Sofas are great. They’re comfy, there’s room for a few people, you can plop them just about anywhere. Yup. Great pieces of furniture. I suppose the only argument made for their improvement is padding? Which might go a ways as to explain why, even when we’re on the same sofa, you seem to prefer LYING ON ME. Your back pressed into my torso. My knees curving somewhat less than perfectly against your calves. One arm under your head (Which lost feeling so long ago that I’ve forgotten I even have two arms) and one hugging round your stomach. You’re not technically lying on me, I suppose? Sort of leaning on me. But god damn it, I’m not a cushion. Still, you seem pretty cosy, so I’ll leave it.
Except now. You just made some snarky comments. Watching some insipid advert, I commented on who the presenter was and I thought he was from some show or other. You correct me. I don’t believe you. Phone comes out. Google’s at the ready. A search and a Wiki page later and I’m proven wrong. Damn it, Google, why you lying for? Man need help, wagwarning? (Mad respect if you know what that even means.) But now you’re on your high horse. Chatting about how I must be losing my memory in my old age. How the mind is the first thing to go. How you should be calling up local museums to see if they have space for me. You think you’re so funny. I mean, so do I, but for the purposes of revenge, I’ll pretend like it’s not fair.
“Oh, is that the case? Really? Uh-huh? Old, now? Museum, eh? Why you little… you know what, I think you you think you’re funny! Well, let’s see who’s laughing after this!”
And just like that, the arm around your stomach went from a comforting show of affection to a prison bar, trapping you in my grip. My other arm has sprung to life, willed on by revenge and hunger. Suddenly it’s fingers now deftly wiggle along your ribs, poking and massaging at each muscle. Your squirming won’t get you anywhere. You know you get weaker when you’re tickled past a certain point. The fingertips walk softly upwards now, into the hollow of you underarm. You feel them there, 2 fingers, stroking in tandem as if taking turns to tease you. It’s never-ending. Maddingly ticklish. I’m just enjoying the big grin on your face while I tickle-hug you ever tighter.
“Oh, you’re sooooo funny! What, are you ticklish here? You see, I forgot. Because I’m OLD. So I need to check! In fact, I can’t seem to remember anywhere you’re ticklish. Darn, gonna need to test. Tickle Monster is forgerful, but I’m eager to learn again!”
The hand resting on your stomach now becomes worse than a mere restrictive element. It too joins in, becoming an equal tormentor as the digits scribble randomly along your stomach. Every now and again they sweep along to your sides, where they squeeze and pinch to get a real jump out of you.
Eventually I loosen the grip around your waist, only so much as to allow you to roll onto your stomach with your squirming. There’s my chance. Arching a leg over, I scoop myself from under you and proceed to sit comfortably on your thighs. Just high enough to expose the backs of your knees, but just low enough so I can still reach the very tops of the back of your legs.
“Ah, much more comfortable. What’s that? Don’t what? Don’t tickle you? You’re sorry?! Sorry’s in the rear-view mirror, little girl. Now it’s time for some real tickling. Oh yeah, everything up ‘til now was an entree. Revenge is a dish best served… with ticklish sides!”
My fingers playfully tickle your sides now, as your fists ball and grab at the sofa, before pressing against my hands in an effort to stop them. All too in vain.
“Now my fingers are trapped, silly. Guess they’ll just have to tickle here forever…Ah well… A-tickle tickle tickle tickle!”
And that they just might. How quickly watching adverts can lead to much greater entertainment. Guess you should’ve been careful about what you said. Some jokes can get you in trouble…
theartofmadeline
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
stormborns
gamechangershow
vaporwave
