she was grabbing my shirt, lifting it with one hand, her other hand plunging inside, her fingers scrabbling across my bare skin -- "It's under your shirt!"

I howled with shrieking laughter. And so did she.

Nice stories. Did she ever get your belly button at all? Do you have abs/toned stomach?

 

[jayson752003]

You ever ask her why? (After she finishes of course) one of these days one of those gals are gunna accidentally tickle u to death I'm afraid. Lol

 

[Wade]

Hm, good question. I always just assumed the "why" is "because tickling people is a thing many people do." It's never occurred to me to ask any of the people who've ever tickled me, whether briefly or in a more prolonged fashion, why they did it; the answer always seemed self-evident.

And my wife is a profoundly empathetic and compassionate creature; pushing me beyond the limits of tolerability is the last thing she would ever do.

Our friend Sarah, by contrast, is of course a total wild card temperamentally and one of these days I'm positive she absolutely will tickle me until my nerves give out and I helplessly disintegrate into nothingness and then she'll be like "Whoops, oh well."

 

[Wade]

Nice stories. Did she ever get your belly button at all? Do you have abs/toned stomach?

Nobody's ever targeted my belly button. I'm not sure it would be any more susceptible than the rest of my alarmingly ticklish abdominal area but then again I guess I don't know that for sure.

And I wouldn't describe my stomach as "toned;' it's more "abs-aspirational."

 

[milagros317]

Hm, good question. I always just assumed the "why" is "because tickling people is a thing many people do." It's never occurred to me to ask any of the people who've ever tickled me, whether briefly or in a more prolonged fashion, why they did it; the answer always seemed self-evident.

And my wife is a profoundly empathetic and compassionate creature; pushing me beyond the limits of tolerability is the last thing she would ever do.

Our friend Sarah, by contrast, is of course a total wild card temperamentally and one of these days I'm positive she absolutely will tickle me until my nerves give out and I helplessly disintegrate into nothingness and then she'll be like "Whoops, oh well."

While tickling is indeed a thing that many people do, most people do it for one minute or less in a playful manner.
Almost nobody (except for us tickle fetishists and sadists who discover an extremely ticklish person) will tickle someone for ten minutes or more without a break. So you might ask Sarah (or anybody else who tickles you for a prolonged period) why they did it.

 

[Wade]

While tickling is indeed a thing that many people do, most people do it for one minute or less in a playful manner.
Almost nobody (except for us tickle fetishists and sadists who discover an extremely ticklish person) will tickle someone for ten minutes or more without a break. So you might ask Sarah (or anybody else who tickles you for a prolonged period) why they did it.

Again, good observations -- there's def a difference between someone who just spiders their fingers up your sides as they pass by and someone who tickles you until you're on the floor -- though in my experience both categories can include people whose interest in tickling is generally casual and non-sexual. I've encountered several women who are clearly ticklers by temperament even though I have no reason to suspect it plays a significant role in their sexual lives.

It's worth noting that most of my recollections probably involve ticklings that last a minute or less. (Even my most grueling ticklings from the likes of Sarah or my ex-girlfriend Laura probably came in well under five minutes.). That said, when you're being tickled a minute is a realllllly long time -- so you're right, wondering about what drives someone who's willing to inflict that on a friend or lover is a worthwhile question.

 

[jayson752003]

Hm, good question. I always just assumed the "why" is "because tickling people is a thing many people do." It's never occurred to me to ask any of the people who've ever tickled me, whether briefly or in a more prolonged fashion, why they did it; the answer always seemed self-evident.

And my wife is a profoundly empathetic and compassionate creature; pushing me beyond the limits of tolerability is the last thing she would ever do.

Our friend Sarah, by contrast, is of course a total wild card temperamentally and one of these days I'm positive she absolutely will tickle me until my nerves give out and I helplessly disintegrate into nothingness and then she'll be like "Whoops, oh well."

Yes if I were a betting man, I'd most likely put most of my money on Sarah being the one to end it all. Lol

 

[Wade]

We were staying at my in-laws' house, and in the wee hours of the morning one night, I was having a dream that two women at my workplace were tickling me. Next to me in the bed, my wife nudged me and woke me up. "What's so funny?" she asked.

