Wade1
3rd Level Orange Feather
- Joined
- Dec 27, 2003
- Messages
- 2,561
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My fiancee has a good friend, Carla; I know her through my fiancee and over time we've all gotten pretty chummy. She's a little bit older than us but not by much; I think at one time, long ago, she might have been kind of a mentor to my fiancee but now it's just a very comfortable friendship. Carla's a curvy and amply built woman with placid, heavy-lidded eyes and a bright, ginormous smile. She's African-American and wears her hair in braids and has a bold and distinctive sense of style--heavy jewelry, brightly colored clothes. She's got strong shapely hands with long nails and well-muscled arms. She's very mellow, affecting almost an earth-mother vibe, but her serenity coexists with a sharp and wicked sense of humor. She's also a professor and pretty much one of the smartest people I've ever met, so despite our ease with one another I always feel a subtle pressure to be sophisticated and impressive around her. Such things don't come naturally to me, needless to say.
We were traveling recently and connected with Carla in her new hometown. We went out to eat and I found myself sitting next to Carla in a booth; across the table from us sat my fiancee and another of her friends, Rebecca, another attractive woman with lush black hair, huge brown eyes and a bold dark eyebrows.
I was sitting between Carla and the wall (and perhaps I just should have known better, considering what happened here: http://www.tickletheater.com/showthread.php?t=13093 ) and she made some joke and punctuated it by amiably skritching her fingernail against my side.
As always, things would have been so simple if I could have just sat there motionless, if I could have remained stoically unaffected by the sensation of her finger flicking gently on my side. Needless to say: didn't happen. Though I was able to more or less suppress the urge to giggle, my torso twitched in an exaggerated and ungainly fashion, a reaction just absurd enough to require further commentary by Carla.
"What was that?" she said, smiling unflappably. "Someone's jumpy." She touched her finger against my side again and, of course, I flinched again, this time maybe a little less successful with that whole giggle-suppression thing.
"Amanda." Carla crossed her arms and rested them on the table and looked across it at my fiancee. "Your intended is extremely jumpy."
My fiancee could have defused this at this point, could so easily have deflected the remark and changed the subject. But the stakes weren't high for her--it wasn't her nerve endings at risk, and so she wasn't thinking that hard about the situation, wasn't thinking about how, for about 90% of the female population, being told that a guy is ticklish will necessarily be followed by tickling him. So, her chin resting lazily on her hand, my fiancee said, "Yeah, Wade's super ticklish."
"Really." Carla turned back to me, the same serene smile on her face. "Is that true? That can't be true, Wade. Is it?"
There is, of course, no right answer. I kept my mouth shut.
"If that's true," she said, arms still crossed, "I might just have to tickle you."
"I don't think you do," I said, my hands drifting down in front of my side and abdomen (a dead giveaway). "I don't think that's how it works."
"Mmmm, maybe you're right," she said. "Let's just see."
What did she mean? Nothing happened. I glanced across the table at Amanda and Rebecca. Then I felt fingers scampering across my side.
I twitched again, violently, sliding along the booth seat away from Carla against the wall--which wasn't very far; she could still reach me easily, and did: I felt her fingertips fluttering against my side above my waist. I bent at the side, giggles starting to escape my lips, lowering my elbow sharply to my hip; her fingers fluttered over to my stomach, forcing out of me an urgent high-pitched hiccuping sound.
"No, yeah," I heard Carla saying with a smile in her voice, "I think I have to tickle you."
"Carla NO," I cried, but by then both her hands were wandering meticulously up and down my side and across my convulsing tummy; the restaurant booth was creaking as I squirmed and twisted in my corner, darting my hands in front of various spots on my abdomen seconds after Carla's fingers reached them, fluttering devastatingly.
Now I'm the first to admit that I'm pretty ticklish; it doesn't take too much to incapacitate me. But Carla was notable for the uncannily tickly feeling caused by her thrumming nails. I guess what I'm saying is: when she tickled, it really really REALLY tickled. Like, even if I were only one-tenth as ticklish as I am, I'm convinced the relentless flickery sensation of her fingers would still have driven me writhing against the wall. I was particularly interested in this particular situation, in this particular company, in NOT being reduced to completely embarrassing hysterics--but with unbelievably tickly tickles like the ones Carla was perpetrating on my sides and stomach, I had no choice in the matter; within seconds I'd dissolved into a regrettably noisy stream of giggles and guffaws.
"Your young man is really ticklish, Amanda," Carla said across the table to my fiancee, her hands deftly evading mine as they targeted one ticklish spot and then another. "If I were marrying someone this ticklish I think I would have to do this every day." Her fingers scrabbled gently on my side just above my hip, forcing me to emit a sharp whooping sound. "Once a day, I think, I would have to tickle him within an inch of his life."
"Maybe I will," Amanda mumbled. She sounded almost bored.
As I squirmed and swatted and giggled I detected a couple of bright flashes, which I would later learn was Rebecca taking pictures of my torment with her phone.
"Carla," I gasped, giggling uncontrollably. "Please."
