A gf embraces her inner tickler (F/M)

[Wade1]

One of my girlfriends in college was Rachel, a cute, petite and brainy little thing with smart black-rimmed glasses, short shaggy brown hair and an open, adorable face that she never adorned with makeup. She also had these soft and nimble hands, nails closely trimmed, and pretty, slender but well-muscled arms accented with a soft golden fuzz.

Our relationship was measured in months, nothing more, for a variety of reasons, but mostly because she was always more religious than I was and as time went by we kept moving in those opposite, increasingly incompatible directions.

Rachel was also deathly, deathly, deathly ticklish--as ticklish as I was, in other words, or nearly. Which meant that we almost never tickled each other, beyond brief teasing grabs or pokes, just long enough to communicate affection and make the other person shriek.

But then it came to pass that a pair of mutual friends, who were dating each other, fell onto rocky times, relationship-wise. The girl was convinced that the guy was not to be trusted; the guy denied any wrongdoing. Rachel, being close to the girl, wanted to know the truth, and she figured I, being friends with the guy, knew something she didn't know.

Or so I found out one afternoon when I was lying on my stomach on Rachel's dorm bed as she gave me a backrub. She asked me whether Matt had cheated on Susan; I said I didn't know. We went back and forth in this manner for a little while, and then there was silence, as Rachel's big frontal lobe hatched a plan.

I felt her scooting down my back, over my butt, onto my legs toward my feet. "I need you to tell me," she said.

"I can't, I don't know anything," I protested. And that's when I felt Rachel pulling my socks off my pinned feet.

In retrospect, Rachel's thought process here was perfectly understandable, if not inevitable. She'd never engaged in tickle torture for fun, because for her being tickled wasn't fun and she empathized too much with the ticklee to do such a thing. But suddenly that same empathy was proving to be my downfall: because Rachel was so ticklish, she knew that SHE would never be able to withstand being tickled for very long, that SHE would spill the beans if confronted with just such a torture.

Kneeling on my calves, facing away from my bare feet, she said, "I need you to tell me, though."

I didn't say anything. And that's when she reached behind her with both arms and started spidering her soft fingertips up and down my helpless feet.

My reaction was instantaneous, and predictable--I tensed suddenly, every muscle convulsing in protest, my elbows jerking pointlessly to my stomach, and I started to laugh. And laugh. And laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

"Tell me, Wade," Rachel shouted over my hysterical squeals. "You have to tell me." And on my wriggling, flexing feet I felt her fingers crawling relentlessly from heel to toe and back again.

Most people don't tickle-torture you for very long; they establish their dominance over you, seal your humiliation, and move on. And someone who wasn't very ticklish herself probably would have given up on tickling me for information eventually, figuring that it wasn't going to work. But Rachel knew it was going to work. She knew it couldn't help but work. She knew what it felt like to be tickled, she knew how intolerable it was to be thrown into helpless laughter by the maddening sensation of fingers on one's soles, and so she knew however long I could take it, she only needed to go a little longer than that. And in the rare moments of silence when I gasped for a breath or careened into a spate of silent laughter, I thought I could hear her snickering... she was actually enjoying this, on top of everything else.

"Please," I shrieked, giggling and thrashing on her bed, begging absurdly at the wall. "Please please no more...!"

"Tell me and I'll stop," she said, her fingers continuing mercilessly to skid gently across my twitching feet.

By this point of course I wanted to tell her--needed to tell her, to make it stop--but was laughing too hard to articulate. "It was hahahaha. He he heeheehee. I'm telling ohnohohohoho! Please I'll eeheeheeheehee. He did do oh oh hahahahaha."

Eventually (finally!) Rachel paused in her torture and I blurted out everything I knew about Matt and the party where he'd gotten drunk and etc. etc. etc. "Thanks," Rachel said, and then tickled my feet for a few more seconds before letting me up.