"Wha?"

"You were laughing in your sleep."

"Oh. Oh. I was dreaming, someone was tickling me."

"They were?"

"Yeah."

Her fingertips fluttered against my side; I jerked involuntarily. "They were tickling you, huh?"

"Yeah!"

Fingers dancing across my convulsing stomach. "Well no wonder you were laughing."

"A-A-Amanda...!"

Fingers on my stomach, on my sides, on my stomach, on my sides, me writhing in the creaking bed, trying not to laugh out loud.

"Amanda, stop, you'll wake them up...!"

Fingers on my ribs, tickling tickling tickling at my ribs, my back arching sharply--

"I think YOU'LL wake them up," she said, a smile in her voice.

"Amanda...!!"

"I think your dream's coming true, Wade," she said, sitting up in the bed, looming over me, relishing the easy access to my twitchy tickle spots, her hands darting merrily here and there. "I think you can see the future in your dreams."

And despite my efforts to muffle them, a stream of fervent high-pitched giggles started to escape, desperate and helpless, from my lips...

 

[Yeacomon420]

Do you ever tickle your wife back or just her tickling you?

 

[milagros317]

What a wonderful way to wake up!

 

[footfan69]

Wonderful stories, Wade! Yes, I also would like to know if you ever got her back!

 

[Wade]

So I was reclining on the couch, talking on the phone. It was a survey. When you're one of the six remaining people in the country with a land line, places call wanting to give you surveys about all kinds of things -- politics, TV, radio programming, packaged food products. And I always agree to take the survey, much to the consternation of my wife, who thinks it's pointless and a waste of time. And they really do tend to take forever.

So there I was on the couch giving terse answers to the endless list of dumb questions the paid caller was reading from her list. "Somewhat interested. Very satisfied. Not at all aware." And my irritated wife came over and perched on the edge of the couch, sitting next to me, basically pinning me between herself and the back of the couch. She smiled, sweetly and absently, as her eyes wandered from my face to the rest of my body. And suddenly I twitched uncontrollably -- she'd given my side a little ticklish pinch. Then another one -- her other hand, my other side, another ticklish spasm.

I grimaced at her, silently telling her Cut it out! But then her hands were lifted above me, poised mock-threateningly, her lovely nimble fingers waving slowly in the air, announcing her intention to visit additional tickles upon me. Aw, crap. I was holding the phone to my ear with one hand -- "Somewhat often. Moderately positive" -- and lifting my other one up, holding it between me and her, a meager line of defense. Her right hand spiraled down through the air, alighting on my stomach with spidery fingers, causing my to convulse and suppress a giggle, and then retreating again. Now here came her other hand, fingers dancing on my ribs, another convulsion, and they were gone again. Each time one of her hands dove in for an attack my one free hand darted to block her but I was always too late -- or whenever I did manage to intercept her one hand, suddenly her other hand was scribbling away at my side or abdomen.

I was hopelessly outmatched.

Suddenly this survey seemed like it was going to take forever.

"Now I'd like to gauge your interest in possible future products," the woman on the phone droned on as my wife's fingertips squirmed into my neck just above my collarbone, making me wriggle like a fish.

Her alternating attacks started to come ever-so-slightly more frequently -- fingers on my stomach, fingers on my waistline, a hand darting mischievously into the hollow of my armpit. I was writhing and twitching helplessly on the sofa, struggling to keep the burbling urge to laugh from emerging into my terse responses to the phone survey -- I was her plaything, basically, and I would squirm and thrash as much and for as long as my wife saw fit to make me do so. There was a serenely entertained smile on her face as her gaze wandered across my body, unhurriedly picking her next target. And her next. And her next.

"V-very satisfied," I said. Fingers tweaked my ribs, a series of irresistible pulses applied to my tickle-spots. "SomeWHAT ah ah satisFIED!"

"Just a few more questions," the surveyor said drily.

Oh my God.

