J.D.

They may continue to laugh and shriek and beg. Their struggling may not waiver. Their pleas may grow more desperate. Yet there is something new. If they could form words in the moment they would come forth as, "Please keep touching me." As if fingers dragging down their sides or circling their hips is something they had never experienced before and yet it turns out to be frightfully addictive. Much to their surprise.

One foot. Five toes. Yet every toe has a tip, a pad, and a base. Three distinct, separate, and sensitive spots which, when handled correctly, cause an immediate cessation of rational thought in your mind. Fifteen separate opportunities to see you crumble. On one foot.

Moving down, the struggle grows. The ball of the foot. The arch. That little spot just above the heel. Every crease brings a different reaction. Every wrinkle has its own level of sensitivity. Just like geography, every region has it's own charms. And every region should be carefully explored and experienced.

I can not settle for a quick wiggle of the fingers against a ticklish foot. It is a disservice to the opportunity I have been given. All those spots must be explored. Slowly. From the tips of the toes, along every wrinkle, every crease, every curve, and through every scream I will chart this map and find out just what makes you, specifically, you, ticklish.

And then, when I am finally satisfied that I have the answers I seek and that calmness begins to return to your mind through heaving gasps and the pink hue brought on by all that endless attention begins to leave your cheeks, the lightest tug upon the sock covering your other foot brings it all crashing back.

I'm not sure why you expected anything less when it comes to being my passenger. I'm happy to do the driving as long as you sit there and accept the fact that my hand will be kneading, squeezing, and roaming all across those knees and legs until the trip is done.

Nighttime drives are perfect for this. A long stretch of deserted highway. Low lights. Not another car to be seen. Just you. And me. And those cute little sounds you make when I squeeze that spot again...and again...and again...

How much longer? Well, I never had a particular destination in mind. And with you squirming and squealing like that I'm not in any hurry.

A long weekend can seem like eternity when the wooden walls and falling snow muffle your screams better than any gag ever could. And scream you will. Seclusion like this has to be taken advantage of. It's not often the sun can both set and rise to the sounds of such beautiful desperation.

It's not elaborate, I know. Just...irresistible. Wrists tied over your head. A sleep mask covering your eyes. Exactly what am I supposed to do other than explore your underarms for, oh my, has it really been that long? You'd think I'd be tired, but...no.

It's amusing how the little variations make you react. Scribbling fingers...howling. Figure eights...giggles and struggling. Firm prodding...I don't even think there's a word for that kind of panic.

Don't worry. It won't be much longer. Just another hour or so. I can tell by the tears soaking the blindfold that we're about done here. Just relax. Say what crosses your mind when those little slivers of sanity come back between the desperation. I do love hearing what creative things you say when you try to bargain my fingers away from you.

Breakfast would be filled with desperate pleas as we stick to the basics. Socks removed. Arches traced. Toes scratched. Soles growing more and more pink by the hour. Not fancy, by any means, but those tears rolling down your cheeks show me the basics are still wildly effective.

For lunch, your hips. And belly. And bellybutton. That waistline...oh, that waistline. I'm always surprised just what a violent reaction a little nibble there can elicit from an unsuspecting body. And skittering fingernails across a belly is an art demanding the timing, planning, intent, and focus of Mozart. Luckily I've practiced for years.

Dinner. The neck. The shoulders. The ears. The underarms. The ribs. What a feast. This is territory for bare fingers to explore. No fancy tools. Just exploration, varying pressures, and enough eye contact to let you know I'm going to find every last nerve ending before you rest tonight.

Care for dessert?

Ever.

They are overlooked. Criminally overlooked. We get so caught up with the feet. The toes. The hips. The underarms. The bellies. The ribs. All legitimate. All capable of drawing shrieks and yelps from just about anyone. But...those ears.

You haven't seen panic in someone's eyes until they realize they can't move their head and feel the tip of a feather trace along their ear. Or, worse yet, the tip of a finger. Or a tongue.

The ears are not for teasing. The ears are to make someone crumble. To make someone beg. To demonstrate to them just how helpless, trapped, and alone they really are. The ears are for torture. For screaming. Unhinged laughter, begging, babbling, panicking, bargaining, and wailing. And nothing breaks a desperate soul like hearing demands whispered into the very ear that is betraying you.

Cheating ex? Remind them how well acquainted you are with their weaknesses.

Mouthy coworker? See how mouthy they can be when they can't keep your fingers out from their underarms.

Noisy neighbor? Give them a reason to be even louder.

Such a simple text. Harmless, generic words. But an absolute lie.

Unfortunately for you, that lie bought us hours together. If they only knew I typed that text with one hand while the other was digging in that space just below your toes. Or that your eyes were wide and wild, staring at the phone as if you could change those words with your mind. Or that you have been giggling, pleading, and howling for the past hour and now, with those simple words, hours more remain before us.

The world outside continues on. Blissfully unaware. Blissfully unconcerned. Without the slightest idea you could shriek this loud, laugh this hard, or say such crazed, desperate things in the vain hope my fingers would withdraw.

Eventually, your phone will buzz. And, as I raise it in my left hand and continue to squeeze your hips with my right, I will need more words. Simple. Generic. More lies. More lies for more time.

I say this so you'll be aware. And maybe a little more alert. Just how many times has someone watched you and wondered how loudly you'd scream with fingers wriggling in your underarms? How many times has someone thought of your hips as objects to squeeze just so they can hear you squeal? How many times has that unassuming person glanced to your feet and wondered what secrets you'd surrender if they held a feather in front of you and whispered the tiniest little threat?

I'm sure you were genuine when you asked why, but now that the screaming has started I don't think you're overly concerned with the reason anymore. So just lean back. Scream. Beg. Laugh.

That you I get to see when you realize I'm not going to stop. That you who bites their lip and tries to fight me off. That you who cusses and screams and threatens, convincingly sometimes, even as you begin to break down and squeal through that false confidence. The you who promises things, unspeakable things, in the hopes that I'll let the laughter stop.

That's the you I like to see. The teary eyes. The red cheeks. Those lips curled into a bright smile even if you'd give anything to drag my fingers away from your hips or your toes or your ribs because it almost feels like that very smile is destroying you from the inside out.

Taken.

It's hard to focus on such trivialities when you're fighting for the ability to think straight. To focus past the sensations. Those relentless, overwhelming sensations. Those sensations that scramble your thoughts to the point where you forget the laughter you're hearing, those screams, belong to you. And you think perhaps I just can't hear your begging over that loud, piercing string of scream-laughter. Surely I'd stop if I could hear you.

But you know it's for your own good. All that anxiety. All that worry. All that overthinking. Gone. Erased with a few strokes of my fingers, scratches of my fingernails, and squeezes of your hips and toes.

It must be that hint of false hope in your voice. Or perhaps that you think you're even the slightest bit in charge. Or that flash of panic on your face when I smirk and take a step forward. Very few words can make my mind up for me like those can.

"Don't you dare," you command again, although less sure this time. Do you expect those words to work? Do you expect me to stop in my tracks? Do you expect to keep your belly, your hips, and your feet covered and out of my grasp all because of a few words?

Say them again. And again. Say them desperately. Shriek them as your socks are slipped off. Shout them as your belly is bared. Belt them out as you're backed up against the wall. Say those words all you want.

I have been out of the game for far too long. Circumstances could be better, but...it's good to be back.