By the time I entered high school, I'd developed an overpowering crush on my older cousin. Dark, brooding and immensely talented, he was everything I aspired to be. Viewed by our family as a rebel and an outcast, he had achieved almost legendary status after he won a Fulbright scholarship to Chamberlain University, taking up a major in Fine Art. By the end of his second year, he'd secured three additional grants, making him one of the best-funded students in the state.

As Karl's prestige grew in the digital media, I struggled up the academic ladder at Ridgewick High School, determined to score the highest grades possible and win a few awards of my own. My childhood had been spent in competition with my sisters, but now I had another goal to occupy my misdirected attentions. I planned to ride roughshod over every other candidate for the Fullbright and follow in my cousin's footsteps.

The thought of studying art at Chamberlain University horrified my folks in ways that no human language could possibly describe (OMG, why can't she study something useful, like hairdressing or podiatry?), but I'd set my heart on the idea and wouldn't be deterred.

At much the same time, their attitudes towards Karl had begun to soften, particularly since he'd been offered candidacy in the Master's Program, along with a part time lecturing position at The Chamberlain Center For The Arts. In the space of five short years, he'd gone from an unspeakable family secret to a recognized and respected figure within the local art scene.

Following a sell-out solo exhibition at The Pretentious Gallery, he was able to set himself up in a second-story apartment over his own private studio, proving once and for all that he was the creative prodigy he'd been claiming all along (as opposed to the shiftless, deadbeat manchild his own family had labeled him).

I guess that was why my parents finally allowed me to visit Karl up in Chamberlain. They still had some reservations about letting me spend an entire week with him – old reputations die hard, or so I'm told – but I was now in my senior year and needed to spend some time in the big city. I was almost eighteen and would be attending university the following March.

After all, they reasoned, what was the worst thing that could happen? They were cousins; life long friends, thick as thieves. He used to babysit the girls when he was a kid. Remember how much fun they used to have together? Yeah, they'll be fine, he'll take her out to the university, introduce her to all the staff, show her around the city. Then she'll have a head start for the new year.

Speaking for myself, I was far more interested in raves and nightclubs of the Westside, to say nothing of the malls and plazas I'd heard so much about. I'd spent virtually all of my life in Ridgewick, and while it wasn't exactly Hicksville, I was desperate to cast off the shackles of parental supervision. I viewed the upcoming excursion as an adventure of Homeric proportions, and as things turned out, I was completely right – though not quite in the way I expected.

What was the worst thing that could happen?

I would discover that very soon indeed.

The first day went extremely well. Karl picked me up at Grand Central and took me out for lunch at The Esplanade, remarking on how much I'd changed since our last reunion. We caught up on all the family gossip and exchanged the most outrageous lies about our various siblings.

We then took a leisurely stroll around the inner city with its arcades and cathedrals and vast, towering skyscrapers. Chamberlain came as a revelation to me, a shimmering vision of glass and steel and concrete, its streets clamoring with trams and buses and roaring subway lines. Hidden music wavered from every storefront and widow display, vying with curbside musicians and classical bandstand performers. Even the glaring traffic lights blared their warnings in coded electronic voices, cycling above the din and chaos of the early afternoon.

And the people! There seemed to be millions of them, sprinting from crosswalk to lamplight, subway to stairwell, pillar to post in a gushing stream of grappling knees and elbows. It was a meandering tide of humanity, streams of faces and rivers of flesh, crammed into asphalt causeways that could barely contain them. I stared in heartfelt wonder at this kaleidoscope of on-rushing bodies, astonished that so many could exist in so confined a space.

The most amazing part – for me at least – was that nobody in Chamberlain knew I was a tranzie – nobody apart from Karl, and he wasn't about to go crowing it from the rooftops. He understood how I felt: back in Ridgewick, I was embraced and accepted, even loved on my own terms in many respects…but I would never be viewed as normal. That was the nature of small-town society. Deep down in the ragged shreds of the human soul, beneath all the tolerance and civility, I would always be marked as One of Them. An outsider, an intruder, a stranger. A Not Quite Right.

Here in this sprawling metropolis, I could finally be the girl I'd always wanted to be. Not a spook, not a quiff, not a freak of nature. A girl.

