OldEnglish
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Apr 21, 2001
- Messages
- 235
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- 18
Hey everyone,
The latest release, hot off the presses.
This one is admittedly a little light on the actual tickling, focusing, instead, more on what I consider the psychological element of the tickle. I feel like we've all probably been there. "Should I? No, I definitely shouldn't. But what if I did?" Well, this is maybe what the "what-if-I-did" part looks like. It's also the most realistic sequence of events that I could imagine happening in the setting.
I think the piece really showed a deep-dive into the Jamie character, showing more of her motivations, etc. She had been kind of cast aside a bit the last few entries, but I certainly have more planned for her. She and Samantha will have more interactions, for sure, and I have other ideas, as well. I have some ideas for Caitlin, as well, but mostly in a smaller role.
I've already got the idea for Entry 6 and Entry 7. Nikki is again the focus of 6 and then Jamie again in 7.
Does everyone like the first-person style? Do you prefer the third-person omniscient in Katy & Amber? I thought this was something different.
I hope you all like. As always, comments and criticism welcome. I love writing and I love tickling, so I welcome the chance to speak to anyone who has anything to share.
Happy reading,
OldEnglish
Dear Diary - Entry #1: Snapping the Losing Streak (f/f, nylons)
Dear Diary - Entry #2: So Much for that Winning Streak... (f/f, nylons)
Dear Diary - Entry #3: Facetime Fun (f/f, ff,f, fff,f, nylons, tickle talk)
Dear Diary - Entry #4: When The Roommate Knows... (f/f, underarms, barefeet, nylons)
Dear Diary - Entry #5: That Girl At Work... (f/f, sides, nylons)
Dear Diary,
Jamie here. And yes, it’s been a while. I know I had promised myself that I would write here more frequently, but sometimes, life just gets in the way, you know? But that’s no excuse. You’re the one… well, thing… that I can trust to keep my innermost secrets and I don’t mean to forget about you.
So I do have what I think is a super cute story to share with you. Your girl Jamie is becoming quite the skilled tickler as of late. But I’ll talk about that in a bit. First, though...
Have you ever found yourself noticing something more often? Or just being cognizant of something much more acutely than you used to? That’s been happening to me a lot lately. To be honest, I’m not sure if it’s the fact that I am noticing this more often, or if it is that I am noticing that I am noticing it more often. If that makes sense… Because it is something that I feel I have always taken note of, even in just a cursory way.
Women wearing nylons.
Ever since the night I found out that my cousin Nikki transforms into the most ticklish person on the planet when she wears nylons, I’ve found that I have been taking note of other women in my life who wear nylons frequently. And, I mean… A LOT do! I guess I shouldn’t really be all that shocked, though, right?
OK, so first… work. I mean, I work in a professional office setting, so yeah, pantyhose, while not necessarily a written part of a dress code, are without a doubt the norm for women working there. It’s sort of implied that you should wear pantyhose if you’re wearing a dress or a skirt, but I guess I never noticed until recently how many women wear pantyhose even when they’re wearing dress slacks. I’ll have much more to talk about regarding some of the women I work with, though, so stay tuned!
My mom, of course… And my Aunt Carol. I mean, they practically live in nylons. But they’re from a different generation. Not to call them old by any means, of course. Heck, my mom just got carded the other day trying to buy some wine (and she won’t shut up about it, either!). But as you know, they always believe in looking their nicest because “you never know who you will run into”, so it’s not uncommon for them at all to be dressed to some degree even when for a trip to the supermarket.
A lot of women in the building wear pantyhose, too. I suppose that’s the area that most caught me off-guard. I guess I never realized how many young professional women we have living in this building. I’ve seen them getting into and out of their cars in the morning and later in the evening and, sure enough, they’re all a lot like me --- no doubt heading into their job in the city, needing to look their finest. But I’m amazed at how many I see maybe later in the evening, down in the laundry room or at the mailboxes, who are still wearing pantyhose even hours after work.
Of course, noticing all of these women wearing pantyhose so often got me thinking… I wonder how many of them are ticklish. I mean, I have to assume that they ALL are ticklish, right? Again, like I’ve said before, I firmly believe that every single human being is ticklish to some degree. I guess I’m more wondering how often someone in their lives takes advantage of the fact that they’re wearing pantyhose and ticklish… I mean, the temptation would have to be there for someone, right? Your wife or your girlfriend or even just your roommate comes home from a long day at the office, and she kicks off her shoes as she enters the place. She’s walking around the house, with only the pantyhose covering her feet… I have to assume that you’d know that she’s ticklish, right? If you’re living with the person, I have to assume that there’s some degree of familiarity with whether or not the person is ticklish.
So now I’m always super curious when I hear female laughter coming from another apartment as I walk down the hall… Did someone just catch her? Did someone else in the apartment finally take advantage of her ticklish situation? Oh, to be a fly on the wall, right?
But that’s enough gabbing on my part. I told you I had a story, right?
So it involved my best work friend, Samantha. I use the term “best work friend” more because we met at work. I’d say we’re friends outside of work at this point, too. I mean, I don’t hang out with her as much as I do some of my other friends or anything, but we’ve definitely grabbed dinner or gone to the mall together a few times after work. And at work, yeah, she is my total go-to person. My “don’t go out to lunch without me” person. My “you’re never going to believe the meeting I just sat in” person. You get the idea.
Samantha is… How should I describe her? Samantha is someday going to make some guy very happy. Samantha is beautiful. Samantha is funny. She’s smart. She’s energetic. She’s bubbly. She’s.. Did I mention she’s beautiful? Haha OK, so maybe there’s just a little jealousy shining through there… She’s average height, I’d say - maybe about 5’4”, give or take. Average weight. Dirty blonde hair. The bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. And she’s got these little freckles all around her nose, a nose that kind of crinkles up when she smiles. I honestly have no idea how she’s single. But you didn’t come here to listen to me go on and on about her, of course…
So Samantha, like the rest of us, falls under the umbrella of women in the office who wear pantyhose often. Any time she is wearing a dress or a skirt, of course, she has pantyhose on, but it was Samantha whom I first started noticing wearing pantyhose under dress slacks, as well. It was a Friday afternoon. Everyone wanted to clock out for the day and head into the weekend. I walked over to Samantha’s cubicle to just shoot the breeze for a little bit, but something caught me in my tracks as I was walking over. Samantha was sitting at her desk on her chair, as she usually does. She was super focused on the monitor, whatever she was doing (I’d later find out she was shopping!). Samantha’s left leg sat as “normal”, but it was Samantha’s right leg that I noticed. It was resting underneath Samantha’s body so that her right foot was sticking out from under her, off to the side. Samantha’s left heel was still on her foot, but her right heel was laying on its side on the floor under the chair. That meant that peeking out from under her left leg was Samantha’s shoeless right foot, clad only in a pair of suntan pantyhose.
Very rarely have I ever been so tempted to reach down and lightly tickle a foot as I was Samantha’s. It was just… there. Oblivious. As if it had a giant bullseye right on its arch, almost BEGGING someone to walk by and tickle it.
Of course, that wouldn’t have been professional. And though, yes, Samantha and I were work besties, I had no idea if she was even ticklish or not at that point. Well, I mean, again, I assumed she was. But I had no idea HOW ticklish. Or how she’d react to being tickled. Would she scream, calling the attention of everyone in the office to us to see what had happened? Would she look at me like I was a weirdo? No, it was simply too risky. No matter how tempting it might be… No matter how ticklish that foot might look… I just couldn’t go through with it.
“Earth to Jamie,” I heard, pulling me back to reality.
“Wha?” I asked, reorienting myself to where I was. Jamie had noticed me standing by the entrance to her cubicle and, apparently, had been saying hi to me while I had been lost in thoughts of tickling her foot. “Oh, hey,” I said, finally.
“Looks like someone could really use the weekend,” Samantha said with a laugh, looking back at her computer screen again.
“Yeah, sorry,” I said, still reorienting myself. “It’s been a long week.”
“I was getting paranoid there,” Samantha said. “The way you were staring at my foot, I didn’t know if I had a run in my nylon or something,” she stated.
“Oh, no,” I said, awkwardly, realizing now that she had seen me staring. “I just,” I stammered, sitting down in the extra chair in her cubicle. “I never realized you wore nylons even under slacks.”
“Yup, sure do,” Samantha confirmed absentmindedly, still scrolling through the different blouses available on the website. She paused her scrolling for a moment and looked up, as if giving the matter some serious thought. “I guess I’m just so used to wearing them that it’s become second nature.”
“Yeah,” I said with a laugh, the kind of nervous laugh one makes when one doesn’t know what to say next. “Same here,” I said. There. That would do.
Samantha turned and looked at me. Did she think this was weird? Should I not have said anything? “You know,” she said. “I’ve even found myself wearing them on weekends,” she said. “Uh-huh,” she continued, responding to the feigned look of shock on my face. “You know, under a pair of jeans or whatever. I definitely ditch the dresses on the weekend,though” she said, going back to her website scrolling.
“Oh, wow,” I said, not sure what the “right” reaction to that was. “Yeah, I guess I’ve done that myself a few times, too,” I said.
