Wade1
3rd Level Orange Feather
- Joined
- Dec 27, 2003
- Messages
- 2,559
- Points
- 0
It never fails. It's inescapable. Its timing is unpredictable but its unavoidability is inevitable.
At some point extremely early in a new relationship with a girlfriend, when you've still got tons of things to learn about each other--movies you hate, books you love, childhood pets, personal shame--you'll be snuggled together. Maybe reclining on a bed, maybe relaxing on a sofa in front of the TV after renting a movie. Without fail--it can't be eluded--she will, one day, sooner or later, idly and innocently slip her hand inside your shirt and lazily run it back and forth, up and down your abdomen.
It's a gesture of affection, of course, of mutual comfort and continued erotic interest, her fingers grazing simply across your skin, tracing aimless designs through the hair on your chest and stomach, running casually along your sides.
Your mouth clamped shut, your lips twist violently against the encroaching smile, suppressing the irresistible urge to giggle. There are so many reasons you don't want to betray your severe ticklishness now: because this moment is such a pleasant one of repose, because the topic of conversation will turn to the embarrassing intricacies of your unusual sensitivity, because once she's discovered it she'll turn on you with full deliberateness and tickle you until you're a flailing mess. But her fingertips! Crawling without malice or mischief back and forth, back and forth across your stomach, sending your every nerve ending into frazzled high alert as you struggle desperately to maintain the illusion of nonchalance and calm.
Then her fingers linger at your side! My God, is it even possible that she's not doing this on purpose, not deliberately torturing your twitchy abdomen with full knowledge of hos maddeningly you're trying not to react? Please not up and down my--but yes, up and down your side, forcing you to lean your head back into the pillow or upholstery and squeeze your eyes shut tight, fighting the urge to explode with what would surely be comically girlish giggles that would give her cause to mock and torment you for weeks to come.
Maybe she has no idea that you're ticklish. Or maybe she knows already... maybe she knew before you began dating, if you knew each other before you began dating, but you successfully downplayed it, made it seem minor and eminently manageable so as to avoid public scenes and playful explorations of your vulnerability. So she has no idea that what she's doing now, skittering affectionately in circles above your navel, is threatening to send you into paroxysms.
Then, despite your mental exertions, inevitably, your body betrays you. Her tantalizing fingers slide across a particularly sensitive parcel of abdomen, and your muscles contract involuntarily, completely separate from your mental direction, jerking inward with an animal terror: "too ticklish, get away!"
Her hand stops moving suddenly, appraising the situation. You can't see her expression but you can tell she's registered the phenomenon and is giving it some thought. You know you're doomed. She says something like, "Wait. What was that? Are you ticklish?"
You say something like "No," or "A little," or "Extremely," knowing from experience that there's no answer that will rescue you.
She says something like, "Really? Wait. How ticklish?"
And she probably doesn't wait for an answer; she seeks out the answer herself, intrepidly, experimentally, hands-on experience is the best after all; she draws her fingers gently back over that same area and your muscles again predictably, obediently, traitorously jerk.
She says something like "Oh my God," sounding, probably, terribly delighted.
And suddenly, perceptibly, the character of her hand's movement beneath your shirt changes radically. No longer is it idle and affectionate. It's deliberate and merciless, fingers crooked like weapons, on a search-and-destroy mission. At first it focuses on that one terribly terrible deathly ticklish spot that it found on your stomach--for all she knows that's you only ticklish spot--and you're laughing helplessly, squirming, struggling, arching your back, grabbing at her wrist through the shirt. But the more you move the more likely it is that her hand will necessarily scamper across other areas of your stomach and sides and find them to be equally ticklish, and each discovery creates an exponentially mounting sense of delight in your new girlfriend and increases the likelihood that she's not going to stop tickling you until you're prone and breathless and thrashing and giggling and completely devoid of dignity and adult gravitas maybe you've slid onto the floor and she's ruthlessly followed or you've toppled to the side with her crouching over you like a gleeful predator and she's tickling and tickling and tickling and tickling and you're so ticklish so she's tickling and you know even as you howl and giggle that this will not be the last time this happens.