I spent the night nestled between cool satin sheets in the spare room, drifting off to sleep with the ambient noise of the city lulling through the bedroom window. I thought fleetingly of my parents, my sisters, my friends. My sweet provincial existence at the edge of civilization. It was a good life, a wonderful life as Jimmy Stewart once said, but I was growing up, and there was so much more to experience in this world.

The following morning, Karl agreed to take me out to Chamberlain Mall – ostensibly to stock up on food and groceries, though he knew I was eager to go cruising the fashion salons out along Centennial Drive. There'd be literally nothing within my price range, but that made no difference whatsoever. Even a hicktown girl like me I knew that window shopping didn't cost a cent.

While we were getting ready, Karl entered the room, shrugging on his black leather Brando jacket, then glanced around the floor as if something had evaded his attention. After a few moments, he picked up my tote-bag and started sorting through it.

"May I help you?" I asked, knitting my brows in mock disapproval.

"Put on the girliest things you have in your suitcase," he replied, apropos of nothing, "something pink with puffy sleeves and lots of frills."

"You kidding?" I demanded indignantly.

"Nope. Half the stores out here offer discounts to kids under fifteen."

"I'm seventeen!" I protested crossly, assuming The Defiant Stance with my fists planted firmly on my hips. What did he think I was, an infant?

"Suit yourself," he shrugged indifferently, and turned towards the door, zipping up his jacket as if my needs were of no consequence. And like any other girl my age, I took great offense at such cavalier treatment –

Then immediately reconsidered.

Quite suddenly, I found myself estimating how much extra I could pack into my carry-all when I went home at the end of the week. Girls' clothes could look extremely mature depending on the label, and with my slight frame I could pass for a young teen on a good day (which this was clearly shaping up to be). Perhaps I had been a little too hasty...on this occasion, at least.

"Well," I sulked with all the feigned reluctance of a prom queen on her first date, "what do you think I should wear?

Nodding to himself in wry satisfaction, Karl picked up the bag and started scrabbling through it again. After a few moments, he pulled out a sheer, cotton sunfrock; one I'd squirreled away in the event of unseasonably warm weather. No ruffles, no flounces, no frills, but it was the perfect shade of pink for what we had in mind.

"This," he said, and handed it to me.

I must've tried on at least two dozen dresses as we made our way through the fashion district, and Karl had been completely right – there were plenty of sales and mid-season knock-downs in the specialty stores.

Karl played his part perfectly, assuming the role of the bored but indulgent elder sibling, sitting patiently through all of my impromptu catwalk parades. Some of the younger sales assistants were impressed by his casual charm and raffish good looks (causing me more than a few pangs of jealousy), though he did very little to actually encourage them.

After the first twenty minutes or so, I realized I had no reason to complain. As Karl had predicted, most of them took me for a twelve year-old and treated me with the kind of deference accorded to a Disney Princess. I was practically inundated with miniskirts, tanktops, stretch-jeans and stiletto heels (as I said, kids' fashions these day could be alarmingly mature), none of which I was capable of resisting.

By the end of the day, I must have maxed out at least three of my parents' credit cards. There would be a great deal of explaining to do when I got home, but I'd already decided to cross that particular bridge when I eventually came to it.

The last thing I bought was a pair of frilly pink girl-socks; the kind with a sheer, nylon instep and a delicate lace trim around the ankle. They were about the cutest little things I'd ever seen outside of Cosmo magazine, and they were a perfect match for my breezy cotton sundress.

"Let me pay for those," Karl remarked with an admiring glance, then beckoned the attendant over with a discrete wave of his hand. The vaguest hint of a smile crossed his lips, though I didn't notice it at the time. I was too busy liberating the socks from their garish plastic coverings. I wanted to try them on, right there in the store, and wear them all the way home.

I never inquired as to how much they cost, and Karlos never offered to tell me. I had, however, incurred a somewhat exorbitant debt for that morning's adventures – one which I would be extremely reluctant to pay. All the same, this was one loan I would be forced to compensate at triple the interest...probably more. Karl would see to that.

"Ready to go?" he asked, lips still curved in that faintly pernicious smile.

