“So no tickling? Not even a little feather on the arch of your foot?” “I can’t stand it.” Shivering, I shake my head. His expression turns naughty. “What if the person doing the tickling promised to stop whenever you said?” The tilt of his lips, the shimmer in his eyes, makes me think we’re not talking about tickling anymore. Or maybe we are, but not in the childish, chase-you-around-the-playground way. “So I take it you enjoy tickling. Does that make you a sadist?” My voice is quiet, and I’m speaking like I have experience with such things. “Do I need a safe word when we’re together?” “Most
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