april
2nd Level Red Feather
- Joined
- Dec 16, 2006
- Messages
- 1,254
- Points
- 63
The midday sun was bright but gentle, filtering through the scattered clouds and softening the edges of the city. You were just approaching the bar when you spot his White Ram 1500 ease into a spot nearby. The door opened and he stepped out.
Sam.
Even in daylight he was magnetic. Tall and lean, his pale, sculpted frame carried a quiet strength that didn't need to be flaunted, Sandy blonde hair caught the sun and shimmered gold at the edges, and his eyes, so dark a brown they looked black in the right light, were impossible to look away from. They held that same careful, measured focus youd come to know from your late-night messages, that quiet reserve that made you want to see what was beneath it.
You'd met just a week prior, almost by chance, in the inbox of a tickling site. His first message had been deliberate and polite; no cheap lines, no careless over sharing. You'd teased him from the start, letting your playful side show, but he'd kept his gentleman's restraint. You'd asked though, and the moment he told you, almost like a secret, that he was very ticklish, you'd been hooked. It was so rare for a man to admit it, rarer to invite it.
"April?" He said now, closing the door of his truck, his voice warm and smooth in the daylight.
"Sam." You replied, smiling without meaning to.
You lingered there just for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he stepped forward, holding the door open for you.
Inside, sunlight streamed through the front windows, spilling gold across polished wood. The bar was nearly silent, the only person in sight the bartender, who was setting up the bar and not paying you either much attention.
"This way." Sam murmured, leading you toward a small alcove with high stools tucked into the far side of the bar. It felt private despite the open space.
You settled opposite eachother, knees almost touching, the conversation picked up as though no time had passed since the night he'd first messaged. It was easy, the same natural rhythm, but now layered with the pull of being face to face.
"Its strange," you said, leaning forward slightly. "finally seeing you after all that late night talking."
His lips curved just a little, eyes steady on yours. "Strange in a good way?"
You let your smile deepen. "Definitely good."
And beneath it all, that single line from your first conversation still hummed in the back of your mind; I'm very ticklish.
Hearing him say it again, here, now, would be something else entirely.
You'd never had trouble reading men before. With your dark hair, light eyes and slender frame, you'd always been able to tell, always known when you had them under sway. But Sam, in his mid-tewenties, carried himself differently. Controlled. Measured. Unreadable.
You wanted, achingly, to Crack that control.
You wanted to see his composure slip, to catch the first flicker of panic in a ticklish smile. That one moment when guardedness gave way to something helpless and real.
But you didn't know if you should.
Inside the nearly empty bar, he bought you both drinks, his voice easy, but his expression still carefully tempered. When he suggested a game of pool, you agreed. Ten rounds.
You won eight. You were almost certain he'd let you.
It was during game two that you finally gave into temptation. He was leaning over the table, studying his next shot with quiet calculation, and you stepped into that sliver of space beside him. One hand reached out almost without thought, slipping lightly against his ribs.
The reaction was instant; he jolted, the sharp movement betraying him before he could smother it. And then it came. The smile.
God's that smile.
It broke him wide open; boyish, playful, devastating. The kind of grin that knocked the air out of you because it was both sweet and utterly disarming. You never wanted to see more of something in your life.
And you did.
Just a couple shots later, he caught you off guard, a perfectly placed rib tickle that was so precise and gentle, it destroyed you in seconds. You laughed, twisting away, and the look in his eyes had shifted; still controlled, but now threaded with mischief.
The next six or seven rounds were a battle of playful ambushes.You caught him mid-shot, he caught you mid-step. Every time your fingers brushed his ribs, that adorable jump and that knockout smile surfaced again. Every time he struck back, his touch was maddeningly exact, as though he already knew exactly how to undo you.
By the end, neither of you was keeping score. The game was secondary. The real contest was the laughter, the quick catches of breath and the delicious push and pull between control and surrender.
The moment the bar became overcrowded, he suggested a nearby cocktail lounge. It was a world apart from the sunlit bar. Low golden light glowed from the glass-shaded lamps, catching the deep browns of polished wood. The air smelled faintly of citrus and something herbal, and the low hum of jazz curled lazily around the space.
He'd chosen a plush leather couch tucked away in a far corner, half-hidden from the rest of the room. It felt like stepping into a private alcove; somewhere meant for secrets.
