Ticklish
by
D_J
I am a minion of the ShiziCor - a non-corporeal species who preys on the ticklish.
The way I understand it, they feed on ticklish laughter... but they need a "surrogate" to perform the tickling for them. That's where I come in. Normally - if anything about this can be construed as normal - the surrogate ticklers are unaware of the ShiziCor's existence. Once in a while, though, they come across a human who has a "thing" for tickling other humans. An alliance is formed at the expense of some poor dude who is ticklish beyond description. Dudes.
Is this a gay thing? Not necessarily! I'm a straight dude who is seriously into power trips, and - like the ShiziCor - I find the best, most extreme responses come from other dudes. I'm ticklish as hell and know whereof I speak... heh, heh, heh!
My "career" in tickling started when I was a kid being babysat. I was brat, a terror, a little jerk! Unfortunately for me, I was also about an eleven on a scale of zero to ten for ticklishness.
My sitter was a fifteen-year-old dude who, like other fifteen-year-olds was chronically short of cash... Too young for a real job, in his view... stuck with shitty-paying gigs like mowing the lawn, cleaning out the garage, and babysitting younger jerks... He was also singularly unimpressed with how mouthy I was - but smart enough to know that beating the crap out of me would seriously cramp his ability to get other similar gigs where he could sit on his useless ass and boss little shits like me around.
My introduction to this unique form of discipline came when he just lost it, and latched onto me.
"You hurt me, and you won't get paid - you might even go to jail!!" I jeered.
He just smiled. "If I don't leave any marks... who's going to know?"
Without waiting for an answer, he knocked me down on the couch, forcing my left arm up and behind my head... leaving my left armpit exposed. Centering his body weight, over my chest, I was pinned - and a little breathless from his weight. That I was about to be tickled never even occurred to me.
He grinned evilly at me as he untucked my T-shirt, snaking his right hand underneath it. Resting his fingers in my pit, he enquired menacingly... "Any last words?"
The moment when the revelation hits you that you are about to be tickled, and no amount of squirming, begging or pleading is going to stop it - now that's terrifying. I mean, I was no stranger to being tickled... but no one outside my family had ever tickled me. I guess I thought that no one outside of my family would even think about tickling me, never mind actually doing it. The other damn thing about that moment in time when you realize what's going to happen to you is how ridiculously short that moment is, and how ridiculously long are the moments that follow... as endless waves of tickling seize your attention.
It's said that the moment right before your execution focuses the mind wonderfully. Well, I'll attest that the same can be said for tickling.
My sitter took a few seconds to appreciate my terror, as the realization hit me of what he was about to do. He was smiling quite broadly. And right after he started, he smiled even more broadly...
"Oooh, yeah, pay dirt - little buddy!!"
He explored my upper body, exultant in each new sweet spot - of which I had no lack.
It went on for an eternity.
I was still giggling minutes after he stopped, trying to suppress the echoes of his fevered work. In fact, I was oblivious that he had actually stopped, re-positioned himself astride my ankles, stripped away my socks, and placed his horrible fingers on my bare soles... Oblivious, that is, until he shouted "Ready!" - and resumed his frenetic work.
The next time he came over to watch me, I was careful not to be the least bit annoying. My good behaviour was not lost on him, and he commented on it, asking why I wasn't being the little shit that I normally was. Loath as I was to remind him of our previous encounter, I just shrugged.
Not to be put off, he immediately tackled me, freed me of my shoes and socks, and asked me again. He had scissored my ankles between his thighs, my up-turned soles awaiting their fate.
"Please, please... don't!" was the best I could manage. Perhaps if I didn't say it, that one dangerous word 'tickle'.. perhaps he wouldn't do it.
"If you don't want to be laughing until your parents pull into the driveway...," and he left the sentence unfinished. I knew what he meant, alright - and I couldn't keep from babbling my terror of being tickled again, especially on my feet... Well, especially anywhere on my body. I babbled about not wanting to "earn" his attention. I babbled what an incredibly good tickler he was. I babbled about what an incredibly ticklish little dude I was.