“Oh, shoot,” Samantha said, pulling herself from her computer screen. “I almost forgot I have to bring these boxes up to the 18th floor for processing,” she said, looking at a small stack of document boxes sitting on the L portion of her desk. “Care to take a walk with me?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said, getting up so I was out of the way. “Here, let me grab some of the boxes for you,” I offered.
“Thanks,” she said, “but I’ve got them. They’re not that heavy. Plus, maybe I can count this as my arm workout for the day, right?” she added with a laugh, picking up her boxes. It was a seemingly harness exchange, one that goes down between friends multiple times a day, I am sure. The offer of assistance. The gracious decline of said help. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. Except it unknowingly started into motion the snowball that would begin rolling down the hill, starting the process of everything that was about to happen that day.
When we got to the elevator, I again offered my assistance, though she again politely declined. And it was then when I noticed it. Or rather, noticed them.
Her sides.
Of course, carrying the boxes required both of Samantha’s arms. And given the size of the boxes, Samantha had to hold her arms out away from her sides a bit - you know, to get her arms around the edges of the boxes. But that position meant that her arms were no longer covering her sides. And the fact that her arms were otherwise occupied with the boxes meant that her arms would not be able to cover her sides even if she wanted --- without dropping the boxes, of course. So that meant both of her sides --- and yes, even a little bit of her underarm --- were left completely unprotected.
I could literally feel the devious smile slowly forming on my face.
I couldn’t. Could I? I mean, sure, I physically could. There was literally nothing physically blocking me from a well-placed poke to the side, just to gauge Samantha’s reaction. But morally, could I? I mean, Samantha and I were friends, but were we “Ooops, didn’t mean to tickle you” friends? The more I thought of it, though, the more I realized that we were that kind of friends -- or at the very least progressing towards the level of friendship. Our friendship was certainly strong enough that I could explain away an innocent little poke to her side, that is. If I came after her wielding feathers in both hands, that would be a different story…
Then, of course, there was the ever-present hurdle of handling any counter tickle attack. Yes, finding out that my cousin Nikki was so insanely ticklish after all of these years had ignited something of a tickle monster inside of me, but despite that, I still had to face my own weaknesses. As someone who has been known to giggle from a gust of wind brushing my own hair against my neck, I’m acutely aware of the fact that any counter tickle attack - regardless of the target or even the quality of such an attack - would likely render me helpless, myself. And as it was, wearing pantyhose myself, I knew I was at my most vulnerable. Still, though, it seemed a safe bet. For one, any counter tickle attack from Samantha would require her dropping the boxes that she was carrying, which was unlikely to happen. And for another, even if she did drop the boxes, it wasn’t very likely that she would tackle me to the floor, toss my heels to the side, and go to town tickling my feet at work. THAT would DEFINITELY make people talk. Haha So I felt pretty confident that there would be no counter tickle attack to contend with
But at work? Could I tickle her at work? Even if it were just a little poke? Like before, there was still the fear of the unknown. Not so much if Samantha would be mad or not, but rather, if she’d be TOO ticklish. The last thing I’d want is for her to drop the boxes and then have to try to explain to people what caused her to drop the boxes. Or if she were to yell in surprise… Or even if the tickle were to occur without incident, but someone saw it happen and took it the wrong way… No, if I were to tickle her, I would want to make sure no one else was able to see what had happened. And then I remembered…
The elevator! Oh my gosh, if luck would have it so that the elevator were empty when we got on, it would be the PERFECT setting. No one would be there to see. Even if she did yell or scream in surprise, no one would hear it.
*BING* And the doors open…
...and of course the universe won’t throw me a bone! There were three other people in the elevator when we got on, so we crammed into the corner to make it so we could all fit in. Well, so much for that, right? It was all set up so perfectly. The plan was foolproof.
*BING* The doors open again…
Could it be? No, it couldn’t… Is this actually going to work out for me? SHUT THE FRONT DOOR! All three of the other people got off on the very next floor. FINALLY! The elevator doors closed shut, sealing Samantha in the space with her would-be tickler.
“I hate these elevators,” Samantha said, making conversation. “They always take so long to start moving again after someone gets off.”
To be honest, I usually hated that about our elevators, as well. But not today…
“Yeah, you’d think they’d spend the money to update them,” I said, going along with the conversation to make my inching closer to Samantha as inconspicuous as possible. “You sure you’ve got those boxes?” I was now right behind Samantha, perfect positioning for a quick poke to her sides.
Samantha laughed. “I think you’re underestimating my strength,” she said with a he-man-like grunt. “I’ve got this totally under control.”
“If you say so,” I said, my target fully set. I decided to start safely - one finger along the small of her back. I figured that could easily be explained away as removing a piece of lint from her shirt or something if she got mad but would still hopefully produce enough of a ticklish sensation to get some response.
It was the response I was after. It was the response that would determine the next course of action. What if she sat there stone-faced, not even registering the feeling? What if just that alone tickled her enough to get her to jump or something? So many what if’s… It was time to do it.
The elevator still hadn’t moved again when my right hand began inching its way towards Samantha’s back. Given where I was standing, Samantha had no way of seeing what my right hand was doing. She was standing there completely oblivious to what was about to happen to her. It was… kind of cute, in a way.
“I swear,” Samantha began. “I don’t know why they do--OOOHHHH!!!” I never did find out what she didn’t know, for when my finger made contact with the small of her back, she practically jumped out of her skin. It wasn’t an overly ticklish touch. I just made sure to make it seem like I might have been removing a piece of lint from the back of her shirt, as was the plan. And the plan worked perfectly.
“Oh, sorry,” I said. “You had a string on your shirt.”
We sat in silence for a second, but it seemed like an eternity. I couldn’t see the look on her face, but boy do I wish I could have been reading her mind at that moment. I mean, my touch had tickled her. There was no doubt about it. Sure, maybe she could chalk some of her reaction up to not expecting the touch, but that was at least an 80% ticklish response.
And now she had to sit in that awkward state of trying to determine what her next step would be. Her friend from work had just touched her back to get a piece of string off. That touch had so tickled Samantha that she gasped out loud and arched her back forward as much as she could to avoid the tickly touch. Now, she stood there, her friend potentially now knowing how ticklish she is, with her sides still completely vulnerable because she was holding those boxes. This was a make-or-break decision for Samantha.
Would she just state the obvious and admit it tickled her? Doing so would, of course, carry the risk of perhaps telling me something that I hadn’t realized. I mean, not that it wasn’t completely obvious that the touch had tickled her, but she didn’t know that that had been my intent all along. In her mind, I may have just been focused on the string and the string alone and not even processed that the touch may have tickled her. So under that thought process, she could employ the strategy of not saying anything at all - just sort of hoping that her paroxysm went unnoticed. In the slight chance that I hadn’t noticed, not only would Samantha free herself from any future tickles, but the mere idea of her ticklishness wouldn’t even be mentioned. Of course, her not acknowledging the tickle could only serve to further motivate me to poke and prod to find the reason for the reaction. It was the classic conundrum any ticklish person found herself in after the initial discovery of her ticklishness.
Of course, I smelled blood, so like a shark in the water, I went in for more.
“Oh, you have another one over here,” I said, and gripped my thumb and pointer finger in a pinching motion and grabbed the string off the side Samantha’s blouse, making sure that the tips of my fingernails made contact with her sensitive skin underneath that blouse.
“EEEEEE,” she squealed, contorting her body as best she could to move her sides away from the ticklish touch of my pinching fingers. “Man, these boxes are getting heavy,” she said, attempting to explain away her random movements - and also likely hoping to take me up on my offer of holding some of those boxes so my hands would no longer be free to roam.
“We’re almost there,” I said. “You got this.”
I wasn’t letting her off this easy. I wanted to see her sweat. I wanted to see her standing there nervously, wondering if she had any more strings on her blouse anywhere. Wondering at what angle the next touch would come. Wondering if she would be able to contain herself once she felt the touch.
Of course, I wanted nothing more than to dance my fingers along both of her sides at the same time. To give her a full-on tickle assault. To count each of her ribs through her silky blouse. To hope to perhaps find a sliver of bare skin as the blouse becomes ruffled. To snake my fingers into the hollow of her underarms and wiggle away. To hear her laughter. To have it fill the elevator space with its sound. To feel her body press against mine, trying to push me away. To hear her heels clanging against the floor as she squirmed trying to get away. To hear her beg for mercy. For her to cry out my name, begging for the tickling to stop. And then, as it did stop, to see her standing and recovering, still giggling, trying to regain her composure. My God, I wanted that…
But, of course, luckily for Samantha - and me, as well - the elevator buzzed binged and we had reached our destination. The doors pulled apart and Samantha quickly scurried out of the elevator and into the open hallway, her sides still exposed and vulnerable but now with the protection of there being witnesses. As she turned to make sure I was also getting off of the elevator - and likely to also shield her sides from my fingers - I could have sworn I saw a slight smile on her lips. We were clearly friends before this, but the sight of the smile helped ease any concern that she may have been mad about it.
She eventually dropped off her boxes where they had to go, and it was back down to our desks for the two of us, without any further incident.
But that wouldn’t make for much of a fun story, right?
