Tickling

I'm still laughing when the hands find me. The dark-haired one grabs my waist, the muscular one gets my knees, and suddenly I'm being pulled in three different directions at once. I lose my balance and tumble forward, caught by a wall of warm bodies. The pasties shift dangerously as I'm passed between them, fingers skittering along my ribs, my hips, the soft skin of my inner thighs. The tickling is relentless, and I can't breathe between giggles.

"Stop, stop, you're gonna make me pee," I wheeze, batting uselessly at the hands roaming my body. But I don't actually want them to stop. The alcohol and the heat and the sheer overwhelming attention have turned my brain to syrup, and every squeeze, every pinch, every wandering palm just makes me laugh harder.

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