He smiled - and to my amazement, he took his fingers away - and released my ankles.
I wasted no time in snatching my feet away from his grasp, knowing even as I pulled back that I was still at his mercy, vulnerable to any sudden whim.
"Afraid?" he asked.
"Very!!" I answered immediately.
"Feeling... powerless?"
I hung my head in shame, nodding... until his hand closed around one of my ankles. "Yes, oh yes, yes," I blurted -
And he backed off again, letting me go.
"There is no greater rush... than having this kind of power over some poor dude who's too ticklish to tell," he instructed.
And so my education began - as did my lust for wreaking tickle insanity on other dudes. I kept my eyes averted, but found myself looking down at his socked feet... staring a bit too long.
"What are you thinking?" he asked.
I answered promptly, not daring to stall for time. And I told him the truth. "Wondering if your feet are ticklish - err, as ticklish as mine." I braced for his retaliation.
"Insanely ticklish!" he answered, calm as could be. "Anything else?"
Then I did hesitate. I was definitely not a glutton for punishment, but all of a sudden I was possessed with an outrageous urge to tickle him until he pissed himself, and then some. "Umm... can I... "
"Tell you what," he said. "The day I can't stop you - they're all yours!"
"Really?" I asked, dumbfounded.
"Sure. Think about it," he continued, "If I can't stop you..." And he left the thought hanging.
I got it.
Later, I learned that was the ShiziCor's way of introducing us. It had an enthusiastic convert in me from that day on.
Fast forward to adulthood...
Where I found myself in college, taking an EMT course, having been inspired by that 'Third Watch' TV series.
The class size wasn't large, and was mostly guys between, oh, eighteen and twenty-five. As with most classes, there was the star who stands head and shoulders above the rest in terms of marks - and, of course, another guy who was just getting by, barely keeping his grade average high enough to avoid expulsion. The rest of us were somewhere between those two.
Now the star is not necessarily the most popular guy - that honour fell to Marc, the one who was "marking time."
Tom was the standout. He was brilliant and really had a knack for that kind of work, although he was unusually reserved in his interactions with the rest of his classmates. To his consternation, Tom was not universally well liked. He was often the butt of practical jokes, which - to give him credit - he bore with equanimity. All in all, I found him likable enough, and went out of my way to befriend him.
There is a human tendency to gravitate toward those who like you... and so it was with Tom and myself, and we started hanging out together. I was from out of town and lived at the local YMCA, while Tom was still living at home with his parents. I was a frequent guest for dinner at Tom's place.
One Friday, Tom invited me to stay with him since his parents were out of town for two weeks. Gratefully, I accepted the chance to escape the 'Y', if only for a few nights. We caught a movie, hit a pub favoured by the college crowd, and finally made it home.
Tom showed me to his room, where he had inflated one of those guest mattresses for me to sleep on. When we turned in for the night, I observed that Tom slept with his socks on... and that was a sign. I fought to sound casual as I asked him about the socks.
He hesitated - too long, and that told me more than he knew! Tom sounded evasive when he finally said his feet were cold... I mean, the outside temperature was at least 80. But I let it drop, sensing his discomfiture. Biding my time.
We gabbed for awhile in the dark, he in his bed on the opposite side of the room, and me on the air bed. We ended up talking about our respective high schools. At one point he flicked his bedside lamp on, went to a bookcase, and fetched his yearbook to show me the girls that he had "made it" with. I got up and sat on the side of his bed while he flipped the pages...
He was two-thirds of the way through the book when a full-page picture of his laughing face looked out at me, with a big, black caption:
'T' IS FOR TOM
'T' IS ALSO FOR...
He made a guttural noise and snapped the yearbook shut. Before I knew it he was hurrying to put it back on the shelf, and getting out the edition from his junior year.
"Hey!" I said, "what's the deal... "
"Nothing!" he snapped, "There's nothing more to see in that one."
"Was that a picture of you?" I pressed innocently. But I knew what I saw. Hysterical laughter... "And what else does 'T' stand for?"