By now, Sams demeanor had shifted entirely. The reserved, unreadable man you'd met outside the bar had melted into someone playful, mischievous, his dark eyes warm with barely contained amusement. He sat close, closer than before, his arm sliding around your shoulders, drawing you against his side as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
The drinks were beautiful, delicate glasses with jewl-colored liquid, but you barely noticed them. What you noticed was how he kept leaning in, brushing his shoulder against yours, letting a teasing smile curve his mouth before delivering another quiet, clever joke that made you laugh harder than you meant to.
And then the tickling began again.
It was light at first, a sudden quick touch to your sides thst made you jump and giggle, leaning into him in protest. But instead of letting you retreat, he pulled you closer, his arm snug around you, his hand lingering just enough to make you try and chase the touch. And then it would vanish, leaving you grinning and blushing, breathless in the warm shadows.
You were wearing flip-flops.
"You know," he said softly, leaning close so his voice brushed your ear. "these only make it easier for me."
Before you could respond, his fingers traced over the arch of your foot, slow, deliberate. The sensation sent you jumping, giggles bubbling out before you could stop it.
"Oh, you're very ticklish." He noted, his tone gentle but edged with that same wicked mischief that had been growing all night. He alternated between slow, teasing strokes all over your ribs and quick, merciless scribbles along your defenseless feet.
You were a giggling, squirming mess, your cheeks hot and breath uneven.
Of course you tickled him back. His reactions were every bit as delicious as you'd imagined; adorable jumps, quick catches of breath, that devastating smile breaking across his face each time you landed a touch. But he was quick, catching your wrists, turning the tables, and resuming his sweet, relentless torment.
For the next couple hours, that couch became your world. Drinks were sipped between bursts of laughter, touches traded back and forth until the line between play and something deeper blurred completely. The dim room, the warm leather beneath you, the heady scent of citrus and him, it all wrapped around the two of you like a secret you didn't want to end.
He'd invited you back to his place. It was small but full of character, the kind of space that told you exactly who lived there. Rustic wood floors that caught the warm glow of the lamps. His nerdy side was everywhere; video games neatly stacked beside the tv, shelves crammed with books, jars of polished stones he'd collected over the years. Japanese-inspired art hung on the walls, a collection of playing cards, each one different, each one treasured. D&D sets spilled out from a canvas bag, and decks of tarot cards sat in a crate on the floor.
There was no couch, only a well worn gaming chair in the corner. Instead, Sam spread two comforters across the floor, creating a soft, makeshift space. You both settled opposite eachother, the sounds of crickets muffled behind the closed windows.
The playful tickling began almost immediately; quick little teases and darting hands, that familiar spark leaping between you. But this time, something was different. Sam let you in. He didn't push your hands away as quickly. He didn't escape your reach the moment you closed in. His resistance was half-hearted now, his eyes gleaming with mischief but his body staying where it was, allowing you to have your fun.
Then you heard it; the first real laugh.
It was sweet, unguarded and warm, and it hit you like a jolt. He tried to keep it quiet, biting back the sound, but you saw it in the way his shoulders shook, in the curve of that devastating smile. The more he allowed you to torment him, the more your pulse quickened, your arousal climbing until it was a tangled thing between you.
You couldn't hold back anymore.
You leaned in and kissed him.
He melted into it instantly, his restraint dissolving as your lips moved together. You melted too, your hand finding the solid warmth of his chest as you pushed him gently down onto the comforter. Straddling him, you felt the hard press of him through his pants, a deep, intimate reminder of exactly what your game was doing to both of you.
It was intoxicating; the mutual love of this playful torment, the way laughter blended with heat, and the almost unbearable intensity of being fully clothed.
You guided his hands slowly above his head, your eyes locked on his. He didn't resist. He allowed you, chose to allow you. And that, more than anything, set fire to your veins.
Your fingers explored him gently, tracing over the taut lines of his body. Muscles rippled beneath the tight black shirt he wore, each subtle movement under your hands making you ache to keep going.
The air between you was electric; half laughter, half something more dangerous. He looked up at you, still pinned beneath you, and whatever he saw in your expression made his smile change.
Half-lidded eyes, breath unsteady. You couldn't hide it if you tried. It was a look of someone drinking in every inch of him, of wanting more. And he knew it.
