Tokyo_Tickler
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The following incident occurred around five years ago, while I was living in Kobe, Japan. It involved an older Japanese woman named Yoshiko, whom I had first met a couple of years before, when she was the girlfriend of an Australian colleague of mine, named Markus. At that time, I was in my early thirties, while Markus was a few years older, and although not close, we were friends (despite our frequent disagreements at work.) Then in her mid forties, Yoshiko was divorced and lived with her two twenty something daughters. A gregarious, energetic, and attractive woman, she ran her own successful small business related to the fashion industry. Right from the start Yoshiko and I got along famously, as we had several interests in common and also shared the same salacious sense of humor. I would often spend time with her and Markus at her house just south of the main railway station, swapping stories and jokes.
About a year after I first met Yoshiko, she and Markus left Japan and moved to Australia together. I assumed that they would probably settle down and get married at some stage. About a year after their departure, however, I bumped into Yoshiko’s elder daughter in a bookstore, who told me that Yoshiko would shortly be returning to live in Kobe once more.
When I called her a month or so later, she was delighted to hear from me, and we arranged to meet a few days later to catch up. On the agreed evening, we met in downtown Kobe and had dinner at an Italian restaurant. Having restarted her business, Yoshiko arrived straight from work, looking very smart in tailored dark blue jacket and knee-length skirt, white blouse and high-heels. Although I had had time to go home and change, I was still in my usual work get up of open-necked shirt and jeans; however, the restaurant’s easy atmosphere required no particular dress code.
As always with Yoshiko, it was hard to get a word in edgeways, as she described the places she’d been and people she’d met in Australia, as well as her experiences of working there. I had intended to ask what had brought her back to Kobe, but since she made absolutely no mention of Markus, I concluded that their relationship must have ended and that it was probably a sore subject and best avoided. The conversation turned to other matters of mutual interest, and after finishing dinner, we relocated to a small third floor bar with a faintly ridiculous Country and Western theme, run by an old Japanese man in full cowboy regalia, improbably named Ned Sahara. As it was midweek, the place was completely empty, and we sat together side by side at the bar. The owner engaged us in a few pleasantries, but soon left us in peace, and spent most of the time pottering around in the tiny kitchen area adjacent to the bar. As we downed half a bottle of wine, the conversation grew more wide ranging and light hearted. As always, neither Yoshiko or I passed up any opportunity to tease each other about our various foibles, and she hit home by mischievously asking me if I was still arguing with everyone at work. Stuck for a rejoinder, I instead retaliated by reaching out and poking her in the side of the ribs (being careful to avoid her rather full bosom). Her sharp intake of breath as she flinched and fought to suppress a laugh indicated that I must have hit upon a highly sensitive spot. Avoiding eye contact, she smilingly changed the subject to avoid further retribution. I made no comment on her obvious sensitivity, but inside I was delighted at her reaction, and eager to explore further in due course.
Being early fall, it was just starting to turn chilly and was also threatening to rain. As we left the bar I suggested we share a taxi. She agreed and on impulse I invited her back to my house for coffee, half expecting her to decline, as I knew she had to be up early for work the next day. To my surprise she agreed to this also. Like a true gentlemen, I ushered her into the back seat of the taxi; however, my façade slipped immediately, as I could not help staring for rather longer than necessary as Yoshiko’s awkward slide into the low backseat of the taxi caused her tight skirt to ride up, exposing her exquisitely muscled legs to mid-thigh. My reaction elicited an enigmatic smile from Yoshiko.
It was only a short cab ride to the traditional-style Japanese house I rented in the old port area of Kobe, and we were soon removing our shoes in the entrance vestibule and stepping up onto the traditional reed matting floor of my living room. As I brewed coffee in the kitchen, Yoshiko took off her jacket and hung it up before making herself at home under the kotatsu (a low quilt covered table incorporating a heating element, under which people stretch out their legs to stave off the cold of Japanese winters). I brought the coffee in from the kitchen and set the mugs down on the kotatsu table top. Although people sharing a kotatsu normally sit on adjacent or opposite sides, Yoshiko lifted the quilt to allow me to sit beside her, to her right, just as we had been sitting at the bar. The narrow width of the table meant that we were pressed closer together, however.
