It took Vivian about a year to teach me the ten places she likes to be tickled. I'm sure I could have learned them all in one session; but she enjoyed building gradually, by unveiling her special places one at a time, every so often.

"Now you know them all," she whispered one night, around the time of our first anniversary. She had, on this occasion, guided my hand to the nape of her neck, solicited about one second's worth of tickling from me, and then ended the exquisite moment with a lusciously-mouthed "Perfect. Stop now." As always, she had a precise self-awareness regarding how much was exactly enough.

When she told me I knew them all, I laughed. "Now that I know them all, what do I do?"

"Use them," she replied. And she proceeded to map out what she had in mind. I went hard just listening, and the rest of that evening went down in history.

Since that night, our foreplay has almost always consisted of a brief, ticklish tour of Vivian's body. A couple of minutes of such gentle stimulation, and she is wet and hungry, wiggling under me as if her flesh were still being titillated. It would never have occurred to me to inaugurate sex with a memorized tickle checklist, but now I can't imagine doing without it.

Though Vivian has specified the locations, the order in which my fingers visit her sweet spots is a decision that rests, as it were, in my hands. She loves the element of unpredictability, of not knowing whether the next instantaneous, whispering touch will appear behind her ear, two-thirds of the way down the crack of her ass, or at the geographic center of the sole of her right foot.

Each tickle lasts just long enough for her to gasp with surprise, giggle with joy, and involuntarily retract the relevant body part away from my finger—because an instant of it is all she needs. I wait a few seconds in the wake of each spasm before resurfacing elsewhere—at the lips of her cunt, perhaps, or the crook of her elbow.

By the time she has been fed her tickle-moments at six or seven locations, Vivian's giggles have become a constant, low idle of delight. She knows which places remain on the list, and she oozes nectar as the end of the previous tickle blends with anticipation of the next.

Deep in the furrow between those last two toes. Two inches from her alluring navel, in the direction of her left flank. A particular locus that is almost, but not quite, at the nadir of her underarm. Each touch is as soft as I can manage. And though each is almost over before it has begun, the effect on Vivian is momentous.

When we have counted ten tickles, she is spread like a quivering manifestation of erotic energy. She clutches my wrists, opening herself completely to me and inviting me to dance with her unfolded, sensitive body. My erection bobs to and fro like a promotional searchlight—which is appropriate since Vivian is, in effect, inviting me to a grand opening.

Last Thursday night I was plunged deep inside her, and we were squirming as one. Neither of us could have been more than a minute or two away from orgasm. Vivian had been primed with the usual assortment of tickles—or so I thought. Suddenly, she opened her eyes.

"I just realized you forgot one," she said softly.

"What?"

"You only tickled me nine places," she explained.

"Oh." I thought about this. "Are you going to tell me which one I missed, or do I have to guess?"

She smiled. "I'll give you a hint." And she slipped out from underneath me, flipped over on her belly, and directed my hand to a spot halfway down the back of her thigh, between ass and knee.

"Ahh," she informed me as I stimulated the designated area of flesh. "Now my life is—" she interrupted herself with a giggle— "complete."