That knowing curve of his mouth deepened. Slow and deliberate, before he shifted just enough and with unhurried confidence, he reached for the hem of his shirt.
You didn't stop him.
The black cotton slid upward, revealing skin in warm, smooth increments; first the ridges of his lower abs, then the carved lines leading upward, until the shirt cleared his head and fell away entirely.
He was stunning.
His chest was firm, every muscle sculpted like something from a marble statue, but alive and warm beneath you. Defined abs tapered into a narrow waist, the light from the lamp catching the subtle sheen of his skin. His torso moved with each slow breath, the rise and fall almost hypnotic.
Your own breath caught without permission.
"Is this alright?" He asked softly, his voice edged with that same playful warmth from earlier, but now threaded with something heavier.
You could only smile, your fingers already trailing over the planes of his chest, feeling the way his muscles shifted beneath your touch. His warmth soaked into your palms, each gentle stroke making his breath hitch just slightly, even as he pretended to be perfectly at ease.
The restraint he'd worn earlier that day was gone now. He was letting you in, fully, and you could feel the power of that permission in every inch of bare skin between you.
Without a word, he lifted his arms above his head again.
The motion was slow, intentional; an offering. And coming from someone so strong, so composed, it hit you like lighting. Your breath caught; a soft involuntary moan slipping past your lips.
He held your gaze the whole time, his eyes molten, unwavering. There was no trace of the reserved stranger. This was Sam laid bare; still hard beneath your lap, still perfectly still, waiting for you.
You couldn't resist. Your hands rose to his neck, fingertips dragging lightly, teasing over the soft, pale skin. The instant your nails grazed that sensitive flesh, his composure fractured. Laughter spilled out, low, real, unguarded; his head tipping back as his body jolted under you.
He thrashed in small, helpless bursts, the muscles in his arms twitching as goosebumps rippled down their length. He tried, oh gods he tried to keep his arms above his head, but instinct kept pulling them down, his body betraying him again and again.
You watched him fight himself, watched the tension in his jaw and the way he bit down between bursts of sweet giggles. It was control battling the need to react, and his deliberate choice to let you win.
It was the sexiest, most impossibly adorable thing you'd ever seen.
Every flinch, every shiver, every deep breath he took to steel himself only made you want to push him farther, to see how far this beautiful, controlled man would let you go before he broke completely.
At last, the tension in his arms gave way. His wrists dropped, almost in defeat, and you didn't hesitate, you went straight for his abs.
He caught your wrists instinctively, trying to block you, but you gently pressed his hands down to his sides.
"Keep them...right there." You said, your voice low but firm.
Something in him softened instantly. He obeyed without a word, his dark eyes locked on yours, a smile now curling openly at the corners of his lips.
Your fingers traced over the ridges of his stomach, slow and purposefully. The hard lines of muscle shifted and flexed under your touch, each movement betraying how hard he was working to stay still. At first he fought it, biting it back, breathing deeply, trying to maintain some semblance of stoicism.
It lasted fifteen seconds.
Then the cracks appeared. A giggle slipped out, followed by another, until he was shaking under you. His torso twisted, his abs tightening and jumping under your fingertips.
He thrashed in place, struggling not to dislodge you from his lap, his hands still obediently pinned at his sides. And then his hips moved, entirely involuntarily, pressing up against you.
You could feel him.
Still hard, every desperate motion pushing him against your heat. The contact was maddening, the sensation heightened by the fact that you were both nearly fully clothed. Every involventary thrust was a mix of struggle and surrender, you could feel the heat between you building with every passing second.
He still hadn't begged you to stop, but his body told the truth.
Every muscle under you was taut, trembling, slick now with a fine sheen of sweat. Not just from the tickling itself, but from the battle raging inside him; his instincts screaming to push you away, to break free, while the other half of him fought to let you have him. That inner war was written in every shiver, every ragged breath, every involuntary grind of his hips.
You tickled him for what felt like forever, riding the sound of his laughter, the heat of his struggling body under you. He was in pure fight-or-flight mode, yet still holding himself back, still letting you win.
Finally, you stopped.
Or atleast, he thought you had.
You slid off his lap, your hands leaving his body, and for a fleeting second, relief crossed his face. But then you began to move, slowly crawling backwards down the length of his body until you were at his feet.
"Are you sensitive here?" You asked, your voice sweet and deceptively casual.