We warmed our legs, drank our coffee, and continued chatting comfortably about life in Kobe and its numerous colorful characters. Once or twice Yoshiko remarked that she ought to be getting home as she had an 8:00 a.m. start the next day, but she made no real effort to leave.
As the effects of the wine wore off and the coffee took over, I felt myself in something of a quandary. On one hand, I was dying to take things a stage further—especially after seeing her reaction to my playful dig in the ribs back at the bar; on the other hand I did not want to jeopardize our easy and comfortable friendship by becoming too aggressively physical.
Then Yoshiko presented me with a perfect opportunity. Spying some photos pinned to the wall, she pointed to a group sports club picture (taken after a running event) in which two girls had their arms wrapped around me, and started teasing me about what a Casanova I must be. This was the excuse I had been looking for. Pretending to be shocked by her playful allegation, I quickly moved my right hand to the sensitive spot on her ribs that I had discovered earlier, at the same time circling my left arm around her waist and sliding my hand up her side towards the same spot on the left side of her ribs, which was furthest from me. As soon as I started to tickle her, the effect was electric. Screwing up her face, she yelled with laughter and, although she was sitting down, she seemed to rise about a foot into the air. She twisted her body to try and shake off my fingers, but I held on and kept up my assault. Desperate to escape she squirmed out from under the kotatsu (in a highly undignified fashion) and tried to wriggle away from me across the mat flooring. I wasn’t going to let her escape that easily, and I slid across the floor after her, playing a piano concerto on her sensitive ribs. Unfortunately for Yoshiko, her escape attempt was doomed to failure. She succeeded only in wriggling across the floor into a corner, and as I slid after her close behind, she ended up face down, with me on top of her, which gave her little prospect of wrestling free. Her protests and yells of laughter reached a crescendo, but for once I didn’t care what the neighbors thought. I was laughing too at her predicament, and told her it was no worse than she deserved for her sarcastic remarks. Her only defense was to squeeze her upper arms tightly against her sides in an effort to immobilize my fingers and stop me working my devilish way along her poor tortured ribs.
I stopped tickling her for a few seconds to allow her to regain her breath, knowing full well that the unpredictability of stop-start tickling can be even more devastating to the recipient. As I started working my fingers against her ribs again, she bucked and squirmed even harder in her vain efforts to break free. Meanwhile I was reveling in the fact that Yoshiko, the smartly turned out and high powered businesswoman, had been reduced to helpless laughter and squirming embarrassment.
At the same time, however, I was starting to worry that I might have gone too far, and that Yoshiko might be upset. With a slightly guilty conscience, I relaxed my grip and moved back a little way to let her up. As she sat up, grinning and breathing heavily, I momentarily turned slightly away from her to allow her to recover her dignity. With my guard down, she pounced, grabbing on to me from behind and attacking my ribs in exactly the same way as I had hers. Caught by surprise, I yelled and tried to twist free, but Yoshiko had me in a vice-like grip from behind. Her daily visits to the gym had equipped her with strong thighs, and, having hiked up her skirt a little way, she was able to use them to grip my waist as her devilish fingers relentlessly tortured my sensitive ribs. As her chin rested on my shoulder, she whispered “Tickle, tickle!” in my ear, adding to my torment, and suggesting that she just might have played this game before.
Annoyed with myself for having relinquished the upper hand, I made a mighty effort to twist free from her grip, but only succeeded in landing on my back on the matting floor. I could not, however, break free from the grip of Yoshiko’s legs, and she ended up sitting astride my waist, pinning me to the floor. For the second time that evening, her skirt was hitched above her knees, affording me a great view of her splendid legs. Since I was lying face up, at least I was not as helpless as Yoshiko had been moments earlier, and I was able to use my hands and arms to try and ward off her tickling fingers.
