She liked to tickle me, because she knew how sensitive I was on my ribs and under my arms. Tickling was a game that made us relax and be intimate without crossing the barriers of the unacceptable. Did I want more? It's hard to say. All I knew was that I enjoyed her touch, her knowing fingers looking for the right spot, attacking me with no mercy. I loved her winning smile the most. She was gorgeous, with her long blonde hair and her shimmering blue eyes. She was a happy person, and her joy was contagious, the perfect remedy to bring me out of my morose nature and my periods of self-imposed isolation and loneliness. We completed each other. More than friends, more than sisters, we were soul mates. Soon we would become lovers, too.It happened when we were 15, and we were supposed to be in a party. My sister didn't want to go without me. She wanted to see Chad, her most horrible boyfriend who had hit her more than once, out of jealousy, out of drunkenness. I had argued with her so many. You know more by instinct than sight, that it must be a dress. As it is settled into position and the back is zipped closed, it imparts a further tightness about your whole body. You can feel the hem as it constrains your legs allowing only a few inches for your knees to move as you walk. The last thing that they do is to pull long gloves up your arms, the hands are close fitting with the glove extending to your elbow.The woman who had done your make up now attaches some weights to your ears and pronounces you done. In the corner of the room, the clock tells you that your time is nearly up, but your body has made that clear already. You must find a bathroom as soon as you can. As you turn to tell your tormentors of your need, you find yourself face to face with a stunning black woman of Amazon proportions. She is wearing a well fitted, hip hugging red dress with long gloves and very high heels that only accentuate her legs. Her face is stunning with perfect make up and color. As you.
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