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Yolanda Laughs at Work

writetolaugh

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YOLANDA LAUGHS AT WORK

Yolanda entered Room 712 with her cart of cleaning supplies.
The 22-year-old college student didn’t mind this summer job cleaning rooms at this Poconos resort.
It wasn’t too hard, most of the guests weren’t too sloppy, and she’d gotten pretty good with a DustBuster.

The only thing that made her a little skittish sometimes were all the feather dusters on her cart. Her supervisor had a thing for any dust that she found on any surface in the rooms. So there were two large pink feather dusters and two small blues ones, not to mention two medium red ones attached to the cart by stretchable cords.

Just the sight of a feather duster made Yolanda’s rich brown flesh goose pimply sometimes. She was very ticklish all over, and the very thought of the dusters brushing her tummy (for, once she entered a room, she often doffed her work shirt and worked in her cooler halter top) or her feet (quite bare in flats, which she often kicked off ) did make her shiver.

She was glad that she routinely worked alone. The other maids had found out how ticklish she was, and teasingly poked and stroked and feathered her at every opportunity in the locker room. She tried to get to work early, and sometimes stayed later, to avoid being tickled by them.

Alone, she was safe. Alone, nothing could tickle her, certainly not even the terrible feather dusters.

She took off her shirt, kicked off her shoes, and went to work. She hummed as she replaced the towels and soap packets in the bathroom, and used the lemon-scented spray cleaner on the surfaces and the glass cleaner on the mirror. She smartly made the bed and emptied the waste baskets. She ran the mini-vac swiftly on the wall-to-wall carpet (except under the bed, which she did at most only every other day, figuring her supervisor wouldn‘t bag her nylons kneeling to check down there).

She did sigh, though, when she realized that today was her day to dust the picture frames and high shelves of knickknacks on the walls. She might have left it for another day, but her supervisor really did make surprise spot checks. She write her up, and fine her for the slightest imperfections.

So, she pulled out her small step ladder from under the cart and set it up before the large painting of a mill and stream set between shelves laden with fragile glass and porcelain bric-a-brac. She put her extra large work shirt (more comfortable with her ample breasts) back on, and buttoned only one middle button, so it hung loosely on her. She grabbed a large pink duster in one hand and a small blue one in the other. ‘Might as well dust two-handed, she thought.

She stepped onto the lowest and middle steps of the ladder, and began dusting the bottom of the frame with both dusters. She reached over and dusted the lower shelves on either side of the painting, careful not to knock over the fragile objects with the soft plumes.

Remembering, though, that her picky supervisor would lift each damn little ceramic dog and glass bird checking for dust underneath, she sighed and placed the pink duster on the top right shelf. She put both bare feet on the middle step and picked up each knickknack and dusted each with the little blue duster, stretching as far as she could, exposing her belly button above her baggy cargo pants, to reach the farthest ones. She did the same with the other lower shelf, onto which she rested the little feather duster when she was through.

She reached back to the cart and grabbed the other free pink and blue dusters, since they were fresh. To dust the top of the frame and the upper shelves, she had to place both of her bare feet onto the top step of the ladder, which was, truth to tell, a little precarious. She was sure, though, that she’d be done in a jiffy.

Nearly on tiptoe, she began to dust the top of the frame with both dusters. The picture must have been hung tentatively, because her dusting caused it to dip slightly to the right.

“Oh, great!” she muttered.

She lay the pink duster on the upper left shelf. She reached up to the left to tilt the painting back, but, being on her toes, slightly lost her balance and moved it too far, causing the frame to swing to the right and bump the feather duster resting on the lower shelf. The duster knocked some knickknacks to the floor.

Yolanda panicked and, still on tip toe, jerked to adjust the painting. Instead, she lifted it clear off its hanger.
Desperately trying to maintain her balance with the unwieldy painting, she managed to bump the shelves on both sides. She groaned as she heard some knickknacks fall onto the floor. Even worse, however, her struggles with the painting caused the two pink feather dusters on the top shelves to fall onto her. One landed feathers down on the back of her collar and began sliding inside her loose work shirt. The plumes tickled her back and she yelped and giggled. The other duster fell upon her front, with its handle lodging
in the belt of her pants so that its feathers teased her tummy and brushed her burgeoning breasts beneath the scanty halter top. “Oh, no! Hahaha!” she giggled.

