a series of tickle fiction by
chapter 10
GUARDED KNOWLEDGE
BRIAN
The swell of G Major. Harmonious. Light. Allegro.
Brian set the dinner plates--brought up from the convention center's kitchen--at opposite ends of the conference table, each containing a helping of grilled chicken, steamed rice, and assorted vegetables. He smiled as the music pitched. The sounds of Bach reminded him of his days in high school orchestra. Brandenburg Concerto.
His phone buzzed with a notification. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his dark slacks and withdrew it.
Andrew's on his way.
Another smile crossed Brian's face. Something flared in his chest. Something that he hadn't felt in a long time.
Hope.
He thought of the conversation he'd shared with Andrew downstairs earlier that day, where he'd compelled the young man to come clean about his rather unorthodox response to the infection screening. The tickling had excited Andrew. He'd admitted so.
Excited him.
Brian had much to discuss with him.
A few minutes later, three knocks came at the door. Brian turned, inspected himself in the wall-length mirror--he was now donning a blue, thermal-knit sweater, slacks, and reddish-brown Oxfords. He adjusted the frames on the bridge of his nose, then he made is way over to the door and opened it. "Mr. Adler," he said.
Indeed, Andrew was standing out in the hall, accompanied by a GUARD agent, whom Brian thanked for the escort. "Come in." He waved Andrew inside and his guest obliged. Andrew still looked hesitant, mistrusting. "I appreciate you taking me up on my invite," said Brian, closing the door.
"Sure," said Andrew softly.
"I hope you like chicken."
"Yeah."
"Good. Make yourself comfortable."
Andrew sat at one of the available place settings. He was still adorned in the clothes granted to him by the facility--gray, from head to toe. He placed his hands in his lap and kept his eyes intently on the food. Despite Brian's request, he was obviously far from comfortable.
Brian turned down the classical music streaming from the soundbar beneath the plasma screens on the adjacent wall. "You like Bach?" he asked.
"Um. I guess." Andrew shrugged.
"Ever play any instruments?" Brian took his seat across from Andrew, just as he had done in the conference room earlier that day.
"Piano, for a bit."
"The piano's lovely. I played violin. Started in seventh grade and--"
"Brian?" Andrew stopped him. His hand hovered over the fork next to his plate. "I'm sorry, but... what did you want to talk about?"
"Ah. Right." Brian brought his hands together. "No beating around the bush with you, huh?"
Andrew made a face that signified both amusement and anxiety.
Brian cleared his throat. He found himself nervous now. "So, tickling excites you, yes?"
Andrew reddened.
"It's okay," Brian assured. "Can you...tell me a little more?"
Andrew shook his head. "I, uh... What else is there to tell?"
Brian shrugged. "Anything you like. Do you enjoy it?"
Andrew picked up his fork and he tentatively poked at a piece of chicken on his plate. He was hesitant to reply. Finally, he said, "Why do you want to know so much?"
Brian sighed. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Maybe I'm going about this the wrong way," he said, which caused Andrew to look up at him. "This really should be a two-way street, yes?"
Andrew furrowed his brow. "What? What do you mean?"
"Would it help if I went first?"
Andrew shook his head, still not understanding.
Brian locked eyes with him and smiled. "Let me explain..."
20 years ago
November 1987
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
A ten-year-old Brian entered his father's bedroom. It was early; the apartment was still dark and quiet. From somewhere in the front room, he could hear the ticks of the grandfather clock.
Tick...
Tick...
Tick...
"Dad?" said Brian. "Dad, are you up?" He looked over at the alarm clock on his father's nightstand.
It was almost 6am. His dad had told Brian to wake him up at six.
Close enough, right?
His father was sprawled out on the small bed, one leg beneath the covers, the other wrapped around a pillow. He was on his side, snoring softly, mouth agape. Brian stared at his father's slim, hairy leg and followed it down to his large bare foot. Something excited and devilish stirred inside him.
The URGE.
The first time Brian had felt this...urge...was at the ripe young age of five. His father had always enjoyed putting on old films - a habit he'd picked up from his own mother. Breakfast at Tiffany's. An Affair to Remember. One, Two, Three. Guess Who's Coming to Dinner. And it was during one lazy Sunday afternoon, with the channel tuned to BBC Two, that little Brian sat himself down in front of the television during a rather notable scene from Up in the World, and his own world was changed forever.
On the television screen was Norman -- played by namesake English actor Norman Wisdom. Norman, in his early forties at the time of the film, was the window washer for a wealthy estate; the estate's pompous and wealthy heir, the young Sir Reginald, had devised a scheme to convince Norman to take him to London against the wishes of Reginald's overprotective mother. Trapping Norman in a window, Reginald proceeded to tickle the window washer's feet with a feather in an effort to get him to concede to take Reginald to London:
Norman's reaction... His defiance of his ticklishness. The way he quickly broke down in his laughter. The way his bare feet flexed and flailed under the assault of the feather...