This event represented something of a turning point on Rachel's choice of recreational activities. Turns out she decided she kind of enjoyed tickling me senseless. She started doing it more in public--reducing me to giggles at the cafeteria table, pouncing on me in the quad--but was particularly ruthless behind closed doors. Figuring that this was our new thing, I tried reciprocating, pinning Rachel down and tickling her sides (though for nowhere near as long as she'd gotten my feet), but nope--that was still off limits. She was furious, and made that clear by immediately attacking me and tickling me with a brutality I'd never seen in her before, stopping just short of my wetting my pants, extracting from me a fevered and desperate promise never to torture her again. Nope, as far as Rachel was concerned, I was the designated ticklee, my twitchy nerve endings supplied for her entertainment, and I have to admit there were few things cuter than when her eyes would flash mischievously and her fingers flicker menacingly in my direction, the light glinting white off the fur on her forearms exposed tantalizingly by her three-quarters sleeves.

But some months after that there was no more me-and-Rachel. One only hopes for her sake that wherever she is now and whatever she's doing, she found herself a devoted Christian husband with devastatingly sensitive feet.

 

[Budweiserbob!]

=o

Wrongly titled story!

Should be F/M THEN M/F.

 

[coloman]

Nice story, thanks for sharing it. No matter what the results would have been you should have tickled Rachel's feet until she was putty in your hands. After the foot tickling she gave you to get the information she wanted you owed it to yourself to return the favor.

 

[Wade1]

=o

Wrongly titled story!

Should be F/M THEN M/F.

Ooooops! Must be my aixelsyd acting up again.

Is there a way to edit that title?

 

[Wade1]

After the foot tickling she gave you to get the information she wanted you owed it to yourself to return the favor.

In a just world, you're right. Especially since from that point on she so loved to tickle my feet until I was hysterical.

Indeed, I'm convinced that the same hyper-ticklishness that made her refuse to be tickled was probably exactly what made her enjoy torturing me so much. She loved tickling my feet, which were her worst place. Being so excruciatingly ticklish, she could thoroughly identify with the high pitch of anxiety associated with having the bottoms of one's feet trapped and exposed to a tickler, the very position she so enjoyed putting me in. And while she was tickling my feet she could gauge her torture of me by thinking "Right about now is when I'd be a basket case" and then delight in going past that (my basket-case threshold being pretty much the same as hers). In other words, it was because she could so acutely empathize with what my being tickled was like that she so perversely enjoyed tickling me, even though she'd never permit herself to undergo the same torture.

At the same time, our reactions to being tickle-tortured were qualitatively different. When I'm tickled, whether for a few seconds or an eternity, my response is pretty much to laugh helplessly. Even when I beg for it to stop, my pleas are being filtered through laughter that sounds like I'm completely delighted. But if you tickled Rachel for very long, her response would change: first there'd be the smiling helpless laughter and shrieking, but eventually her face would crumple into an expression of displeasure even as the forced giggling continued, and that expression of dismay made it no fun to keep assaulting her.

(Of course, she didn't limit herself exclusively to my feet, and on at least one occasion attacked my abdomen with those maddening fingers of hers until I was a quivering heap of ignominy...)

 

[MistressValerie1]

Ooooops! Must be my aixelsyd acting up again.

Is there a way to edit that title?

I took care of it; no problem 🙂

Great story, btw! Of course, I'd love to hear more about what she did to your abdomen 😱

 

[Wade1]

Of course, I'd love to hear more about what she did to your abdomen 😱

Well, on one instance it was a day when Rachel was in a particularly frisky and/or sadistic mood; we'd been at dinner at the dining hall that evening and she'd come up behind my chair, essentially pinning me between her and the dining table, and suddenly I felt her fingers walking mischievously over my shoulders and down my chest; by the time I'd yanked my arms in to my abdomen in self-defense it was too late, as her fingers were spidering relentlessly up and down and across my stomach and sides, throwing me into hapless hysterics, rocking ridiculously back and forth and squealing as everyone else at the table looked on in amusement or pity or contempt. "Stop...! STOP...!" was all I could say between giggles, as Rachel smiled sweetly at everyone else and said "Wade's a little ticklish" while her fingers ran mercilessly up and down my stomach, refusing to be dislodged or--God knows--ignored.

The pleasure she derived from that public humiliation must have whetted her appetite to torture me further, because later that evening I was in her dorm room, standing at her dresser, looking (I guess) for something, when she silently appeared behind me and slipped her hands up under my shirt, lightly tickling-tickling-tickling her fingers on my love-handle areas (a particularly incapacitating spot on me, as she of course well knew).

