The Ticklish Bitch #11
(Posted on Saturday, June 19, 1999)
This story was submitted anonymously.

To read the 1st story in this series, click The Ticklish Bitch #1.

THESE STORIES ARE TRUE. THEY DON'T ALWAYS INVOLVE A BONDFIDE "BITCH" (WHATEVER THAT IS) THOUGH THEY MAY INVOLVE SOMEONE WHO'S BEEN BITCHY AT TIMES, SOMETIMES RIGHT BEFORE THE TICKLING.

There are a small handful of memories of my mom being tickled, the most memorable ones at the hands of some of my friends (The Ticklish Bitch #s 1, 3, 6, and 9). But this particular memory is probably the best of those situations - Mom in her bitchy moments, right before the tickling, and more tickling than usual.

It was a summer afternoon and a couple of my friends and I were enjoying our time off from school (we all went to different colleges but we all still lived at home at the time. We had bought some beers and were sitting on the stoop in the street drinking them and enjoying the day. Mom was getting home from work and when she saw me drinking the beers out on the street she got really upset.

First, I was of drinking age (21), but barely. But her issue was that she always hated alcohol and young guys who hung out on the street drinking. She scolded me a little in front of them and them stormed inside. I still hung out anyway, and about an hour later, we all dispersed. My friend Tom was also walking home from work (he wasn't part of the drinking crew).

Tom and I went over to my house, I was going to show him a new album that I had bought. Now, Tom was a year older than the rest of us, and looked a bit older, too. He had sort of a mature, confident aura about him, and always spoke to my mom as he was around her age.

I went inside with Tom, and Mom - who was laying on the couch in front of the TV at that point- continued her nagging and scolding. I wanted no part of it, so I left the room, and went and sat at the top of the stairs leading to my bedroom for awhile just so I wouldn't yell back and worsen things. Little did I know what was about to happen.

Mom remained stretched out on the couch - bitchy and pouty. She had already changed into her familiar after-work clothes, a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. Barefoot, too. Especially in the summer, when it was too hot to wear panty hose in the house. She lay there with her arms over her head, almost hugging the bottom of the pillow on which her head was resting.

Tom said, "Hey, does he have any of that beer left? I could use a drink."

Mom was not amused. "Hmmmph." She grunted.

Then he made his way toward the couch and sat on the armrest, only inches from her bare feet. He said, "Come on. I just think you wanted that beer for yourself."

This time, Mom was more adamant. "I really don't think that's funny. I don't like the way he hangs out like that, drinking beer like some bum on the streets."

Tom replied, "Oh, come on. You're not really THAT mad, are you? Come on. Smile."

Mom continued to stare with a stern look on her face. He then leaned over, about six inches from her face, and made a funny face. (I had peered over the stairwell and was looking into the room). Mom couldn't help it, she broke into a laugh. "Stop." She said.

"See, you're not really that mad." Tom said.

He leaned over again, and made another funny face. This one must have been even funnier because Mom burst into a loud giggle. "Come on, don't make me laugh." She said.

"Awww, why not?" said Tom.

With that last comment, he playfully pinned her hands (which were still resting over her head as she lay on the couch) where they were, and said, "Come on. You know you want to laugh."

He placed his hand on her tummy. Actually, it was a small part of her bare tummy because her position caused her t-shirt to be slightly pulled up, exposing her bare tummy. Using his fingers, he gave her tummy a little tickle, while he still held her tiny hands pinned with his other hand. Mom's voice squeaked up a couple of octaves. "EEEEEEEEEE! No! Don't do that! That tickles! Hee hee heeeeeeeeeee."

Tom was having a field day. "Are you ticklish, hmmmm?" He continued to tickle her. Mom continued to giggle for the next few seconds, until he stopped, but he had a look on his face like he wasn't done.

With a pouty face, Mom just said, "No, no, please don't tickle me." It was great!

Tom said. "Well, just for being in such a mean mood earlier, I think I have to cheer you up real good."

He grabbed hold of her calves with one hand, holding them in place, and raised his other hand to her bare soles, which were now practically in his lap. Mom just yelled out, "No!" By the time she could say any more, he had slowly started tickling her soles very deeply. For about a second, she didn't react. Then, a very deep, desperate laugh came out of her. "No! Pleeeeeeeease don't tickle my feet! Aaaaaahahahahahahahaha." Then she said, "Ok, ok, I won't be mad anymore. I'll be nice. Now stop it."

Tom was almost done. As his final act, he placed his hand on her outstretched knee. She didn't really resist, maybe for fear of worse consequences. He squeezed it and she let out a very cute, "Tee hee."

Even the ever-cocky Tom finally thought this last step was a bit too much. He got up and left, coming upstairs to join me.

Though it sounds like Mom may have enjoyed it a little more than she should have, it really wasn't that way at all. I'm sure she didn't give it a second thought two minutes later. But we did.