Upon reflection I realized I've actually been in a version of this situation: when someone wanted me to tell them something I really sincerely legitimately did not want to tell them and, unfortunately for me, the person in question knew how ticklish I was.
In one instance:
One of my girlfriends in college was Rachel, a cute, petite and brainy little thing with smart black-rimmed glasses, short shaggy brown hair and an open, adorable face that she never adorned with makeup. She also had these soft and nimble hands, nails closely trimmed, and pretty, slender but well-muscled arms accented with a soft golden fuzz.
Our relationship was measured in months, nothing more, for a variety of reasons, but mostly because she was always more religious than I was and as time went by we kept moving in those opposite, increasingly incompatible directions.
Rachel was also deathly, deathly, deathly ticklish--as ticklish as I was, in other words, or nearly. Which meant that we almost never tickled each other, beyond brief teasing grabs or pokes, just long enough to communicate affection and make the other person shriek.
But then it came to pass that a pair of mutual friends, who were dating each other, fell onto rocky times, relationship-wise. The girl was convinced that the guy was not to be trusted; the guy denied any wrongdoing. Rachel, being close to the girl, wanted to know the truth, and she figured I, being friends with the guy, knew something she didn't know.
Or so I found out one afternoon when I was lying on my stomach on Rachel's dorm bed as she gave me a backrub. She asked me whether Matt had cheated on Susan; I said I didn't know. We went back and forth in this manner for a little while, and then there was silence, as Rachel's big frontal lobe hatched a plan.
I felt her scooting down my back, over my butt, onto my legs toward my feet. "I need you to tell me," she said.
"I can't, I don't know anything," I protested. And that's when I felt Rachel pulling my socks off my pinned feet.
In retrospect, Rachel's thought process here was perfectly understandable, if not inevitable. She'd never engaged in tickle torture for fun, because for her being tickled wasn't fun and she empathized too much with the ticklee to do such a thing. But suddenly that same empathy was proving to be my downfall: because Rachel was so ticklish, she knew that SHE would never be able to withstand being tickled for very long, that SHE would spill the beans if confronted with just such a torture.
Kneeling on my calves, facing away from my bare feet, she said, "I need you to tell me, though."
I didn't say anything. And that's when she reached behind her with both arms and started spidering her soft fingertips up and down my helpless feet.
My reaction was instantaneous, and predictable--I tensed suddenly, every muscle convulsing in protest, my elbows jerking pointlessly to my stomach, and I started to laugh. And laugh. And laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
"Tell me, Wade," Rachel shouted over my hysterical squeals. "You have to tell me." And on my wriggling, flexing feet I felt her fingers crawling relentlessly from heel to toe and back again.
Most people don't tickle-torture you for very long; they establish their dominance over you, seal your humiliation, and move on. And someone who wasn't very ticklish herself probably would have given up on tickling me for information eventually, figuring that it wasn't going to work. But Rachel knew it was going to work. She knew it couldn't help but work. She knew what it felt like to be tickled, she knew how intolerable it was to be thrown into helpless laughter by the maddening sensation of fingers on one's soles, and so she knew however long I could take it, she only needed to go a little longer than that. And in the rare moments of silence when I gasped for a breath or careened into a spate of silent laughter, I thought I could hear her snickering... she was actually enjoying this, on top of everything else.
"Please," I shrieked, giggling and thrashing on her bed, begging absurdly at the wall. "Please please no more...!"
"Tell me and I'll stop," she said, her fingers continuing mercilessly to skid gently across my twitching feet.
By this point of course I wanted to tell her--needed to tell her, to make it stop--but was laughing too hard to articulate. "It was hahahaha. He he heeheehee. I'm telling ohnohohohoho! Please I'll eeheeheeheehee. He did do oh oh hahahahaha."
Eventually (finally!) Rachel paused in her torture and I blurted out everything I knew about Matt and the party where he'd gotten drunk and etc. etc. etc. "Thanks," Rachel said, and then tickled my feet for a few more seconds before letting me up.[/QUOTE?
Wow now that's intense 😱 lol! Any stories of rachel being tickled too by any chance hehe 😉? Seeing as it seems u had established a bit of a mutual agreement which she had just broken, did u get her back just as well 🙂 lol?