I doubled over instantaneously, gurgling with helpless laughter. I stumbled and lurched across the tiny room, trying to escape her wicked hands, stuttering through the giggles: "What, what, what are you, what are you DOING?" Inevitably I wound up slumping against the closet door, struggling to fend off Rachel's hands, but she was quick, darting and feinting at my twitching abdomen, and she had the advantage over me already, of course, as the incapacitating experience of being tickled was already impeding my reflexes and instincts.

I slid to the floor in full-throated laughter and before I knew it Rachel had maneuvered to position herself seated on my chest, putting me in a position that has always been a particularly vulnerable and anxiety-inducing one for me; I become intensely aware of my vulnerably sensitive abdomen stretching helplessly behind her, completely and utterly available to her fingers. It's the kind of humiliating situation in which I find myself convulsing and shrieking even before she starts touching me; the acute, helpless ticklish potential of my trapped stomach and sides is as squirmily intolerable as the sensation of their actually being tickled.

So, I confess, ignominiously, I started doing that: twitching and squirming, giggling wildly like a girl, even as Rachel's hands only hovered menacingly behind her, fingers slowly wiggling, her eyebrows cruelly arched in anticipation of her own impending brutality. Of course, this situation was different from some, insofar as the person tickling me was herself desperately ticklish, and so my self-defense instinct took over: I reached up and seized her sides and started tickling. It worked, of course; Rachel's arms jerked helplessly to her sides with helpless alacrity and she curled in on herself, emitting a high-pitched and desperate giggle. She didn't stop sitting on me, but as long as she was pinning her own arms to her own ticklish sides I was safe.

She was very ticklish. Unfortunately, this also meant that being tickled made her very angry, and unfortunately this anger fortified her will power which made it possible for her to remove her arms from her sides even as I was tickling their most sensitive areas, reach behind her, and viciously start tickling my stomach. I arched my back and yelped, instinctively and helplessly removing my hands from Rachel's sides, clamping my own elbows pointlessly at my sides and giggling wildly as she ruthlessly scampered her fingers across my stomach and up and down my sides--not for fun any more, but for punishment.

Laughing hysterically, I gathered all my will power and lunged forward to tickle Rachel again, this time getting her side with one hand and her knee with the other. Again, this worked; I felt her hands abandon the helpless, twitching terrain of my abdomen and I enjoyed the respite. "Oh no you JERK," she shouted as her hands moved impotently away from my stomach and toward her own ticklish spots, but any further recriminations dissolved in her shrill giggles.

This pattern repeated itself a couple more times; every time I tickled her to defend myself it would take only a few moments for her to gird her self-control and launch a new, angrier attack on my completely defenseless stomach and sides behind her. Each of her tickling attacks was quicker, harder, more vindictive--and therefore each time she resumed tickling me it took longer for me to be able to tickle her back, and it was more difficult for me to do so. So the final outcome was probably inevitable: it was I, not Rachel, who finally found myself unable to launch a new counterattack, leaving her to grimly enjoy the spectacle of me writhing and howling on her dorm room floor, my abdominal muscles contracting and twitching involuntarily under the ruthless and vengeful tickles of her soft, nimble fingers.

It was, I think, the first time I ever uttered to a tickler the words "Stop please stop I'm going to pee." And therefore the first time a tickler responded to that plea by cackling "Ha-haa!" and not stopping. Fortunately I had more bladder control than I thought, but by the time Rachel was done with me I was a sprawling, blushing heap of a mess.

 

[MistressValerie1]

Wow, Wade -- I just noticed your ab story here, and I am ... well ... aroused 😉 I rarely save stories, but this is definitely a keeper. I hope that Rachel realised how lucky she was to have a partner like you!

 

[Wade1]

Lucky? Not sure. She didn't even realize how wicked she was. A lot of denial going on there about how much she enjoyed torturing me. After she finally let me go she'd usually act like nothing had happened.

 

[CellarDweller]

Wow Wade.

I enjoyed all your stories here.

However, I have to say, you tolerated more than I would have. If she was my girl (actually guy, but besides the point) and she did that to me, and then told me she was "off limits" like that, she'd be out the door that night. If she is willing to dish it out, she should be willing to take it. If not, c-ya.

 

[Wade1]

Well, I see what you're saying. But I'm sure the longevity of our relationship--which wasn't THAT long-lived in the big picture, but ended for reasons having nothing to do with tickling--was informed by the many other facets of our relationship that we both found rewarding and enjoyable. Plus the fact that tickling her, as I mentioned, wasn't THAT much fun, through no fault of her own; plus the fact that I'm not a big tickler to begin with...

