Carol’s brain didn’t know what to respond to first. Was it the long, dainty female nails, scratching and caressing her all over her bare arms? Or was it the feathery, almost unbearable touch of an elderly woman, whose wrinkled fingers played around and danced under her armpits, as if they were young and zealous again? Or was it the undeniable feeling of ticklish panic, as several men restrained her dainty, ticklish feet, until they were so easily tickled, with no room for any movement or resistance? Or could it have been the feeling of several fingers and nails digging into her sides and poking her lats, hips and ticklish waistline?

​​Or was it the sound of her husband chuckling and the familiar feeling of his relentless, but arousing tickles? Or was it the sound of the guest’s laughter, of everybody enjoying themselves, as they tickled her, waiting in a long line to get their chance at making her laugh and squirm? Or was it the little tickle deep inside that kept reminding her how much she loved being tickled and how she was starting to feel the erotic rainstorm between her thighs?

There were just too many thoughts and sensations for her mind to grasp. She was at that moment in time, a true, shining example of a real ticklish woman, vibrant, with skin that was alive, so alive that it was forcing her to laugh with every single touch. She was having a battle with her very own ticklish flesh, and it was a battle that she knew she could never really win.

                                      Copyright 2012 Veronica Frances​​​​​​​

Tickling Really Is The Best Medicine