My wife's fingers scrambled lazily here and there, up my side, across my stomach. I twisted and floundered in helpless response. My shirt had ridden up because of all my involuntary exertions; I felt her warm fingertips graze my bare abdomen. An amplified jolt shuddered through me -- I wasn't going to be able to hold it together.

"I'm so sorry," I said into the phone. "C-could we finish this another time?"

"Oh, is this a bad time?" the caller asked in her dull monotone.

"It's--" Fingertips cycling lazily against my quivering stomach -- "it's become a, a bad time, maybe another time?"

"I certainly understand but we really have just a few more questions to go..."

Her warm hands continuing their incursion, ambling languidly up my sides. A series of sharp inhales on my part. "I can't, I just can't concentrate."

"I anticipate this will take no more than three more minutes..."

Her fingers drawing circles on my ribs, the chuckles building at the back of my throat. "I'm really sorry I just have to go bye!" I hung up, dropped the phone, seized my wife's wrists through my shirt, throwing my head back and cackling helplessly.

She stopped. She perched her chin cutely on my chest.

"You hungry?" she said.

 

[milagros317]

Another great story, Wade! Thanks for sharing your experience here.

 

[Wade]

Over a holiday my wife and I were together with her family, which included her younger sister.

You can tell instantly that they're sisters -- they look alike in so many ways. Main difference is that where my wife has gentle curves, her sister is lean and athletic; she's built like a little jock, even though her days of organized sports are behind her. They have very similar arms, pale with occasional freckles and a soft furry golden down all over, but where my wife's arms are kind of soft and rounded her sister's are more strong and angular.

And they're both well-acquainted with my ticklishness.

We were watching a movie on TV. It was a movie of my choosing and they were pretty vocal about thinking it was terrible. (It wasn't very good, actually, but by that point I couldn't exactly admit that.) We were on the sofa -- I was lying with my head in my wife's lap; her sister was at the opposite end of the couch, near my feet.

I don't know how they orchestrated this; there was no evident planning involved. But the second the movie ended, the very second the closing credits started to roll, they both sprang to their feet and came together and loomed over me with shared mischievous smiles and started tickling me. It wasn't 100% clear whether this was explicit payback for making them watch the bad movie, or just an effort to salvage something entertaining out of the evening, or what, but whatever the reason, there they were, reaching toward me, the overhead light glinting off the golden hairs on their wrists and arms, and suddenly all twenty of their fingers were darting at my sides and stomach, scrabbling against my abdomen, and of course instantaneously I was hysterical with peals of wild laughter.

I couldn't defend myself -- I was outnumbered -- their fingers spidered along my sides, down by my waist, up across my ribs. I was writhing and thrashing on the sofa, unable to escape, my hands flying to each ticklish spot to try and defend myself but as soon as they got there the fingers that had been tormenting me there were gone, having flown to a different ticklish spot. My giggles were throaty and high-pitched, constant and helpless, thick with giddy desperation as they tickled and tickled. I wriggled and squirmed but it was hopeless, of course; their four hands rendered me defenseless. They darted and tickled and darted and tickled and at any given moment I had multiple tickle-signals flying through my system and all I could do was laugh. Thrash around and laugh. Their fingertips were ruthlessly effective and my ticklish spots were flinchy and sensitive and I was their plaything for as long as they chose to make me thus.

A contented smile on her face, my wife serenely moved her hands from my stomach to my sides to my waist to my stomach again, effortlessly and expertly triggering each incapacitating tickle-spot with ruthless ease. Her sister took a more restless approach; she began by joining my wife in assaulting my twitching abdomen but eventually I suddenly felt her strong little hands seizing the tops of my knees, seizing and rhythmically squeezing them to send urgent depth charges of ticklishness shooting through me -- my laughter took on a new insistence, getting louder, getting more frantic.

"No, stop, no, stop," I tried to say to them, "No, stop," but the contours of the words were barely discernible, swallowed as they were in the billows of boisterous laughter.

