iHate Being Ticklish

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Nickelodeon. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.


Sam Puckett had been born too damned ticklish.

It had been very cute when she was still a baby, of course. A total stranger could simply run a gentle finger over the bare skin of her knee or shoulder, and she would crinkle up her green eyes in a toothless smile and emit shriek of laughter.

Such acute ticklishness in a three-year-old was adorable. In a seventeen-year-old, it borders on ridiculous.

Sam stands before a full length mirror in her room and survey's her reflection. She's stunning. She knows she's stunning. And she knows that nearly the entire male population of Roosevelt High thinks so as well.

'Pathetic, but funny,' she thinks as she took of her shirt, leaving her standing in plaid shorts and a pale green bra. She sighs.

She turns to the side, examining herself in profile. Her frame is not perfectly proportioned, though she knows that is to her advantage. Her build is short, but it offsets her pale, shapely legs, giving them the appearance of added length. Her chest is…perky, and is made noticeably more so by her unusually narrow ribcage and shoulders.

"I could handle that perkiness all the time," she says to herself with a wry grin, remembering the low whispers and overheard fragments of rumors that always eventually passed to her ears. Normally any girl would hate being sneered it out in a creepy way like this.

But Sam doesn't mind at all. If anything, she enjoys it, enjoys knowing that she is helplessly desirable, and enjoys the fact that she could, in all likelihood, have her way with anyone she chose.

Which is why she hates being a virgin.

Sam craves sex, craves the abstract palate of sensations she has conjured in her mind but has never actually experienced. Wonders if the shadowy mysteries of the night and unspoken secrets of the bedroom are anything like what she's read about in the magazines she's stolen from iCarly. Wonders what it would feel like to be subject to a man's caresses, licks, nibbles, and to be suddenly penetrated in a wild rush of indescribable pleasure.

Wonders what it would feel like to have a man touch her and to keep her absurd giggling to herself…not that she ever would be still it'd be nice.


Before she came to high school, Sam met Dustin, her first sexually active boyfriend. He was a nice guy hard to admit that she actually went out with the guy, and she doesn't remember much about him now, other than that he had a dimple in his left cheek. They used to hold hands as they walked around, and he would sometimes muster up the courage to kiss her innocently on the lips. Once or twice, he shyly held her face in his hands and slid his tongue against hers. She thought it was nice, though a bit strange. Being acutely sensitive to tactile sensations, Sam found herself contemplating the foreign wetness of another's tongue in her own mouth, and felt its multiple bumps and grooves. It wasn't an especially exciting thing, kissing Dustin, but she had found it to be very educational.

That was also the summer she had discovered Carly's "library." Carly said she had only been reading those magazines because she was interested in the fashion parts and made her swore not to tell Spencer. The Cosmopolitan magazine was one of the first things that Sam picked up, and seeing as once she did so, she began to read and did not stop, still really hard for her to believe, until she was through; it was the last thing she picked up as well.

Sam had at some point or other felt ticklish on nearly every part of he body, but as she continued to read the provocative words, the faint and almost imperceptible prickling between her thighs brought an entirely new rush of sensations. She had felt warm, and as she began to take more notice of the dull, hot pulse and faint wetness in her underwear she became confused, but she knew that she had to learn more about this.

At the end of August, she leaned into one of Dustin's inexpert kisses a bit more usual and guided one of his hands beneath the cotton fabric of her T-shirt. As soon as his index finger grazed the bare flesh of her back, she inadvertently let out a snort. Followed by a low giggle. Dustin hastily pulled his hand back; insulted that she would laugh at his feeble attempt toward physical contact. Sam's mouth gaped open, unsure of what to say.

Was she supposed to apologize for being overly ticklish?

Dustin left for California some days later to go to some academy, and the two never spoke again.


Determined to test the boundaries of her tactile sensitivity, she made a promise, and this would be the year to do it. She desperately, even obsessively, wanted to stimulate those sensations, and she wanted a boy to help her do it.