Brian had grinned from ear to ear. It'd even pried an involuntary giggle out of him.
He wanted to see it again.
And again.
He'd even sheepishly asked his father at the time if there was any way to rewind the show, to which his father had said there wasn't, much to Brian's disappointment.
But for whatever reason, the scene had fascinated Brian. And he didn't know why.
A one-off, perhaps?
But only a few months later, it happened again. Another film. Another scene. And then again--this time, at the community pool where Brian was enrolled in swim lessons. One of the swim instructors in the neighboring lane--a handsome, college-aged jock-type--was sitting on the edge of the pool, his feet in the water. One of his young students came up and tickled his feet. He giggled, but left them there to be tickled some more. Stop that! Stop it! he said, between giggles, but he didn't remove himself from the situation. And when he said, Argh, that tickles? The words sent shivers down Brian's spine. Stirred up that strange, strange feeling again...
And now, as he stared at his father's foot hanging off the bed, those troublesome, troublemaking emotions surfaced.
"Dad?" He tiptoed toward the bed. But his father continued sleeping. Brian approached the edge of the bed and stared at the upturned sole for what seemed like forever. The sensations in his stomach grew more powerful, more...electric. He tried to suppress an excited laugh and, cautiously, he reached forward and started to lightly scribble his fingers around his father's arch.
Like fresh dough, the skin of the cream-colored sole was soft and impressionable. Brian's tiny fingers scampered up to the heel. The foot twitched, and his father's soft breathing hitched. Brian stopped and looked up at his father's face. Mouth still agape. Eyes still closed. Brian giggled and returned to his task, applying more pressure to the vulnerable foot, gliding his nails through the groove of the arch. The foot twitched again and the toes curled, but this time, he didn't stop.
Brian tickled and tickled and tickled...
Tick...
Tick...
Tick...
Tickle...
Tickle...
Tickle...
Brian was fascinated with the foot's response, watching in wonder as the sole wrinkled up and the toes flexed. After a moment, he looked up at his father's face again, and he was surprised to find that his father's mouth was now closed, jaw clenching, and his eyes, while also still closed, were more firmly shut.
"Dad?" he said.
No response.
Brian introduced his other hand to his father's foot, all ten fingers scribbling up and down and around now.
Brian's father snorted.
"Dad!" Brian laughed. He knew he was awake now. Feeling a challenge coming on, he grabbed his father's ankle, held the foot down, and tickled more forcefully now. This did the trick.
"O-ohkayhay! Ohkayhay!" A sleepy laugh emerged from his father's mouth as he pulled his foot away. "Y-you're relentless!"
"You said to get you up!"
"I know." His father smiled. "Rather creative alarm clock." He sat up, pulled the covers from him, and rubbed at the bottom of the foot that had just been attacked.
Brian grinned and jumped onto the bed. "You're ticklish," he said.
His father raised a brow. "Yeah, I guess so. But, here's the thing..." A mischievous glint sparked in his sleepy eyes. "Like father, like son." And suddenly, he pounced, grabbing his son, his large hands scribbling into his skinny torso.
Brian screamed with laughter.
PRESENT
november 2009
ANAHEIM, CALIFORNIA
Brian paused a moment, after recounting one of his earliest tickle-related memories. Andrew stared at him, an indiscernible look on his face.
"Wait," said Andrew, putting his fork down. "You're...?" His sentence faded out.
"Like you."
"Like...me." Andrew sounded skeptical.
"The scientific label is knismolagniac," Brian said with a smug grin.
"What?"
"People who have a...well, affinity for tickling."
Andrew's brow furrowed.
"I don't want to be so crass as to simply call it a fetish."
Now, Andrew reddened. Brian noted the body language. The inward curling, the desire to disappear.
"Am I incorrect?" Brian asked.
Andrew's blush intensified.
"Andrew." Brian sighed. "I told you. It's okay."
Andrew looked up at him. His expression was one of limbo. He looked frustrated, but there was something curious--grateful, even--in his eyes.
"When did you first know?" Brian asked.
Andrew cleared his throat and shrugged. "I don't...know."
"You don't remember?"
Andrew's mouth twisted in thought. "Um." He took another breath. "I mean, not exactly when, but..."
"One of your earliest pivotal memories. Something that stands out to you," encouraged Brian.
A beat passed. Like the tick-tock of a grandfather clock. Then, Andrew painted the scene--
It was a kids television show--one of those '90s teenage comedy dramas, probably on Nickelodeon or Disney Channel. A pack of high school bullies had captured the show's protagonist and tied him down with athletic tape to a bench in the locker rooms. The show's main character was a slim, outgoing, goofy guy with a classic class-clown personality. Sandy blond hair that fell just below his ears; a really envy-inducing smile...
