“Oh my god! Tickle-boy? Is that you?” The words cut through the background chatter of the bar with ease. I looked up from my martini, instinctively trying to identify the source of the intrusive noise. Scanning the room, my eyes settled on someone standing about ten feet from our table, gesticulating wildly in the center of the bar. More than a few pairs of eyes were on him, I suppose drawn to the commotion in much the same way I was.
“No fucking way! It seriously can’t be. Joel?” The stranger took a step towards us. Hm, I mused to myself, that’s my husband’s name. I looked to the man sitting across from me, keen to share this realization with him, when I noticed that Joel’s face had gone about three shades paler then normal. He was staring intently at the half-drunk beer in front of him like it held the secrets of the universe, and the tension in his shoulders practically gave me a headache.
“Buddy, how ya been! I can’t believe I’m running into the Tickle-boy, all out in the wild. The guys are going to lose their minds.” He took another step as he spoke, and then another, and another, closing the distance rapidly.
I was jarred by the sudden realization that this man was, in fact, directing his loudness at us (or rather, my husband). I looked over to my husband, who in turn kept his gaze locked squarely on his IPA. The expression on his face read as somewhere in-between “abject terror” and “wounded prey animal”. I opened my mouth to inquire what the issue was, but not before the strange man reached us—
“Joel!” He playfully slapped a big hand down onto Joel’s shoulder. “How you been, man? You remember me, right?” I watched in uncomfortable silence as Joel shrunk away from the man’s touch, as if he’d been burned where the hand landed. The man was either oblivious or didn’t care. He placed his on the opposite shoulder, firmer this time, and drew Joel into a forced side hug. “Aw, come on! Don’t be shy!” The man continued with a devilish grin. “Don’t tell me you forgot about all the fun times we had, Tickle-boy!”
“Uh, y-yeah. Hey, Sam.” My husband sputtered. “G-good to, uh. Good to see you too.”
“Fuck, yeah it is man! It’s been way too long, honestly. Gotta be what, coming up on ten years now, right?” The man continued. His enthusiasm for this conversation seemed to be equal in magnitude to my husband’s awkwardness. He was animated as he spoke, all smiles, relaxed and jubilant. I almost let out a chuckle as I compared his demeanor to my husbands’; pale as a ghost, arms crossed tightly in front of his chest like he was protecting himself, a face that screamed “get me the fuck away from this guy”.
“More than that, I th—” Joel replied quietly.
“—So what have you been up to? You kinda disappeared, bro.” Sam cut him off nonchalantly, like he hadn’t even realized Joel was speaking. He released his grip, pulling out the chair opposite me and plopping down uncomfortably close. “We were just talking about you the other day, actually, me and the gu—"
“Ah, excuse me?” I interjected. Sam looked my way with a blank expression on his face, clearly just now acknowledging my presence. “Hi there.” There was a pause as Sam quizzically looked me up and down. He appeared to be trying to gauge what my purpose was there; I almost felt as if I were the intruder, interrupting a reunion between two old friends. I took the opportunity to glance Sam over as well. He was tall, broad shouldered and fit; kind of a football player physique. Short black hair and a square jaw framed his easy-going grin, yet his eyes, dark brown and wide, seemed to betray some other aspect to his personality. Arrogance, maybe? A mean streak? He appeared to be in his mid thirties, though I noted a certain youthful energy there. After another moment, I spoke up again. “Honey, aren’t you going to introduce me to your...friend?”
“Ah, right. Um, sorry. Sam, this is my wife, Cassidy.” Joel was still flustered, but he’d regained his composure a touch. The annoyance in his voice was evident—he was never particularly skilled at hiding his emotions, that husband of mine. “Sam and I...knew each other in college.” He finished, looking back down at his beer. Something in the way my husband said that last sentence, and indeed the entirety of the last few minutes, truly peaked my interest. Joel wasn’t a particularly assertive man, per se, but he wasn’t afraid to assert himself. But in that moment, it almost seemed like he was an entirely different person. It was a type of meekness I don’t think I’d ever seen him display up until that point; quiet, stuttering, almost childlike in his lack of confidence.
“Oh, get the hell out of here.” Sam punched Joel in the arm “Your wife? Damn, I never thought I’d see the day!” He let out a hearty laugh, and Joel smiled half-heartedly in response. “Tickle-boy went and got himself married, eh?” He turned to me with a big grin. “Nice to meet you, Cassidy. Don’t know how you ended up with a shlub like this, but nice to meet you all the same!” He laughed again.
“Nice to meet you as well.” I responded with a polite smile. For whatever reason, I was inclined to ignore my husband’s clear discomfort for the time being. I was curious of course, to learn more about this man and his past with my husband. But even more than that, there was some small part of me, one that I refused to consciously acknowledge, that enjoyed watching my husband squirm a bit.
“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Sam asked. “I don’t mean to intrude, just got excited to see a familiar face is all.”
I saw Joel open his mouth to respond, a shred of optimism clear on his face as he sensed an opportunity to escape, and almost by instinct the next sentence came rushing out of my mouth: “No worries, you’re not interrupting at all.”
Joel shot me a pleading look. He looked so pathetic, in that moment I knew I was seeing this through.
I continued: “So, you’re old friends then?” I asked.
“Oh, for sure.” Sam slipped an arm around Joel once more, eliciting a grimace. Sam either didn’t notice or didn’t care, and I followed suit. “We were inseparable. We probably hung out...oh I don’t know, at least four times a week all throughout undergrad. Isn’t that right?”
“Something like that.” Joel replied through gritted teeth. He tried to gently shift Sam’s hand off of his shoulder, a futile gesture that went completely unnoticed. I stifled a giggle.
“He must have mentioned me?” Sam asked, looking between me and Joel for confirmation. “You did tell your wife about your best friend, Sam, right Tickle-boy?” I locked eyes with Joel again.
Don’t. They screamed at me.
Try and stop me. I winked back.
“Sam,” I asked casually, “You keep calling my husband something. Tickle-boy?” I picked up my drink and started to swirl it around, feigning general disinterest in the conversation. “That’s an odd nickname. Is there an embarrassing story I need to hear?” I took a sip.
Sam’s eyes lit up, and Joel looked like he was about to vomit.
“Are you kidding? Try about a thousand. How much time do you have?” He laughed again.
“Well, actually, I thi—“ Joel tried to interject.
“Plenty!” I shot him a look. “Right, babe?” He open his mouth to respond, but in an instant my attention was turned back to Sam. “Spare me no detail.”
“Of course.” Sam smiled at me. “Well basically, your hubby here is one ticklish guy. Like, the most ticklish guy on the planet, I would wager. And you know, me and the guys, we used to give him a hard time about it. Like, we’d hold him down and tickle him until he did our homework or whatever, that kind of thing.”
I almost spat out my drink. “Oh?” I asked through a chuckle. I looked to Joel, who’s face had turned a shade of deep crimson. “I uh...hadn’t heard about that.” I said, a smirk creeping onto my face.
“No?” Sam reached across the table and grabbed Joel’s beer, taking a big swig before placing it in front of him, as if it were always his. “I mean, it’s not surprising though, right? You’re his wife, I’m sure you’ve discovered that particular weakness for yourself.”
I thought about it for a moment. There was a vague recollection of tickling floating around in there somewhere—I think I pinched his side once while we were dating—but his reaction was so negative I don’t think I ever did it again.
“No, I honestly wasn’t aware of it.” I said with a smile. I was keenly aware of Joel shooting daggers at me in the corner of my eye, but I wasn’t about to let this golden opportunity go to waste. “So, how did you discover it? My husband’s...weakness, as you call it?”
“Ah, great question. Yeah so—and this was a long time ago, obviously—but I seem to recall it was one of Joel’s ex-girlfriends. Grace, or Georgia, or something like that. So basically, he dumped her right? Like, I don’t remember the circumstances, I’m sure you had a good reason buddy. But anyway. This chick, she was feeling kind of vindictive I guess, right? Cause one night at a party, she comes up behind your man and starts tickling the shit out of him—I mean, like, just really going after it. See, she’d found out that he was super ticklish when they were dating, and she knew he was super embarrassed about it so, this was her way of getting back at him, I guess. But anyway, so she comes up behind him and starts tickling him all over, and he pretty much instantly falls to the ground laughing. He’s trying to fight her off—and she’s like, half his size, you know?—but he’s just so unbelievably ticklish that he can’t do it. So he’s laughing hysterically, and she just doesn’t stop. It must have been five minutes straight of Joel getting tortured. And you know, everyone’s watching, people are laughing and making fun of him, etc. etc. Then,” Sam paused to shoot Joel a knowing look. “The real fun started. This other girl joined in. She was super drunk I think, one of Grace’s friends. She just plopped right down on his ankles and started tickling his feet. So, Joel here loses his mind—he was already hysterical, but now he's got twice the hands on him, you know? And the crowd goes wild, I mean, they are just cracking the fuck up at how pathetic he sounds. You remember this? You were like, begging them to stop dude.” Joel said nothing, but his face somehow turned an even darker shade of red.
