I want to tickle you. So agonisingly slowly.
I want you to be able to feel the single fingertip in your underarm, stroking softly. Lightly. Around and around, barely making contact. Tickling and tickling.
I want you to have the time to think about it. To think about only it. To have a moment to try brace yourself for the next ticklish touch that follows the previous one, endlessly, only to fail to resist the urge to laugh because you underestimated just how ticklish you are.
I want you to think you can 'tough it out'. That I'll get bored and move on. Only to realise it's never going to end. Just tickling. Slowly tickling. Gently tickling. Over. And over. And over. And over.
I want you to beg for the real tickling to start when it becomes too much to bear.
Then, and only then, will you be broken.
The idea of someone trying to resist the laughter, hold back their squirming, keep up a tough defiant facade, but being betrayed by their body because they're visibly turned on? So hot.
Sure, you're trying your hardest not to smile and to look so stern but the curling toes, the hard nipples, the wet spots...