"Don't be inane... it's not... er... germane to what I'm showing you," he rhymed, unmistakably flustered.
I shrugged - and made a mental note of the place where he's put that intriguing book. Not pressing him further was the right move. When I showed just as much interest in the second yearbook and didn't even glance over at the first one, he was definitely relieved.
After a half-hour or so, we both yawned and eventually returned to our beds. I was still curious, about that photo. It wasn't like anything I'd seen in a yearbook before. Pleasant fantasies about unlikely sports and classes drifted through my head as I drifted off to sleep.
Suddenly, I was wide awake. Had someone... uh, shoved me?
Tom's sonorous snoring was genuine enough. I whispered his name, and then said it fairly loud. No response. He was deep in la-la land.
The yearbook!
This was my chance. The moon was almost full, coming through the window, and I had enough light to creep over, carefully. Reaching up - yes. That one. Got it! Suprised by the level of excitement I felt, I snuck out of the room. Sitting at the kitchen table, I opened the book to its middle, and began flipping pages...
There. His face was contorted with laughter, and his eyes were vacant. I knew that expression. He'd been laughing for a long time. My heart started pounding. He looked gone, in that picture - and that caption was teasing me. 'T' IS FOR TOM, 'T' IS ALSO FOR...
My mouth was dry as I turned the page, hoping -
"Wow!," I gasped out loud.
The next page had only four words on it:
'T'ICKLING
'T'OM'S
'T'ICKLISH
'T'OOTSIES
And the facing page exceeded my wildest hopes.
Tom was tied to a desk. It was one of those student desks with the seat built right in, and rope held him on it. He sat there, with his knees up and his bare feet hanging off the edge of the desk, hips flexed at the waist, knees almost up to his chest...
There was rope all over his legs. His arms were pinned too, and from the way it pulled behind him there was little doubt his hands were trapped.
If that wasn't amazing enough, there was a dude tickling one of his feet, and a good-looking girl busy on the other one. His feet, and their fingers, were blurred. Moving -
Tickling him. And they weren't alone, either. In the background, there were definitely others there. They'd tied him up -
Damn, damn, damn.
I flipped from that page to the tight shot of his laughing face. Back and forth, imagining what his laughter sounded like. Prolonged, forced laughter. Tied like that, he wouldn't have any chance of abbreviating the action...
Finally I turned the page again - and s-t-o-p-p-e-d b-r-e-a-t-h-i-n-g.
Feet.
Two pages with gigantic pictures of Tom's feet. Big toes tied together -
And his soles were covered with signatures. His ticklers had autographed their work. Fifteen or twenty first names or nicknames on each foot, mostly male.
Only one name appeared on both feet... preceded by "The" each time. It was really the big letter in the middle which confirmed it for me.
ShiziCor.
You're not really... surprised, now, a familiar voice jeered, inside my head. Are you, buddy?
I looked around the room automatically, though I already knew - yep, I was alone... and at the same time, not alone.
A tickly sensation raced across my soles for several seconds, causing me to flatten my bare feet against the hardwood flooring.
Yeah, right!! Like that's going to save you from me, heh, heh, heh!!, it chuckled cruelly.
"Fuck off!" I snapped. Then, lowering my voice, "I know you can't keep that up for very long, and you know I know it. Not without someone to act on your behalf."
That can be arranged... But the tickling sensations stopped. I waited for another taunt, but there was only silence.
I looked back down at the photos - my newest best friend's ink-covered soles. Questions, questions, questions...
Yes? the familiar voice prodded.
"We were destined to get together. Him and me. Just for this... this little hobby, this obsession. Right? This fixation of yours... and now mine?" I asked the empty room.
Well, not exactly..., and there was no mistaking how pleased it was. I had to... pull a few strings. You guys are so much fun. But yeah, I made it happen.
"No," I said. "I don't get it. Not even you - uh, he's two years older than me, from a different city... How could you know we'd both end up at the same college? Even taking the same course?"
You underestimate me. And it laughed. You're here, he's here. Just run with it, it said mysteriously, and the tone of voice I heard was definitely there to spur me on.
