Hard Limits and Her Softness

I can’t stop laughing this morning remembering some unintentional kink negotiation Monday night with Max.

We were snuggling, there hadn’t been any wrestling or resistance so my guard was down. With no warning she pinned my arms up and TICKLED MY FUCKING ARMPITS WITH FERVOUR.

Now I’m a kinky fucker, but tickling is a very hard limit for me. I hated being tickled as a kid, it made me feel so powerless and claustrophobic. It’s something I don’t enjoy. It’s always been off limits. But here I was enjoying the fucking look on her face and not wanting to make a big fuss.

Being kinky is so complex. I was trying to swallow this overwhelming physical sensation while suddenly realizing that OF COURSE tickling is easier for her than hurting me, like wrestling it’s another safe way for her to play with the power dynamic I love. I whined and squirmed, she purred about how cute my pout was, the sadistic pleasure on her face made me so fucking wet in spite of my near-panic, I took slow breaths and asked myself how much of this I could handle, tried to make myself hold off a little longer before clawing and biting and tapping out.

It was exhilarating, my heart was racing and I felt upset, in the same way I do when somebody hits me, that complicated feeling where your cheeks are hot and you’re fussy and frustrated but not quite finished with the fight. “Aww, I love you, come ‘ere,” she kissed my flustered face and held me tight.

“I don’t like being tickled,” I huffed, kind of little and pouty. She was on top of me still, studying my face for a moment, assessing me.

“Yeah, but I think you kind of do,” she said quietly, careful of my reaction. I tried not to smirk, the air felt heavy as I willed the corners of my mouth not to twitch and give me away, she held my gaze. She was figuring it out. I protested, averting my eyes, assuring her she was wrong.

“I don’t know, it feels like you like it,” she examined my face like she could read me, like she’d cracked the code. This is what I want but it’s overwhelming, “Alright, enough of this,” I gesture at her face and squirm out from under her, putting and end to the conversation and distracting her with my mouth.

Later on she brings it up again. I tell her how tickling makes me feel out of control, how I might get upset for real, or cry. She holds me, is thoughtful for a moment, then says “I see. So we’ll just do it for short bursts. And I’ll coddle you afterwards and remind you how much I love you.” She kisses my forehead and I giggle “Yeah, that’s called aftercare. Congrats, you’re a natural.” She tells me how much she likes my face when I’m flustered, how cute it is, how much she wants to make me make that face. I understand. I laugh at the audacity of playing with my hardest limit with my “non-kinky” girlfriend. She shows me the scratches on her fingers from my nails when I was fighting back against her tickles. I love it. I tell her she deserved it, she pins me down again.