“Then after a moment, another girl joins, starts poking his ribs.” Sam continued. “And then, I mean, it was just a chain reaction from there. All these drunk girls started piling on him, kind of a girl power moment I guess. They must have tickled him for like, an hour or something. By the end of it, he was just a crying mess. Literally one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen, to this day.” Sam paused for a moment, relishing the memories. “But yeah, that’s basically how he got that name. I can’t remember who said it first, but after that ‘tickle-boy’ just stuck. It basically replaced his name all throughout college.” He laughed good-naturedly. “Can’t say it isn’t well deserved, huh buddy?”
At this point I couldn’t help but laugh along with him. There was something fun about playing innocent, keeping up the facade of normalcy while my husband’s apparent bully recounted the past, but the idea of a group of drunk, scorned women using tickling of all things to enact their revenge—it was just too funny. I pictured my strong, stoic husband, brought to begging by wiggling fingers. But beyond that, beyond the sheer hilarity of that concept, was some more complex, deeper key of feelings within me. There was something kind of pathetic about the image; in a man having such a child-like weakness so publicly exploited. A part of me felt second hand embarrassment for my husband…and yet, another part of me felt embarrassed myself. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but this pathetic quality in my husband somehow placed him beneath me in a sense; I found myself wanting to pile on a little. Before I even realized, I was speaking.
“Wow, defeated by tickling? Not very manly of you, honey.” The words came out of my mouth before my brain had a chance to filter them. I think I was as surprised as he was. He was taken aback, staring at me with mouth half open. I could see plain as day that I had hurt his feelings—no, even worse, his pride. But what shocked me even more than my outburst was what I felt in that moment.
I liked it.
It was strange. I loved my husband, and on the level of “normal, healthy relationship”, I of course never wanted to hurt him. But on the other hand…there was something undeniably interesting to me, titillating even, about the prospect of wounding him in this way. What was it? Revenge for all the trivial issues we’d had over the years? Was I being vindictive, cruel even?
Sam threw back his head and laughed. “Ain’t that the truth! That’s why he was tickle boy, not tickle man!” He teased, playfully punching Joel in the shoulder. My husband winced, but still said nothing, as if so cowed by the ghost from his past that’d he’d regressed back to that night all those years ago, that silly little boy being tickled to tears.
“How embarrassing. I don’t think any of my other boyfriends were ticklish.” I said with a pleasant smile. Joel looked like I had plunged a dagger through his heart.
As quickly as the feelings of guilt came, they were replaced by a sudden sense of…something. It was almost a hunger, an appetite to draw this version of my husband out to play. Whatever this was, I decided, it was justified. Tickling? Hurt egos? A little playful bullying? Nothing to worry about on the morality front. Just a bit of harmless fun.
“Tell me more, Sam.” I said, purposefully keeping my eyes off my husband. I put on my most persuasive voice, dripping with charm. “You said you had a thousand stories, right? Share a few more! Joel never talks about college, this might be my only chance to hear about it.” Truth be told, I didn’t have to look at him—I could feel his reaction. His eyes were burning a hole in the side of my head. What was he thinking right now? Please, don’t. Don’t ask him to share more stories where I, a big masculine man, am revealed to be pathetic and weak. I felt my blood rush to my cheeks.
Yes, certainly nothing to worry about. Just some harmless fun.
Sam’s eyes went wide, and an infectious grin popped up on his face. “You’re fun! I like you.” Sam motioned for a waitress. “Hey, two double IPAs, please. Just saving you a trip.” He turned to Joel, who at this point looked like he was fully dissociating. “Which story should I tell next, man? Let’s see…” He put his hand to his chin. “What’s a good one?”
“S-Sam—“ My husband tried to interject, voice hardly raised above a whisper.
“Oh!” Sam exclaimed, pointer finger in the air like he’d just discovered electricity. “There was that time at the gym—remember, when you got trapped under the barbell? No, wait! The-the jujitsu chick! The one who put you in headlock and tickled you until you tapped like, a thousand times.”
“Sam, Stop—“ He said, a little louder this time, but still much too meekly for Sam to even acknowledge.
“The pool party?” Sam continued. “The thing with that hippy chick in the quad? She had you begging dude, you remember that? Then there was that time you pissed off Dylan—“
“NO!” Joel yelled. This finally got Sam’s attention, along with every table around us. The bar went silent for a moment, as both Sam and myself looked at Joel. “Not the thing with Dylan, man.” His voice reverted to that softer, less sure tone. “That guy was an asshole…” He muttered.
“Who’s Dylan?” I asked innocently. My head was spinning. I wanted to hear them all: Getting man handled by a woman? Taken advantage of while trapped? My mind filled in the blanks, extrapolating entire humiliating stories from the snippets I’d been fed. I pictured him giggling under the fingers of a dirty-footed hippie girl, perhaps exacting ticklish judgement after Joel bothered her with a crass comment. I pictured a pool party, my husband in nothing but his swimming trunks, a crowd of onlookers terrorizing his bare flesh, poking and prodding, until maybe a finger slips into his shorts, and—
“Yeah, Dylan. Nice guy.” Sam brought me out of my daydream in the knick of time. To my absolute shock, I could feel wetness between my legs. “I mean—I guess I’ll speak for myself.” Sam chuckled. “Yeah, so. To give you some context: After the thing at the party, everyone was giving your man a hard time. You know, just giving him shit for getting wrecked by a couple of tiny women. The ‘tickle boy’ nickname was catching on—and you know how nicknames are. The more he fought it, the more it stuck. Like, he’d tell people to stop calling him that and they’d just, you know. Tickle the shit out of him.” Sam laughed again, and I joined him, purposefully playing up my reaction. “Even people we didn’t know would come up behind him and just—“ He put his fingers out in front of him and started wiggling. “Just go to town on him. I guess just to see if the rumors were true. But anyway, Dylan. So Dylan had this girl he was seeing. And she was a real piece, I mean—smoking hot. Joel here was tutoring her. So they’d meet up after class a few times a week. Well, people start seeing them together, and this and that gets said, and soon enough there’s a rumor that Joel and whatsherface are fucking on the side.” He put a hand on Joel’s shoulder. “Which, for the record, I know was a lie. My man has principles. But yeah, wasn’t long before Dylan found out. He was pissed. Like, ready to beat the shit out your man, pissed. One day, Dylan and I are kicking it at this party, and guess who walks in?”
“The tickle boy?” I said with a smirk, fully loving where this was going.
“Bingo.” Sam returned my smile. “Dylan was fully prepared to rock your shit man, I swear to god. He’s saying to me: ‘I’m gonna kick this kid’s ass’, ‘I’m gonna make him wish he was never born’, that kind of stuff. Real macho-guy bullshit, but that’s just what Dylan was like. But then I said to him—and you’re welcome for this by the way—Look, Dylan. This is the tickle boy we’re talking about. He’s not stealing anyone’s girl, man. If you have an issue with him, just put him in his place, you know? No need for violence.”
I looked over to my husband. There was the same look of desperate humiliation there, and fear too--but something about his eyes told me he was reliving every second of this story in full color.
“So, what happened?” I asked, no longer making any attempt to conceal my interest. I probably sounded like a kid at Christmas—fuck, I hope I sounded that way, and I hope my pathetic ticklish husband heard it.
“So Dylan and I walk over, and he just turns to me and says: ‘Grab em.’ So I do! I came up behind him and hooked my arms right under his, got right in a full nelson. Remember how much you struggled, dude?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t get out.” Joel whispered.
“Of course not, I’m way stronger than you. Anyway, Dylan doesn’t even say anything; just starts tickling. Right in the pits, all ten fingers, just wiggling away in there. The sound you made—“ Same chuckled, hardly able to finish the sentence. “—It sounded like a kitten being run over. I mean—‘aaaaahhhhhh!’. Just a high-pitched, screech. It literally stopped the whole party, everyone stopped what they were doing and watched. So maybe a full minute of this goes on, and your man here starts begging.”