This wasn't the first time. It was good... I didn't call it a "he" because there was no way to tell if the ShiziCor even had a gender. It ate raw power - which usually meant it hunted dudes. I knew that all too well, from... ahhhh, how should I put it... a number of ticklish experiences, starting out with that babysitter, a good ten years ago. Since then I'd had more "adventures" than I could even count - thankfully, more and more as the tickler rather than the victim. Bird-dog for the ShiziCor, a well-trained pair of its hands...
It was a lopsided alliance. If it wanted me to get worked over, I didn't stand a chance - but I'd become more valuable as a "recruiter". Helping it catch extremely ticklish candidates kept me from being tickled. That certainly nurtured my own power trips - as well as the ShiziCor's insatiable appetite for the sound of tickled laughter (and the energy that kept coming, after a dude's voice was all laughed out).
Sometimes I felt a pang of guilt during the planning and implementation phases of these "Tickle Hunts," because I honestly liked these dudes that I befriended - or worse, who had befriended me. I felt like a traitor. But power is an incredible aphrodisiac, and once I got going - tickling the daylights out of these poor bastards - I lost all sense of moderation. Those misgivings never lasted long. Neither did any thoughts of sympathy, or pity. I'd suspected, for years, that they were being... suppressed.
Oh, I couldn't notice it, when it happened, but all compassion went out the window. My hunger for that power-rush expanded, every time, until there was no possible way I could refuse... And I had to tickle. There was nothing else. I had to map out their sweet spots, assess which technique and or tool was the most provocative. Their threats, curses, insults, pleading, bargaining all melded into a kind of "white noise" - and I was completely oblivious to it, except for when it changed enough to signal that one technique or another was more effective.
I snapped back to the present, examining the placement of ShiziCor's imprimatur... On the right foot it started in that shallow groove in the centre of his arch, that runs from the ball of the foot, almost to the heel. On the left foot, the "autograph" spanned the breadth of the foot, just beneath the toes. From past experience I suspected that the placement of these signatures was not random. Not at all. I thought of the "X" on a pirate's treasure map... where 'X' marks the spot. Buried treasure.
Turn the page, commanded the ShiziCor. I dutifully complied - discovering that Tom's ticklish torment was captured in a long photo essay!
I flipped forward several pages, finding that Tom had by far the largest "section" in this yearbook. Amazing...
There were individual photos of each student, as usual, and the sections for sports and clubs, performing arts - and yet Tom's ordeal filled several pages, compared to only a page or two for almost everything else. I saw pictures of students queued up, awaiting their chance at Tom's feet. A wider shot revealed that Tom was suffering in his school's auditorium - on stage! - with a very happy-looking audience looking on. My mind reeled...
How was this possible? Did the school's principal sanction this? I mean, this was definitely torture for him. It was unmistakable, in every view of his face.
Turn the page, already. Just turn the damn page, prompted my unseen "friend." So I did.
The next picture showed a banner unfurled over Tom's head. Five dollars for one minute, twenty dollars for five minutes - and fifty bucks bought three five-minute sessions and the privilege of signing their name on one of Tom's soles with a felt marker. All proceeds going the "Help Sherry Fund..."
A-ha. A picture of a smiling little girl was inset in the upper right corner. I skimmed a block of text below the main photo - Sherry was Tom's sister, who had been in a car crash.
Widened doors, wheelchair ramps, an elevator -
ShiziCor filled in the blanks...
Tom's sister had since fully recovered... but at the time she couldn't come home until the house was remodeled, and they'd already tried a couple of fund-raising drives. Despite people helping out as best they could, the events barely broke even. Tom was dejected.
His best bud tried to buck up his spirits, one day after school, and said there had to be a solution but they were probably too close to the problem to see it, staring them in the face. And Tom uttered that fateful phrase...
"Dammit - if I could just figure out a way... I'd be so tickled!"
Uh-huh.
His bud shouted, "That's IT!!"
"That's what?" Tom fired back.