At some point extremely early in a new relationship with a girlfriend, when you've still got tons of things to learn about each other--movies you hate, books you love, childhood pets, personal shame--you'll be snuggled together. Maybe reclining on a bed, maybe relaxing on a sofa in front of the TV after renting a movie. Without fail--it can't be eluded--she will, one day, sooner or later, idly and innocently slip her hand inside your shirt and lazily run it back and forth, up and down your abdomen.
It's a gesture of affection, of course, of mutual comfort and continued erotic interest, her fingers grazing simply across your skin, tracing aimless designs through the hair on your chest and stomach, running casually along your sides.
Your mouth clamped shut, your lips twist violently against the encroaching smile, suppressing the irresistible urge to giggle. There are so many reasons you don't want to betray your severe ticklishness now: because this moment is such a pleasant one of repose, because the topic of conversation will turn to the embarrassing intricacies of your unusual sensitivity, because once she's discovered it she'll turn on you with full deliberateness and tickle you until you're a flailing mess. But her fingertips! Crawling without malice or mischief back and forth, back and forth across your stomach, sending your every nerve ending into frazzled high alert as you struggle desperately to maintain the illusion of nonchalance and calm.
Then her fingers linger at your side! My God, is it even possible that she's not doing this on purpose, not deliberately torturing your twitchy abdomen with full knowledge of hos maddeningly you're trying not to react? Please not up and down my--but yes, up and down your side, forcing you to lean your head back into the pillow or upholstery and squeeze your eyes shut tight, fighting the urge to explode with what would surely be comically girlish giggles that would give her cause to mock and torment you for weeks to come.
Maybe she has no idea that you're ticklish. Or maybe she knows already... maybe she knew before you began dating, if you knew each other before you began dating, but you successfully downplayed it, made it seem minor and eminently manageable so as to avoid public scenes and playful explorations of your vulnerability. So she has no idea that what she's doing now, skittering affectionately in circles above your navel, is threatening to send you into paroxysms.
Then, despite your mental exertions, inevitably, your body betrays you. Her tantalizing fingers slide across a particularly sensitive parcel of abdomen, and your muscles contract involuntarily, completely separate from your mental direction, jerking inward with an animal terror: "too ticklish, get away!"
Her hand stops moving suddenly, appraising the situation. You can't see her expression but you can tell she's registered the phenomenon and is giving it some thought. You know you're doomed. She says something like, "Wait. What was that? Are you ticklish?"
You say something like "No," or "A little," or "Extremely," knowing from experience that there's no answer that will rescue you.
She says something like, "Really? Wait. How ticklish?"
And she probably doesn't wait for an answer; she seeks out the answer herself, intrepidly, experimentally, hands-on experience is the best after all; she draws her fingers gently back over that same area and your muscles again predictably, obediently, traitorously jerk.
She says something like "Oh my God," sounding, probably, terribly delighted.
And suddenly, perceptibly, the character of her hand's movement beneath your shirt changes radically. No longer is it idle and affectionate. It's deliberate and merciless, fingers crooked like weapons, on a search-and-destroy mission. At first it focuses on that one terribly terrible deathly ticklish spot that it found on your stomach--for all she knows that's you only ticklish spot--and you're laughing helplessly, squirming, struggling, arching your back, grabbing at her wrist through the shirt. But the more you move the more likely it is that her hand will necessarily scamper across other areas of your stomach and sides and find them to be equally ticklish, and each discovery creates an exponentially mounting sense of delight in your new girlfriend and increases the likelihood that she's not going to stop tickling you until you're prone and breathless and thrashing and giggling and completely devoid of dignity and adult gravitas maybe you've slid onto the floor and she's ruthlessly followed or you've toppled to the side with her crouching over you like a gleeful predator and she's tickling and tickling and tickling and tickling and you're so ticklish so she's tickling and you know even as you howl and giggle that this will not be the last time this happens.