The bullies were trying to persuade him to back out of going to the school dance with the most popular girl in school and, it being a kids show, apparently, they felt that tickle torture would be an appropriate means to do so. They'd removed the guy's sneakers and socks, revealing a pair of peach-colored feet, in low resolution, wriggling on the bench.
Then, of course, there were the feathers. Long. Colorful. Sliding up and down the guy's ticklish soles. The feet squirmed. The guy laughed and pleaded. Beautiful sounds.
And the flip inside was switched to ON.
--and even Brian found his excitement palpable. He thought of his own exposure to numerous tickle-related media over the years.
(Strange how a culture finds its way to us, worms its way into our brains, how certain things leave profound impacts...)
Heart pounding.
Face warm.
"I remember feeling so weird afterward. I wanted to watch it again. Waited to see if the episode would rerun," said Andrew. He was grinning.
"I, uh, know the feeling," said Brian.
Something hovered between them a moment. A fluttering energy. Bubbly inebriation. Brian smiled. Andrew's grin grew. A few chuckles flared and combusted between them.
"So, yeah." Andrew shrugged again. "That's, um-- I guess that was one of my first memories."
Brian nodded and watched Andrew take another bite of chicken. He chewed thoughtfully and before Brian could return to his seat, he asked another question: "So, that's all this is?"
"What?" said Brian.
"You just wanted to tell me that you like tickling too?"
"That isn't enough?" Brian had meant it in jest.
Andrew reddened again. "I mean, it's...always nice to meet someone who understands you. Especially...now. You know, with everything that's happened, I didn't think--"
"Precisely," said Brian. "More important now than ever to know you still have community."
Andrew leaned back. His body language seemed to relax. "Yeah."
Brian sat back down in his seat. He took a bite himself. The chicken was a little dry. After he swallowed, he took a sip from his glass and mulled over what to say next. "How did you...explore your fascination? With tickling?"
"Oh."
"You know, growing up?"
"Um." Andrew chewed on his lip. "I didn't. I mean, not at first." His voice trembled. "But, I guess, when opportunities presented themselves--you know, with friends or cousins--I guess, I'd get in a tickle or two."
"Makes sense." Brian offered a warm smile, despite his feeling that Andrew was holding back again. Brian knew it would take time--Andrew coming around--but he was also aware that time was something they didn't really have. He inhaled through his nose and out through his mouth. "Look," he said. "I did have another reason for asking you here. To talk."
Andrew didn't say anything in response, but he provided Brian his attention again. That curious glint had resurfaced in his eyes.
"And I need you to bear with me here, okay?"
Andrew nodded.
"I mean, I need you to stay calm."
"Okay..." Andrew started to look concerned. "What is it?"
"I told you, you're not in trouble. And nothing is going to happen to you, all right? I promise."
There came the faint scuff of chair legs on carpet. Andrew had instinctively scooted an inch or two towards the door.
Brian smirked. "You don't need to run, Andrew. I promise. You're okay."
"Just tell me what you need to tell me," said Andrew.
Brian hung his head. He drummed his fingertips on the table.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
"Okay," he said. "I meant what I said. About people like us needing to find community. I wanted to open up to you so that you'd hopefully feel safe. I'm here for you. You got that?"
Andrew crossed his arms. His worried expression remained.
"Secondly..." Brian was struggling to find the right words, which, in his case, rarely happened. "Well... I believe I've discovered something recently that might help us combat this outbreak."
There came the slightest shift behind Andrew's cold gaze. A dash of warmth.
"And I believe it might have something to do with people...like us."
"Like us?" Andrew muttered. "How? What do you mean?"
Brian suddenly felt his pulse drumming in his throat. The familiar, refreshing tingling in his left arm. Always started in the wrist and worked its way up. His next pause verged on the infinite. He exhaled, then said, "Let me show you." He undid the cuff of his shirt sleeve and pulled back the fabric revealing a network of white, skin-surface tendrils snaking away along his arm. He saw the horror wash over Andrew's face before he jumped to his feet and made for the door.
"Andrew." Brian calmly spoke after him. "I'm...not like the others. Because I'm like you."
Author's notes:
Revised from previous iterations of similar chapters, this new version of Pteronophobia's Chapter 10 explores the earliest memories surrounding the imprint event for what would eventually become a tickle kink in our main characters. I think many of us can relate. What was your earliest tickle memory? How early in life did you realize you enjoyed tickling more than most?
This chapter was first posted on a tickling-focused forum back on August 17, 2011 and has since been edited and revised multiple times.
Last updated: August 5, 2026.
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