Po Lazarus
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This is the fourth in a series I will be writing and sharing here on the fiction forum. As the title suggests they are instances from my life that almost belong on the ‘True Stories’ sub-forum (My favourite TMF area), but which I cannot in good conscience put on there and claim verisimilitude: they are based on real people (Names changed) and often on real situations and conversations, but I have embellished certain details, some related to the tickling, some related to the set up or other aspects of the anecdote. Some are exaggerations of real tickling incidents, some are fantasies thrust into my brain due to real happenings which could have gone that way, if the stars had aligned more or I had had a bit less inhibition at the time. I will not reveal which to the reader, I will simply write them as I wished they had happened, and how I sometimes think of them on those lonely, sexually frustrated nights that we all experience (Which I am experiencing a deluge of at present, as due to unfortunate circumstances that I won’t go into, I am living separately from my fiancé, which has spurred me to take a renewed interest in the TMF, and in erotic writing generally. I guess if you enjoy the stories, my loss is your gain!). They will all be presented autobiographically, in short story form. I hope you enjoy them. Feel free to leave feedback of course, just remember to be as respectful to me as I would always strive to be to you!
January 2022 Update: I’m stuck living apart from my fiancé again (Long, pandemic related story), so have dusted the writing off and thought I might as well share it where it may be read and appreciated. I hope you enjoy it, and would appreciate any feedback – a one word review is more helpful than no review at all!
I have split this into three parts: “Aisha: The Hated Colleague”, “The Barbecue” and “Hyper Ticklish”. The first is to establish the context of the incident, the second and third recount the incident itself. If you’re an impatient reader (or currently have your hand in a Southerly area), you can skip down to “The Barbecue” for the beginning of the tickling action.
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Aisha: The Hated Colleague
Have you ever had a colleague you genuinely despised? Someone who you disliked so intensely – and they you – that even years after you’ve finished working with them, just the mention of their name still makes you feel stressed and aggravated? I hadn’t, until I worked with Aisha. I’m not a particularly hateful person, and I try not to hold grudges as a rule, but I have accepted that this is a woman I will always have nothing but the most bitter feelings towards.
Usually, if there’s ever been a past disagreement or even a dislike of a co-worker, that feeling of animosity towards them will fade over time, or at least it does in my case. I can bring myself to speak to them politely and let bygones be bygones, should the occasion arise where I ever have to deal with them again. Not so with Aisha. She’s unique in her toxicity, and her behaviour towards me was so poisonous that she has inspired in me an undimmed feeling that I will just hate her for the rest of my life. There is only one reason I am glad I ever laid eyes on her: the incident I am about to relay.
I won’t bore the reader with the details of all of the various individual fallings out, shouting matches, sly political underminings and cases of open hostility that Aisha treated me to in the year or so that she worked under me. I’ll summarise it by saying that she was experienced and good at her job, but had been told it too often, which had made her feel indispensable and impervious to even the most delicately-worded constructive criticism or debate over the working practices that were in place before I took over the department.
To boot, she was an uncompassionate, impatient and cold character, absolutely the wrong person to have to step up their own workplace performance because they found themselves working under someone who wasn’t the most confident – and probably competent – in their new role, and after a promotion found himself inadvertently overseeing the work of an all-female team comprising nine headstrong women.
Whatever form of emotional intelligence it would take to show an ounce of sympathy towards someone who perhaps wasn’t, in all honesty, the right fit in their job (but still worked their arse off all the same), Aisha didn’t have it. She held it against me personally from minute one, and that enmity only increased as I became more stressed in the role and continued to make errors typical of someone new to any position.
I’m not doing the sexist thing. Everyone else tried to, when the subject of how difficult I found the role was treaded elsewhere in the building. I loved working with ‘The Girls’ (as they liked to be called); Men are actually at a Premium in my life: I come from a home full of women, and an extended family stuffed with them, and I have never felt uncomfortable if ever outnumbered by them, as many men are. In fact, on balance I probably feel more at ease around a large group of women than I do a large group of men.
So the problem wasn’t my attitude, or should I say: the problem wasn’t in how I acted, but merely the fact that I was a man. The previous department leader had been a woman, and I got the impression that in Aisha’s eyes that my gender had disrupted a previously happy all-female dynamic. I always felt this was slightly unfounded: she had generally cordial relations with the rest of the girls in the department, but wasn’t above blowing up at them either, and perhaps wasn’t as popular with them as she seemed to think she was.
