#tickling prose

Affection. Intimacy. Playfulness. Trust.

Affection: It's so cute when you laugh. I love that you love this. I relish knowing that my desperation brings you joy. I love crumbling under ticklish kisses, squirming through tickly hugs.

Intimacy: I love how you know my body. You cultivate my sensitivity, finding spots I didn't even know were ticklish. I melt when you touch me there. You make me beg in the best ways.

Playfulness: Teasy texts. Verbal sparring. Saucy glances. Flashes of skin. Oh yeah? Make me! Rhetorical questions. Does it tickle? Running through hallways. Being tackled onto the bed. Laughing with abandon.

Feeling your way up a thigh and pressing into the terribly ticklish hollow just below the hip.

Massaging a pair of oily breasts and tickle-flicking the stiffening tips of the nipples with your index finger.

Grasping the back of a neck with a firm but gentle hand, then skittering your fingernails just beneath their hairline.

Fondling a perky pair of buns and wiggling your fingers along the underside of each cheek to make them quiver and jiggle in your palms.

Sliding your hand down his pants. Cradling his balls. Stroking a fingertip up and down the underside of his swelling shaft.

You’re a little masochistic, if you like being tickled. You like flirting with danger and courting chaos. You swim in honey, knowing full well you might drown. You willingly hand over the keys to the kingdom with your own wrists tightly cuffed.

You crave that tummy flipping, light-headed, weightless sensation, like when you go down a rollercoaster. When you’re strapped in (or in this case, strapped down) and completely at the mercy of gravity, inescapable and inevitable.

And all that power in a tickler’s hands, to what end? To make you laugh and beg and squeal and squirm? Such gentle destruction, such heart-melting, sugary torture!

Because that's what words are for. Inspired by this post.

He’d promised that when he got home from work today, he was going to give me a good, thorough tickling. 

Good, thorough ticklings require a couple of things: two willing participants and a healthy dose of teasing anticipation - the latter of which he was a master procurer. 

I sit shivering on my bed in just my underwear as I think about the things he’s been texting me throughout the day. Have you ever had your thighs squeezed until you couldn’t think straight?

Which spot should I inspect first: the sensitive hollows of your arms, or the shiveringly-delicate nape of your neck?

To this I sent my signature bleary-eyed, pleading emoji. 

Oh, don’t be like that. It’s only going to tickle. You like when it tickles, don’t you?

This last playful question makes my thighs clench. The elastic of my panties embraces my hips, bum, and soft thighs in a snug bear-hug. I’d chosen a pair just on the small side. My coarse little hairs peek out over the low waistband, and I can almost visualize my pearl swelling against the gusset of my panties. 

How humiliating, I think to myself, if when he comes through the door, he finds me sitting in a damp patch. A patch of his own making, brought about by nothing more than his words and the teasing anticipation of a thorough tickle. 

Sitting on the bed, shirtless and braless, I feel my body cooling with each passing minute. Goosebumps freckle their way across my chest and my nipples tighten in response to the low temperature. Despite this, my center stays molten, the heat fed by his every text, melting me to liquid as the minute finally arrives.

Swathed in plush duvet cover, my phone jingles to life next to me, its vibration swallowed by the surrounding fabric. The buzzing noise rushes straight to my heart… and to the simmering place between my thighs. A memory, which I keep tucked away for safekeeping on cool and lonely nights, suddenly flashes to the forefront of my mind. A memory, a teasing tableau, of a small, buzzing object held squarely against my clit by a firm hand - his hand - reaping my squirms and giggles with each ticklish reverberation.