“Begging?” I purred. “Just from a little tickling?” I frowned, putting on my best impression of puzzled disappointment. “I bet I could last longer than a minute.”
“Well, to be fair, you’re probably not as ticklish as he is. Probably no one is, man or woman.” Sam said matter of factly. “But yeah, Dylan was merciless. And tickle-boy didn’t even know why it was happening, right? That’s the funniest part. As far as he knew, he was just getting tortured for the hell of it. Dylan wouldn’t respond, no matter how much your man pleaded. Just kept wiggling his fingers in those pits, not letting up for even a second. A few more minutes pass, and at this point everyone is gathered around, cheering Dylan on. I remember feeling a little bad at this point, even. I mean, there were so many hot girls there. Like, dude, I don’t know how you must have felt; all these ladies watching you, laughing at you. And you’re just there, helpless, getting totally worked over by an angry dude.”
“How did you feel?” I asked him directly. My tone sounded strangely cold, even to me. But, fuck. I needed to know what was racing through his head. I brought the teasing, lighthearted tone back into my voice, faking a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “I mean, that must have been pretty embarrassing, honey. Begging another guy over a little bit of tickling.” He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. His look said it all, though, and so I turned back to Sam. Somehow it felt more appropriate to act like my husband wasn’t even there; to let him be a passenger to this story, with no say in how it was told. “What were the saying? The girls I mean.” I giggled. “I don’t think I could look at a man the same way after that, huh Sam?”
“No shit!” Sam laughed. “They were, you know. Just pretty much calling him a loser and stuff, telling him he was a baby, that he sounded like a girl. How do I describe it?” He reclined in his seat, contemplating. He took the same attitude as me; it was if Joel ceased to exist. “Like, they were for sure enjoying it, but at the same time, there was this level of disgust, you know? Like they found it really pathetic that a man could embarrass himself like that. Like they wanted to see it continue, because if a guy was that ticklish, he just deserves to be punished for it, you know?”
I felt faint. It was unmistakable now: Sam knew precisely what he was doing. For all his friendliness and joviality, there was only one reason he was here, only one reason to say something so debasing about my husband. I was sure that Joel’s mind was back there now; reliving it all. Feeling another man’s fingers in his pits, hearing the disgusted mocking from a dozen girls, watching his status as a man get crushed before his eyes.
He liked this. He enjoyed it. He enjoyed it while it happened all those years ago, and he’s enjoying the power he has know in recounting it. The only thing more unmistakable was the feeling between my legs, quickly progressing to a hot, throbbing pulse that threatened to make itself known right there in that bar. I desperately wanted Sam to continue, but simultaneously I wasn’t sure how much more I could hear.
“But yeah, it went on like that for a while. The minutes slipped on, Dylan tickling, your husband begging and laughing like a little bitch. Finally, he stopped for a second.”
Fuck. It was just getting good. “Is that really the end?” I asked. “Sounds like you got off easy, honey. If a guy was flirting with me, I’d want my boyfriend to punish him for a while. Really show everyone who I belonged to.” I cast a quick glance to Joel, now white as a ghost. “I mean, I guess if you tried something like that, you’d probably just end up getting overpowered and tickled. But you know,” I gestured to Sam, “If you were a man like Dylan is what I mean.”
“Pffft.” Same rolled his eyes. “Not even close.” He leaned in excitedly. “He was just calling his girl over. So I’m there, still holding him still. He wasn’t even struggling at this point, just trying to catch his breath, probably trying not to cry from the embarrassment. So Dylan starts asking his girl all these questions, like ‘You know this guy?’, ‘Is this guy your new boyfriend’. And she denies it, of course, says it’s just a friend who helps her with math, that she barely even knows him. But she took pity on him, I guess, cause she asked Dylan to let him go. So Dylan asks her: ‘If he’s just your friend, why do you care if I let him go?’ So you know what she says?” Sam asked, with a shark grin.
“What?” I said, hoping for the worst.
“She says: ‘I don’t care. Tickle him all night long if that makes you feel better. See?’ And get this—.” Sam clapped his hands together. “She starts tickling him too! Up and down his ribs, across his stomach, into his pits. Tickle boy just freaks out—I seriously thought he was going to have a seizure or something. She got him good! And all the while she’s reassuring Dylan that she’d never go for this guy, that she would be too embarrassed to be seen in public with a man this weak, that it was absurd that he thought he had a chance.” Sam was a different man now. There was no longer any trace of nicety, no pretension of compassion. “After a few minutes of that, Dylan was satisfied. He gave her a kiss, told her to wait for him back at his dorm.”
“But Dylan, wasn’t done? Was he?” I pleaded.
“Not by a mile.” Sam continued. “See, Dylan had already ensured that your husband was no longer a threat to his relationship—the tickling took care of that. But there was still the matter of getting revenge.”
I was burning. “What did he do?” The arousal was surely evident in my voice. “Tickle him some more? Until he cried? Until he pissed his pants?” I was on fire, completely consumed in the image of my husbands destruction.
“Cassidy!” My husband scoffed. I ignored him, as did Sam, didn’t even glance in his direction.
“No, no.” Sam cooed. “Not quite. He had his girlfriend to go ‘satisfy’. So Dylan…let’s say, he finished the job.” He winked at me. “Made sure no one would ever get with tickle boy again.” He turned to Joel, slapping an arm around his shoulder, and pulling him close. “Tell her what happen, tickle boy. I know you remember.”
Holy fuck. I thought. Holy fucking shit. I wanted only one thing more than hearing the humiliation climax to my husband’s ordeal; I wanted Sam to force it out of my husband’s mouth.
“Tell me. Tell me, baby.” I gasped. I felt close to something resembling an orgasm, though I knew it couldn’t be true.
“I-I….” Joel only stuttered in response.
“Aw, come on.” Sam teased. “Don’t make me tickle it out of you.” He levied the threat with sinister kindness; said with a smile, but with clear intention behind it. To emphasize his point, he formed his hand into a claw, wiggling it in front of Joel’s face. “You wouldn’t want that, would you? Wouldn’t want to beg and laugh in front of all these nice people, huh?”
The look on my husbands face sent me into a state of bliss. It was pure terror; and in that moment I saw the truest form of him. I saw years of ticklish torment flash through his eyes. I saw him humiliated by stronger men and women, the subject of disgust and ridicule and sadism. I saw his weakness in the face of his past, his fear at being returned to that state of being. He had ceased to be my husband; now I was looking at the tickle boy.
And I fucking loved it.
“He made me kiss his feet!” He yelled. “He shoved his feet in my face and made me kiss them, and everyone was watching, and I did it to make it stop! He said he’d tickle me until I cried if I didn’t so I—I!” Joel’s outburst was cut off by his sudden realization that everyone was looking at us. Four tables of onlookers, looking on with some mixture of shock and disgust.
Sam released his grip on Joel’s shoulder. Joel immediately jerked away, the screech of chair legs echoing as he abruptly stood up. He looked at me, pleading with his eyes. I saw tears welling in the corners. He wanted me to say something, to stand up and come to his defense, to tell him it was ok, that kissing another man’s feet was an acceptable response to being tickled against your will. But instead…
…I just laughed.
A giggle, at first. Then chuckling. Then a raucous round of laughter, throwing my head back and letting it ring out. I was joined by a deeper voice, Sam’s, an equally sadistic bellowing from the man who made my husband’s life hell. I reached forward and grabbed Sam’s hand. We joined together, two souls intertwined in the joy of another’s humiliation. It rang through the bar, probably attracting more attention than my husband’s outburst. I didn’t find it very funny, of course. It was more pathetic, if anything. But I knew what I was doing, too. This was the final nail in the coffin, the penultimate, lust-driven betrayal that my body couldn’t help but produce.
And it worked.
He turned and walked away. Just stood up from the table, and practically sprinted towards the door. Despite this, I think I could feel every fiber of his being. Me, the woman he loved. Sam, the man he despised. Us together, joyfully re-experiencing his emasculation.
“Leaving, tickle boy?” Sam threw over his shoulder. “I was just about to show her the videos.” Joel halted in his tracks. “Of that night with Dylan, I mean. So many cell phones out that night, man.” Joel hesitated, body hovering near the door. “Or maybe I show her something else?” Sam pondered. “I took some videos myself. I think you’ve kissed my feet too, huh?” He sneered, giving my hand a squeeze. “You’d do anything to make the tickling stop.”