I wasn't ready to go anywhere, not by a country mile, but I couldn't afford to press my luck or my dwindling finances any further.

"Okay," I nodded, gathering up my rag-tag collection of designer labels, high-heel pumps and patented leather accessories. Karl leaned down to scoop up two armloads of gaudy, gift-wrapped trinket boxes, and we headed out towards the car park. The sales attendant saw us off as we left the building, though for some unknown reason, I suspected that her brilliant farewell smile wasn't really intended for me.

The moment we arrived home, Karl told me to leave the merchandise in the living room; we had the rest of the day before us and I could check it all out later on. At the time, I mused on how he had no understanding of how the feminine psyche worked, but with the benefit of hindsight, I realize he knew considerably more than I (and maybe any other woman) would ever have given him credit for.

To this day, I have no idea why I followed him into his bedroom like a deer into a hunting blind. He made no motion, gave no sign that my presence was required. He simply sauntered through the open doorway, slumping off his jacket and hanging it on the cedar wall rack, the way he'd done a zillion times before.

Maybe I was curious. I maybe I wanted to talk. Maybe I just wanted his attention. But when he turned around, I was already climbing onto his king-sized double bed, stretching myself comfortably out on the quilted satin. I wondered absently how many other girls had done the same over past couple of years, then imagined how I must have looked, a slender young girl in a flimsy pink dress, wide of eye and sleek of limb; a teen who could pass as a child with her thick blonde hair tied back in bright yellow ribbons. The sales attendant had thought I was twelve. How old did I look to –

Before I had time to pursue this chain of thought, Karl had seated himself beside me, carelessly rolling his sleeves up to the elbow.

"Lie back for a moment," he said, inclining his head in my direction, "stretch your feet out this way."

"Why?" I asked, following his instructions with barely a second thought.

"Because it's time for your tickling," he replied, as if the answer were blindingly obvious.

I blinked my eyes in a classic double take.

What?

At this point in my life, I naively thought that tickling was a thing of the distant past. I was seventeen, a woman in my own right; I couldn't be tickled like an errant six year old. The thought never even crossed my mind until Karl sat down next to me, effortlessly seizing my feet in preparation for the evening's festivities.

Then my eyes bulged in sudden comprehension.

"Wh – what? No! Karl, don't!" The last word disintegrated into an hysterical giggle, a long quavering note of a hopeless laughter. I drew my legs back in rising panic, but it was already too late: the decision had been made and my destiny was sealed. As previously mentioned, Karl was a virtuoso who could play my body like a violin. Once he had me in his grasp, no amount of squirming or struggling would avert my fate.

I'm going to be tickled!

The thought raced through my head like a clarion, flashing on and off in huge neon letters while Karl made himself comfortable on the bed. He moved with an insulting lack of haste, clasping my ankles together in one hand and grazing the soles of my feet with the barest touch of his fingertips.

And then it began.

Karl's touch was light, teasing, almost non-existent, but the effect was instantaneous. A bolt of electric fire seemed to shoot through my legs and thighs and belly, galvanizing my entire nervous system. I screamed in helpless outrage, whipping my head from side to side in a frenzy. There were few things I hated more than having my feet tickled against my will; it made me feel like a small, defenseless child.

No! Karl, stop it! Don't!

I started writhing in his adamantine grip, my tangled blonde hair flailing wildly about my face. I tried curling myself into a tight, impregnable ball, dragging myself to the top of the bed, anything to avoid this forthcoming humiliation. It was all a pointless charade, Karl was light years ahead of me. He'd had years to perfect his technique and was well-acquainted with my delaying tactics.

He started out tracing tiny little circles on my stockinged insteps, prompting ripples of laughter from my tightly strung diaphragm. There was a subtle art to tickling, a set of protocols to be followed without flaw or deviation. Karl had been looking forward to this moment for months – possibly years – and nothing could be left to chance. This would be an epic for the ages, an ordeal beyond human endurance, a marathon of Olympian standards.