“What do you say we go grab something to eat after work?” Samantha asked on the elevator ride down. “I mean, unless you have plans already…”
“No,” I said, knowing I generally don’t have plans on Friday night, anyways. I’m at the point of my life where Friday night is generally a stay-in-and-veg kind of night. “Yeah, that sounds good,” I said. So, we finalized our plans and before you know it, we were seated at a booth at O’Larkey’s, our favorite after-work pub.
“Whew,” I said after the hostess handed us our menus. “What a work week.”
“Yeah,” agreed Samantha. “Always nice to reach the weekend.”
We continued with work-related small talk for a bit, complaining about office politics and whatnot - the same as most everyone else in the establishment, I’m sure. But there was one topic of conversation I wanted to bring up… One question I wanted to ask…
“Can I get you girls a beverage to start?”
No, that wasn’t the one question I wanted to ask. Our waitress had walked over to our table to greet us. Her name was Caitlin, or so her name badge said. I’m sure they use fake names. She was slightly younger than Samantha and I - still in college, I’d guess, but definitely finishing up soon. Or so I would guess. She was pretty. Attractive. Maybe slightly below average height. Skinny. Definitely skinny. A wavy, light brown hair style that only somewhat hid her face that bore the traditional O’Larkey’s pound of makeup, as required by its waitresses. She wore the traditional O’Larkey’s uniform, as well: a loose-fitting t-shirt that had O’Larkey’s written across the left chest and across the back, a pair of denim Daisy Duke shorts, a pair of suntan pantyhose, and a pair of ankle boots. Old Man O’Larkey knew how to bring in a crowd, that’s for sure.
We ordered a glass of wine each, andCaitlin brought them over to us as we mulled over the menu, debating whether we were going to make pigs of ourselves or simply order the salad. In the end, the nachos were too tempting, so we agreed to order the shareable size. We put our menus off to the side and waited for our waitress to come back. It was a Friday night, prime time, so of course it was busy there. And loud. We were almost a full glass of wine down and our waitress hadn’t returned yet.
“So,” I said, finally mustering up the confidence - albeit liquid confidence - to ask Samantha what I had wanted to ask her. “I never knew you were so ticklish.” There. I said it.
“Ticklish?” Samantha asked, her facial expression showing she was both caught off-guard by my statement and trying to come up with some explanation to her reaction other than being ticklish. “Why do you think I’m ticklish?” she asked, playing dumb. She was a horrible actress.
“Oh, no reason,” I said, taking another sip of my wine. “It’s just that you nearly jumped out of your skin when I touched your side in the elevator earlier today,” I said, presenting the facts into evidence.
“Oooh, that!” Samantha said, again doing an absolutely horrible job of pretending to only now realize what I was talking about. “Yeah, I guess I am a little ticklish,” she said in a low voice, clearly struggling to get the words out.
I raised my eyebrow in disbelief.
“What?” she asked.
“A little ticklish?” I asked. “Samantha, I barely even touched you and if you didn’t have those boxes in your hands, you would have jumped through the ceiling in the elevator.”
Samantha laughed at my observation, realizing I wasn’t wrong. “OK, OK, fine,” she said. “I’m ticklish. There. You happy?”
My blank stare showed her I was still calling her bluff.
“OK, fine!” she said, folding once again. “Very ticklish. Is that better?” she asked.
“It’s a start,” I said with a laugh, fully believing her ticklishness went way beyond even “very ticklish” but not wanting to push my luck. Fortunately for me, the wine had loosened any inhibition Samantha might have had, as well.
“My roommates tickle me all the time,” she continued. “It’s so bad.”
“Awww,” I said, making my best mushy-face. “That’s cute.”
“Not when you’re trying to get control of the television, it’s not,” she said with a laugh, offering me a brief glimpse into what her home life was like. “All they have to do is just threaten to tickle me,” she said, wiggling her fingers in the air as an example, “and they know I’ll fold.”
“Oh my gosh,” I said, laughing at what she described. “That’s adorable. I had no idea you were so ticklish.”
“Well,” she said, “you don’t just go around broadcasting your biggest weakness to people, do you?”
“Biggest weakness?” I asked, my curiosity certainly piqued.
“Mmmhmmm,” she said while taking another sip of wine. “I would make for a horrible CIA spy. One tickle and I’m toast,” she said with a laugh.
“Oh, so now I know how to get you to do some extra work on all these projects we have, huh?” I asked with a slightly devious smile.
“Don’t you dare,” she said, playing along.
“I just have to do this, right?” I asked teasingly, wiggling my fingers in the air as she had done earlier.
“Oh my gosh,” she said with a laugh, playfully kicking me under the table. “You’re such a brat,” she said, kicking me again.
At this second kick, though, I was prepared. Expecting it, I put some slight distance between my legs under the table, ensuring that Samantha’s foot would hit nothing but the air between my legs. As soon as I felt her foot breeze by, I clamped my legs closed again, securing her leg in place underneath the table.
“Hey!” she said with another laugh. “Give me back my leg,” she ordered.
“Nope,” I said. “Not if you’re going to just keep kicking me,” I explained. “Besides, I have an idea,” I said, an air of mystery in my words.
“What idea?” Samantha asked, confused. Either she was doing a great job of acting dumb here or the poor girl really did have no idea what was going to happen next. Her response told me it was the latter.
I inconspicuously reached my right hand under the table and dragged the tip of one fingernail along the top of Samantha’s trapped foot. If she didn’t know before, Samantha knew exactly what was about to happen now.
She jumped with such force, she banged into our table, almost spilling what was left of her wine. Her eyes bugged out of her head as if she were a cartoon, the sudden realization of what was happening hitting her all at once.
“Oh my God, Jamie,” she said, her words both a command and a signal of the level of anxiety she now had. “Don’t you dare.”
“Don’t I dare what?” I asked - my turn to play dumb.
“Jamie,” she said with urgency, getting as close to me as she could from across the table. “Not my feet. I’m not going to be able to control myself,” she explained, trying to pull her foot away but unable to do so with my force because of the legs of the table.
“Really?” I asked, my devious smile returning. “Why is that?” I asked, not sure what type of response I was expecting.
“Jamie, I’m so ticklish on my feet,” she said as quickly as she could get the words out. “This is so not fair.”
“Nobody said it had to be fair,” I said with a smile, letting her know it was still all in fun. “So, ahm,” I began to ask, slowly. “Would you say this is the weakest of the weakness down there?”
She looked at me for a moment, almost as if she wanted to laugh at how skilled a villainous character I was playing, but she knew she had more pressing issues to tend to. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, yes,” she repeated, wanting it to be known that she was a cooperating hostage in this situation, hoping for some leniency. “My feet are far and away my most ticklish spot,” she said. “Please, Jamie.”
“Good to know,” I said, simply, and began again lightly tracing a fingernail along the top of her trapped foot.
I suppose it could barely even be classified as a tickle. Much like earlier in the elevator, I mean, yes, I technically was trying to tickle her, but my touch was so light, so faint, that any individual not extremely ticklish might not even register the feeling. Unfortunately for Samantha, though, she was most decidedly NOT an individual who was not extremely ticklish, so every touch registered, sending shockwaves through her body.
Samantha brought both of her hands up to her head, blocking her face from view on both sides. Not that she had to, of course.. O’Larkey’s was usually very dimly lit, especially so under a table, and our booth in the back corner was mostly out of sight of everyone. Still, Samantha blocked her face from view of anyone --- except for me; I still had a full view sitting across from her.
I watched as an enormous smile formed on her face as my finger traced along, as her eyes squeezed shut trying to block out the tickly feeling, as she bit down on her lower lip every now and then so as not to squeak, as she pressed both lips together to keep any giggles contained within herself…
My tickling wasn’t even all that exemplary, to be honest. I had limited it right now to simply tracing one fingernail along whatever area of her foot I currently had access to. For now, that meant the top of her foot, from where her shoe curved up front to the line between her foot and her ankle, over to around her ankle bone -- really, anywhere I could find an accessible spot. Her pantyhose made the task very easy, as their smoothness allowed my fingernail to slip and slide wherever it might please. Her leg twisted and turned and tried to pull away, but all to no avail.
“Have you ladies decided what it’ll be tonight?” Caitlin asked, sneaking up on both of us. My tickling of Samantha’s foot ceased immediately, but I held her foot in place. I could feel her trying to pull it free from under the table, but again, she was limited because of the table legs underneath, and any show of extreme effort might draw attention to what was happening under the table.
“I’m going to have the nachos,” I said, forgetting that we had decided to split a serving of them.
“Good choice,” Caitlin said, jotting my order down on her notepad. “And for you?” she asked, turning to Samantha.
Samantha was caught off-guard, thinking that we were going to share the nachos. My momentary gaffe had thrown her for a loop. She opened the menu again as a stalling tactic.
“Ahm,” she said, holding the menu open with her right hand and tapping her chin with her left hand. And then I thought…
I couldn’t. Could I? ‘Sure I could’ I convinced myself.
Again, my right hand inconspicuously strayed underneath the table, unbeknownst to both Caitlin and Samantha. Like a slithering snake, it slid to its target - Samantha’s trapped foot - and lied in wait for the perfect opportunity.
“OK,” Samantha said, closing the menu and inadvertently giving me all of the advance notice that I needed. My finger got ready. “I think I’ll also have the na-AAAH,” she squealed, unable to get the word nachos out of her mouth before her brain registered my fingernail making contact with her foot again.