His best bud didn't answer him - instead, he tackled Tom, and dug his wriggling fingers into Tom's armpits. He'd remembered just how insanely ticklish Tom was. Almost immediately, his victim was overwhelmed - completely helpless to fend off his friend's ticklish assault. Tom pleaded for mercy, as best he could...
But his friend taunted, "You know what you have to do." It was an old cue. That was hardly the first time he'd gone after Tom - and in the past he didn't stop until Tom raised his arms above his head, exposing his armpits in the process.
Tom's best bud - hell, let's call him "Bud" - stopped tickling immediately and stepped back, permitting Tom to get up. Bud suggested, with a pardonable smirk, that they could probably rake in the cash by charging people for the privilege of tickling the shit out of Tom.
The thought filled Tom with horror... and reflexively he punched Bud in the gut so hard that Bud hurled chunks, collapsing to the floor in a heap. Tom's next reaction was to bail, leaving Bud curled up in a foetal position in the school stairwell.
"Let me guess," I murmured to my erstwhile ally, "Bud was one of your minions? Another one?"
Daaaaaaah..., came back the sarcastic reply.
I sighed, and let the ShiziCor continue.
Tom got home, totally pissed off - and totally freaked. Pissed at his failure to raise the funds his little sister needed, and freaked that his damn tickle-aholic friend wanted to use his ticklishness like that, knowing it was the one thing Tom dreaded more than anything else!!
Yes, Bud was his best friend, despite this compunction for tickling Tom... and so they had worked out an informal treaty - no tickling in public, no making Tom barf or piss himself or shit himself, any impromptu tickling lasting more than a minute resulted in a one-week moratorium on any tickling whatsoever. Bud could negotiate for the right to tickle Tom by submitting himself, before and after, with no session to last longer than ten minutes...
Tom brooded in his bedroom, foregoing dinner. And finally, after his parents left for the hospital to visit Sherry, he phoned Bud.
"Still mad at me?" Bud asked meekly.
Tom cut right to the chase. "I love my sister, and I'm going to do whatever it takes to get her home..." He paused, and took a deep breath, before forging ahead. "So how could this... renting me out to be, uh... How would that work?"
The ShiziCor chuckled, and fell silent. The results of Bud's game plan were laid out before me, in the yearbook, for all to see.
"How did you get it in the damn yearbook?" I mumbled.
What? Oh. I get it. Too good to be true, huh? He was just mortified. Good ol' Tom... I kept working on Bud, though. More than enough people bought this special, "expanded" yearbook. As a separate fund-raiser, it worked out pretty well.
I sat there, looking at the biggest picture of Tom. All tied up - and something clicked for me. In class, when we had to practice immobilizing trauma victims, Tom was less than eager to be the "patient." He avoided it whenever he could. When any equipment restricted his movement too much, he'd go pale - hell, one of the other guys even joked about it. But now, that made sense - Tom would be completely helpless to stop any tomfoolery with his feet if he were snugly strapped to a backboard. Even when I was the mock patient the idea occurred to me - those straps didn't let me move at all.
Add a couple more around Tom's ankles, cinched to the handles. Whoa.
Now that was a nice image...
Prodded by my magical "accomplice" - no doubt - A nearly overpowering urge came over me to sneak back into Tom's room, gently untuck the covers which hid his feet, straddle them, peel off his socks and... well, you know the rest.
As exciting as that sounded, I wanted more. The backboard - there had to be a way to assuage his most primal fear, and dupe him into a situation that was compromising... and completely inescapable. And then, let the marathon begin.
A plan was beginning to take shape in my twisted mind. There was no way of knowing how much of it was being prompted by the ShiziCor, but it had gone to the trouble of putting Tom and me together. Something was in the works - an exceptional nightmare, this time.
I wanted many hours on Tom's feet. Solid restraints -
"Stop doing that," I finally said.
What?, it protested.
But its innocence was nothing more than a sham. Annoyed, I got up and went toward the back door, picked up my backpack and stuck Tom's yearbook into it. "Don't play dumb. These ideas, in my head... all part of your plan. Not mine -"
Does it matter?
