Ok. So you lied. But to be fair, it wasn’t intentional. You’re reaching for one of the pouches on her right hip just like she asked when your fingers accidentally goose her side. She jumps, and all of a sudden there’s a tight little bottom pressing right up against you. It’s positively luscious, that posterior. Lush. Ous. Considering all the exercise she gets, it damn well ought to be. But that’s beside the point. The point is that there’s bumping and… and rubbing, and all other kinds of touching, and… and… well… yeah. You clear your throat. She coughs. It’s all very embarrassing for the both of you – more so for her than for you, but there’s plenty of chagrin to go around – and there’s a very long, awkward silence where the both of you come up with a billion things to say, reject them all and think up a billion more. Eventually, you realize that one of you’s got to break the ice, so you speak first: “So… um… how are you ticklish through that suit?”
William Shakespeare you are not.
“I… I’m not. You just surprised me.”
That catches your interest. It’s Standard Evasion Tactic #1. It’s the first thing they teach at Evasion Tactic School. When kids in grammar school get quizzed on evasion tactics? This is the first thing every five year old puts down. “So. You’re not ticklish.” You’re mighty proud of that deadpan. It’s classic action movie hero deadpan: all dark and flinty. Now all you need is twenty years of chain-smoking Marlboros and you might just pass for Clint Eastwood. “So if I were to do… this… that wouldn’t bother you?” You jab your fingers into her side, right into a tender spot between two ribs, and this time there’s no mistaking her reaction. You’ve heard pissed-off hens squawk with less consternation in their voices.
“Gah! Wh-what are you doing?!” She wriggles her hips – something you find very intriguing – and tries to shove you away, but you wrap an arm around her waist and keep her close, working your fingers past the padding and Kevlar built into her costume to get to the creamy center that is her tummy. It’s fit; it’s firm. It’s taut; it’s toned. It’s got just the slightest touch of baby fat on top of all the muscle, and it’s [b]ungodly[/b] sensitive. She yelps when your hand finds her belly button. Her voice hinges on panic as you mercilessly prod her stomach. Even through all the protection her outfit offers, the tickles are murder on her. Her brow furrows, she wants to scowl at you, but her face twists into a horrified smile instead as a little stream of giggles bubbles out from between her pursed lips. “Quit it! Quit it! (Snort!) N-no!” She sputters out, twisting and squirming, trying to fight you off, but without her hands, she’s helpless.
“I thought you said you weren’t ticklish.” There are deserts that aren’t as dry as the words coming out of your mouth.
“And I thought you said you weren’t going to fondle me!”
Touche, Ms. Brown. “I lied?” It feels good to be the smug one, for once.
“Ditto!” She snaps back. Your fingers find a particularly sensitive spot just south of her ribs. Her back arches, her head throwing itself back, exposing a long stretch of slender, delicate neck. Her hips wiggle side to side, then thrust firmly backwards, and you’re suddenly once again intensely aware that she’s pressed up tightly against you. You hit her with everything you’ve got, your fingers shooting up her sides to graze her underarms, then back down to her stomach, and her laughter comes in loud and full – at least until she runs out of breath. She slumps, her energy fading fast as she starts gasping desperately for air, and you’re there to catch her, keeping her from falling too far forward. She turns; her hair is sweaty and limp, but her glare is steady as ever and her nostrils flare with every breath – this is one angry little filly. “I was right…” she hisses with what little breath she has. “Crazy person.”
You smile sheepishly and back off, giving her a moment to catch her breath. Wouldn’t want to wear the poor dear out too soon. She gratefully accepts the reprieve. “Maybe a little. But you’re awful cute when you’re giggly. Kinda couldn’t help myself.”
“Oh, gee, that makes it all better.”
You put on your best “sympathy face” and nod. “Yeah, it’s kinda been a rough day for ya, hasn’t it? Bad guy gets away, Batarang blows up in your face. I mean, here you are, part of a multi-billion dollar crimefighting outfit. You guys have cars, planes, boats, secret lairs. And here you are getting stuck with the dud Batarangs. Sucks to be you.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. She stares at you as if to say, “Really? This is what pity sounds like coming out of you?” “Well, when you put it that way, I feel like I should just go tie myself to some subway tracks and wait for the 6:05 to Burnley to come in.”
“What, and miss out on all the fun we’re having?”
”Fun?!
“I’m having fun. You’re not having fun?” You poke your fingertips into her navel one more time and she yelps in protest. You snicker sympathetically. “Well, maybe that’s because we haven’t gotten to the best part yet.”
“Oh, criminy. And what’s that?” she asks with an exasperated sigh, blowing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes.
“You’re the one with all that fancy detective training,” you tease, “haven’t you figured it out yet?” She’s so exhausted that she doesn’t react much as you slide your hand down her side, and then down her thigh. Your fingers graze along her calf, and she finally makes the connection. Her muscles start to tense as she realizes just what it is you’re after, and she flinches, skittish as a newborn colt as she tries to pull away.
But it’s too late for that. Much, much too late. “No. No-no-no…” she whimpers, thrashing against your grip and against the glop still binding her wrists in place. None of it helps, of course, but it’s… alluring watching her fight. Or maybe that was all those late nights watching Skinemax talking. “Not fair. Not fair!” she whines.
Your fingers find the almost-invisible seam separating the top of her boot from the rest of her outfit and slip inside. She kicks, but you were expecting that, and hold on tight enough that even with the strength borne of desperation she can’t shake you loose. There’s that unmistakable sound of sliding fabric as the boot starts to come free, the sight of Nomex-clad leg giving way to black cotton wrapped snug around a bare ankle, and then, with a soft little *Pop!* her boot comes free in your hand.
“Ooops. Looks like you lost something.”
“Oh, hell.” Her voice is weary; resigned, and though you can see her toes wiggling underneath the sock, she puts up even less of a fight than the French did in June of 1940. “So… now what?”
“That’s a good question.” You flash her a wicked grin. It’s Grade-A, prime quality stuff. The kind of grin your mechanic gets on his face whenever you bring in your old Toyota Corolla and try to tell him all it needs is an oil change.
Poor Batgirl withers under that grin. “Oh, geez. I know that look.”
“Oh?”
She sighs – you can just hear the exhaustion in every note of it – and looks you right in the eye. “My toes are going in your mouth, aren’t they?”
Well, now there’s a thought.
She notices your eyes widen and recognizes the surprise on your face. She looks positively crestfallen. “Crap. I just gave you an idea, didn’t I?”
“Maybe.”
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