Perhaps what I’m going to describe below would affirm this.
As the year ticked on, I found myself in the strange position of enjoying working with most of the team I oversaw, apart from the most influential member, who was fighting a battle to try and turn them against me. This made work at times a hellish experience and was a pretty unhappy time generally for me, and the morale of the team gradually waned. This was compounded when two of the girls decided their futures lay elsewhere, and got new jobs. They were both popular members of the team and we were all sad to hear it, albeit understanding as to why.
So it was remedial when one of them – a lovely woman named Nadia – decided she was going to invite us all over for a barbecue at her place on the weekend after they had both left. It was to be the first outing we would be attending as colleagues outside of work.
The incident itself took place at the barbecue, but something happened the day before that set my pulse racing, and is important to our story. I was in my usual mode of working at my desk, minding my own business, and Aisha was working at hers, which was next to mine. The girls were in their usual chattery mode, having an innocuous conversation about this and that, as was the norm every day. I tended to zone out when such conversations took place, aside from the odd joke or contribution if it was a conversation I could engage in.
In this case, however, I was snapped out of the zone by realising that they were talking about foot massages. Some were either bemoaning the fact that inattentive spouses never treated them to them, some were the reverse. Pedicures, and foot care were also being discussed in a typically mundane, workplace-chat manner. I kept my eyes on my screen but listened intently, as I have learned to do if a group of women innocently discuss this subject – in my experience, you never know when you’re going to be inadvertently treated to a first-class true tickling story.
The subject continued with a degree of banality until Aisha, as she often did, span around in her chair to face the group and automatically dominate the chat, assuming prominence with her elevated voice. This aggrieved me as it always did, but she came out with an unanticipated knockout: “I won’t go for pedicures, I do my own at home. And I never let my husband touch mine. My feet are far too sensitive…. The amount of times I’ve kicked him in the face! I can take about five seconds of it, but after that I just can’t tolerate it.”
There was no particular reaction from any of the group apart from a couple of noncommittal chuckles, and I obviously kept my instant arousal to myself. After silently recovering from hearing what to me was an extremely erotic admission, I returned to my work, feeling that that was all I would ever hear about Aisha’s apparently desperately ticklish feet.
Happily, this was unfounded, as I would discover the next day…
The Barbecue
Day of the barbecue. A lush, warm summer day. I started drinking early, as I had anticipated that most of the girls would too – often was the time that the Friday afternoon conversation would be prejudiced towards the incoming consumption of alcohol over the weekend. This was partly cultural, and also because the workplace had become a stressful place to be for all concerned, so we needed to blow off some steam.
When I arrived at Nadia’s, I realised I was right to assume there would be some premature revelry. I was the last to arrive, and most of the girls were already buzzing. The food hadn’t been served up yet and Nadia had an outdoor bar in the corner of her back garden, which was working overtime as we drank and cut loose. I took the last remaining seat, which was opposite a large pallet bench that five of the girls – Jan, Melissa, Helen, Aisha and Chima – were sat on, pretty maids all in a row.
The atmosphere was nice, and even Aisha had apparently decided to temporarily suspend being horrible towards me, and was generally much less uptight than she was usually found to be at work. She had relaxed her usual employer-enforced formal appearance and this seemed to contribute towards it: she had a summer dress on, black leggings, and bare feet inside of back-strapped blue sandals. I hadn’t seen her feet before and I noticed matching blue polish on the toes of her pristine-looking feet, which poked suggestively at the front of the sandals.
It occurs to me that I haven’t described Aisha physically yet, so let me do it now. I always felt that something contributing to her wider arrogance was the fact that Aisha was a physical knockout. In her mid-thirties, she was trim and short, with jet black hair and a beautiful face: high cheekbones and, when she chose to use it, a lovely smile. Her brown eyes would gaze at you intently when she stared you down, and there was an ethereal loveliness to them, even when they were used to intimidating effect. She was a few years older than me, but looked at least five years younger, and kept in shape.
