Tickling as Training

I’ve always been ticklish. So much so that in the past it’s been a problem. The guy I dated my senior year of high-school disliked that I would burst out laughing at the faintest brush against my skin. His advances that he tried so hard to conceal would be announced to everyone nearby as his fingers made their way under my shirt to graze across my ribs. While I enjoyed the public displays of affection, the sensitivity to his touch was annoying, to say the least. It made it almost impossible to be nonchalant about his exploratory ways, something I enjoyed immensely. One day after a usual bought of laughter, and the risk of being caught, he told me there was something he wanted to try.

This was before I knew what submission and D/s was, but looking back, it was the beginning of my training. I’ve noticed many parts of my past have trained me for my current form of submission, like somehow the universe always knew what I was destined to be.  Apparently, I was the last to find out. Isn’t that always the way it goes?

He started with small advances.

Not enough for me to realise that he was training me but enough for me to see he had a goal. As goals go, it was a good one and did serve its purpose. I would like to believe that even if I had known he was training me, I would have played along anyway. His new quest was like a game, and games are usually fun.

It began in the basement of his parent’s home, where there was a billiards table. It was from an old pub, the green felt discolored from numerous spilled drinks and decades of lack of proper care. The pockets were a myriad of holes, duct tape holding them together. Parts of the bumpers were worn and the rubber padding beneath showed through. But we were from a small town and had nothing better to do than learn the ways of the cue and eight ball.

The table’s imperfections just perfected our game, at least that’s what we told ourselves.

Each day he would have me rack the balls in their triangle and after his break and call of stripes or solids, the fun would begin. Each shot I took; he would do his best to distract me. When I would squirm or miss my shot, his brusque, “again”, would fill my ears. Occasionally it was a poke in the ribs, something to make me jump. More often than not, a whisper in my ear, his gentle words like an ocean breeze across my face, my hair tickling the tops of my shoulders. Sometimes, it would be his hardening cock against my hip, causing my head to fill with delicious thoughts of what we could be doing instead. He was the master of distractions and had an array of weaponry at his disposal. Very imaginative he was.

As I would become accustomed to his ways, he’d change it up. His fingers sliding beneath my shirt to tweak a nipple already hardened from calluses sliding against my flesh. Or a hand teasing slowly up my thigh, settling at my center just as I pulled back the cue taking aim. As I got better at hiding my reactions, he got better at creating them. Each day was an adventure, exciting in the way a roller coaster ride is. Never knowing when the next bend will make your stomach drop, if the incline will be quick with a slow fall, or the opposite.

He kept me on my toes, and I loved him for it.

After many lost games and high-pitched squeals, his fingers performing delectable displays against my button, a nipple, or him standing behind me, his body aligned with mine, I finally got the hang of it. I became so good at, not ignoring but absorbing his tactics that I could clear the table, no matter where his fingers were, and he realised he could take his time doing indecent acts. Anywhere.

I finally became of legal age (18 in most places in Canada, 19 in others) and he asked me to wear a dress stating he wanted to take me out for dinner. Afterward, the plan was to meet some friends at a pub.

Our dinner started as all dinners do.

A waitress took our order, brought our drinks, and left us in peace until our food arrived. In the time in between, he moved his chair closer to mine, putting me within arm’s reach. Casually, while in mid-sentence, he reached his hand over and grasped my thigh. Tugging gently, he made me aware he wanted me to spread my legs. We were at a nice restaurant, with linen table cloths. I knew no one could see me and so, I did.

He began running his fingers up and down the inside of my thigh. That sensitive place where the smallest touch feels a thousand times more intense. Goosebumps formed on my arms and my small hairs stood on end, but I remained stoic and firmly in place. His fingers continued their exploration, up to the apex of my thighs, a simple touch, but nothing more, down to my knee and back again. While on the outside I appeared unaffected, internally I was a puddle waiting to pool. My panties were soaked. I could smell my arousal.

Judging by the glances of surrounding patrons, they could too.

I made it through dinner with no bursts of laughter or a single squirm and when we reached the car, he grabbed my chin between his thumb and forefinger and gently kissed my lips.

“What was that for?” I asked, embarrassed by his tenderness more than any of the plenitud of public displays in the past.

“You’re a marvel,” he replied and left it at that. We did meet our friends, and the night was great. After a few rounds of pool, he realised he had trained me too well, and could no longer get a reaction.

As relationships sometimes do, ours changed greatly. I’m not sure when the change started, but within a few months of that dinner, we broke up.

I hadn’t thought about those afternoons or what I consider now to be training until years later.

As I was older and more mature, tickling wasn’t something that was done.

Also, until then, I believed that I was no longer ticklish, or at least not as much, like perhaps that sensitivity too had matured. In reality, I had only learned to mask my face in those moments, nothing more.

If one can train you, another can too. Mister K uses a feather quite often in his erotic endeavors, and I’ve learned they can be wonderful tools. He says he likes the giggles and the full belly laugh that is released when his fingers dig into my ribs, or his thumbnail pulls against the sole of my foot.  He enjoys my laugh so much that he tickles me just because he can. I’ve learned that he can catch me off guard and still get a reaction, but if I know it’s coming, I can hold it back. While I don’t particularly like being tickled (who does, really?), I can control or let it loose as needed. It may not be a highly sought-after skill, but it has served me well.

Not only when being tickled.

I must say I enjoy Mister K’s desires more. He wants me to be me and enjoys my uninhibited reactions. While he has mentioned he’s astounded by my self-control and enjoys playing a game very similar to that of times gone past, I’m glad he still aims to get a candid response. Who wants to be pokerfaced all the time, submissive or not?

To see who else is tickled to be writing for #4thoughts_fiction, click on the badge.

For more about MrsK and her past, see Submissive Journal.