At this point we were both laughing hard and short of breath. Possibly sensing that I was close to surrender, she redoubled her attack on my ribs. I kept trying to grab her wrists to gain some relief but she was too nimble and her devilish fingers kept finding weak spots on my ribcage, making me buck and howl with laughter and frustration. Yoshiko was laughing almost as hard as I was, as she reveled in my predicament, an expression of pure triumph etched on her face. I was acutely aware of her rather large breasts just inches above my face, but out of reach in my helpless state. There was only one possible way out, and that was to try and distract her by tickling her in return. I reached up towards her ribs and stomach, but she knocked my hands away effortlessly with her forearms. I tried again, but with the same result. I was now totally out of breath and on the point of pleading for mercy, even though I knew Yoshiko would never let me forget about it and would tease me endlessly about my humiliation. I tried one final time to reach her ribs, but again she just batted my hands away and kept up her relentless tickling assault. As my hands dropped to my sides, I tried one last throw of the dice and squeezed her voluptuous thighs, just above the knee, with finger and thumb. For the second time in one evening, I had chanced upon a Yoshiko weak spot. Her eyes widened and her mouth flew open in surprise, and to my intense relief she abruptly stopped tickling my aching ribs. She tried to prise my hands away from above her knees but I hung on and squeezed for dear life. The only way for her to evade my grip was to relinquish her grip on me and escape, a maneuver made somewhat awkward by her tight skirt. As she lurched sideways and off me, her skirt momentarily rode up even further, giving me a quick flash of tan stocking tops, delicate garter belt straps and the luscious pale skin of bare thigh. I gasped in amazement. (Japanese women generally have a depressing preference for pantyhose.) Yoshiko quickly straightened her skirt and knelt beside me on the matting floor. We were both still panting hard.
My mind and senses were on overload. How on earth had I managed to let myself be pinned down and tickled incessantly by this gorgeous full breasted older woman in stockings? Our eyes locked and suddenly Yoshiko grabbed my head with both hands and kissed me hard on the mouth. I needed no more encouragement and returned her kiss with equal passion. Half-lying, pressed together side by side, we could not keep our hands off each other and feverishly caressed each others’ bodies through our clothes. My hand quickly roamed up her stocking clad legs and under her skirt, coming to rest on her gorgeously cool bare thighs. I groaned in arousal and she chuckled knowingly. Still locked together in a deep kiss, we began to undress one another. She pulled off my t shirt while I unbuttoned her blouse and helped her off with it. She stood up and smiled down at me “Well, I guess I should be going” she teased. Kneeling in front of her, I quickly wrapped my arms round her thighs to stop her from going anywhere and buried my head in her wonderfully flat and well toned stomach. As I planted a succession of kisses on her smooth flesh, she groaned in appreciation. I snaked my tongue inside her belly-button, making her yell with laughter again and squirm against my face. Yet another ticklish spot! “There’s no escape!” I laughed, and swiftly unzipped her skirt, leaving her standing in just her dark blue underwear and tan stockings. Half-standing, I caressed her back and kissed her deeply on the mouth again, while deftly unhooking her bra strap and pulling it loose to reveal her gorgeous full breasts. Pulling her down beside me onto the matting floor, I covered her firm breasts with kisses, alternately sucking gently on her nipples. Again she groaned in appreciation. I pulled her down beside me onto the floor, and, warmed by the kotatsu, we kissed and explored each others bodies further. We finished undressing one another—although to my delight she insisted on retaining her stockings and garter belt—before making energetic and exquisite love.
This was the start of a long-running complex relationship that has continued to this day. Although I no longer live in Kobe, I still return often on business. There is a tacit agreement between us that the fifteen-year age gap precludes any long-term romantic relationship, but there is still a deep level of mutual affection and understanding between us, and we take great enjoyment in each other’s company. As a result, we are still firm friends, occasional on-and-off lovers, and enthusiastic tickling adversaries. Yoshiko’s energy and enthusiasm are undiminished, and I can always count on her to bring a smile to my face. An inveterate tease, she is always surprising me with a sneaky tickle or a surreptitious glimpse of stocking top. As the result of numerous tickling sessions, we have also become intimately familiar with each other’s bodies. I could reel off at least a dozen different ticklish spots on Yoshiko’s voluptuous body. Although we have both since widened our repertoires, this first encounter always sticks in my mind for its sheer intensity and spontaneity. Wherever I am on my travels, the thought of that evening always makes me chuckle.
