Happiness Is a Tickle Hole

The great Alison Tyler has asked the world to post happy erotica. I'm always happy to oblige AT; and if there's one thing I can oblige with, it's happy smut.

Here's an excerpt from "Another Hole Week," which was my contribution to Alison's Afternoon Delight collection. Happy reading!

Thursday

Why should I go to the trouble of tickling Lucille through the sweatband on her wrist, when the rest of her beautiful arm is entirely naked? Because I can’t resist a tickle hole, that’s why—and she knows it.

Oh, don’t worry: I also kiss up and down that sun-gold tennis skin; lick the shower-fresh underarm; and gently sample the parabola of her shoulder with my teeth. But it’s all to the tempo of that tickle-tickle-tickle on her wrist, where I stroke her like a whispering second hand.

This tickle hole frames her pulse, and the pulse, quickening, strokes me back. Can a finger have an orgasm? Mine could be the first.

Her arm swings with me, hedonistically, like a hammock that’s anchored to my pointer. Her cheeks flush, and she giggles languidly, in spurts, in a manner reminiscent of bubbles slowly birthing over ice cubes in a frosted glass. My mind is soon filled with a giant image of moist tennis panties.

Lucille never misses her game, and I know today will be no exception. I wish I could lie on the clay, squint up in the sunlight, and watch her juice baking dry under her skirt.

Tickle-tickle-tickle. Tickle-tickle-TOCK.

She’s saturated, for now. Satiated will come later.

In the midst of scrambling to gather her things, she tosses me an independent, pristine pair of white knickers from her dresser. She doesn’t have time to explain that she expects to find my come stains on them when she returns in two hours. I figure it out, though.