It rippled over the mirrored flame and I looked up to see him stepping toward me. “Stop!” Adrenaline shot through my veins. Snapping my arms down, I uncurled my fists. Rubbed my thumbs to my index fingers and ignited the ball of flames that had long been my protection. “Don’t fucking come any closer.” “You’re scared. Don’t be. Take the book.” “No. Get back. In fact,” I raised my fiery palms, “ get the fuck out of my dream and my apartment. Whatever you are.” His lips pursed, the muscles in his jaw flexing. Dropping his arm, he let the book flutter to the ground, where it landed face down. A cry wrenched my sternum, the heat in my palms cooling as I watched water seep over its cover. The criminal stepped forward, arms outstretched. “No!” The flames burst higher from my hands and I grabbed his smooth forearm. Burned my hand into his skin until I smelled smoke. “Get out.” Unflinching, he moved closer, shadows dodging the flicker of flame to dance over his face. His hands found my. We gave Diane another break, but only long enough for me to wrap a length of black cloth around her eyes, plunging her into darkness, and leaving her helpless to experience any sensory input except what we chose to give her. Throughout our session, she had begged and pleaded for us to stop, as much as she could, between her sudden fits of forced laughter. Now her power of speech had deteriorated into mindless babble. I wondered how much tickling a woman could take before losing her mind completely, and if that did happen, would her sanity would ever return again. Well . . . the three of us had all evening to find out. After giving Diane's upper body the full treatment, Elise put her feathers away and pulled out two fude brushes made of soft horse hair. I decided to join her. While I used my brushes to tickle the girl's feet again, my wife gave her armpits another long dose of tickling. First she drew imaginary circles around them, then dipped her brushes into both ticklish hollows..
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