"Oh, okay, I won't be mean," she said, removing her fingers from my abdomen and turning her attention to her drink. "I'll be good," she said with a broad smile, throwing me a wink as she took her straw between two fingers and guided it to her lips.
"Well," one of the women at a nearby table said to her companion, "that was a show." I ignored the attention of onlookers and stared at my plate.
"He's blushing," I heard Rebecca say.
I looked at her. "Thanks," I said, and she waggled her fingers in the air at me.
We were traveling recently and connected with Carla in her new hometown. We went out to eat and I found myself sitting next to Carla in a booth; across the table from us sat my fiancee and another of her friends, Rebecca, another attractive woman with lush black hair, huge brown eyes and a bold dark eyebrows.
I was sitting between Carla and the wall (and perhaps I just should have known better, considering what happened here: http://www.tickletheater.com/showthread.php?t=13093 ) and she made some joke and punctuated it by amiably skritching her fingernail against my side.
As always, things would have been so simple if I could have just sat there motionless, if I could have remained stoically unaffected by the sensation of her finger flicking gently on my side. Needless to say: didn't happen. Though I was able to more or less suppress the urge to giggle, my torso twitched in an exaggerated and ungainly fashion, a reaction just absurd enough to require further commentary by Carla.
"What was that?" she said, smiling unflappably. "Someone's jumpy." She touched her finger against my side again and, of course, I flinched again, this time maybe a little less successful with that whole giggle-suppression thing.
"Amanda." Carla crossed her arms and rested them on the table and looked across it at my fiancee. "Your intended is extremely jumpy."
My fiancee could have defused this at this point, could so easily have deflected the remark and changed the subject. But the stakes weren't high for her--it wasn't her nerve endings at risk, and so she wasn't thinking that hard about the situation, wasn't thinking about how, for about 90% of the female population, being told that a guy is ticklish will necessarily be followed by tickling him. So, her chin resting lazily on her hand, my fiancee said, "Yeah, Wade's super ticklish."
"Really." Carla turned back to me, the same serene smile on her face. "Is that true? That can't be true, Wade. Is it?"
There is, of course, no right answer. I kept my mouth shut.
"If that's true," she said, arms still crossed, "I might just have to tickle you."
"I don't think you do," I said, my hands drifting down in front of my side and abdomen (a dead giveaway). "I don't think that's how it works."
"Mmmm, maybe you're right," she said. "Let's just see."
What did she mean? Nothing happened. I glanced across the table at Amanda and Rebecca. Then I felt fingers scampering across my side.
I twitched again, violently, sliding along the booth seat away from Carla against the wall--which wasn't very far; she could still reach me easily, and did: I felt her fingertips fluttering against my side above my waist. I bent at the side, giggles starting to escape my lips, lowering my elbow sharply to my hip; her fingers fluttered over to my stomach, forcing out of me an urgent high-pitched hiccuping sound.
"No, yeah," I heard Carla saying with a smile in her voice, "I think I have to tickle you."
"Carla NO," I cried, but by then both her hands were wandering meticulously up and down my side and across my convulsing tummy; the restaurant booth was creaking as I squirmed and twisted in my corner, darting my hands in front of various spots on my abdomen seconds after Carla's fingers reached them, fluttering devastatingly.
Now I'm the first to admit that I'm pretty ticklish; it doesn't take too much to incapacitate me. But Carla was notable for the uncannily tickly feeling caused by her thrumming nails. I guess what I'm saying is: when she tickled, it really really REALLY tickled. Like, even if I were only one-tenth as ticklish as I am, I'm convinced the relentless flickery sensation of her fingers would still have driven me writhing against the wall. I was particularly interested in this particular situation, in this particular company, in NOT being reduced to completely embarrassing hysterics--but with unbelievably tickly tickles like the ones Carla was perpetrating on my sides and stomach, I had no choice in the matter; within seconds I'd dissolved into a regrettably noisy stream of giggles and guffaws.
"Your young man is really ticklish, Amanda," Carla said across the table to my fiancee, her hands deftly evading mine as they targeted one ticklish spot and then another. "If I were marrying someone this ticklish I think I would have to do this every day." Her fingers scrabbled gently on my side just above my hip, forcing me to emit a sharp whooping sound. "Once a day, I think, I would have to tickle him within an inch of his life."
"Maybe I will," Amanda mumbled. She sounded almost bored.
As I squirmed and swatted and giggled I detected a couple of bright flashes, which I would later learn was Rebecca taking pictures of my torment with her phone.
"Carla," I gasped, giggling uncontrollably. "Please."
"Oh, okay, I won't be mean," she said, removing her fingers from my abdomen and turning her attention to her drink. "I'll be good," she said with a broad smile, throwing me a wink as she took her straw between two fingers and guided it to her lips.
"Well," one of the women at a nearby table said to her companion, "that was a show." I ignored the attention of onlookers and stared at my plate.
"He's blushing," I heard Rebecca say.
I looked at her. "Thanks," I said, and she waggled her fingers in the air at me.