It felt like my heart might stop. The chair I was sitting on must have soaked through.
But with that, Joel charged out the door. It slammed shut on his exit, snapping me back to reality.
“Don’t worry, Joel.” Sam called after him. “I only told one story—I have 999 more.” Sam turned to me and smiled. “So? Where were we?”.
——————
Two hours later, and I took a cab home. I must have muttered our home address, though I don’t remember doing so. My mind was racing with the beautiful stories Sam had imparted on me. Joel being spread eagle in the locker room, every ticklish inch of him explored by the football team. His sensitive feet being played with by cheerleaders while he begged for mercy. The hippie girls only letting him enjoy the quad if they could use him as a footrest—otherwise, dozens of tickling fingers would probe his pits and ribs. The countless stories of stronger men, holding him down and forcing him into all manner of humiliating situations under the threat of tickling, just childish tickling—doing their homework and laundry, kissing their feet, anything to escape their cruelty. The dozens of times a woman half his size and a quarter of his strength made him beg with just a flutter of her fingers on his ticklish flesh. There seemed to be no end to his suffering: A woman once pretended to go on a date with him as an April fools joke; once she got him back to her dorm, he was met with her boyfriend and his friends, ready to pin him down and tickle his pits until he cried for mercy. Joel would make a new “friend”, only to have them brush a finger across his stomach while his back was turned, to hold him down and extract what superiority they could from his pathetic form. Tickled at the gym, tickled at parties, tickled in class, hell—apparently they even used to come into his dorm to tickle him in the night. His entire college experience was fluttering fingers, taunting words, a humiliating displays of weakness. He could keep his head down, hope for a normal life, not even interact with anyone—and yet, humiliation would find him.
And usually, its name would be Sam.
The ride home was a blur. I shot a text to the brand new number in my phone. Street, house number, area code. It was a massive decision, my own personal crossing of the Rubicon, but I hit send with barely a second thought. We pulled up to the house.
I burst the front door, walked through the living room, stripping off clothes like they were burning my skin. I walked straight to the computer in the corner. My shoes went first. Then my dress. Then my underwear. I tossed them aside with no care, no thought on my mind other than finishing the job. I pulled up the internet browser, my hands practically moving on my own, desperate to type in the URL I had been provided. After a moment of scrolling, there it was.
“Tickle-boy begs for it to stop”
It was one of a dozen videos. But this one was recommended with prejudice. He was there in the thumbnail; unrecognizably my husband’s face, twisted into ticklish agony. I clicked play.
It started right in the thick of the action. There he was: The man I had sworn myself to. He was pinned to the ground, his hands pinned far above his head. I immediately began to play with myself. His ankles were similarly pinned down, held in place by the strong arms of two large men. He’d clearly been through a lot already; tears stained his cheeks, and his lip quivered with the desperation of a man broken. As my fingers entered myself, I nearly came just at that sight. But I held on, hopeful of things to come.
“Here it comes.” The recording of Sam taunted. “I’m going back to your pits.”
The fear in Joel’s eyes was palpable. Ungh.
“Please!” Came the tickle-boy’s cries. “I’ll lick your feet! I’ll lick your armpits! PLEASE!” A wave of pleasure came over me. I moaned, my fingers grasping inside of me.
“Nah.” Came Sam’s reply. “You’ve already done that. I want to do want you aren’t offering.” His fingers hovered near the pathetic bitch’s pits, threatening to enter.
My back arched, electricity surging through my body. I was so close.
—and then his fingers touched down on my pathetic husband’s pits, violating the tickle boy’s most sensitive area.
He screamed. I moaned. He begged and pleaded. I shuddered. He recoiled against the touch of a stronger man, hapless to stop it. I neared climax. Sam tickled those pits like he owned them, like he had taken them by force.
“This is your life now, tickle boy.” Sam claimed with authority, fingers moving with expert precision. “Us men get happy lives, with beautiful women—but ticklish little wimps only get fingers in their pits.” My body bucked and swayed, unbelievably close to release.
“How does it feel? Sam inquired. “To be my bitch? To feel helpless under my touch?” Joel could only laugh hysterically in response. “I started the rumor about you and Dylan’s girlfriend. I told Grace to tickle you in public.” The tickle boy bucked and screamed. I felt a wave of delicious tingling overtake my body.
“All of this suffering is because of me. I made you into this—a ticklish joke. And it’s what you’ll always be.”
As Sam dug his fingers into my beloved’s pits, a bygone memory he would have done anything to leave buried, I came.
I came harder than I had ever before, harder than any man had ever made me, harder than the tickle boy ever could have. Yes, I thought, Make him suffer, Sam. Make my pathetic husband suffer for his weakness. Make him fear your touch, rape his pits and feet with your fingers until he loses his last shred of dignity. Tickle him in front of love interests, in front of friends, in front of family—make him worship your feet while he cries for mercy. Make him lick your sweaty pits while he mourns the loss of his dignity—make him suffer, suffer, suffer, flinch at every swipe of your fingers while you destroy him for no other reason than it feels good to you. Make him your slave, your object of sadism and desire. Tickle him—in front of ME!
Aahhhhhhah!
The orgasm crashed over me, wave upon wave of endless pleasure. From my pussy, to my feet, to my finger tips. Tickle. It reverberated to my spine. Beg. I thrusted my hips into the air. Suffer. Drool pooled in the corner of my mouth. Make him your tickle boy, Sam. Sam. Sam!
“SAM!” I Screamed.
It ended with that name. That horrid, powerful name. I gasped, my breathing heavy and ragged.
“Cassidy…” My husband asked.
I snapped my head around. He was standing behind me. The video of his torment was clearly visible over my shoulder. For a moment, we just locked eyes. I felt as though I’d been caught committing some crime, and a small part of me regretted it. Thoughts of what came next swirled in my head—anger, divorce, a 15 year marriage over in an instant. Had I let my lust destroy my life? My mind raced to the text I sent in the cab, then such an exciting action, but now inspiring fear within me. I was cowed into an embarrassed silence. Did I go too far?
“Wh-what…” His lip quivered in a disgusting display of inadequecy, reminding me of who he really was. As quickly as it came, it was gone. I had to stop myself from laughing. How ridiculous could I be? This wasn’t the husband I knew anymore. All the power was mine. Divorce? Anger? That would require a spine. I knew exactly how to deal with this situation.
I stood from my chair, pussy still dripping wet with the thoughts of his torment. Wordlessly, I advanced on him. He stared back at me with those doe eyes, the eyes of a weak, ticklish man. Without warning or hesitation, I drove all ten fingers into his ribs. He immediately buckled, as pathetic men are apt to do, collapsing in a heap of ticklish flesh.
And I tickled.
I scrabbled my fingers up and down his rib cage, across his stomach, darting in and out of his pits, endless, endless torment, tickle, tickle, tickle. The pathetic bitch could do nothing to make it stop. He laughed, a high pitched, feminine thing that inspired equal parts disgust and arousal within me. I wanted to destroy him; I wanted to own him. I wanted to be with him forever; I wanted to make his life hell. I wanted him to be my husband; but I was making him my tickle boy. As he screeched and bucked, desperate but unable to protect himself from a tiny woman’s probing digits, I felt a sense of absolute righteousness in my actions. This man, who pretends to be my husband, deserves it. His ticklish flesh is an embarrassment to men everywhere, and embarrassment to me. How dare he marry me, knowing full well he can’t protect me? That he isn’t even a man, just a pathetic, ticklish boy? His pits begged for my fingers. I slipped them in, scratch-scratch-scratching ever so lightly, varying my rhythm from fast, to slow, to fast again. Joel screamed, his voice that of a little girl. Screamed, just from a little tickling, a man brought so low by something so weak. I was right to do this. Tickle. All those kids from college, they were right as well. Tickle, tickle. And most of all, Sam was right to torment him all those years. Tickle, tickle, tickle, I’ll never, ever stop. I had never been more sure of something in my life: My pathetic husband deserved to suffer.
He looked into my eyes as he laughed, looking for any shred of empathy. There was none to be found. All that was left was my lust to be satisfied. And there was only one way that could happen. I grabbed his socked foot in my hand, tracing my nails around its edge.
“I gave Sam our address, tickle boy.” I said, drunk on the power I had over the pathetic man I had married. “He should be here any minute.”
The look of horror in the tickle boy’s eyes nearly sent me over the edge again.