Still adjusting to her newfound resolutions, Sam was initially shy around those boys she deemed fit for her. She went on a blind date that Carly had fixed for her, and there may have been some mild kissing, but nothing so memorable.

But the reticence faded, and Sam quickly learned the tricks of the trade of flirtations. It also didn't hurt that over a span of about three months; Sam had felt her bra getting tighter by the month. By February, she had perfected the technique of just the right amount of cleavage to reveal the slightest hint of what lay beneath her V-neck shirt—just add a slow smile and flicker of her eyes to suggest a sweet, secret promise of things to come.

By April, Sam was already deep in her experimentation. She didn't have to work nearly as hard anymore to attract her lab rats; she was a piper, and they flocked to her in near desperation. Eventually she had learned to ignore the minor details of a kiss—like the weird pattern of taste buds or a single drop of spit in the corner of a mouth and she instead began to experience the bigger and better picture. Her lips and tongue became autonomous experts, absorbing the pure pleasure of their actions by sending her brain only the sensations of slick and soft.

More than once a boy tried to feel her up, and she usually allowed it. She would passively permit a hand to cup her or stroke her through her clothing, but once a finger would venture beneath the hem of her shorts, or the fabric of her shirt, and once that finger would make contact with her bare skin, she would start to giggle uncontrollably to the point where neither she nor the boy were enjoying themselves in the slightest and all she could thing about was getting that guy off her so she could shut up dammit. Generally speaking, the guy in question would be generously understanding about Sam's ticklishness—obviously, since her surprising outburst was then in no way his fault, and he would never tell because who would ever admit to not fuckingSam Puckett—but seeing as the circumstances were unavoidable, and seeing as said circumstances were less than pleasurable for both parties involved, Sam was not known for her lasting relationships.

Looking back, Sam thinks it probably would have been smarter for her seventeen-year-old self to just give up already, because the very body that craved erotic stimulation betrayed her every time she came nearer to having it. But maybe some indefinable impulse within that seventeen-year-old self was searching for something. Or searching for someone. Because maybe out there, there would be some guy who'd take her breath away so completely that she would have no air left in her for laughter.

And search she did.


Sam tears her eyes away from her pleasing reflection, picks her shirt up from the floor and puts it on quickly. As she finishes getting dressed, she contemplates her several years of experimentation. Now that she thinks about it, she is probably considered by many to be something of a bitch. Not that she minds. A small quirk graces her lips. Maybe she even enjoys it, this hypnotic power over men and this surge of superiority over women.

Not that it's done her all that much good. In her many unsuccessful attempts at physical satisfaction, Sam has learned that her tactile threshold is crossed with foreign contact anywhere above her knees and below the hollow of her throat. Lucky her, she can do anything with or have anything done to the lower half of her legs and the entire breadth of her arms, but there's a limit to how much fun she can get of that.

Yes, her situation is both really funny and tragic. Funny, because she is allowed an aura of experience and a reputation for seduction, while, in reality, she has earned neither.

Joke's on them.

Tragic, because she wants to have a man hot and throbbing inside of her, but she can't even bear to have someone touch her stomach, let alone a couple of inches lower.

Joke's on her.

She swings he bag over her shoulder and heads to school, where she knows her first class she'll be sitting next to Freddie Benson, Fredweird.

Freddie had begun to express an interest in Sam in freshman year. Or rather, he hadn't actually expressed anything verbally so much as visually. More than once, she had caught him staring at her chest or tracing the length of her legs.

Considering this was Freddie, she would have followed the usual course of action; chastise and further antagonize him about how he will never get a girl to love him…in other words she would lie.

Lie through her teeth.

Yes, she has to admit it but Freddie Benson had always been boyishly handsome, and yes, Freddie Benson's body appeared to be very nicely sculpted underneath his lone sleeve polo-shirts, and contrary to what she has always said that he would never find a girl to love him she's heard rumors to him having had actual experience.

But this was Fredweird. Nerdy, nubby, impossible, incorrigible Benson. She might have been desperate, but she does have some standards.