Karl began dialing up the tension by slow degrees, allowing his fingers to play over my curling arches like a classical soloist. He was tuning me up like a Stradivarius, straining my pitch to the breaking point. Time appeared to dilate in ways unknown to modern physics: seconds passed like minutes, minutes like hours, trickling away to the infinite as the afternoon wore on. I lay trapped on the bed while Karl ravished my unprotected soles...

and there was literally nothing I could do to stop him.

Don't! Don't! I cried, Noooooo!! My face was red with reluctant pleasure, I could barely draw a breath between each keening wail. How long had I been lying here, weaving and sobbing and pleading for mercy? It seemed like forever, though I knew we'd only just begun.

Stop it! Please Karl, I've had enough, please, no more –

"Another five minutes," Karl replied magnanimously, a feudal lord exercising his Noblesse Oblige. Holding my feet in one firm hand, he slipped his fingers down the exact center of both soles. I howled in delicious agony, knowing it was going to last far longer than five minutes. He'd never let me off so lightly in the past, and he had no reason to begin now.

The torment spiraled on through the late afternoon, minute after torturous minute, as the shadows stretched across the floorboards and the sun dipped towards the horizon. The late autumn calm was shattered by my ear-splitting yells; I could well imagine pedestrians in the street outside craning their necks towards our upstairs window.

Stop it, oh please, stop, it tickles, it tickllleeees –

My cheeks were glistening with tears. I screamed at the top of my voice, shrieking in protest at this abject degradation. Karl must have been tickling me for nearly half an hour by now, stroking my feet with the ease of long practice. I pitched and yawed in that relentless grip, giggling and pleading for mercy as the endless torment continued.

No, No, Karl, please, stop!! Don't! I can't stand it –

"Yes you can," Karl replied amiably enough, running his fingertips along my slender insteps. I kicked and bucked on the bedspread, twisting from the hips in my frenzy to escape. All to no avail; Karl was utterly intractable, as he'd proven on numerous occasions in the past. I lapsed into another spasm of hopeless laughter.

Why was he doing this? I hadn't teased him, hadn't provoked him, hadn't misbehaved in any way! I didn't deserve this! I wasn't a little girl any more, I shouldn't be treated like one. This was worse, a thousand times worse than when I'd been a child.

Yet at the same time… it was also a thousand times better.

Tickling has always been a bit of a paradox for me. There's just something about that overwhelming sense of helplessness – of vulnerability – that sets my heart racing whenever I think about it. I suspect most young women feel the same way, even tranzies like myself. I'd fight and struggle and kick with all my strength, but no matter what I did, I simply couldn't escape. And eventually I'd just surrender myself to the inevitable and let his fingers have their way with me. Because that's what I wanted all along. I loved being helpless, loved being held down and tickled into complete submission.

And most of all, I loved him.

Karl abruptly transferred his zone of interest, applying his fingers to my underarms. Gaping with shock, I squirmed and bucked from stem to stern, desperate to evade those torturing digits. Karl nodded in open satisfaction, enjoying the texture of my soft, ivory flesh. Having concluded with the entrée, it was time to move on to the plat principal. This would be the equivalent of a three course banquet in which my tender young body would be served up as the main dish.

No, please, no more Karl, it's too much –

Tacitly ignoring my pleas, Karl shifted me carefully into place, spreading me out on the bedspread with my hands by my sides. Before I realized what was happening, he had mounted my supine form like a rodeo rider, straddling my waist and pinning both my arms between his thighs. I started shrieking at the top of my lungs, knowing I was utterly helpless and that he was sure to tickle me for a good fifteen minutes at the very least.

Almost inevitably, my dress rode up over my waist, showing off a smooth expanse of sleek, white belly. Never one to miss an opportunity, Karl seized the advantage by tickling my ribs and tummy and belly-button.

Noooo!! I shrieked as those long, probing fingers slipped over my smooth, virgin flesh: Karl no don't STOP IT I don't want to be tickled! All completely futile of course; Karl had me locked down tight, his fingers were primed and my fate was sealed.

It was all so unjust! Karl was a man: a big man in his mid-twenties, tall and athletic (and drop-dead gorgeous, let's not forget that). I was barely seventeen years old, little more than a girl; slim, petite and temptingly fragile. He was so much stronger than me; he could do as he pleased with complete impunity.