Somehow, she managed to hang onto the painting and keep her footing on the ladder, but, with each compensating movement by her, the feather dusters tickled her front and back. Feathers tickled her spine and teased her tits and swirled into her navel and nudged her ribs. Determined through her laughter not to have the painting be ruined (God knows what she’d have to pay for that!), she tried to muscle it back onto its hook. This caused her to drop the blue duster she’d still been holding and caused the other one on the top shelf to fall--and both of these, too, landed on her!

She wished now that she’d taken the time that morning to put on some underwear.

Her baggy cargo pants, already slipping down her hips with her gyrations, sagged dangerously open front and back. One little duster landed on its handle on the front of her pants and began sliding inside. The other landed feather first on the back of her pants and --Copycat!--slipped down inside. To her dismay, she felt feathers tickling her shapely ass and, in front, between her legs. She tried to wiggle them loose, but only succeeded in settling the dusters into her pants and tickling herself more. Feathers brushed her cheeks and teased her crack and tickled her thighs and stroked her hips and pixilated her pussy.

Tickled top and bottom, Yolanda writhed with laughter. Somehow, after long, slow and agonizing minutes of feathery torment, she managed to find the strength and balance to lift the painting and set it right on its mooring. Once it was secure--or as secure as it was going to get, she tumbled off the ladder and, giggling haplessly, yanked out the malicious dusters from her clothing.

She looked around herself for the fallen knickknacks. She felt damn lucky the floor was carpeted. She gathered up the ones she saw, and was relieved that none were broken. That picky supervisor had once docked her a fortune for breaking one lousy little porcelain butterfly.

A few of them, though, had bounced under the double bed. She peered under and swore when she saw how far back they were. She could just leave them there, but she wouldn’t put it beyond the boss lady to have an inventory of the junk on display in each room. If she used a broom to whack them out, she was afraid she might damage them. Either way, Yolanda thought, she’d get docked.

Sighing, she knew that she’d have to crawl under the bed and retrieve them. Wary of spiders, she held her breath and slid under, barely able to get her full figure into the tight squeeze. She was able to reach most of them, but two were just beyond her outstretched fingers. She grunted and pulled her butt under the box spring. The two knickknacks were so far back that, when she finally grasped them, only her legs below the knees were not under the bed.

She grunted again and tried to slide out, but realized with horror that she couldn’t. She guessed that a belt loop of her pants was caught on a low hanging wire from the box spring.

She swore and shimmied to work herself loose. So spirited were her movements that her bare feet violently kicked the cart behind her. This was no concern to her until she heard some things drop off the cart, and suddenly realized, as she felt feathers brush her upturned bare soles, that the two corded feather dusters were dangling off the cart, and, as they swung back and forth, were hanging just low enough to terribly tickle her very ticklish feet.

Bursting into panicked laughter, she tried moving her feet away from the spinning and swaying dusters, but her snarled belt loop and the cart restricted her efforts. The feathers danced upon her soft pink soles, tickling and tickling. And just when they were slowly in their agonizing movements, she in her giggly frenzy would kick the cart again and set them moving and tickling her all over again. The tips of the feathers teased between her twitching toes, stroked her upper soles, teased her paler arches, and swept across her tender touchy heels.

Yolanda laughed and laughed. There seemed nothing she could do BUT laugh for a very, very long time, until…

She heard the door of the room open, and an astonished “What th-?”

She peered behind her. She saw a stocking foot in an open-toed, high-heeled shoe impatiently tapping. Oh, no! How embarrassing! It was her supervisor making a surprise inspection. She desperately tried talking through her ticklish giggles.

“Oh, please hahaha! Can you take hahaha the dusters hahhaha away from my poor feeheeheet? I’m so hahaha tihihicklish!”

The person said nothing, but did pull the dangling feather dusters away from her helpless, upturned soles.

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” Yolanda blurted, almost breathless. “I couldn’t have stood that awful tickling for another second! You don’t know how ticklish I am!”

“Uh-huh,” answered her boss. “And JUST how ticklish are you?”

Then Yolanda felt a feather duster stroke up and down, up and down her right sole. “Coochie coochie coo,” she heard a voice cruelly whisper.

“Ohhohonoooo! Hahaha! StopstopSTAHAHAP!”

And a second feather duster stroked up and down, up and down her left sole. “Tickletickletickle,” whispered her tormentor.

“Nohahahaha! Pleeheeheese! I‘m SOOOO ticklish! STAHAHAHP!”

And, as the dusters feathered her horribly ticklish feet, Yolanda laughed...and laughed…and laughed…
 
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