“Have you forgotten what his feet taste like, love? How his armpit hair felt against your face? How his fingers felt raping your weak body?” I demanded. “ Well, don’t worry.” I said.
“We’ll help you remember.”
As the doorbell range, I smiled. Our relationship was about to change permanently.
“No fucking way! It seriously can’t be. Joel?” The stranger took a step towards us. Hm, I mused to myself, that’s my husband’s name. I looked to the man sitting across from me, keen to share this realization with him, when I noticed that Joel’s face had gone about three shades paler then normal. He was staring intently at the half-drunk beer in front of him like it held the secrets of the universe, and the tension in his shoulders practically gave me a headache.
“Buddy, how ya been! I can’t believe I’m running into the Tickle-boy, all out in the wild. The guys are going to lose their minds.” He took another step as he spoke, and then another, and another, closing the distance rapidly.
I was jarred by the sudden realization that this man was, in fact, directing his loudness at us (or rather, my husband). I looked over to my husband, who in turn kept his gaze locked squarely on his IPA. The expression on his face read as somewhere in-between “abject terror” and “wounded prey animal”. I opened my mouth to inquire what the issue was, but not before the strange man reached us—
“Joel!” He playfully slapped a big hand down onto Joel’s shoulder. “How you been, man? You remember me, right?” I watched in uncomfortable silence as Joel shrunk away from the man’s touch, as if he’d been burned where the hand landed. The man was either oblivious or didn’t care. He placed his on the opposite shoulder, firmer this time, and drew Joel into a forced side hug. “Aw, come on! Don’t be shy!” The man continued with a devilish grin. “Don’t tell me you forgot about all the fun times we had, Tickle-boy!”
“Uh, y-yeah. Hey, Sam.” My husband sputtered. “G-good to, uh. Good to see you too.”
“Fuck, yeah it is man! It’s been way too long, honestly. Gotta be what, coming up on ten years now, right?” The man continued. His enthusiasm for this conversation seemed to be equal in magnitude to my husband’s awkwardness. He was animated as he spoke, all smiles, relaxed and jubilant. I almost let out a chuckle as I compared his demeanor to my husbands’; pale as a ghost, arms crossed tightly in front of his chest like he was protecting himself, a face that screamed “get me the fuck away from this guy”.
“More than that, I th—” Joel replied quietly.
“—So what have you been up to? You kinda disappeared, bro.” Sam cut him off nonchalantly, like he hadn’t even realized Joel was speaking. He released his grip, pulling out the chair opposite me and plopping down uncomfortably close. “We were just talking about you the other day, actually, me and the gu—"
“Ah, excuse me?” I interjected. Sam looked my way with a blank expression on his face, clearly just now acknowledging my presence. “Hi there.” There was a pause as Sam quizzically looked me up and down. He appeared to be trying to gauge what my purpose was there; I almost felt as if I were the intruder, interrupting a reunion between two old friends. I took the opportunity to glance Sam over as well. He was tall, broad shouldered and fit; kind of a football player physique. Short black hair and a square jaw framed his easy-going grin, yet his eyes, dark brown and wide, seemed to betray some other aspect to his personality. Arrogance, maybe? A mean streak? He appeared to be in his mid thirties, though I noted a certain youthful energy there. After another moment, I spoke up again. “Honey, aren’t you going to introduce me to your...friend?”
“Ah, right. Um, sorry. Sam, this is my wife, Cassidy.” Joel was still flustered, but he’d regained his composure a touch. The annoyance in his voice was evident—he was never particularly skilled at hiding his emotions, that husband of mine. “Sam and I...knew each other in college.” He finished, looking back down at his beer. Something in the way my husband said that last sentence, and indeed the entirety of the last few minutes, truly peaked my interest. Joel wasn’t a particularly assertive man, per se, but he wasn’t afraid to assert himself. But in that moment, it almost seemed like he was an entirely different person. It was a type of meekness I don’t think I’d ever seen him display up until that point; quiet, stuttering, almost childlike in his lack of confidence.
“Oh, get the hell out of here.” Sam punched Joel in the arm “Your wife? Damn, I never thought I’d see the day!” He let out a hearty laugh, and Joel smiled half-heartedly in response. “Tickle-boy went and got himself married, eh?” He turned to me with a big grin. “Nice to meet you, Cassidy. Don’t know how you ended up with a shlub like this, but nice to meet you all the same!” He laughed again.
“Nice to meet you as well.” I responded with a polite smile. For whatever reason, I was inclined to ignore my husband’s clear discomfort for the time being. I was curious of course, to learn more about this man and his past with my husband. But even more than that, there was some small part of me, one that I refused to consciously acknowledge, that enjoyed watching my husband squirm a bit.
“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Sam asked. “I don’t mean to intrude, just got excited to see a familiar face is all.”
I saw Joel open his mouth to respond, a shred of optimism clear on his face as he sensed an opportunity to escape, and almost by instinct the next sentence came rushing out of my mouth: “No worries, you’re not interrupting at all.”
Joel shot me a pleading look. He looked so pathetic, in that moment I knew I was seeing this through.
I continued: “So, you’re old friends then?” I asked.
“Oh, for sure.” Sam slipped an arm around Joel once more, eliciting a grimace. Sam either didn’t notice or didn’t care, and I followed suit. “We were inseparable. We probably hung out...oh I don’t know, at least four times a week all throughout undergrad. Isn’t that right?”
“Something like that.” Joel replied through gritted teeth. He tried to gently shift Sam’s hand off of his shoulder, a futile gesture that went completely unnoticed. I stifled a giggle.
“He must have mentioned me?” Sam asked, looking between me and Joel for confirmation. “You did tell your wife about your best friend, Sam, right Tickle-boy?” I locked eyes with Joel again.
Don’t. They screamed at me.
Try and stop me. I winked back.
“Sam,” I asked casually, “You keep calling my husband something. Tickle-boy?” I picked up my drink and started to swirl it around, feigning general disinterest in the conversation. “That’s an odd nickname. Is there an embarrassing story I need to hear?” I took a sip.
Sam’s eyes lit up, and Joel looked like he was about to vomit.
“Are you kidding? Try about a thousand. How much time do you have?” He laughed again.
“Well, actually, I thi—“ Joel tried to interject.
“Plenty!” I shot him a look. “Right, babe?” He open his mouth to respond, but in an instant my attention was turned back to Sam. “Spare me no detail.”
“Of course.” Sam smiled at me. “Well basically, your hubby here is one ticklish guy. Like, the most ticklish guy on the planet, I would wager. And you know, me and the guys, we used to give him a hard time about it. Like, we’d hold him down and tickle him until he did our homework or whatever, that kind of thing.”
I almost spat out my drink. “Oh?” I asked through a chuckle. I looked to Joel, who’s face had turned a shade of deep crimson. “I uh...hadn’t heard about that.” I said, a smirk creeping onto my face.
“No?” Sam reached across the table and grabbed Joel’s beer, taking a big swig before placing it in front of him, as if it were always his. “I mean, it’s not surprising though, right? You’re his wife, I’m sure you’ve discovered that particular weakness for yourself.”
I thought about it for a moment. There was a vague recollection of tickling floating around in there somewhere—I think I pinched his side once while we were dating—but his reaction was so negative I don’t think I ever did it again.
“No, I honestly wasn’t aware of it.” I said with a smile. I was keenly aware of Joel shooting daggers at me in the corner of my eye, but I wasn’t about to let this golden opportunity go to waste. “So, how did you discover it? My husband’s...weakness, as you call it?”
“Ah, great question. Yeah so—and this was a long time ago, obviously—but I seem to recall it was one of Joel’s ex-girlfriends. Grace, or Georgia, or something like that. So basically, he dumped her right? Like, I don’t remember the circumstances, I’m sure you had a good reason buddy. But anyway. This chick, she was feeling kind of vindictive I guess, right? Cause one night at a party, she comes up behind your man and starts tickling the shit out of him—I mean, like, just really going after it. See, she’d found out that he was super ticklish when they were dating, and she knew he was super embarrassed about it so, this was her way of getting back at him, I guess. But anyway, so she comes up behind him and starts tickling him all over, and he pretty much instantly falls to the ground laughing. He’s trying to fight her off—and she’s like, half his size, you know?—but he’s just so unbelievably ticklish that he can’t do it. So he’s laughing hysterically, and she just doesn’t stop. It must have been five minutes straight of Joel getting tortured. And you know, everyone’s watching, people are laughing and making fun of him, etc. etc. Then,” Sam paused to shoot Joel a knowing look. “The real fun started. This other girl joined in. She was super drunk I think, one of Grace’s friends. She just plopped right down on his ankles and started tickling his feet. So, Joel here loses his mind—he was already hysterical, but now he's got twice the hands on him, you know? And the crowd goes wild, I mean, they are just cracking the fuck up at how pathetic he sounds. You remember this? You were like, begging them to stop dude.” Joel said nothing, but his face somehow turned an even darker shade of red.