It took everything within me not to laugh.
“Sorry,” she said, clearly embarrassed. “I’ve had this, uh, dry cough all day,” she said, clearly lying but trying to come up with some reason for why she had just made a fool of herself. She shot me an evil glare.
“Yeah, the air in this place is very dry,” Caitlin agreed. “So nachos, too, you said?”
“Ye-AAAAH,” Samantha squealed again, my finger once again making contact with her foot under the table. Samantha feigned a cough to cover up her outburst. “Sorry,” she said, nervously pointing to her throat. “Cough.”
“I’ll bring you over some water,” Caitlin said with a laugh as she finalized the order and walked away.
“Oh my lord, Jamie,” Samantha said in the sternest voice she could muster with a whisper. “I am going to kill you, you know that?”
I laughed. “What’s wrong?” I asked, again playing dumb.
“You know very well what is wrong,” Samantha said in her most motherly “I mean business” tone. “Now let go of my foot this instant,” she said.
“Aww,” I said. “But I’m still having fun,” I whimpered.
Samantha laughed, too, her stern exterior melted away. “Why does your fun have to be at the expense of my ticklish feet?” she asked with a pouty face.
My right hand cupped the back of Samantha’s heel and gave it a quick tug, prying it loose from Samantha’s trapped foot - the nylons removing any resistance I may have encountered. “I haven’t even tried out the bottom of your foot yet,” I said with an evil smile.
Again, Samantha’s eyes bugged out of her head like a cartoon character as she realized what was about to happen. “Jamie, no,” she pleaded. “Not the bottom of my foot.”
“Why not?” I asked, tugging the shoe off a little more, teasingly.
“You saw how ticklish the top of my foot is,” Samantha urged. “The bottom is way worse.”
“Way worse?” I asked, feigning surprise.
Samantha shot me a look. “I’m going to die, you know,” she said, matter-of-factly. “You’re going to kill me with tickling,” she said. “On my death certificate, for cause of death, it will say foot tickling.”
“Tell ya what,” I offered. “If you can keep your shoe on, I’ll spare you any bottom-of-the-foot tickling,” I said. “But if it falls off…” I added, my voice trailing off.
“There’s literally no way…” Samantha began.
“My only offer,” I said, cutting her off.
“Fine,” she said, agreeing against her wishes. “Put my shoe back on, then.”
“Nope,” I said. “You’ve got to get it back on as I’m tickling.”
“That’s so not fair!” she said.
“Advantage to me, I guess,” I said with an air of supremacy.
“I have nylons on,” she said. “The shoe is going to just slip right off.”
“Well, you better do a good job getting it back on,” I replied.
“Fine,” she said, again knowing she didn’t have any leverage in this discussion. “But no touching the bottom?” she asked.
“I won’t touch the bottom,” I promised.
I felt her begin to try to twist and angle her foot so she could get her heel back inside. Right now, the majority of her foot was actually in her shoe. Her toes were still completely enclosed within the shoe, as was most of her arch. The only portion of her foot that wasn’t securely in the shoe was her heel. If she were able to get her heel back in the shoe, she might be able to twist and turn her foot enough to keep the shoe on and escape any further tickling. If she could just…
But she had two things going against her, one of which I didn’t even know at the time. First, she was right. With nylons on, that shoe was as good as off with any sort of disturbance. Unless that heel got back into the shoe, there was no way that shoe was doing anything but sliding off those nylons. But second - which I found out later - Samantha was wearing the exact WRONG pair of shoes for such a task. Usually one to prefer her shoes - especially heels - to be a little looser-fitting, these were the tightest pair of heels that Samantha owned. Sliding into them under normal circumstances usually required a finger for assistance. Trying to angle them back on under a table while someone tickled your foot would be outright impossible.
Outright impossible it was. I allowed Samantha a second or two head start, but then quickly set to work, briefly grazing the end of her leg where her foot begins with my fingernail. Samantha jumped, and any headway she had made in getting the shoe back on was quickly removed with one simple touch. In fact, the shoe now rested even more precariously than before. My finger traced a little lower and off to the side, where Samantha’s instep would be exposed.
Game over.
Samantha jumped so much she banged the table underneath, her shoe falling off into my hands. Game, set, and match.
“That was easy,” I said, setting her shoe off to the side of me.
“That wasn’t fair,” she whined. “You weren’t supposed to touch that spot.”
“THAT spot?” I asked, echoing her words. “Did I just happen to find the weakest of the weakest of the weak?” I said.
“That’s one of them,” she said, stopping herself as she realized she was giving away too much information. “Why do I have to be cursed into being so ticklish, anyways?” she asked, almost too loud.
“I don’t know the answer to that,” I said, “but it’s definitely working out for me right now.”
“Now can I have my shoe back?” she asked, rolling her eyes.
“What?” I asked. “No way. A deal’s a deal,” I said. “I get to test out the bottom of this foot now,” I reminded her.
“May I remind you that I stand no chance of holding any laughter in?” Samantha asked.
“Here’s your water,” Caitlin said, interrupting us again. Samantha breathed a heavy sigh of relief for the brief reprieve.
“Oh, thank you so much,” Samantha said.
“Better drink up,” said Caitlin. “So you don’t cough again,” she said. Samantha took a sip from her water to keep up the act.
“Your food will be ready shortly,” Caitlin said. “They just put the nachos in the oven now to melt the cheese.” She turned to Samantha. “And how are you? Did that help your throat?”
“Oh yes,” Samantha said. “Thank you so much. You don’t know how you saved me,” she said, her words pregnant in their meaning.
My right hand again slid under the table inconspicuously. That wine really WAS strong! Samantha’s foot hung in the air, still trapped by my legs. Its shoe had been removed, of course, leaving nothing to cover it except the pantyhose on her feet. Samantha sat there, confident that Caitlin’s presence would protect her. Boy was she wrong..
“Well, let me know if you need anything else,” Caitlin said, about to leave the table.
“Of cour-hahahahhaha” Samantha giggled, unable to contain the laughter as she mind registered my finger on the bottom of her foot. She pounded on the table, again almost knocking everything over.
“I’m sorry,” Caitlin said. “Are you - are you all right?” she asked, not sure what was wrong with her customer.
I ceased tickling.
“My FRIEND here,” Samantha said, composing herself. “She’s tickling my foot under the table,” she said, probably hoping that exposing what was going on would result in her release.
“What?” Caitlin asked with a laugh, not sure if she had heard correctly.
“She has my ankle trapped between her legs,” Samantha explained. “And she’s tickling the bottom of my foot,” she said, as if telling teacher on me.
Caitlin looked at me.
“It’s true,” I said, not hiding it. “She went to kick me under the table. I trapped her leg. She’s ticklish. Seemed to fit,” I said, explaining it as if it were the only logical thing to do.
“Oh my word,” Caitlin laughed. “I would legit die,” she said. “My feet are so ticklish,” she offered.
‘Are they really, Caitlin?” I asked myself in my mind, glancing down at her feet. “So are hers,” I said out loud with a smile, pointing to Samantha.
Caitlin looked under the table to see for herself what was happening. “Oh my word,” she repeated. “You’re wearing nylons, too? That is the absolute worst,” she said, as if offering sympathy to Samantha.
“My friend here is rather mean, isn’t she?” Samantha asked, happy to have an ally in this, seemingly.
“You have no idea,” Caitlin said, volunteering information as if she were the third friend at the table. “I am insanely ticklish on my feet when I have nylons on,” she confirmed. “I don’t let anyone near my feet when I have nylons on.”
“You have nylons on now,” I said, pointing out what I am sure she already knew.
“Yeah, they make us wear them,” Caitlin said. “I legit almost didn’t take the job because of that,” she said with a laugh. “When I get out of work, it’s almost like I need self-defense skills so I can get them off before someone tries to tickle me,” she said with a laugh.
“Would you tell my friend here that you’re going to have the cook spit in her food if she doesn’t give me my foot back?” Samantha joked.
Caitlin laughed. “Hey, I have nylons on, too,” she said, holding her hands up to show she wasn’t going to do anything. “I’m not getting involved in that,” she said, walking away to get our food.
Samantha and I looked at each other and laughed, coming to terms with the hilarity of everything that had happened. I let go of her foot - it would have been weird if I was still tickling her foot when Caitlin came back, right? - and she hurriedly put her shoe back on.
“You and I aren’t friends anymore,” she said sternly, though obviously joking.
“Aww,” I said, playing along. “I’m sorry. But like I said, now I know how to get you to do all of the work on projects at the office now,” I said, again wiggling my fingers in the air.
“Ha Ha Ha,” she mock-laughed. “You better hope you’re not ticklish, too, Jamie,” she said with evil intent.
“And here are your nachos,” said Caitlin, putting a big plate in front of both of us. We had more nachos than we knew what to do with. “Everything settled under the table?” Caitlin said with an awkward laugh.
“All protected,” Samantha said, showing her foot in her shoe from under the table. And from that moment on for the rest of the night, nachos were all anyone wanted to talk about. Caitlin even came back and sat with us for a little bit and ate some of the extra nachos we had.
But… I had better hope I’m not ticklish, too? What did she mean by that? What did she have in store? Had I awoken a monster?
Well, I need to head to bed. Tomorrow is another day, after all!