"As a matter of fact, yeah. It matters to me. You're not the only one fixated on tickling, you know."
Ahhh. For you, though, it was a learned response. And it chuckled warmly.
"No thanks to you!" I harrumphed.
"Dude. Who are you talking to?"
Tom's voice. Shit!
I just about jumped out of my skin - and dropped my backpack.
As I started to turn around, the ShiziCor grabbed me, from inside. Like a giant hand clamping down on the panic...
When I faced Tom, there was a relaxed smile on my face. Sheepish, but I didn't feel any guilt at all. He stood on the stairs, eyeing me quizzically. "Um...," I said slowly, "I tend to talk to myself when, errrr, I get, nervous." And I looked down -
The backpack. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tom's yearbook sticking out. Obvious as hell -
"What are you nervous about?" Tom asked, not unkindly.
Help me, you fuck!, I thought at the ShiziCor -
"Well..." And suddenly, the words flowed easily out of my yap. "When I'm not in my own space, I have trouble sleeping. You know, every sound is unfamiliar, ominous, my imagination gets the better of me... so I had to come down and investigate. And I guess I was talking to myself, like I said, sort of encouraging myself. courage... sounds pretty lame, eh?" Just as suddenly as I'd started talking, I shut right up.
Shifting a little, I mad eye contact with him again. If he looked down -
Tom looked thoughtful for a moment. He opened his mouth to reply, and just then a mechanical whirring noise started up, from the direction of the basement.
"There it is again!" I blurted.
Tom rolled his eyes. "You got to chill, man. That's just the compressor of the freezer kicking in. You sound like you could use a jay. C'mon. It'll calm you right down."
"Yeah. Sounds like a plan!" I hurriedly agreed. He turned, heading back up the stairs - and I quickly bent down and shoved the yearbook down into my backpack, zipping it closed.
"whew!," I said earnestly, under my breath.
Amen to that, brother!, whispered the ShiziCor.
Back in his room, two and a half jays later, I wasn't the only one who'd mellowed out. As casually as I could, I steered the conversation...
"So, Tom, what's the deal? With the socks, that is?"
"Nothing," he responded calmly.
"No sandals, no flip-flops. Not even deck shoes... Always these thick socks, too. Double-knotted running shoes -"
"Hey. You got a fetish for bare feet?" he teased.
It was my turn to retreat. "No, no," I said simply.
Coward, sneered the ShiziCor.
"Fuck off!" I thought back to it. "You're wrecking my concentration -"
Oh, sure, it interrupted. Concentration, says the guy who has the attention span of a gnat!
Tom was staring at me. "Don't spook him," I thought, maybe reminding myself as much as the ShiziCor.
"I just, uh, noticed... because it's unusual, compared to the rest of us." I shrugged. "It just stood out. No big deal, or anything. You always have socks on. I pick up on things that are... well, different." That'll work, I thought to myself, plowing on with renewed confidence. "I try to be more aware now. Practicing. You know - observation, like they keep talking about in the classes. An EMT's gotta take it all in, even the little stuff!"
He had an expression on his face that was hard to read. Stoned, relaxed, he studied me - and finally, he lifted his leg and hooked his finger into the cuff of his sock. Peeling it off, Tom let it fall and took off his other sock... without once taking his eyes off my face.
All of my concentration went into keeping the excitement I felt from showing, on the outside.
Lazily, he stretched out again... setting his bare feet down on the bed again. And they looked so sensitive -
Photos from the yearbook flashed through my mind. Well-tied rope, trapping these feet. All the signatures. And here they were, those feet, not two meters away from me!
I wanted to leap across the room, but I fought the runaway impulse and just sat there on my air mattress, willing my face to stay impassive. Hell, I didn't even dare to move my tingling fingers.
"Satisfied?" Tom asked - trying to sound bored, but there was something else there too. "Perhaps some details... Each of my feet come equipped with five toes, and the feet are actually mirror images of each other. Although my left foot is a tad longer than my right, they both fit nicely into a nine-and-a-half Nike. You may have noticed how exceptionally wide they are, across the balls, and I've been told I have beautifully high arches..."