About a year after I first met Yoshiko, she and Markus left Japan and moved to Australia together. I assumed that they would probably settle down and get married at some stage. About a year after their departure, however, I bumped into Yoshiko’s elder daughter in a bookstore, who told me that Yoshiko would shortly be returning to live in Kobe once more.
When I called her a month or so later, she was delighted to hear from me, and we arranged to meet a few days later to catch up. On the agreed evening, we met in downtown Kobe and had dinner at an Italian restaurant. Having restarted her business, Yoshiko arrived straight from work, looking very smart in tailored dark blue jacket and knee-length skirt, white blouse and high-heels. Although I had had time to go home and change, I was still in my usual work get up of open-necked shirt and jeans; however, the restaurant’s easy atmosphere required no particular dress code.
As always with Yoshiko, it was hard to get a word in edgeways, as she described the places she’d been and people she’d met in Australia, as well as her experiences of working there. I had intended to ask what had brought her back to Kobe, but since she made absolutely no mention of Markus, I concluded that their relationship must have ended and that it was probably a sore subject and best avoided. The conversation turned to other matters of mutual interest, and after finishing dinner, we relocated to a small third floor bar with a faintly ridiculous Country and Western theme, run by an old Japanese man in full cowboy regalia, improbably named Ned Sahara. As it was midweek, the place was completely empty, and we sat together side by side at the bar. The owner engaged us in a few pleasantries, but soon left us in peace, and spent most of the time pottering around in the tiny kitchen area adjacent to the bar. As we downed half a bottle of wine, the conversation grew more wide ranging and light hearted. As always, neither Yoshiko or I passed up any opportunity to tease each other about our various foibles, and she hit home by mischievously asking me if I was still arguing with everyone at work. Stuck for a rejoinder, I instead retaliated by reaching out and poking her in the side of the ribs (being careful to avoid her rather full bosom). Her sharp intake of breath as she flinched and fought to suppress a laugh indicated that I must have hit upon a highly sensitive spot. Avoiding eye contact, she smilingly changed the subject to avoid further retribution. I made no comment on her obvious sensitivity, but inside I was delighted at her reaction, and eager to explore further in due course.
Being early fall, it was just starting to turn chilly and was also threatening to rain. As we left the bar I suggested we share a taxi. She agreed and on impulse I invited her back to my house for coffee, half expecting her to decline, as I knew she had to be up early for work the next day. To my surprise she agreed to this also. Like a true gentlemen, I ushered her into the back seat of the taxi; however, my façade slipped immediately, as I could not help staring for rather longer than necessary as Yoshiko’s awkward slide into the low backseat of the taxi caused her tight skirt to ride up, exposing her exquisitely muscled legs to mid-thigh. My reaction elicited an enigmatic smile from Yoshiko.
It was only a short cab ride to the traditional-style Japanese house I rented in the old port area of Kobe, and we were soon removing our shoes in the entrance vestibule and stepping up onto the traditional reed matting floor of my living room. As I brewed coffee in the kitchen, Yoshiko took off her jacket and hung it up before making herself at home under the kotatsu (a low quilt covered table incorporating a heating element, under which people stretch out their legs to stave off the cold of Japanese winters). I brought the coffee in from the kitchen and set the mugs down on the kotatsu table top. Although people sharing a kotatsu normally sit on adjacent or opposite sides, Yoshiko lifted the quilt to allow me to sit beside her, to her right, just as we had been sitting at the bar. The narrow width of the table meant that we were pressed closer together, however.
We warmed our legs, drank our coffee, and continued chatting comfortably about life in Kobe and its numerous colorful characters. Once or twice Yoshiko remarked that she ought to be getting home as she had an 8:00 a.m. start the next day, but she made no real effort to leave.