Your girl, Jamie
The latest release, hot off the presses.
This one is admittedly a little light on the actual tickling, focusing, instead, more on what I consider the psychological element of the tickle. I feel like we've all probably been there. "Should I? No, I definitely shouldn't. But what if I did?" Well, this is maybe what the "what-if-I-did" part looks like. It's also the most realistic sequence of events that I could imagine happening in the setting.
I think the piece really showed a deep-dive into the Jamie character, showing more of her motivations, etc. She had been kind of cast aside a bit the last few entries, but I certainly have more planned for her. She and Samantha will have more interactions, for sure, and I have other ideas, as well. I have some ideas for Caitlin, as well, but mostly in a smaller role.
I've already got the idea for Entry 6 and Entry 7. Nikki is again the focus of 6 and then Jamie again in 7.
Does everyone like the first-person style? Do you prefer the third-person omniscient in Katy & Amber? I thought this was something different.
I hope you all like. As always, comments and criticism welcome. I love writing and I love tickling, so I welcome the chance to speak to anyone who has anything to share.
Happy reading,
OldEnglish
Dear Diary - Entry #1: Snapping the Losing Streak (f/f, nylons)
Dear Diary - Entry #2: So Much for that Winning Streak... (f/f, nylons)
Dear Diary - Entry #3: Facetime Fun (f/f, ff,f, fff,f, nylons, tickle talk)
Dear Diary - Entry #4: When The Roommate Knows... (f/f, underarms, barefeet, nylons)
Dear Diary - Entry #5: That Girl At Work... (f/f, sides, nylons)
Dear Diary,
Jamie here. And yes, it’s been a while. I know I had promised myself that I would write here more frequently, but sometimes, life just gets in the way, you know? But that’s no excuse. You’re the one… well, thing… that I can trust to keep my innermost secrets and I don’t mean to forget about you.
So I do have what I think is a super cute story to share with you. Your girl Jamie is becoming quite the skilled tickler as of late. But I’ll talk about that in a bit. First, though...
Have you ever found yourself noticing something more often? Or just being cognizant of something much more acutely than you used to? That’s been happening to me a lot lately. To be honest, I’m not sure if it’s the fact that I am noticing this more often, or if it is that I am noticing that I am noticing it more often. If that makes sense… Because it is something that I feel I have always taken note of, even in just a cursory way.
Women wearing nylons.
Ever since the night I found out that my cousin Nikki transforms into the most ticklish person on the planet when she wears nylons, I’ve found that I have been taking note of other women in my life who wear nylons frequently. And, I mean… A LOT do! I guess I shouldn’t really be all that shocked, though, right?
OK, so first… work. I mean, I work in a professional office setting, so yeah, pantyhose, while not necessarily a written part of a dress code, are without a doubt the norm for women working there. It’s sort of implied that you should wear pantyhose if you’re wearing a dress or a skirt, but I guess I never noticed until recently how many women wear pantyhose even when they’re wearing dress slacks. I’ll have much more to talk about regarding some of the women I work with, though, so stay tuned!
My mom, of course… And my Aunt Carol. I mean, they practically live in nylons. But they’re from a different generation. Not to call them old by any means, of course. Heck, my mom just got carded the other day trying to buy some wine (and she won’t shut up about it, either!). But as you know, they always believe in looking their nicest because “you never know who you will run into”, so it’s not uncommon for them at all to be dressed to some degree even when for a trip to the supermarket.
A lot of women in the building wear pantyhose, too. I suppose that’s the area that most caught me off-guard. I guess I never realized how many young professional women we have living in this building. I’ve seen them getting into and out of their cars in the morning and later in the evening and, sure enough, they’re all a lot like me --- no doubt heading into their job in the city, needing to look their finest. But I’m amazed at how many I see maybe later in the evening, down in the laundry room or at the mailboxes, who are still wearing pantyhose even hours after work.
Of course, noticing all of these women wearing pantyhose so often got me thinking… I wonder how many of them are ticklish. I mean, I have to assume that they ALL are ticklish, right? Again, like I’ve said before, I firmly believe that every single human being is ticklish to some degree. I guess I’m more wondering how often someone in their lives takes advantage of the fact that they’re wearing pantyhose and ticklish… I mean, the temptation would have to be there for someone, right? Your wife or your girlfriend or even just your roommate comes home from a long day at the office, and she kicks off her shoes as she enters the place. She’s walking around the house, with only the pantyhose covering her feet… I have to assume that you’d know that she’s ticklish, right? If you’re living with the person, I have to assume that there’s some degree of familiarity with whether or not the person is ticklish.
So now I’m always super curious when I hear female laughter coming from another apartment as I walk down the hall… Did someone just catch her? Did someone else in the apartment finally take advantage of her ticklish situation? Oh, to be a fly on the wall, right?
But that’s enough gabbing on my part. I told you I had a story, right?
So it involved my best work friend, Samantha. I use the term “best work friend” more because we met at work. I’d say we’re friends outside of work at this point, too. I mean, I don’t hang out with her as much as I do some of my other friends or anything, but we’ve definitely grabbed dinner or gone to the mall together a few times after work. And at work, yeah, she is my total go-to person. My “don’t go out to lunch without me” person. My “you’re never going to believe the meeting I just sat in” person. You get the idea.
Samantha is… How should I describe her? Samantha is someday going to make some guy very happy. Samantha is beautiful. Samantha is funny. She’s smart. She’s energetic. She’s bubbly. She’s.. Did I mention she’s beautiful? Haha OK, so maybe there’s just a little jealousy shining through there… She’s average height, I’d say - maybe about 5’4”, give or take. Average weight. Dirty blonde hair. The bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. And she’s got these little freckles all around her nose, a nose that kind of crinkles up when she smiles. I honestly have no idea how she’s single. But you didn’t come here to listen to me go on and on about her, of course…
So Samantha, like the rest of us, falls under the umbrella of women in the office who wear pantyhose often. Any time she is wearing a dress or a skirt, of course, she has pantyhose on, but it was Samantha whom I first started noticing wearing pantyhose under dress slacks, as well. It was a Friday afternoon. Everyone wanted to clock out for the day and head into the weekend. I walked over to Samantha’s cubicle to just shoot the breeze for a little bit, but something caught me in my tracks as I was walking over. Samantha was sitting at her desk on her chair, as she usually does. She was super focused on the monitor, whatever she was doing (I’d later find out she was shopping!). Samantha’s left leg sat as “normal”, but it was Samantha’s right leg that I noticed. It was resting underneath Samantha’s body so that her right foot was sticking out from under her, off to the side. Samantha’s left heel was still on her foot, but her right heel was laying on its side on the floor under the chair. That meant that peeking out from under her left leg was Samantha’s shoeless right foot, clad only in a pair of suntan pantyhose.
Very rarely have I ever been so tempted to reach down and lightly tickle a foot as I was Samantha’s. It was just… there. Oblivious. As if it had a giant bullseye right on its arch, almost BEGGING someone to walk by and tickle it.
Of course, that wouldn’t have been professional. And though, yes, Samantha and I were work besties, I had no idea if she was even ticklish or not at that point. Well, I mean, again, I assumed she was. But I had no idea HOW ticklish. Or how she’d react to being tickled. Would she scream, calling the attention of everyone in the office to us to see what had happened? Would she look at me like I was a weirdo? No, it was simply too risky. No matter how tempting it might be… No matter how ticklish that foot might look… I just couldn’t go through with it.
“Earth to Jamie,” I heard, pulling me back to reality.
“Wha?” I asked, reorienting myself to where I was. Jamie had noticed me standing by the entrance to her cubicle and, apparently, had been saying hi to me while I had been lost in thoughts of tickling her foot. “Oh, hey,” I said, finally.
“Looks like someone could really use the weekend,” Samantha said with a laugh, looking back at her computer screen again.
“Yeah, sorry,” I said, still reorienting myself. “It’s been a long week.”
“I was getting paranoid there,” Samantha said. “The way you were staring at my foot, I didn’t know if I had a run in my nylon or something,” she stated.
“Oh, no,” I said, awkwardly, realizing now that she had seen me staring. “I just,” I stammered, sitting down in the extra chair in her cubicle. “I never realized you wore nylons even under slacks.”
“Yup, sure do,” Samantha confirmed absentmindedly, still scrolling through the different blouses available on the website. She paused her scrolling for a moment and looked up, as if giving the matter some serious thought. “I guess I’m just so used to wearing them that it’s become second nature.”
“Yeah,” I said with a laugh, the kind of nervous laugh one makes when one doesn’t know what to say next. “Same here,” I said. There. That would do.
Samantha turned and looked at me. Did she think this was weird? Should I not have said anything? “You know,” she said. “I’ve even found myself wearing them on weekends,” she said. “Uh-huh,” she continued, responding to the feigned look of shock on my face. “You know, under a pair of jeans or whatever. I definitely ditch the dresses on the weekend,though” she said, going back to her website scrolling.
“Oh, wow,” I said, not sure what the “right” reaction to that was. “Yeah, I guess I’ve done that myself a few times, too,” I said.