“Then after a moment, another girl joins, starts poking his ribs.” Sam continued. “And then, I mean, it was just a chain reaction from there. All these drunk girls started piling on him, kind of a girl power moment I guess. They must have tickled him for like, an hour or something. By the end of it, he was just a crying mess. Literally one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen, to this day.” Sam paused for a moment, relishing the memories. “But yeah, that’s basically how he got that name. I can’t remember who said it first, but after that ‘tickle-boy’ just stuck. It basically replaced his name all throughout college.” He laughed good-naturedly. “Can’t say it isn’t well deserved, huh buddy?”
At this point I couldn’t help but laugh along with him. There was something fun about playing innocent, keeping up the facade of normalcy while my husband’s apparent bully recounted the past, but the idea of a group of drunk, scorned women using tickling of all things to enact their revenge—it was just too funny. I pictured my strong, stoic husband, brought to begging by wiggling fingers. But beyond that, beyond the sheer hilarity of that concept, was some more complex, deeper key of feelings within me. There was something kind of pathetic about the image; in a man having such a child-like weakness so publicly exploited. A part of me felt second hand embarrassment for my husband…and yet, another part of me felt embarrassed myself. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but this pathetic quality in my husband somehow placed him beneath me in a sense; I found myself wanting to pile on a little. Before I even realized, I was speaking.
“Wow, defeated by tickling? Not very manly of you, honey.” The words came out of my mouth before my brain had a chance to filter them. I think I was as surprised as he was. He was taken aback, staring at me with mouth half open. I could see plain as day that I had hurt his feelings—no, even worse, his pride. But what shocked me even more than my outburst was what I felt in that moment.
I liked it.
It was strange. I loved my husband, and on the level of “normal, healthy relationship”, I of course never wanted to hurt him. But on the other hand…there was something undeniably interesting to me, titillating even, about the prospect of wounding him in this way. What was it? Revenge for all the trivial issues we’d had over the years? Was I being vindictive, cruel even?
Sam threw back his head and laughed. “Ain’t that the truth! That’s why he was tickle boy, not tickle man!” He teased, playfully punching Joel in the shoulder. My husband winced, but still said nothing, as if so cowed by the ghost from his past that’d he’d regressed back to that night all those years ago, that silly little boy being tickled to tears.
“How embarrassing. I don’t think any of my other boyfriends were ticklish.” I said with a pleasant smile. Joel looked like I had plunged a dagger through his heart.
As quickly as the feelings of guilt came, they were replaced by a sudden sense of…something. It was almost a hunger, an appetite to draw this version of my husband out to play. Whatever this was, I decided, it was justified. Tickling? Hurt egos? A little playful bullying? Nothing to worry about on the morality front. Just a bit of harmless fun.
“Tell me more, Sam.” I said, purposefully keeping my eyes off my husband. I put on my most persuasive voice, dripping with charm. “You said you had a thousand stories, right? Share a few more! Joel never talks about college, this might be my only chance to hear about it.” Truth be told, I didn’t have to look at him—I could feel his reaction. His eyes were burning a hole in the side of my head. What was he thinking right now? Please, don’t. Don’t ask him to share more stories where I, a big masculine man, am revealed to be pathetic and weak. I felt my blood rush to my cheeks.
Yes, certainly nothing to worry about. Just some harmless fun.
Sam’s eyes went wide, and an infectious grin popped up on his face. “You’re fun! I like you.” Sam motioned for a waitress. “Hey, two double IPAs, please. Just saving you a trip.” He turned to Joel, who at this point looked like he was fully dissociating. “Which story should I tell next, man? Let’s see…” He put his hand to his chin. “What’s a good one?”
“S-Sam—“ My husband tried to interject, voice hardly raised above a whisper.
“Oh!” Sam exclaimed, pointer finger in the air like he’d just discovered electricity. “There was that time at the gym—remember, when you got trapped under the barbell? No, wait! The-the jujitsu chick! The one who put you in headlock and tickled you until you tapped like, a thousand times.”
“Sam, Stop—“ He said, a little louder this time, but still much too meekly for Sam to even acknowledge.
“The pool party?” Sam continued. “The thing with that hippy chick in the quad? She had you begging dude, you remember that? Then there was that time you pissed off Dylan—“
“NO!” Joel yelled. This finally got Sam’s attention, along with every table around us. The bar went silent for a moment, as both Sam and myself looked at Joel. “Not the thing with Dylan, man.” His voice reverted to that softer, less sure tone. “That guy was an asshole…” He muttered.
“Who’s Dylan?” I asked innocently. My head was spinning. I wanted to hear them all: Getting man handled by a woman? Taken advantage of while trapped? My mind filled in the blanks, extrapolating entire humiliating stories from the snippets I’d been fed. I pictured him giggling under the fingers of a dirty-footed hippie girl, perhaps exacting ticklish judgement after Joel bothered her with a crass comment. I pictured a pool party, my husband in nothing but his swimming trunks, a crowd of onlookers terrorizing his bare flesh, poking and prodding, until maybe a finger slips into his shorts, and—
“Yeah, Dylan. Nice guy.” Sam brought me out of my daydream in the knick of time. To my absolute shock, I could feel wetness between my legs. “I mean—I guess I’ll speak for myself.” Sam chuckled. “Yeah, so. To give you some context: After the thing at the party, everyone was giving your man a hard time. You know, just giving him shit for getting wrecked by a couple of tiny women. The ‘tickle boy’ nickname was catching on—and you know how nicknames are. The more he fought it, the more it stuck. Like, he’d tell people to stop calling him that and they’d just, you know. Tickle the shit out of him.” Sam laughed again, and I joined him, purposefully playing up my reaction. “Even people we didn’t know would come up behind him and just—“ He put his fingers out in front of him and started wiggling. “Just go to town on him. I guess just to see if the rumors were true. But anyway, Dylan. So Dylan had this girl he was seeing. And she was a real piece, I mean—smoking hot. Joel here was tutoring her. So they’d meet up after class a few times a week. Well, people start seeing them together, and this and that gets said, and soon enough there’s a rumor that Joel and whatsherface are fucking on the side.” He put a hand on Joel’s shoulder. “Which, for the record, I know was a lie. My man has principles. But yeah, wasn’t long before Dylan found out. He was pissed. Like, ready to beat the shit out your man, pissed. One day, Dylan and I are kicking it at this party, and guess who walks in?”
“The tickle boy?” I said with a smirk, fully loving where this was going.
“Bingo.” Sam returned my smile. “Dylan was fully prepared to rock your shit man, I swear to god. He’s saying to me: ‘I’m gonna kick this kid’s ass’, ‘I’m gonna make him wish he was never born’, that kind of stuff. Real macho-guy bullshit, but that’s just what Dylan was like. But then I said to him—and you’re welcome for this by the way—Look, Dylan. This is the tickle boy we’re talking about. He’s not stealing anyone’s girl, man. If you have an issue with him, just put him in his place, you know? No need for violence.”
I looked over to my husband. There was the same look of desperate humiliation there, and fear too--but something about his eyes told me he was reliving every second of this story in full color.
“So, what happened?” I asked, no longer making any attempt to conceal my interest. I probably sounded like a kid at Christmas—fuck, I hope I sounded that way, and I hope my pathetic ticklish husband heard it.
“So Dylan and I walk over, and he just turns to me and says: ‘Grab em.’ So I do! I came up behind him and hooked my arms right under his, got right in a full nelson. Remember how much you struggled, dude?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t get out.” Joel whispered.
“Of course not, I’m way stronger than you. Anyway, Dylan doesn’t even say anything; just starts tickling. Right in the pits, all ten fingers, just wiggling away in there. The sound you made—“ Same chuckled, hardly able to finish the sentence. “—It sounded like a kitten being run over. I mean—‘aaaaahhhhhh!’. Just a high-pitched, screech. It literally stopped the whole party, everyone stopped what they were doing and watched. So maybe a full minute of this goes on, and your man here starts begging.”
“Begging?” I purred. “Just from a little tickling?” I frowned, putting on my best impression of puzzled disappointment. “I bet I could last longer than a minute.”