As the effects of the wine wore off and the coffee took over, I felt myself in something of a quandary. On one hand, I was dying to take things a stage further—especially after seeing her reaction to my playful dig in the ribs back at the bar; on the other hand I did not want to jeopardize our easy and comfortable friendship by becoming too aggressively physical.
Then Yoshiko presented me with a perfect opportunity. Spying some photos pinned to the wall, she pointed to a group sports club picture (taken after a running event) in which two girls had their arms wrapped around me, and started teasing me about what a Casanova I must be. This was the excuse I had been looking for. Pretending to be shocked by her playful allegation, I quickly moved my right hand to the sensitive spot on her ribs that I had discovered earlier, at the same time circling my left arm around her waist and sliding my hand up her side towards the same spot on the left side of her ribs, which was furthest from me. As soon as I started to tickle her, the effect was electric. Screwing up her face, she yelled with laughter and, although she was sitting down, she seemed to rise about a foot into the air. She twisted her body to try and shake off my fingers, but I held on and kept up my assault. Desperate to escape she squirmed out from under the kotatsu (in a highly undignified fashion) and tried to wriggle away from me across the mat flooring. I wasn’t going to let her escape that easily, and I slid across the floor after her, playing a piano concerto on her sensitive ribs. Unfortunately for Yoshiko, her escape attempt was doomed to failure. She succeeded only in wriggling across the floor into a corner, and as I slid after her close behind, she ended up face down, with me on top of her, which gave her little prospect of wrestling free. Her protests and yells of laughter reached a crescendo, but for once I didn’t care what the neighbors thought. I was laughing too at her predicament, and told her it was no worse than she deserved for her sarcastic remarks. Her only defense was to squeeze her upper arms tightly against her sides in an effort to immobilize my fingers and stop me working my devilish way along her poor tortured ribs.
I stopped tickling her for a few seconds to allow her to regain her breath, knowing full well that the unpredictability of stop-start tickling can be even more devastating to the recipient. As I started working my fingers against her ribs again, she bucked and squirmed even harder in her vain efforts to break free. Meanwhile I was reveling in the fact that Yoshiko, the smartly turned out and high powered businesswoman, had been reduced to helpless laughter and squirming embarrassment.
At the same time, however, I was starting to worry that I might have gone too far, and that Yoshiko might be upset. With a slightly guilty conscience, I relaxed my grip and moved back a little way to let her up. As she sat up, grinning and breathing heavily, I momentarily turned slightly away from her to allow her to recover her dignity. With my guard down, she pounced, grabbing on to me from behind and attacking my ribs in exactly the same way as I had hers. Caught by surprise, I yelled and tried to twist free, but Yoshiko had me in a vice-like grip from behind. Her daily visits to the gym had equipped her with strong thighs, and, having hiked up her skirt a little way, she was able to use them to grip my waist as her devilish fingers relentlessly tortured my sensitive ribs. As her chin rested on my shoulder, she whispered “Tickle, tickle!” in my ear, adding to my torment, and suggesting that she just might have played this game before.
Annoyed with myself for having relinquished the upper hand, I made a mighty effort to twist free from her grip, but only succeeded in landing on my back on the matting floor. I could not, however, break free from the grip of Yoshiko’s legs, and she ended up sitting astride my waist, pinning me to the floor. For the second time that evening, her skirt was hitched above her knees, affording me a great view of her splendid legs. Since I was lying face up, at least I was not as helpless as Yoshiko had been moments earlier, and I was able to use my hands and arms to try and ward off her tickling fingers.
