Whatever Tickles Her Fancy

Maddy May and Coco Lovelock sprawl on the sofa with wine and half-finished manicures, trading rumors about coworkers and exes. Coco laughs along until the subject turns to sex; her smile falters and she hedges, suddenly close-mouthed. Maddy’s coaxing does the trick. Coco blurts it out—she’s starving for tickles, the slow, barely-there kind that crawl up the arches and linger behind the knees, and none of her lovers will oblige. Maddy raises an eyebrow, not disgusted, just puzzled, while Coco insists that the teasing can coil through the whole body until it peaks in sharp, helpless pleasure. The mechanics still don’t compute for Maddy, yet one truth lands: Coco is needy, and Maddy has hands. She asks Coco to stretch out on the bed and begins with long, oily strokes along her calves, working higher, fingertips turning each pass into feather-light scratches. Coco’s sighs tilt toward moans. Curiosity sparks. Maddy snatches a boar-bristle hairbrush from the nightstand and sweeps it up the glistening inside of Coco’s thigh; the soft bristles raise gooseflesh that prickles tighter around her nipples. A silk scarf follows, drawn inch by inch beneath Coco’s lifted arms. The fabric catches on damp skin, the edge whispering over ribs and down the hollow of her waist. Each new stroke leaves Coco panting and rocking. Something clicks behind Maddy’s eyes; this hunger, this exquisite helplessness, starts to feel hot in its own right, and she isn’t nearly finished testing it.