“Oh, shoot,” Samantha said, pulling herself from her computer screen. “I almost forgot I have to bring these boxes up to the 18th floor for processing,” she said, looking at a small stack of document boxes sitting on the L portion of her desk. “Care to take a walk with me?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said, getting up so I was out of the way. “Here, let me grab some of the boxes for you,” I offered.
“Thanks,” she said, “but I’ve got them. They’re not that heavy. Plus, maybe I can count this as my arm workout for the day, right?” she added with a laugh, picking up her boxes. It was a seemingly harness exchange, one that goes down between friends multiple times a day, I am sure. The offer of assistance. The gracious decline of said help. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. Except it unknowingly started into motion the snowball that would begin rolling down the hill, starting the process of everything that was about to happen that day.
When we got to the elevator, I again offered my assistance, though she again politely declined. And it was then when I noticed it. Or rather, noticed them.
Her sides.
Of course, carrying the boxes required both of Samantha’s arms. And given the size of the boxes, Samantha had to hold her arms out away from her sides a bit - you know, to get her arms around the edges of the boxes. But that position meant that her arms were no longer covering her sides. And the fact that her arms were otherwise occupied with the boxes meant that her arms would not be able to cover her sides even if she wanted --- without dropping the boxes, of course. So that meant both of her sides --- and yes, even a little bit of her underarm --- were left completely unprotected.
I could literally feel the devious smile slowly forming on my face.
I couldn’t. Could I? I mean, sure, I physically could. There was literally nothing physically blocking me from a well-placed poke to the side, just to gauge Samantha’s reaction. But morally, could I? I mean, Samantha and I were friends, but were we “Ooops, didn’t mean to tickle you” friends? The more I thought of it, though, the more I realized that we were that kind of friends -- or at the very least progressing towards the level of friendship. Our friendship was certainly strong enough that I could explain away an innocent little poke to her side, that is. If I came after her wielding feathers in both hands, that would be a different story…
Then, of course, there was the ever-present hurdle of handling any counter tickle attack. Yes, finding out that my cousin Nikki was so insanely ticklish after all of these years had ignited something of a tickle monster inside of me, but despite that, I still had to face my own weaknesses. As someone who has been known to giggle from a gust of wind brushing my own hair against my neck, I’m acutely aware of the fact that any counter tickle attack - regardless of the target or even the quality of such an attack - would likely render me helpless, myself. And as it was, wearing pantyhose myself, I knew I was at my most vulnerable. Still, though, it seemed a safe bet. For one, any counter tickle attack from Samantha would require her dropping the boxes that she was carrying, which was unlikely to happen. And for another, even if she did drop the boxes, it wasn’t very likely that she would tackle me to the floor, toss my heels to the side, and go to town tickling my feet at work. THAT would DEFINITELY make people talk. Haha So I felt pretty confident that there would be no counter tickle attack to contend with
But at work? Could I tickle her at work? Even if it were just a little poke? Like before, there was still the fear of the unknown. Not so much if Samantha would be mad or not, but rather, if she’d be TOO ticklish. The last thing I’d want is for her to drop the boxes and then have to try to explain to people what caused her to drop the boxes. Or if she were to yell in surprise… Or even if the tickle were to occur without incident, but someone saw it happen and took it the wrong way… No, if I were to tickle her, I would want to make sure no one else was able to see what had happened. And then I remembered…
The elevator! Oh my gosh, if luck would have it so that the elevator were empty when we got on, it would be the PERFECT setting. No one would be there to see. Even if she did yell or scream in surprise, no one would hear it.
*BING* And the doors open…
...and of course the universe won’t throw me a bone! There were three other people in the elevator when we got on, so we crammed into the corner to make it so we could all fit in. Well, so much for that, right? It was all set up so perfectly. The plan was foolproof.
*BING* The doors open again…
Could it be? No, it couldn’t… Is this actually going to work out for me? SHUT THE FRONT DOOR! All three of the other people got off on the very next floor. FINALLY! The elevator doors closed shut, sealing Samantha in the space with her would-be tickler.
“I hate these elevators,” Samantha said, making conversation. “They always take so long to start moving again after someone gets off.”
To be honest, I usually hated that about our elevators, as well. But not today…
“Yeah, you’d think they’d spend the money to update them,” I said, going along with the conversation to make my inching closer to Samantha as inconspicuous as possible. “You sure you’ve got those boxes?” I was now right behind Samantha, perfect positioning for a quick poke to her sides.
Samantha laughed. “I think you’re underestimating my strength,” she said with a he-man-like grunt. “I’ve got this totally under control.”
“If you say so,” I said, my target fully set. I decided to start safely - one finger along the small of her back. I figured that could easily be explained away as removing a piece of lint from her shirt or something if she got mad but would still hopefully produce enough of a ticklish sensation to get some response.
It was the response I was after. It was the response that would determine the next course of action. What if she sat there stone-faced, not even registering the feeling? What if just that alone tickled her enough to get her to jump or something? So many what if’s… It was time to do it.
The elevator still hadn’t moved again when my right hand began inching its way towards Samantha’s back. Given where I was standing, Samantha had no way of seeing what my right hand was doing. She was standing there completely oblivious to what was about to happen to her. It was… kind of cute, in a way.
“I swear,” Samantha began. “I don’t know why they do--OOOHHHH!!!” I never did find out what she didn’t know, for when my finger made contact with the small of her back, she practically jumped out of her skin. It wasn’t an overly ticklish touch. I just made sure to make it seem like I might have been removing a piece of lint from the back of her shirt, as was the plan. And the plan worked perfectly.
“Oh, sorry,” I said. “You had a string on your shirt.”
We sat in silence for a second, but it seemed like an eternity. I couldn’t see the look on her face, but boy do I wish I could have been reading her mind at that moment. I mean, my touch had tickled her. There was no doubt about it. Sure, maybe she could chalk some of her reaction up to not expecting the touch, but that was at least an 80% ticklish response.
And now she had to sit in that awkward state of trying to determine what her next step would be. Her friend from work had just touched her back to get a piece of string off. That touch had so tickled Samantha that she gasped out loud and arched her back forward as much as she could to avoid the tickly touch. Now, she stood there, her friend potentially now knowing how ticklish she is, with her sides still completely vulnerable because she was holding those boxes. This was a make-or-break decision for Samantha.
Would she just state the obvious and admit it tickled her? Doing so would, of course, carry the risk of perhaps telling me something that I hadn’t realized. I mean, not that it wasn’t completely obvious that the touch had tickled her, but she didn’t know that that had been my intent all along. In her mind, I may have just been focused on the string and the string alone and not even processed that the touch may have tickled her. So under that thought process, she could employ the strategy of not saying anything at all - just sort of hoping that her paroxysm went unnoticed. In the slight chance that I hadn’t noticed, not only would Samantha free herself from any future tickles, but the mere idea of her ticklishness wouldn’t even be mentioned. Of course, her not acknowledging the tickle could only serve to further motivate me to poke and prod to find the reason for the reaction. It was the classic conundrum any ticklish person found herself in after the initial discovery of her ticklishness.
Of course, I smelled blood, so like a shark in the water, I went in for more.
“Oh, you have another one over here,” I said, and gripped my thumb and pointer finger in a pinching motion and grabbed the string off the side Samantha’s blouse, making sure that the tips of my fingernails made contact with her sensitive skin underneath that blouse.
“EEEEEE,” she squealed, contorting her body as best she could to move her sides away from the ticklish touch of my pinching fingers. “Man, these boxes are getting heavy,” she said, attempting to explain away her random movements - and also likely hoping to take me up on my offer of holding some of those boxes so my hands would no longer be free to roam.
“We’re almost there,” I said. “You got this.”
I wasn’t letting her off this easy. I wanted to see her sweat. I wanted to see her standing there nervously, wondering if she had any more strings on her blouse anywhere. Wondering at what angle the next touch would come. Wondering if she would be able to contain herself once she felt the touch.
Of course, I wanted nothing more than to dance my fingers along both of her sides at the same time. To give her a full-on tickle assault. To count each of her ribs through her silky blouse. To hope to perhaps find a sliver of bare skin as the blouse becomes ruffled. To snake my fingers into the hollow of her underarms and wiggle away. To hear her laughter. To have it fill the elevator space with its sound. To feel her body press against mine, trying to push me away. To hear her heels clanging against the floor as she squirmed trying to get away. To hear her beg for mercy. For her to cry out my name, begging for the tickling to stop. And then, as it did stop, to see her standing and recovering, still giggling, trying to regain her composure. My God, I wanted that…
But, of course, luckily for Samantha - and me, as well - the elevator buzzed binged and we had reached our destination. The doors pulled apart and Samantha quickly scurried out of the elevator and into the open hallway, her sides still exposed and vulnerable but now with the protection of there being witnesses. As she turned to make sure I was also getting off of the elevator - and likely to also shield her sides from my fingers - I could have sworn I saw a slight smile on her lips. We were clearly friends before this, but the sight of the smile helped ease any concern that she may have been mad about it.
She eventually dropped off her boxes where they had to go, and it was back down to our desks for the two of us, without any further incident.
But that wouldn’t make for much of a fun story, right?
“What do you say we go grab something to eat after work?” Samantha asked on the elevator ride down. “I mean, unless you have plans already…”
“No,” I said, knowing I generally don’t have plans on Friday night, anyways. I’m at the point of my life where Friday night is generally a stay-in-and-veg kind of night. “Yeah, that sounds good,” I said. So, we finalized our plans and before you know it, we were seated at a booth at O’Larkey’s, our favorite after-work pub.