An expert in his chosen field, Karl was exceptionally thorough, visiting each of my most sensitive areas over and over until I couldn't stand another second – at which point, he subjected me to another twenty minutes of ruthless, irresistible tickling.

I'll never understand how I managed to survive that treadmill of horrors!

After what seemed like twelve billion eternities, Karl finally allowed me to take a breather. I lay gasping and panting on the satin bed cover, knowing that the reprieve was only temporary, that The Never Ending Tummy Tickle was merely the warm up for the main event. It always had been.

"All right," Karl remarked in casually offhand tones, "I'll let you decide for yourself this time. Where do you want to be tickled next?"

"I don't want to be tickled anywhere!"

Karl's fingers immediately found my ribcage, subjecting me to five endless minutes of wailing delight. I writhed and thrashed in his merciless grasp, pleading for mercy until my eyes overflowed with liquid mirth.

"Are we going to behave?" Karl asked in a husky whisper, looking down at me with that beautiful, rakish grin etched on his features.

I gasped in the affirmative, barely able to catch my breath. I would have agreed to anything by that point, my heart was racing with anticipation; I knew there was more to come, there had to be, but what did he have in mind?

"OK, then," he said, helping me sit up on the bedcover, "undo the back of your dress and take it off."

Noooooo, I moaned to myself, but I was already reaching back to unclasp the first button. Despite my overwhelming trepidation, I was tingling from crown to heel, knowing precisely what came next.

Karl was going tickle me in my underwear, just like he used to when I was just a little girl.

The memories came flooding back: the nibbled earlobes, the gobbled tummy-buttons and the delicious torture inflicted on my half-naked body night after night. Stripped all the way down to my panties like a mischievous six year-old, weeping wailing and begging for it to stop while my folks and my sisters and their closest friends looked on and cackled with raucous laughter. Promising, swearing on my grandma's soul that I was sorry: yes, really, TRULY sorry; I'll never do it again, I'll never do anything ever again, cross-my-heart-and-hope-to die. Screaming over and over that I'd had enough, that I couldn't take another second, that I was about to explode, all the while knowing that the tickling was going to wheel on and on throughout the evening and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it!

Once I'd loosened the back of my dress, Karl leaned forward, taking the hem in both hands, and slipped it up over my head in a single fluid movement. It peeled off like a glove turning inside-out, leaving me in nothing but my bra and panties. I crossed my hands over my cleavage, wild roses blazing on my cheeks. I didn't feel seventeen. I didn't even feel twelve. I felt like a very young child facing the longest tickling of her life.

And for all the dread, all the apprehension, all the lip-biting anxiety I felt at that moment…

I couldn't wait for it to begin.

Tossing the dress over his shoulder, Karl settled me back into the bed, making me lie full length with my arms by my side. I was literally quivering with suspense, knowing what I was in for. My feet were sensitive in the extreme, but my ribs were a hundred times worse. It's almost impossible to explain what I was feeling at that moment. My head was whirling with unwilling pleasure, the pulse was racing in my ears. Karl shifted me into position, ignoring my high-pitched, panting giggles: No, don't, please no, I'm terribly ticklish there, please don't -

Karlos wasn't listening. He was having far too much fun preparing for the afternoon's girl-tickling festivities. Smiling expectantly, he straddled my hips, locking my arms into place but leaving my smooth, naked tummy completely exposed. I began to flail about on the bed, howling like a banshee: in a few seconds, those lean, playful fingers would begin stroking my belly.

"NO!! STOP IT, DON'T TICKLE MEEEEEE!!"

"What are you screaming about?" Karl asked, "I haven't even touched you yet." His hands were poised directly over my torso, ready to descend. He was teasing me, stretching out the moment to unbearable lengths. I pounded my heels on the bedcover, whipped my head from side to side. It was so unfair! Karl was so much stronger than me, he could hold me down and tickle my tummy 'til I was blue in the face. Effortlessly. Worst of all, I would have to put up with it, no matter how long it took.

