Tickle monster

April 21, 2009

Weird, but true fact about me: I used to be ticklish; now I’m not.

I was once super ticklish in all the usual places. Years ago, I got into a tickling fight with my then-boyfriend. He tickled me. I tickled him back. He tried tickling me again and…nothing. I stared up at him in triumph before I reached for his armpits. He laughed until he cried. Then he laughed until he started wheezing (he was slightly asthmatic).

Still don’t know how or why it happened, but I don’t regret it at all. I consider my condition to be a sort of immunity, an advantage.

One of my favorite things to do is straddle a boy, hold down his arms with my knees (if they are not already bound) and tickle him until he is hysterical and breathless and begging me to stop. I suppose it’s the feeling of power that I enjoy the most. I’m a small person and not particularly strong and tickling is one of the few things I can do to render a bigger, stronger person totally helpless.

I like the physical closeness too, and how fast I can switch between tickling and caressing, slapping, pinching or scratching. Tickling, like anything you do with your hands to another person, is intimate.

I’m kind of an aloof person in general, but I tend to get grabby with those I’m close to or like. I like having their bodies available to me. I like to man-handle (what a great phrase) my boys. It takes a fair measure of self-control to prevent myself from grabbing at them inappropriately in public.

And tickling is fun! Being tickled (from what I remember) is an incredibly intense sensation, so stimulating that it’s both pleasurable and unbearable at the same time. And I love dancing that line between enjoyment and distress, spinning a poor boy’s head until he is incoherent, a limp rag doll wracked with arousal, laughter, tears, pain.

Hm. Now I’m wondering what would happen if I tickled the boy the next time he climaxes?


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