“Whew,” I said after the hostess handed us our menus. “What a work week.”
“Yeah,” agreed Samantha. “Always nice to reach the weekend.”
We continued with work-related small talk for a bit, complaining about office politics and whatnot - the same as most everyone else in the establishment, I’m sure. But there was one topic of conversation I wanted to bring up… One question I wanted to ask…
“Can I get you girls a beverage to start?”
No, that wasn’t the one question I wanted to ask. Our waitress had walked over to our table to greet us. Her name was Caitlin, or so her name badge said. I’m sure they use fake names. She was slightly younger than Samantha and I - still in college, I’d guess, but definitely finishing up soon. Or so I would guess. She was pretty. Attractive. Maybe slightly below average height. Skinny. Definitely skinny. A wavy, light brown hair style that only somewhat hid her face that bore the traditional O’Larkey’s pound of makeup, as required by its waitresses. She wore the traditional O’Larkey’s uniform, as well: a loose-fitting t-shirt that had O’Larkey’s written across the left chest and across the back, a pair of denim Daisy Duke shorts, a pair of suntan pantyhose, and a pair of ankle boots. Old Man O’Larkey knew how to bring in a crowd, that’s for sure.
We ordered a glass of wine each, andCaitlin brought them over to us as we mulled over the menu, debating whether we were going to make pigs of ourselves or simply order the salad. In the end, the nachos were too tempting, so we agreed to order the shareable size. We put our menus off to the side and waited for our waitress to come back. It was a Friday night, prime time, so of course it was busy there. And loud. We were almost a full glass of wine down and our waitress hadn’t returned yet.
“So,” I said, finally mustering up the confidence - albeit liquid confidence - to ask Samantha what I had wanted to ask her. “I never knew you were so ticklish.” There. I said it.
“Ticklish?” Samantha asked, her facial expression showing she was both caught off-guard by my statement and trying to come up with some explanation to her reaction other than being ticklish. “Why do you think I’m ticklish?” she asked, playing dumb. She was a horrible actress.
“Oh, no reason,” I said, taking another sip of my wine. “It’s just that you nearly jumped out of your skin when I touched your side in the elevator earlier today,” I said, presenting the facts into evidence.
“Oooh, that!” Samantha said, again doing an absolutely horrible job of pretending to only now realize what I was talking about. “Yeah, I guess I am a little ticklish,” she said in a low voice, clearly struggling to get the words out.
I raised my eyebrow in disbelief.
“What?” she asked.
“A little ticklish?” I asked. “Samantha, I barely even touched you and if you didn’t have those boxes in your hands, you would have jumped through the ceiling in the elevator.”
Samantha laughed at my observation, realizing I wasn’t wrong. “OK, OK, fine,” she said. “I’m ticklish. There. You happy?”
My blank stare showed her I was still calling her bluff.
“OK, fine!” she said, folding once again. “Very ticklish. Is that better?” she asked.
“It’s a start,” I said with a laugh, fully believing her ticklishness went way beyond even “very ticklish” but not wanting to push my luck. Fortunately for me, the wine had loosened any inhibition Samantha might have had, as well.
“My roommates tickle me all the time,” she continued. “It’s so bad.”
“Awww,” I said, making my best mushy-face. “That’s cute.”
“Not when you’re trying to get control of the television, it’s not,” she said with a laugh, offering me a brief glimpse into what her home life was like. “All they have to do is just threaten to tickle me,” she said, wiggling her fingers in the air as an example, “and they know I’ll fold.”
“Oh my gosh,” I said, laughing at what she described. “That’s adorable. I had no idea you were so ticklish.”
“Well,” she said, “you don’t just go around broadcasting your biggest weakness to people, do you?”
“Biggest weakness?” I asked, my curiosity certainly piqued.
“Mmmhmmm,” she said while taking another sip of wine. “I would make for a horrible CIA spy. One tickle and I’m toast,” she said with a laugh.
“Oh, so now I know how to get you to do some extra work on all these projects we have, huh?” I asked with a slightly devious smile.
“Don’t you dare,” she said, playing along.
“I just have to do this, right?” I asked teasingly, wiggling my fingers in the air as she had done earlier.
“Oh my gosh,” she said with a laugh, playfully kicking me under the table. “You’re such a brat,” she said, kicking me again.
At this second kick, though, I was prepared. Expecting it, I put some slight distance between my legs under the table, ensuring that Samantha’s foot would hit nothing but the air between my legs. As soon as I felt her foot breeze by, I clamped my legs closed again, securing her leg in place underneath the table.
“Hey!” she said with another laugh. “Give me back my leg,” she ordered.
“Nope,” I said. “Not if you’re going to just keep kicking me,” I explained. “Besides, I have an idea,” I said, an air of mystery in my words.
“What idea?” Samantha asked, confused. Either she was doing a great job of acting dumb here or the poor girl really did have no idea what was going to happen next. Her response told me it was the latter.
I inconspicuously reached my right hand under the table and dragged the tip of one fingernail along the top of Samantha’s trapped foot. If she didn’t know before, Samantha knew exactly what was about to happen now.
She jumped with such force, she banged into our table, almost spilling what was left of her wine. Her eyes bugged out of her head as if she were a cartoon, the sudden realization of what was happening hitting her all at once.
“Oh my God, Jamie,” she said, her words both a command and a signal of the level of anxiety she now had. “Don’t you dare.”
“Don’t I dare what?” I asked - my turn to play dumb.
“Jamie,” she said with urgency, getting as close to me as she could from across the table. “Not my feet. I’m not going to be able to control myself,” she explained, trying to pull her foot away but unable to do so with my force because of the legs of the table.
“Really?” I asked, my devious smile returning. “Why is that?” I asked, not sure what type of response I was expecting.
“Jamie, I’m so ticklish on my feet,” she said as quickly as she could get the words out. “This is so not fair.”
“Nobody said it had to be fair,” I said with a smile, letting her know it was still all in fun. “So, ahm,” I began to ask, slowly. “Would you say this is the weakest of the weakness down there?”
She looked at me for a moment, almost as if she wanted to laugh at how skilled a villainous character I was playing, but she knew she had more pressing issues to tend to. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, yes,” she repeated, wanting it to be known that she was a cooperating hostage in this situation, hoping for some leniency. “My feet are far and away my most ticklish spot,” she said. “Please, Jamie.”
“Good to know,” I said, simply, and began again lightly tracing a fingernail along the top of her trapped foot.
I suppose it could barely even be classified as a tickle. Much like earlier in the elevator, I mean, yes, I technically was trying to tickle her, but my touch was so light, so faint, that any individual not extremely ticklish might not even register the feeling. Unfortunately for Samantha, though, she was most decidedly NOT an individual who was not extremely ticklish, so every touch registered, sending shockwaves through her body.
Samantha brought both of her hands up to her head, blocking her face from view on both sides. Not that she had to, of course.. O’Larkey’s was usually very dimly lit, especially so under a table, and our booth in the back corner was mostly out of sight of everyone. Still, Samantha blocked her face from view of anyone --- except for me; I still had a full view sitting across from her.
I watched as an enormous smile formed on her face as my finger traced along, as her eyes squeezed shut trying to block out the tickly feeling, as she bit down on her lower lip every now and then so as not to squeak, as she pressed both lips together to keep any giggles contained within herself…
My tickling wasn’t even all that exemplary, to be honest. I had limited it right now to simply tracing one fingernail along whatever area of her foot I currently had access to. For now, that meant the top of her foot, from where her shoe curved up front to the line between her foot and her ankle, over to around her ankle bone -- really, anywhere I could find an accessible spot. Her pantyhose made the task very easy, as their smoothness allowed my fingernail to slip and slide wherever it might please. Her leg twisted and turned and tried to pull away, but all to no avail.
“Have you ladies decided what it’ll be tonight?” Caitlin asked, sneaking up on both of us. My tickling of Samantha’s foot ceased immediately, but I held her foot in place. I could feel her trying to pull it free from under the table, but again, she was limited because of the table legs underneath, and any show of extreme effort might draw attention to what was happening under the table.
“I’m going to have the nachos,” I said, forgetting that we had decided to split a serving of them.
“Good choice,” Caitlin said, jotting my order down on her notepad. “And for you?” she asked, turning to Samantha.
Samantha was caught off-guard, thinking that we were going to share the nachos. My momentary gaffe had thrown her for a loop. She opened the menu again as a stalling tactic.
“Ahm,” she said, holding the menu open with her right hand and tapping her chin with her left hand. And then I thought…
I couldn’t. Could I? ‘Sure I could’ I convinced myself.
Again, my right hand inconspicuously strayed underneath the table, unbeknownst to both Caitlin and Samantha. Like a slithering snake, it slid to its target - Samantha’s trapped foot - and lied in wait for the perfect opportunity.
“OK,” Samantha said, closing the menu and inadvertently giving me all of the advance notice that I needed. My finger got ready. “I think I’ll also have the na-AAAH,” she squealed, unable to get the word nachos out of her mouth before her brain registered my fingernail making contact with her foot again.
It took everything within me not to laugh.