“Well, to be fair, you’re probably not as ticklish as he is. Probably no one is, man or woman.” Sam said matter of factly. “But yeah, Dylan was merciless. And tickle-boy didn’t even know why it was happening, right? That’s the funniest part. As far as he knew, he was just getting tortured for the hell of it. Dylan wouldn’t respond, no matter how much your man pleaded. Just kept wiggling his fingers in those pits, not letting up for even a second. A few more minutes pass, and at this point everyone is gathered around, cheering Dylan on. I remember feeling a little bad at this point, even. I mean, there were so many hot girls there. Like, dude, I don’t know how you must have felt; all these ladies watching you, laughing at you. And you’re just there, helpless, getting totally worked over by an angry dude.”
“How did you feel?” I asked him directly. My tone sounded strangely cold, even to me. But, fuck. I needed to know what was racing through his head. I brought the teasing, lighthearted tone back into my voice, faking a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “I mean, that must have been pretty embarrassing, honey. Begging another guy over a little bit of tickling.” He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. His look said it all, though, and so I turned back to Sam. Somehow it felt more appropriate to act like my husband wasn’t even there; to let him be a passenger to this story, with no say in how it was told. “What were the saying? The girls I mean.” I giggled. “I don’t think I could look at a man the same way after that, huh Sam?”
“No shit!” Sam laughed. “They were, you know. Just pretty much calling him a loser and stuff, telling him he was a baby, that he sounded like a girl. How do I describe it?” He reclined in his seat, contemplating. He took the same attitude as me; it was if Joel ceased to exist. “Like, they were for sure enjoying it, but at the same time, there was this level of disgust, you know? Like they found it really pathetic that a man could embarrass himself like that. Like they wanted to see it continue, because if a guy was that ticklish, he just deserves to be punished for it, you know?”
I felt faint. It was unmistakable now: Sam knew precisely what he was doing. For all his friendliness and joviality, there was only one reason he was here, only one reason to say something so debasing about my husband. I was sure that Joel’s mind was back there now; reliving it all. Feeling another man’s fingers in his pits, hearing the disgusted mocking from a dozen girls, watching his status as a man get crushed before his eyes.
He liked this. He enjoyed it. He enjoyed it while it happened all those years ago, and he’s enjoying the power he has know in recounting it. The only thing more unmistakable was the feeling between my legs, quickly progressing to a hot, throbbing pulse that threatened to make itself known right there in that bar. I desperately wanted Sam to continue, but simultaneously I wasn’t sure how much more I could hear.
“But yeah, it went on like that for a while. The minutes slipped on, Dylan tickling, your husband begging and laughing like a little bitch. Finally, he stopped for a second.”
Fuck. It was just getting good. “Is that really the end?” I asked. “Sounds like you got off easy, honey. If a guy was flirting with me, I’d want my boyfriend to punish him for a while. Really show everyone who I belonged to.” I cast a quick glance to Joel, now white as a ghost. “I mean, I guess if you tried something like that, you’d probably just end up getting overpowered and tickled. But you know,” I gestured to Sam, “If you were a man like Dylan is what I mean.”
“Pffft.” Same rolled his eyes. “Not even close.” He leaned in excitedly. “He was just calling his girl over. So I’m there, still holding him still. He wasn’t even struggling at this point, just trying to catch his breath, probably trying not to cry from the embarrassment. So Dylan starts asking his girl all these questions, like ‘You know this guy?’, ‘Is this guy your new boyfriend’. And she denies it, of course, says it’s just a friend who helps her with math, that she barely even knows him. But she took pity on him, I guess, cause she asked Dylan to let him go. So Dylan asks her: ‘If he’s just your friend, why do you care if I let him go?’ So you know what she says?” Sam asked, with a shark grin.
“What?” I said, hoping for the worst.
“She says: ‘I don’t care. Tickle him all night long if that makes you feel better. See?’ And get this—.” Sam clapped his hands together. “She starts tickling him too! Up and down his ribs, across his stomach, into his pits. Tickle boy just freaks out—I seriously thought he was going to have a seizure or something. She got him good! And all the while she’s reassuring Dylan that she’d never go for this guy, that she would be too embarrassed to be seen in public with a man this weak, that it was absurd that he thought he had a chance.” Sam was a different man now. There was no longer any trace of nicety, no pretension of compassion. “After a few minutes of that, Dylan was satisfied. He gave her a kiss, told her to wait for him back at his dorm.”
“But Dylan, wasn’t done? Was he?” I pleaded.
“Not by a mile.” Sam continued. “See, Dylan had already ensured that your husband was no longer a threat to his relationship—the tickling took care of that. But there was still the matter of getting revenge.”
I was burning. “What did he do?” The arousal was surely evident in my voice. “Tickle him some more? Until he cried? Until he pissed his pants?” I was on fire, completely consumed in the image of my husbands destruction.
“Cassidy!” My husband scoffed. I ignored him, as did Sam, didn’t even glance in his direction.
“No, no.” Sam cooed. “Not quite. He had his girlfriend to go ‘satisfy’. So Dylan…let’s say, he finished the job.” He winked at me. “Made sure no one would ever get with tickle boy again.” He turned to Joel, slapping an arm around his shoulder, and pulling him close. “Tell her what happen, tickle boy. I know you remember.”
Holy fuck. I thought. Holy fucking shit. I wanted only one thing more than hearing the humiliation climax to my husband’s ordeal; I wanted Sam to force it out of my husband’s mouth.
“Tell me. Tell me, baby.” I gasped. I felt close to something resembling an orgasm, though I knew it couldn’t be true.
“I-I….” Joel only stuttered in response.
“Aw, come on.” Sam teased. “Don’t make me tickle it out of you.” He levied the threat with sinister kindness; said with a smile, but with clear intention behind it. To emphasize his point, he formed his hand into a claw, wiggling it in front of Joel’s face. “You wouldn’t want that, would you? Wouldn’t want to beg and laugh in front of all these nice people, huh?”
The look on my husbands face sent me into a state of bliss. It was pure terror; and in that moment I saw the truest form of him. I saw years of ticklish torment flash through his eyes. I saw him humiliated by stronger men and women, the subject of disgust and ridicule and sadism. I saw his weakness in the face of his past, his fear at being returned to that state of being. He had ceased to be my husband; now I was looking at the tickle boy.
And I fucking loved it.
“He made me kiss his feet!” He yelled. “He shoved his feet in my face and made me kiss them, and everyone was watching, and I did it to make it stop! He said he’d tickle me until I cried if I didn’t so I—I!” Joel’s outburst was cut off by his sudden realization that everyone was looking at us. Four tables of onlookers, looking on with some mixture of shock and disgust.
Sam released his grip on Joel’s shoulder. Joel immediately jerked away, the screech of chair legs echoing as he abruptly stood up. He looked at me, pleading with his eyes. I saw tears welling in the corners. He wanted me to say something, to stand up and come to his defense, to tell him it was ok, that kissing another man’s feet was an acceptable response to being tickled against your will. But instead…
…I just laughed.
A giggle, at first. Then chuckling. Then a raucous round of laughter, throwing my head back and letting it ring out. I was joined by a deeper voice, Sam’s, an equally sadistic bellowing from the man who made my husband’s life hell. I reached forward and grabbed Sam’s hand. We joined together, two souls intertwined in the joy of another’s humiliation. It rang through the bar, probably attracting more attention than my husband’s outburst. I didn’t find it very funny, of course. It was more pathetic, if anything. But I knew what I was doing, too. This was the final nail in the coffin, the penultimate, lust-driven betrayal that my body couldn’t help but produce.
And it worked.
He turned and walked away. Just stood up from the table, and practically sprinted towards the door. Despite this, I think I could feel every fiber of his being. Me, the woman he loved. Sam, the man he despised. Us together, joyfully re-experiencing his emasculation.
“Leaving, tickle boy?” Sam threw over his shoulder. “I was just about to show her the videos.” Joel halted in his tracks. “Of that night with Dylan, I mean. So many cell phones out that night, man.” Joel hesitated, body hovering near the door. “Or maybe I show her something else?” Sam pondered. “I took some videos myself. I think you’ve kissed my feet too, huh?” He sneered, giving my hand a squeeze. “You’d do anything to make the tickling stop.”
It felt like my heart might stop. The chair I was sitting on must have soaked through.
But with that, Joel charged out the door. It slammed shut on his exit, snapping me back to reality.
