Do Friends Tickle? Part One — Jeremy Edwards

Marla had been making it fairly clear that, as far as she was concerned, we were just friends. She was always glad to hang out with me—dinner, movies, even chilling over drinks in her living room—but she wouldn’t so much as let me kiss her goodnight. I interpreted this as denoting an unambiguous line that she’d drawn.

It was essentially by accident that I found out she would let me tickle her.

It was a warm summer night, and Marla was wearing the sort of slinky, lightweight top that might or might not leave her midriff exposed, depending on exactly what position she was in. She had invited me in for a drink, and I was helping her out in the kitchen by uncorking the wine while she snagged a couple of goblets. “Oh, what the heck—let’s use the nice glasses,” she had said. The nice glasses were in the uppermost cupboard, and now Marla stood beside me on a step stool. Even so, she had to stretch to reach them.

“Don’t tickle me, now,” she said.

I didn’t know what it was about the way she made this remark that suggested it might be more an invitation than an admonition. Maybe it was the fact that she’d spoken with a hint of light laughter, as if someone were already tickling her—as if just the idea of being tickled was ticklish to her.

I only had an instant, and I didn’t waste it. My right hand went up to her midriff, while I spotted her with my left hand, to make sure she didn’t fall. I played my fingertips across her flesh as quickly as the flicker of a firefly. By the time her sexy, giggly shriek had subsided, my hands were already back on the wine bottle, as though they’d been there all along.

She didn’t comment on what I’d done. But, notably, she didn’t complain. She just climbed down and walked away, smiling, with the nice wine glasses in hand. And was it my imagination that her ass had a bit of additional verve to it as I watched her proceed through the archway into her living room?

I was aroused—and confused. Weren’t we just friends? Did friends tickle? I considered the issue. I knew that as a straight guy, I had no interest in tickling or being tickled by any of my male buddies. But what about women friends? I confirmed to myself that I probably wouldn’t care to tickle any woman that I didn’t also want to fuck—at least fuck in theory. I couldn’t imagine tickling my big sister, for example. Especially now that she was president of a small college.

But maybe in Marla’s book, friends could tickle. If that was the policy, then I would have to consider adapting to it.

Whatever the situation, I knew that I had to play it cool. A woman who won’t even let you hold her hand when the Hollywood lovers are kissing on the big screen is unlikely to respond well to being suddenly jumped on her couch and seasoned with an enthusiastic sprinkling of titillation—though this, at the moment, was precisely what I longed to do to her. Seeing how pert and elfin she looked in her tight slacks, her peekaboo-tummy top, and her mischievous smile, I couldn’t deny that I was dying to pounce.

The wine was worthy of the fine glassware, and I tried to focus on that for a while. Sitting politely next to each other on the couch, Marla and I sipped, talked, and laughed—but we laughed soberly, chuckling at wry observations and dry witticisms rather than going giddy with quasierotic giggles.

When I thought I’d bided my time long enough, I leaned toward her. “I’m sorry I did this before,” I said, punctuating the faux apology with a quick tickle to her middle, across the thin fabric of her top this time.

“Dave!” she exclaimed through the resulting laughter. Just my name, expressed in surprise. No sign of anger or even annoyance. No use of a word like stop or don’t. And I noticed she was still smiling when the tickle-induced laugh faded.

Do friends tickle? I asked myself again, thinking it too good to be true. But the next moment I learned that Marla, for one, tickled. She was, it seemed, even quicker than I was to send playful fingers at her target—the target, in this case, being under my left arm. I nearly spilled my wine.

Just a couple of reciprocal tickles, but they’d made me hornier than ever.

“Ha!” she said with triumphal delight. “I bet you’re ticklish all over, like me.”

Oh my god, I thought, “Like me.” Oh my god and—oh—my aching, throbbing dick. Was this just Marla’s idea of idle conversation, or had she revealed that with a purpose in mind?

At the risk of complicating a beautiful friendship, I followed up. “Well, anyone can sit there and claim to be ticklish all over.”

“Maybe they can,” laughed Marla. “But I happen to be the one sitting here at the moment.”

“So I see,” I answered. And my hand lunged for one of her bare feet, my forefinger kissing the sole with a swoop of light sensation.

Always careful not to overtickle, I retracted my hand even before she retracted her foot. I watched her face for a sign that this was erotic for her, and not simply playful. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were sparkling, but I honestly couldn’t tell whether we were crossing that line. In a sense, though, I didn’t care—I was unbelievably turned on by this, and if she was cool with it then I was going to enjoy it for all it was worth, regardless of what it did or didn’t signify.

I bent forward, and as I did so my tingling cock struggled against my jeans. “Let’s see,” I said. “All over, eh?”

This time her giggle anticipated my deed, and when I shot my hand up under her top she was already squirming. I touched the underside of her right breast for only a split second, but it was long enough for me to note how soft and warm it was. Then, before she could say anything, I gave her a bonus tickle—under her arm, right where she’d done it to me. Only she was smooth and exposed in the sleeveless top, and tickling her there felt almost like tickling her between the legs.

Now I brought my hands back to my lap—where my prick felt ready to burst—and I awaited her reaction.

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Watch for Part Two of this sexy tale to be posted one week from today.

Jeremy is a favorite author here on Every Night Erotica click here to read more from him.

Jeremy Edwards is the author of the erotocomedic novel Rock My Socks Off and the erotic story collection Spark My Moment (both published by Xcite Books). His libidinous short stories have been widely published online, as well as in over fifty anthologies, and his work was selected for The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, vols. 7, 8, and 9. Jeremy’s newest book is The Pleasure Dial: An Erotocomedic Novel of Old-Time Radio (OC Press, November 2011). His greatest goal in life is to be sexy and witty at the same moment—ideally in lighting that flatters his profile. Find Jeremy here: http://www.jeremyedwardserotica.com.