She finds her seat in Mrs. Parsons American History classroom and starts to straighten out her books, when she feels the familiar prickling feelings that she's being watched from the left. She smiles to herself as she casually lets her pen fall next to the desk. She flips her long wavy hair behind her back and leans forward, aware that the collar of her shirt is conveniently lower than it should be and that as she goes down lower, her shorts ride up ever so slightly.

She keeps her head bowed and her eyes low, and as she slowly raises herself up, she gently lefts her lashes to reveal her famously blue eyes. A wave of heat pulsates through her body as she realizes that she's just met the enraptured gaze of Freddie Benson.

Her instinct should be to growl and turn the other way. She would feign outrage or make a snap like "what are you looking at, nub?"

She should do what she usually does.

But she doesn't.

She can't, because Freddie's eyes are locked on hers and she can't possibly conceive of tearing them away. They're dark brown, and there's darkness and a hunger to them that brings a rush of heat between her legs and makes her cheeks burn. And at this moment, she knows without a doubt that if he would ask to have his way with her, she would topple into his arms without missing a beat and let him ravish her over and over, who cares if she's ticklish.

At the front of the classroom, Mrs. Parsons begins her lesson, and Sam knows that sometime soon she's going to have to tear her eyes away from Freddie's. He starts to turn to the front of the room, but then gives her one last, lingering, searing stare, laced through with a message that pierced her with desire.

I want you.


Sam isn't sure what's worse: having to deal with someone staring at you, or pathetically wanting someone to stare at you in the most obscene way possible every second of the day.

Definitely the latter, she concludes.

There use to be a game they played, she would constantly berate him to distress him about his love life and he would do the same to hers. She was the hunter, and he was her prey. But the game has changed.

Freddie plays by a new method. He never speaks to her, never acknowledges her presence.

Except when he does.

She'll be sitting in class, sleeping (or at least trying to) in the library, walking in the halls, and she'll feel his eyes burning into the back of her head. Those sultry, smoldering eyes that never blink and never waver. Those eyes that drive her insane.

Benson was the hunter now, but he took a different approach, he decided to wait.

And watch.

And tempt his prey to come closer.

And fucking hell, its working. Sam finds herself going out of her way to pass by Freddie's Wi-Fi hotspots in school. Carly has no idea what she does during lunch, Sam looks over at him with her most seductive expressions. She yearns to make him cast one of his looks, but she can never successfully will them to exist. They only come when she least expects them.

She knows she's becoming obsessive. Over Fredweird. Freddie and his fucking gorgeous eyes.

I want you, they say.

She lies awake in her futon at night with a reel of images flickering in her mind. Benson with his lips on her neck. Benson cupping her breast. Freddie running his hands all over her body as he licks between her legs.

No man has ever really touched her, yet when she runs her own hands over her most sensitive regions, it's really Fredward's fingers, Benson's lips, Freddie's tongue…

I want you.

She starts to watch him when she thinks he's not looking. Notices the way his right eyebrow darts up when he's concentrating. Notices that he always eats his vegetables first, figures he is a momma's boy after all, and then eats his meat, finally washes it down with a long swig of Peppy Cola. Notices that he prefers long-sleeved button-up shirts to short-sleeve polo's, green grapes to purple, and Chucks to Adidas.

She steadily memorizes his every facial expression, and learns the different tones of voice he uses with different people. She knows when he is being himself, and when he's not.

I want you.

It's been weeks and the only communication they have had has been through iCarly rehearsals, and discussing new ideas or segments. But they were never alone, Carly was always there.

Sam feels the friction augment the longer they are in a room with one another. She tries to stare him down, and he deliberately looks the other way. She knows he's aware of her presence, sees the way he tenses when she moves and the way his breath hitches ever so slightly when she speaks.

She cannot be touched, and so she fantasizes about the mysteries of sexual contact. She cannot have Fredward Benson, and so she fantasizes about sexual contact with him.

The new game is taunting, erotic, and unbearable.

And, she resolves, it has to stop.