Andre Gets Tickled on the Table

Andre’s sheer presence dwarfs the tickle table—his hulking frame stretched to the edges, size 20 feet dangling off the end like blunt weapons. You secure his wrists and ankles, the straps straining against his bulk, but his grin is all warmth. “Ready to scream, giant?” you tease, clicking on the first electric toothbrush. His laughter erupts before the bristles even graze his soles—a deep, rumbling thunder that shakes the room.

The moment the vibrating head kisses his arch, Andre’s back arches off the table, a guttural “AHHHH!” bouncing off the walls. His toes claw at the air, sweat beading on his brow as the toothbrush dances over calluses and tender ridges. Second brush joins the fray, and Andre’s laugh fractures into high-pitched shrieks, his voice cracking under the relentless assault. “P-please—mercy!” he gasps, but his hips buck, chasing the torment like a starved man.

The table trembles. You lean in, grinning. “Thought you were a gentle giant?”

His answer is a strangled wheeze, somewhere between a sob and a giggle, as the toothbrushes reduce the mighty Andre to a writhing, red-faced puddle. By the time you stop, his feet are slick with sweat, his protests feeble. “Back… anytime…” he wheezes, flopping like a landed fish.

You pat his damp cheek. “Next time, we upgrade to the jackhammer.”

Andre groans. The table survives. Barely.