You tickle her

“Oh,” you respond, insincerely, “that must be painful.” She looks quizzical, and then you bring your hand up over her groin, letting your fingers dance delicately on her abdomen. She tenses, her expression growing more confused. You continue the dance, upping the pace until you see her begin to struggle to suppress…whatever the reaction to a tickle is. Laughter? Distraction? An inverted sort of pain?

“What are you doing?” It’s a yelp-like question, in tune with a physical reaction that sees her seize up sharply. “Stop that!” You have no intention of obeying. Instead, you draw yourself up and back from her, casting the covers fully aside. You offer a word of meek compliance and watch her un-tense, and then you swoop, attacking the soles of her feet with all eight fingers, crawling over her nerve endings like spiders; rapidly, her toes curl and her legs flail, spider-like themselves, as she begins to emit an agonised laugh from her frantically shaking head.

“Jules,” she pleads, forcing out words in bursts through gaps in her crazed amusement, “stop it. Seriously! You’re gonna…gonna…make me have,” she struggles, “an accident.”

“No, no,” you intone, “you’re a nineteen-year-old woman, you’re not seriously telling me I can tickle you into wetting yourself. I’m just…having a little fun. Watching you squirm.” At this stage those oh-so-sensitive feet have been spread apart in defence, her toes gripping the maybe-soon-to-be-urine-soaked sheets, and so you are diversifying your ****, trying the insides of her upper legs and surrounds of her belly button and her sides; you make a play for an armpit and then her neck but her reactions are – surprisingly – too good, locking one arm then bringing the other across to block.

“No,” she squeals. She pushes herself up, hard, almost kicking you as her desperation to escape becomes more violent, but you spot the gap in her defences this creates, and reach, this time successfully, under her shoulders. “No,” she shrieks, more fervently; she traps your hands reflexively with a drop of her elbows, but this only stems the flow from your fingers through her nervous system to ever more pained hysteria; so now she brings her knees into your chest, fighting you off, but this only succeeds in allowing one now-freed hand to return to her foot. Now her protests come, at the last ditch, in full automatic mode: “I’m begging you Jules, I’m fucking serious, I am about to burst. I’m about to burst,” she repeats, this time quiet and plaintive, as if in surrender, “just please let me go to the toilet.”

In the thrill of this particular chase you’ve barely paused to reflect, but this moment feels slow, and significant. Susie is about to relieve herself, right in front of you – on you, probably – and it’s a fantasy that has your dick as firm as you can remember. But even in your disbelieving, aroused anticipation, you recognise she will blame you for the shameful act she is involuntarily about to perform, with possibly permanent consequences for your relationship. Perhaps this was enough for now, and you can push things further later.