"All right, let's get started," Karl said. His hands darted towards my stomach, and my torture began anew.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!" I squealed, writhing convulsively in his grasp. I twisted back and forth between his thighs, frantically trying to evade his ruthless fingers. Resistance was futile, needless to say. Those implacable digits were everywhere at once, swarming over my ribs and waist and belly button. I clawed at the blanket, trying to free my arms, but Karl never gave me the chance. He clamped his knees into my sides with an almost casual ease, cutting off all avenue of escape.

"STOP IT!! KARL, DON'T, PLEASE, DOOOOOOON'T!!"

And on it went, seconds blurring into minutes; minutes blurring into infinity. I lost all track of time, conscious of nothing save the ripple of fingers over supple, ivory flesh. I was in purgatory. A sweet, delicious purgatory I secretly hoped would never end. I shrieked in wordless hysteria, my cheeks wet and streaming. One moment I felt his fingertips circling the soft bulge of my belly, the next caressing the tiny cup of my navel. His hands skittered over my ribcage like wicked little spiders, drawing wild screams from my diaphragm.

Have you ever been tickled so hard you'd sell your soul for even one second's relief? It was a humiliation beyond description. Some time later (I think maybe an hour, but I can't be certain), Karl allowed me to catch my breath, pausing long enough to tell me he was going to tickle my feet again. By this time I was too exhausted to object, other than to whisper hopeless entreaties under my breath: Oh no, not again, I can't stand it any more, you can't tickle my feet now, I've had enough ...

After a minute or so to get my strength back, he took hold of my small right foot. I immediately began to squirm in his grip, still gasping out pleas for clemency. I didn't want to be tickled, didn't want to submit myself to Karl's devilish attentions, but I had no choice in the matter. He was going to tickle my innocent young feet whether they liked it or not - frilly little girl-socks and all. Clenching my toes against the next onslaught, I closed my eyes and waited for the inevitable.

Karl gathered both my feet into his left hand and attacked the soles with renewed vigor. He focused on the tender curl of skin at the top of the arch (I call it my T-spot), driving me into a storm of ecstatic laughter. I was his prisoner, his plaything, his obedient little tickle-slave. I contorted like a human question-mark, rolling from one side of the bed to the other.

Unfortunately, there was no where to run, nowhere to hide. No retreat from my just deserts. Karl held my ankles in a grip of steel as his fingertips ravished my defenseless feet.

"NO!! NO!! DON'T!! KARL!! PLEASE!! DOOOOOOON'T!!!"

He tickled me for another hour. No breaks, no rests, no breathers. He tickled my arches, he tickled my soles. He tickled my toes. The spaces between my toes (OMG, how I screamed). My left foot, my right foot, the backs of my knees. I suffered indignity after indignity, sobbing with hapless mirth, begging him to stop over and over again. Sixty minutes of agonized delight, sixty minutes of wailing bliss. I melted in his hands, dissolved into a mass of pure, liquid joy.

Then suddenly, shockingly, it was over.

Karl snuggled me up in his arms, stroking my head and back and bottom. He rocked me back and forth on his shoulder, kissing my cheeks and nibbling on my earlobes to calm me down. We lay together, hugging and kissing like two kids at a slumber party. It was wonderful, the perfect ending to maybe the best afternoon of my life. I'd never realized that tickling could be so exciting, so thrilling, so literally breathtaking. Looking back, I suppose I had come to a cross-roads, a turning point. I never looked at my cousin in quite the same way again, but at the same time, I loved him more than ever.

A few hours later, we were camped out on the sofa, gobbling microwaved popcorn and watching a video (Sleepless in Philadelphia, or some other tear-jerking romance). I was curled up in Karl's lap in my pink satin babydoll, he was stroking my cheek and running his fingers through my hair. I felt happy, protected, completely and totally loved.

I asked him why he'd done it, why he'd decided to strip me to my underwear and tickle me for like a million years. Karl glanced down at me and smiled.

"I think it was the socks," he replied, slipping a finger into my belly-button to make me chuckle. And there it was: the socks had been the trigger. Lacy pink girlsocks with a frilly trim around the ankle. Those pretty little foot-laces had been too darned cute. The temptation had been overpowering, Karl simply had no other choice. He just HAD to tickle me. I had no reason to complain; I had reveled in the outcome, after all.

At the end of the day, I had received everything I'd ever wanted.