“Sorry,” she said, clearly embarrassed. “I’ve had this, uh, dry cough all day,” she said, clearly lying but trying to come up with some reason for why she had just made a fool of herself. She shot me an evil glare.
“Yeah, the air in this place is very dry,” Caitlin agreed. “So nachos, too, you said?”
“Ye-AAAAH,” Samantha squealed again, my finger once again making contact with her foot under the table. Samantha feigned a cough to cover up her outburst. “Sorry,” she said, nervously pointing to her throat. “Cough.”
“I’ll bring you over some water,” Caitlin said with a laugh as she finalized the order and walked away.
“Oh my lord, Jamie,” Samantha said in the sternest voice she could muster with a whisper. “I am going to kill you, you know that?”
I laughed. “What’s wrong?” I asked, again playing dumb.
“You know very well what is wrong,” Samantha said in her most motherly “I mean business” tone. “Now let go of my foot this instant,” she said.
“Aww,” I said. “But I’m still having fun,” I whimpered.
Samantha laughed, too, her stern exterior melted away. “Why does your fun have to be at the expense of my ticklish feet?” she asked with a pouty face.
My right hand cupped the back of Samantha’s heel and gave it a quick tug, prying it loose from Samantha’s trapped foot - the nylons removing any resistance I may have encountered. “I haven’t even tried out the bottom of your foot yet,” I said with an evil smile.
Again, Samantha’s eyes bugged out of her head like a cartoon character as she realized what was about to happen. “Jamie, no,” she pleaded. “Not the bottom of my foot.”
“Why not?” I asked, tugging the shoe off a little more, teasingly.
“You saw how ticklish the top of my foot is,” Samantha urged. “The bottom is way worse.”
“Way worse?” I asked, feigning surprise.
Samantha shot me a look. “I’m going to die, you know,” she said, matter-of-factly. “You’re going to kill me with tickling,” she said. “On my death certificate, for cause of death, it will say foot tickling.”
“Tell ya what,” I offered. “If you can keep your shoe on, I’ll spare you any bottom-of-the-foot tickling,” I said. “But if it falls off…” I added, my voice trailing off.
“There’s literally no way…” Samantha began.
“My only offer,” I said, cutting her off.
“Fine,” she said, agreeing against her wishes. “Put my shoe back on, then.”
“Nope,” I said. “You’ve got to get it back on as I’m tickling.”
“That’s so not fair!” she said.
“Advantage to me, I guess,” I said with an air of supremacy.
“I have nylons on,” she said. “The shoe is going to just slip right off.”
“Well, you better do a good job getting it back on,” I replied.
“Fine,” she said, again knowing she didn’t have any leverage in this discussion. “But no touching the bottom?” she asked.
“I won’t touch the bottom,” I promised.
I felt her begin to try to twist and angle her foot so she could get her heel back inside. Right now, the majority of her foot was actually in her shoe. Her toes were still completely enclosed within the shoe, as was most of her arch. The only portion of her foot that wasn’t securely in the shoe was her heel. If she were able to get her heel back in the shoe, she might be able to twist and turn her foot enough to keep the shoe on and escape any further tickling. If she could just…
But she had two things going against her, one of which I didn’t even know at the time. First, she was right. With nylons on, that shoe was as good as off with any sort of disturbance. Unless that heel got back into the shoe, there was no way that shoe was doing anything but sliding off those nylons. But second - which I found out later - Samantha was wearing the exact WRONG pair of shoes for such a task. Usually one to prefer her shoes - especially heels - to be a little looser-fitting, these were the tightest pair of heels that Samantha owned. Sliding into them under normal circumstances usually required a finger for assistance. Trying to angle them back on under a table while someone tickled your foot would be outright impossible.
Outright impossible it was. I allowed Samantha a second or two head start, but then quickly set to work, briefly grazing the end of her leg where her foot begins with my fingernail. Samantha jumped, and any headway she had made in getting the shoe back on was quickly removed with one simple touch. In fact, the shoe now rested even more precariously than before. My finger traced a little lower and off to the side, where Samantha’s instep would be exposed.
Game over.
Samantha jumped so much she banged the table underneath, her shoe falling off into my hands. Game, set, and match.
“That was easy,” I said, setting her shoe off to the side of me.
“That wasn’t fair,” she whined. “You weren’t supposed to touch that spot.”
“THAT spot?” I asked, echoing her words. “Did I just happen to find the weakest of the weakest of the weak?” I said.
“That’s one of them,” she said, stopping herself as she realized she was giving away too much information. “Why do I have to be cursed into being so ticklish, anyways?” she asked, almost too loud.
“I don’t know the answer to that,” I said, “but it’s definitely working out for me right now.”
“Now can I have my shoe back?” she asked, rolling her eyes.
“What?” I asked. “No way. A deal’s a deal,” I said. “I get to test out the bottom of this foot now,” I reminded her.
“May I remind you that I stand no chance of holding any laughter in?” Samantha asked.
“Here’s your water,” Caitlin said, interrupting us again. Samantha breathed a heavy sigh of relief for the brief reprieve.
“Oh, thank you so much,” Samantha said.
“Better drink up,” said Caitlin. “So you don’t cough again,” she said. Samantha took a sip from her water to keep up the act.
“Your food will be ready shortly,” Caitlin said. “They just put the nachos in the oven now to melt the cheese.” She turned to Samantha. “And how are you? Did that help your throat?”
“Oh yes,” Samantha said. “Thank you so much. You don’t know how you saved me,” she said, her words pregnant in their meaning.
My right hand again slid under the table inconspicuously. That wine really WAS strong! Samantha’s foot hung in the air, still trapped by my legs. Its shoe had been removed, of course, leaving nothing to cover it except the pantyhose on her feet. Samantha sat there, confident that Caitlin’s presence would protect her. Boy was she wrong..
“Well, let me know if you need anything else,” Caitlin said, about to leave the table.
“Of cour-hahahahhaha” Samantha giggled, unable to contain the laughter as she mind registered my finger on the bottom of her foot. She pounded on the table, again almost knocking everything over.
“I’m sorry,” Caitlin said. “Are you - are you all right?” she asked, not sure what was wrong with her customer.
I ceased tickling.
“My FRIEND here,” Samantha said, composing herself. “She’s tickling my foot under the table,” she said, probably hoping that exposing what was going on would result in her release.
“What?” Caitlin asked with a laugh, not sure if she had heard correctly.
“She has my ankle trapped between her legs,” Samantha explained. “And she’s tickling the bottom of my foot,” she said, as if telling teacher on me.
Caitlin looked at me.
“It’s true,” I said, not hiding it. “She went to kick me under the table. I trapped her leg. She’s ticklish. Seemed to fit,” I said, explaining it as if it were the only logical thing to do.
“Oh my word,” Caitlin laughed. “I would legit die,” she said. “My feet are so ticklish,” she offered.
‘Are they really, Caitlin?” I asked myself in my mind, glancing down at her feet. “So are hers,” I said out loud with a smile, pointing to Samantha.
Caitlin looked under the table to see for herself what was happening. “Oh my word,” she repeated. “You’re wearing nylons, too? That is the absolute worst,” she said, as if offering sympathy to Samantha.
“My friend here is rather mean, isn’t she?” Samantha asked, happy to have an ally in this, seemingly.
“You have no idea,” Caitlin said, volunteering information as if she were the third friend at the table. “I am insanely ticklish on my feet when I have nylons on,” she confirmed. “I don’t let anyone near my feet when I have nylons on.”
“You have nylons on now,” I said, pointing out what I am sure she already knew.
“Yeah, they make us wear them,” Caitlin said. “I legit almost didn’t take the job because of that,” she said with a laugh. “When I get out of work, it’s almost like I need self-defense skills so I can get them off before someone tries to tickle me,” she said with a laugh.
“Would you tell my friend here that you’re going to have the cook spit in her food if she doesn’t give me my foot back?” Samantha joked.
Caitlin laughed. “Hey, I have nylons on, too,” she said, holding her hands up to show she wasn’t going to do anything. “I’m not getting involved in that,” she said, walking away to get our food.
Samantha and I looked at each other and laughed, coming to terms with the hilarity of everything that had happened. I let go of her foot - it would have been weird if I was still tickling her foot when Caitlin came back, right? - and she hurriedly put her shoe back on.
“You and I aren’t friends anymore,” she said sternly, though obviously joking.
“Aww,” I said, playing along. “I’m sorry. But like I said, now I know how to get you to do all of the work on projects at the office now,” I said, again wiggling my fingers in the air.
“Ha Ha Ha,” she mock-laughed. “You better hope you’re not ticklish, too, Jamie,” she said with evil intent.
“And here are your nachos,” said Caitlin, putting a big plate in front of both of us. We had more nachos than we knew what to do with. “Everything settled under the table?” Caitlin said with an awkward laugh.
“All protected,” Samantha said, showing her foot in her shoe from under the table. And from that moment on for the rest of the night, nachos were all anyone wanted to talk about. Caitlin even came back and sat with us for a little bit and ate some of the extra nachos we had.
But… I had better hope I’m not ticklish, too? What did she mean by that? What did she have in store? Had I awoken a monster?
Well, I need to head to bed. Tomorrow is another day, after all!
Your girl, Jamie