The next thing I noticed through the haze of my forced delirium was a hand firmly gripping one of my ankles -- "No, no, no, no" -- and then my wife's sister's fingertips were scampering up and down the sole of my socked foot. My laughter entered a new register, a whole other octave, really -- I was whooping and yelping with helpless hilarity. My immobilized foot twitched wildly back and forth as my sister-in-law's fingertips played relentlessly against my socked sole, but to no avail, and my wife kept up her merry assault on my stomach and sides, and my back arched and I pressed my head into the softness of the cushions and I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.

Until finally they stopped.

"That was fun," my wife's sister said.

My wife gave me a kiss on the forehead.

And they left me to recover, red-faced and panting, alone on the sofa.

 

[footfan69]

Over a holiday my wife and I were together with her family, which included her younger sister.

You can tell instantly that they're sisters -- they look alike in so many ways. Main difference is that where my wife has gentle curves, her sister is lean and athletic; she's built like a little jock, even though her days of organized sports are behind her. They have very similar arms, pale with occasional freckles and a soft furry golden down all over, but where my wife's arms are kind of soft and rounded her sister's are more strong and angular.

And they're both well-acquainted with my ticklishness.

We were watching a movie on TV. It was a movie of my choosing and they were pretty vocal about thinking it was terrible. (It wasn't very good, actually, but by that point I couldn't exactly admit that.) We were on the sofa -- I was lying with my head in my wife's lap; her sister was at the opposite end of the couch, near my feet.

I don't know how they orchestrated this; there was no evident planning involved. But the second the movie ended, the very second the closing credits started to roll, they both sprang to their feet and came together and loomed over me with shared mischievous smiles and started tickling me. It wasn't 100% clear whether this was explicit payback for making them watch the bad movie, or just an effort to salvage something entertaining out of the evening, or what, but whatever the reason, there they were, reaching toward me, the overhead light glinting off the golden hairs on their wrists and arms, and suddenly all twenty of their fingers were darting at my sides and stomach, scrabbling against my abdomen, and of course instantaneously I was hysterical with peals of wild laughter.

I couldn't defend myself -- I was outnumbered -- their fingers spidered along my sides, down by my waist, up across my ribs. I was writhing and thrashing on the sofa, unable to escape, my hands flying to each ticklish spot to try and defend myself but as soon as they got there the fingers that had been tormenting me there were gone, having flown to a different ticklish spot. My giggles were throaty and high-pitched, constant and helpless, thick with giddy desperation as they tickled and tickled. I wriggled and squirmed but it was hopeless, of course; their four hands rendered me defenseless. They darted and tickled and darted and tickled and at any given moment I had multiple tickle-signals flying through my system and all I could do was laugh. Thrash around and laugh. Their fingertips were ruthlessly effective and my ticklish spots were flinchy and sensitive and I was their plaything for as long as they chose to make me thus.

A contented smile on her face, my wife serenely moved her hands from my stomach to my sides to my waist to my stomach again, effortlessly and expertly triggering each incapacitating tickle-spot with ruthless ease. Her sister took a more restless approach; she began by joining my wife in assaulting my twitching abdomen but eventually I suddenly felt her strong little hands seizing the tops of my knees, seizing and rhythmically squeezing them to send urgent depth charges of ticklishness shooting through me -- my laughter took on a new insistence, getting louder, getting more frantic.

"No, stop, no, stop," I tried to say to them, "No, stop," but the contours of the words were barely discernible, swallowed as they were in the billows of boisterous laughter.

The next thing I noticed through the haze of my forced delirium was a hand firmly gripping one of my ankles -- "No, no, no, no" -- and then my wife's sister's fingertips were scampering up and down the sole of my socked foot. My laughter entered a new register, a whole other octave, really -- I was whooping and yelping with helpless hilarity. My immobilized foot twitched wildly back and forth as my sister-in-law's fingertips played relentlessly against my socked sole, but to no avail, and my wife kept up her merry assault on my stomach and sides, and my back arched and I pressed my head into the softness of the cushions and I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.

Until finally they stopped.

"That was fun," my wife's sister said.

My wife gave me a kiss on the forehead.

And they left me to recover, red-faced and panting, alone on the sofa.

Wow! Super hot story! You are one lucky man, indeed. Did you and your wife ever get revenge on the sister?