Dead silence.
But the awkward, boyish grin that tugged at his lips, and the flash of slight panic in his eyes, was answer enough.
Your hands went for him gently at first, tickling over his socked feet. The effect was instant; his upper body jolted wildly, his laughter more pronounced and unrestrained. His legs trembled as he fought to keep them still, muscles tightening against the instinct to kick. His feet pulled back reflexively, toes flexing under the thin barrier of fabric.
You couldn't help yourself.
Your fingers hooked under the edge of one sock, peeling it away agonizingly slow. The other followed, each inch revealing pale, warm skin, the anticipation winding tighter with every second. You could feel him watching you, could sense the sharp pull between dread and want.
By the time both socks were gone, the air was thick with it; heat, laughter and the raw, pulsing tension that made you want to ruin him in the most delicious way.
Your eyes found his, holding him there. His gaze was uncertain, with a mix of anticipation, dread and want. You let a slow, cruelly sweet smile curve your lips, just enough for him to know you were about to enjoy this as much as he wasn't.
Without breaking eye contact, your fingertips descended, nails grazing the smooth, bare skin of his sole.
The reaction was immediate. His entire body jerked, his back bowing slightly against the blankets, a sharp inhale and burst of laughter tearing free before he could choke it down. His toes flexed and curled, pulling tight in a vain attempt to shield himself, but you were patient, following every twitch, every retreat.
Your nails danced in long, lazy drags from heel to toes, then back again, varying the pressure so he never knew what was coming. Sometimes you skated just the edges of your nails, feather-light, over the sensitive arches until his legs trembled. Other times you quickened, scrabbling lightly across the pads of his toes, or circling maddeningly around the ball of his foot.
He was really struggling now, his hands clutching at the blankets beside him, chest rising and falling fast. He had lost his composure entirely, his laughter broken into breathless bursts between sharp inhales. Every few seconds his feet jerked back, only for you to follow, relentless.
He endured it for all of five minutes before it became too much. In a sudden motion, he shot upright, catching your wrists and rolling with quick, surprising strength. You barely had time to orient yourself before his fingers found your ribs and underarms, skimming over the sensitive spots he'd clearly been paying attention to all night.
You squealed, giggling, helplessly under his touch, the tickling now softer but still enough to make you squirm. It wasnt the ruthless precision you'd used on him; it was playful, teasing, almost affectionate.
You fought back with light touches of your own, catching his sides and making him jump, but he was quicker, stronger, leaning into you until your back hit the blankets. His hands slowed, his smile warm and boyish as he hovered above you, clearly savoring the win.
But you could feel the grin forming behind his lips, that barely contained mischief humming through him. Before you could react, his hands slid from your sides, paused for a beat as if to give you hope, then shot back out with deliberate precision.
His fingers moved gently at first, tracing along your ribs and waist in slow, teasing patterns that made your breath hitch. Every few seconds, he stopped, not to give mercy, but to watch you. His dark eyes studied the rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips parted as you tried to catch your breath, the small tremors that betrayed how close to breaking you were.
Then without warning he dove back in.
The gentle touches became quick, playful bursts; just enough to send you squirming, giggling, trying to twist away but caught under the weight of his presence. Each time he stopped, you thought it was over. Each time, he only waited long enough for your breathing to steady...and then his fingers were back, finding every sensitive spot he'd learned tonight.
Within minutes, you were a helpless, writhing mess under him, laughing, pleading in half-formed words, your body caught between wanting to escape and wanting him to never stop.
He stopped the instant those first true breathless pleas slipped past your lips; pleas you hadn't meant to give.
Sitting back on his heels, he watched you with that maddening calm, his breathing steady now where yours was ragged. Then it came...the grin. Wide, unashamed, and so perfectly bratty it made you want to laugh and groan at the same time.
It was the smile of someone who knew exactly what they'd done to you, and was very, very pleased with themselves. He looked like a schoolboy who'd gotten away with something deliciously forbidden, pride glinting in his dark eyes.
And in that moment, you knew...
You had a full-fledged brat on your hands. Someone who would test your patience, push your limits, and the immense joy in doing so. And you knew, without a doubt, that the next time you saw him, he'd let that side of himself out in full force; testing, provoking, and daring you to try and tame him.
The thought made your pulse skip...and your smile mirrored his.
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