“Don’t worry, Joel.” Sam called after him. “I only told one story—I have 999 more.” Sam turned to me and smiled. “So? Where were we?”.
——————
Two hours later, and I took a cab home. I must have muttered our home address, though I don’t remember doing so. My mind was racing with the beautiful stories Sam had imparted on me. Joel being spread eagle in the locker room, every ticklish inch of him explored by the football team. His sensitive feet being played with by cheerleaders while he begged for mercy. The hippie girls only letting him enjoy the quad if they could use him as a footrest—otherwise, dozens of tickling fingers would probe his pits and ribs. The countless stories of stronger men, holding him down and forcing him into all manner of humiliating situations under the threat of tickling, just childish tickling—doing their homework and laundry, kissing their feet, anything to escape their cruelty. The dozens of times a woman half his size and a quarter of his strength made him beg with just a flutter of her fingers on his ticklish flesh. There seemed to be no end to his suffering: A woman once pretended to go on a date with him as an April fools joke; once she got him back to her dorm, he was met with her boyfriend and his friends, ready to pin him down and tickle his pits until he cried for mercy. Joel would make a new “friend”, only to have them brush a finger across his stomach while his back was turned, to hold him down and extract what superiority they could from his pathetic form. Tickled at the gym, tickled at parties, tickled in class, hell—apparently they even used to come into his dorm to tickle him in the night. His entire college experience was fluttering fingers, taunting words, a humiliating displays of weakness. He could keep his head down, hope for a normal life, not even interact with anyone—and yet, humiliation would find him.
And usually, its name would be Sam.
The ride home was a blur. I shot a text to the brand new number in my phone. Street, house number, area code. It was a massive decision, my own personal crossing of the Rubicon, but I hit send with barely a second thought. We pulled up to the house.
I burst the front door, walked through the living room, stripping off clothes like they were burning my skin. I walked straight to the computer in the corner. My shoes went first. Then my dress. Then my underwear. I tossed them aside with no care, no thought on my mind other than finishing the job. I pulled up the internet browser, my hands practically moving on my own, desperate to type in the URL I had been provided. After a moment of scrolling, there it was.
“Tickle-boy begs for it to stop”
It was one of a dozen videos. But this one was recommended with prejudice. He was there in the thumbnail; unrecognizably my husband’s face, twisted into ticklish agony. I clicked play.
It started right in the thick of the action. There he was: The man I had sworn myself to. He was pinned to the ground, his hands pinned far above his head. I immediately began to play with myself. His ankles were similarly pinned down, held in place by the strong arms of two large men. He’d clearly been through a lot already; tears stained his cheeks, and his lip quivered with the desperation of a man broken. As my fingers entered myself, I nearly came just at that sight. But I held on, hopeful of things to come.
“Here it comes.” The recording of Sam taunted. “I’m going back to your pits.”
The fear in Joel’s eyes was palpable. Ungh.
“Please!” Came the tickle-boy’s cries. “I’ll lick your feet! I’ll lick your armpits! PLEASE!” A wave of pleasure came over me. I moaned, my fingers grasping inside of me.
“Nah.” Came Sam’s reply. “You’ve already done that. I want to do want you aren’t offering.” His fingers hovered near the pathetic bitch’s pits, threatening to enter.
My back arched, electricity surging through my body. I was so close.
—and then his fingers touched down on my pathetic husband’s pits, violating the tickle boy’s most sensitive area.
He screamed. I moaned. He begged and pleaded. I shuddered. He recoiled against the touch of a stronger man, hapless to stop it. I neared climax. Sam tickled those pits like he owned them, like he had taken them by force.
“This is your life now, tickle boy.” Sam claimed with authority, fingers moving with expert precision. “Us men get happy lives, with beautiful women—but ticklish little wimps only get fingers in their pits.” My body bucked and swayed, unbelievably close to release.
“How does it feel? Sam inquired. “To be my bitch? To feel helpless under my touch?” Joel could only laugh hysterically in response. “I started the rumor about you and Dylan’s girlfriend. I told Grace to tickle you in public.” The tickle boy bucked and screamed. I felt a wave of delicious tingling overtake my body.
“All of this suffering is because of me. I made you into this—a ticklish joke. And it’s what you’ll always be.”
As Sam dug his fingers into my beloved’s pits, a bygone memory he would have done anything to leave buried, I came.
I came harder than I had ever before, harder than any man had ever made me, harder than the tickle boy ever could have. Yes, I thought, Make him suffer, Sam. Make my pathetic husband suffer for his weakness. Make him fear your touch, rape his pits and feet with your fingers until he loses his last shred of dignity. Tickle him in front of love interests, in front of friends, in front of family—make him worship your feet while he cries for mercy. Make him lick your sweaty pits while he mourns the loss of his dignity—make him suffer, suffer, suffer, flinch at every swipe of your fingers while you destroy him for no other reason than it feels good to you. Make him your slave, your object of sadism and desire. Tickle him—in front of ME!
Aahhhhhhah!
The orgasm crashed over me, wave upon wave of endless pleasure. From my pussy, to my feet, to my finger tips. Tickle. It reverberated to my spine. Beg. I thrusted my hips into the air. Suffer. Drool pooled in the corner of my mouth. Make him your tickle boy, Sam. Sam. Sam!
“SAM!” I Screamed.
It ended with that name. That horrid, powerful name. I gasped, my breathing heavy and ragged.
“Cassidy…” My husband asked.
I snapped my head around. He was standing behind me. The video of his torment was clearly visible over my shoulder. For a moment, we just locked eyes. I felt as though I’d been caught committing some crime, and a small part of me regretted it. Thoughts of what came next swirled in my head—anger, divorce, a 15 year marriage over in an instant. Had I let my lust destroy my life? My mind raced to the text I sent in the cab, then such an exciting action, but now inspiring fear within me. I was cowed into an embarrassed silence. Did I go too far?
“Wh-what…” His lip quivered in a disgusting display of inadequecy, reminding me of who he really was. As quickly as it came, it was gone. I had to stop myself from laughing. How ridiculous could I be? This wasn’t the husband I knew anymore. All the power was mine. Divorce? Anger? That would require a spine. I knew exactly how to deal with this situation.
I stood from my chair, pussy still dripping wet with the thoughts of his torment. Wordlessly, I advanced on him. He stared back at me with those doe eyes, the eyes of a weak, ticklish man. Without warning or hesitation, I drove all ten fingers into his ribs. He immediately buckled, as pathetic men are apt to do, collapsing in a heap of ticklish flesh.
And I tickled.
I scrabbled my fingers up and down his rib cage, across his stomach, darting in and out of his pits, endless, endless torment, tickle, tickle, tickle. The pathetic bitch could do nothing to make it stop. He laughed, a high pitched, feminine thing that inspired equal parts disgust and arousal within me. I wanted to destroy him; I wanted to own him. I wanted to be with him forever; I wanted to make his life hell. I wanted him to be my husband; but I was making him my tickle boy. As he screeched and bucked, desperate but unable to protect himself from a tiny woman’s probing digits, I felt a sense of absolute righteousness in my actions. This man, who pretends to be my husband, deserves it. His ticklish flesh is an embarrassment to men everywhere, and embarrassment to me. How dare he marry me, knowing full well he can’t protect me? That he isn’t even a man, just a pathetic, ticklish boy? His pits begged for my fingers. I slipped them in, scratch-scratch-scratching ever so lightly, varying my rhythm from fast, to slow, to fast again. Joel screamed, his voice that of a little girl. Screamed, just from a little tickling, a man brought so low by something so weak. I was right to do this. Tickle. All those kids from college, they were right as well. Tickle, tickle. And most of all, Sam was right to torment him all those years. Tickle, tickle, tickle, I’ll never, ever stop. I had never been more sure of something in my life: My pathetic husband deserved to suffer.
He looked into my eyes as he laughed, looking for any shred of empathy. There was none to be found. All that was left was my lust to be satisfied. And there was only one way that could happen. I grabbed his socked foot in my hand, tracing my nails around its edge.
“I gave Sam our address, tickle boy.” I said, drunk on the power I had over the pathetic man I had married. “He should be here any minute.”
The look of horror in the tickle boy’s eyes nearly sent me over the edge again.
“Have you forgotten what his feet taste like, love? How his armpit hair felt against your face? How his fingers felt raping your weak body?” I demanded. “ Well, don’t worry.” I said.
“We’ll help you remember.”
As the doorbell range, I smiled. Our relationship was about to change permanently.