 

[Wade1]

A postscript

So, having posted this recollection, I found myself wondering where Rachel had ever ended up. I got in touch with some other college friends and tracked her down. She's married, to some kind of a minister (!), with two kids, living in Minnesota where apparently they're starting up a church.

So I emailed her, and then we talked on the phone. It was all very pleasant; she's doing well. But part of our conversation went like this--we'd been talking about her husband, and I said:

"So, I hope for your sake he's ticklish."

Awkward silence.

Then she said, "What do you mean?"

"I just mean," I said, "that obviously, I know better than anyone how much you like to tickle, so I assume he's suitably ticklish!"

"Oh," she said. "Oh, no. Well, he's not. I mean, I don't think that I could be... how do I say this? Don't take this the wrong way, but I'd need my husband to be strong, if that makes sense? I need him to be more... masculine than that? More... manly? I don't think I could be married to someone who was as ticklish as... err, who was really ticklish."

"Oh," I said.

"No offense," she hastened to say. "It's just me, just a thing about me."

"Gotcha," I said. "So you've tried tickling him, then."

"No, but I can just tell he's not. You can just tell. I don't let him tickle me either, of course," she said. "Except he does sometimes."

"He should," I said. "You're still ticklish, then."

"Yeah. Aren't you?"

"No comment," I said.

"That's a yes," she said.

"Nope. I've grown out of it."

"Such a liar," she said, and I could hear that she was smiling.

"You'll never know," I said.

"Oh, I know," she said. "Really, what I said before, no offense."

"None taken," I said.

How people do change.

 

[Wade1]

Come to think of it, her recent remarks about masculinity and strength being incompatible with ticklishness reminds me of one of her favorite refrains when she'd be sitting on me and she'd hit a particularly cruelly sensitive spot on my foot or stomach: she'd laugh and start saying "You sound like a girl! You're laughing like a girl! Wade, you're as ticklish as a girl! You laugh like a girl!..." Over and over, as her fingers scampered relentlessly across that grievously ticklish spot...

 

[CellarDweller]

Oh please.

I know plenty of ticklish guys who are masculine as all hell.

One of them used to be a one of the Guardian Angels.

 

[Wade1]

No argument here (obviously). Feel kind of bad for her that she seems to have talked herself out of enjoying something she used to take such glee in...

 

[WickedEvil]

lol! Sounds to me like maybe she misses humiliating you with her fingers and was trying to do it again with her words!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

[Wade1]

Oh, yeah.

I realized there was one bit of our recent phone conversation I'd left out.

When she said that her husband tickles her sometimes, she also added, probably unnecessarily (given how well I know her), "I hate it."

I didn't delve to find out how often she gets tortured this way (probably not that often), or for how long (surely not as long as she used to torture me), but since some people on this thread thought she was giving me a raw deal by tickling me into hysterics and not permitting me to do the same to her, I thought this detail might furnish something resembling karmic justice.

 

[LonelyKimiko]

All I can say is awww! And it doesnt matter what she says, you sound like a decent guy to me 😀 .

 

[Wade1]

Well! Clearly I have you thoroughly fooled!

...thanks!...

 

[LonelyKimiko]

haha 😉

 

[Wade1]

haha 😉

Well. It IS easy to make you laugh!

 

[LonelyKimiko]

I'll take that as a compliment 😛 .

 

[Wade1]

As well you should! I'm totally pro-kimiko.

I should probably say in defense of my ex-gf Rachel: she never said I wasn't a decent guy. She just tickled me until I was a flailing, begging wreck, over and over again, and then let it slip many years later that the degree of my ticklishness in her view made me not marriageable material.

Which I find less insulting than confusing.

 

[LonelyKimiko]

Meh, girls are confusing things, just like guys. I say smile and nod, always works for me 😀 .

 

[MistressValerie1]

... She just tickled me until I was a flailing, begging wreck, over and over again, and then let it slip many years later that the degree of my ticklishness in her view made me not marriageable material.

Which I find less insulting than confusing.

I find that to be beyond confusing, lol. To me, that degree of ticklishness is a requirement for me to consider a guy marriageable -- just ask my husband 😀