At this point we were both laughing hard and short of breath. Possibly sensing that I was close to surrender, she redoubled her attack on my ribs. I kept trying to grab her wrists to gain some relief but she was too nimble and her devilish fingers kept finding weak spots on my ribcage, making me buck and howl with laughter and frustration. Yoshiko was laughing almost as hard as I was, as she reveled in my predicament, an expression of pure triumph etched on her face. I was acutely aware of her rather large breasts just inches above my face, but out of reach in my helpless state. There was only one possible way out, and that was to try and distract her by tickling her in return. I reached up towards her ribs and stomach, but she knocked my hands away effortlessly with her forearms. I tried again, but with the same result. I was now totally out of breath and on the point of pleading for mercy, even though I knew Yoshiko would never let me forget about it and would tease me endlessly about my humiliation. I tried one final time to reach her ribs, but again she just batted my hands away and kept up her relentless tickling assault. As my hands dropped to my sides, I tried one last throw of the dice and squeezed her voluptuous thighs, just above the knee, with finger and thumb. For the second time in one evening, I had chanced upon a Yoshiko weak spot. Her eyes widened and her mouth flew open in surprise, and to my intense relief she abruptly stopped tickling my aching ribs. She tried to prise my hands away from above her knees but I hung on and squeezed for dear life. The only way for her to evade my grip was to relinquish her grip on me and escape, a maneuver made somewhat awkward by her tight skirt. As she lurched sideways and off me, her skirt momentarily rode up even further, giving me a quick flash of tan stocking tops, delicate garter belt straps and the luscious pale skin of bare thigh. I gasped in amazement. (Japanese women generally have a depressing preference for pantyhose.) Yoshiko quickly straightened her skirt and knelt beside me on the matting floor. We were both still panting hard.
My mind and senses were on overload. How on earth had I managed to let myself be pinned down and tickled incessantly by this gorgeous full breasted older woman in stockings? Our eyes locked and suddenly Yoshiko grabbed my head with both hands and kissed me hard on the mouth. I needed no more encouragement and returned her kiss with equal passion. Half-lying, pressed together side by side, we could not keep our hands off each other and feverishly caressed each others’ bodies through our clothes. My hand quickly roamed up her stocking clad legs and under her skirt, coming to rest on her gorgeously cool bare thighs. I groaned in arousal and she chuckled knowingly. Still locked together in a deep kiss, we began to undress one another. She pulled off my t shirt while I unbuttoned her blouse and helped her off with it. She stood up and smiled down at me “Well, I guess I should be going” she teased. Kneeling in front of her, I quickly wrapped my arms round her thighs to stop her from going anywhere and buried my head in her wonderfully flat and well toned stomach. As I planted a succession of kisses on her smooth flesh, she groaned in appreciation. I snaked my tongue inside her belly-button, making her yell with laughter again and squirm against my face. Yet another ticklish spot! “There’s no escape!” I laughed, and swiftly unzipped her skirt, leaving her standing in just her dark blue underwear and tan stockings. Half-standing, I caressed her back and kissed her deeply on the mouth again, while deftly unhooking her bra strap and pulling it loose to reveal her gorgeous full breasts. Pulling her down beside me onto the matting floor, I covered her firm breasts with kisses, alternately sucking gently on her nipples. Again she groaned in appreciation. I pulled her down beside me onto the floor, and, warmed by the kotatsu, we kissed and explored each others bodies further. We finished undressing one another—although to my delight she insisted on retaining her stockings and garter belt—before making energetic and exquisite love.
This was the start of a long-running complex relationship that has continued to this day. Although I no longer live in Kobe, I still return often on business. There is a tacit agreement between us that the fifteen-year age gap precludes any long-term romantic relationship, but there is still a deep level of mutual affection and understanding between us, and we take great enjoyment in each other’s company. As a result, we are still firm friends, occasional on-and-off lovers, and enthusiastic tickling adversaries. Yoshiko’s energy and enthusiasm are undiminished, and I can always count on her to bring a smile to my face. An inveterate tease, she is always surprising me with a sneaky tickle or a surreptitious glimpse of stocking top. As the result of numerous tickling sessions, we have also become intimately familiar with each other’s bodies. I could reel off at least a dozen different ticklish spots on Yoshiko’s voluptuous body. Although we have both since widened our repertoires, this first encounter always sticks in my mind for its sheer intensity and spontaneity. Wherever I am on my travels, the thought of that evening always makes me chuckle.