My mouth went totally dry.
"So, if there is nothing else..." and he reached for his socks.
I didn't want to see that happen. Having no idea what to say - and quickly evaporating control, too - I blurted," On a scale of zero to ten..." I made myself take a breath and let it back out. Easy, easy now. "How ticklish are they?"
His smirk disappeared, and he froze.
"You know. Where, I guess, a zero would mean not ticklish at all - and ten out of ten... Well, insanely, unspeakably, outrageously ticklish?" I said as casually as I could.
Tom's mouth was hanging open. I also noticed that he went slightly pinker. He wasn't angry, though - and I sensed victory. I still had to be careful, but he was too stunned to act nonchalant. Remembering, maybe, the complete vulnerability he'd felt before.
It was going to work. I wasn't sure what the plan was, exactly, but I felt like whooping.
He found his voice. "I - I..." and he stammered in the most classic, self-incriminating way. "I... I -"
"A-ha," I interrupted, with an innocent, carefree tone. "I get it. Don't try to tell me you're a zero, on the scale. Not now. Anything less than five, dude, and I just might have to ask for some proof!" With a big smile on my face, I acted as if I was going to come over to his bed - staying between it and the door, so his only way to escape was blocked.
Quickly, Tom sat up and pulled his legs back. He hurried to pull his socks on. "No. Don't...," and his voice was shaky. Wow. "I can't even think it about it, it's too awful."
I saw Tom shiver. Just remarkable. I'd never seen him like that.
His ticklishness had to be off the scale -
And clearly I'd pushed far enough. I sat down and quit grinning. "Sorry. Don't sweat it, man."
He watched me retreat and pulled the last sock on, heaving a sigh. Visibly relaxing.
"I didn't know," I said as compassionately as I could manage. "I'm insanely ticklish, myself. Really. I was just kidding around. Your secret's safe with me -"
Tom nodded quickly, and there was no mistaking the relief on his face. "Can we talk about something else?" he asked, with a hint of pleading in his voice.
He had to be a certifiable basket case - and I was more determined than ever to find out.
"Sure," I said immediately. "I'm kinda creeped out, myself. Maybe it's the weed," and I smiled.
"Yeah," he said quietly.
"We can talk about it later."
Tom flinched. Just a little reaction, but it was wonderful to see. Solid confirmation. "Much, much later!" he said, starting to grin. I pretended not to watch as he tucked his feet under the bed covers.
"Yeah," I said quietly. "Later."
In my head, the ShiziCor laughed. Sooner - rather than later! it jibed.
Tom and I talked for a while about school, and the girls in the class... but thanks to the ShiziCor, I couldn't get the image of Tom's bare feet out of my head.
Soon...
The next morning, Saturday, I was wide awake at nine.
I left Tom asleep and unmolested as I snuck out of his house. Wasting no time, I headed for the college print shop. A color photocopier gave me sharp, clear images of Tom's visit to tickle hell - one set for my personal edification, and another to help enlist the accomplices I'd need. Oh, I had a plan, alright. It was ambitious. The payoff was worth any amount of trouble.
Given time, it could be done. I could only see one chance for outright failure...
As quietly as I could, I let myself back into Tom's house. Up to his room - and there it was, the last major risk. I watched him for awhile, and decided he wasn't going to move his head and see me.
Wasting no more time, I crossed the room and put the yearbook where it belonged.
He was a goner...
Carefully, I stripped back down to my shorts and slid into the sleeping bag. Pretending to be asleep, I had a great time thinking of hysterical times ahead. Cuffs, definitely - and I mentally decided which tools I wanted to use where, letting the memory of those incredible yearbook photos suggest how much more unhinged Tom would be when I got busy.
Before eleven, he got up and yawned, kicking me a few times. He was in a good mood - no match for mine, of course! - and we traded jibes as we made breakfast. Neither of us spoke about his feet, or the subject of ticklishness...
Well, not for almost a week.
On to Part 2
24sep04