I remember once, in a pit of frustration, blurting out “I feel fucking sorry for her husband, the poor bastard!” to a confidant, expressing my frustration with her after one of our many rows. I certainly stand by that notion even now, as being married to her must have been hard work but her husband, whoever he was, would certainly have considered himself physically gratified by the beauty of his wife, even if probably wedded in a state of eternal conflict (She would reference arguments at home regularly whilst at work).
We proceeded to have a merry afternoon and evening. The food when it came was luscious and we all simultaneously discovered we felt liberated from being outside of workplace inhibitions. Profane, barbed banter soon became the norm, and the light ribbing I usually received from the girls for being “A typical man” took on a sharper nature, whilst remaining pally and very funny. No harm done. I gave as good as I got, banter-wise, and at one point sank back contentedly in my seat and continued working my way through the supply of beer I’d brought along, thinking I was in for a nice, pleasant night. Then, something extraordinary happened which smashed me out of my stupor, almost to the point of sobriety.
I was chatting to Nadia’s husband, who had joined us briefly for a drink along with a few other neighbours and friends of the hosts, who had filled the garden out somewhat. He was sat in the chair next to me, so I was chunnering away with him whilst still able to see the girls sat across from me. I didn’t hear what was being said, but I became vaguely aware of raised voices amongst the girls across from me. It was soon clear that Aisha had said something especially cheeky to Chima, the oldest member of the team, who was sat at the end of the pallet bench, to Aisha’s right.
Chima was the oldest member of the team. She was from Western Africa and was often playfully mocked for her advanced years, despite not even being fifty, and retaining an elegant beauty. People would refer to her as “Mum” or “Auntie”, and base their piss-taking around that. It seemed that Aisha had said something to her concerning this which had crossed the line, albeit teasingly. It also seemed that this was not the first such comment that Aisha had ill-advisedly directed at Chima so far that evening.
I heard Chima say something like “That’s it!!!”, and watched as she moved her hand around Aisha’s back. Aisha was too busy laughing at her own joke to notice this, but I could see where it was going instantly. Chima covertly drew her already-flexing fingers up to Aisha’s side, and pounced. Aisha jumped up in her seat, and yelped loudly at the unexpected ticklish sensation in her side. Chima really went for it, increasing Aisha’s decibel level as she tickled almost aggressively. Naturally, this was noticed by the rest of the group, who laughed at the jocund sight of a grown woman being tickled as a punishment for being too sassy.
Chima joined in the audible communal enjoyment of Aisha’s hyperreaction, and seemed encouraged by it. Inching closer to Aisha, she then took her free hand and began squeezing Aisha’s left knee. This brought further laughter and protestations, of course, but also caused something awesome to happen. As Chima increased the intensity of her attack, Aisha involuntarily fell over to her left, into Chima, leaning against her pathetically and inadvertently kicking her legs up into the air. This was when things got really interesting.
Quick as lightning, Helen (Tall, mid-40s, adorable) – who was sat to Aisha’s left – leant forwards and grabbed hold of Aisha’s legs. She looked at Chima conspiratorially, the two of them sharing a look which communicated almost telepathically what they were about to do. Helen drew Aisha’s kicking legs towards her, and Chima began shifting Aisha into more of a prone position, moving her into her lap. This was apparently easy to do as Aisha had become physically weakened by the tickling, which combined with her slight frame rendered her body easy to manipulate.
Aisha seemed lost in the chaos, still laughing her head off, and didn’t seem to be fighting it. Or perhaps she couldn’t, as the two of them were much bigger than her. In any case, I watched this, laughing along and spectating keenly along with Nadia’s husband, who had joined me in pausing our conversation to watch the unfolding ruckus. I wondered if it was going where I thought it was, and willed it to be so.
Then the other two girls got in on it. My heart rate increased, and I knew then that it was going to be unforgettable, if it transpired as I hoped.
Melissa (curvy, pretty, early twenties) and Jan (cute, plump thirtysomething), who were sat further down the bench, saw what Helen was trying to do and Melissa said something to Helen, which I couldn’t hear. What I did know was that Helen was now passing Aisha’s flailing ankles down the line towards the other two girls, who pulled her towards them. This in turn lifted Aisha up, so that after they were done stretching her out her head was in Chima’s lap, her arms and torso landed in Helen’s, her legs were now being held by Melissa and her ankles were conveniently parked in Jan’s lap. You don’t need to be a genius to fathom what happened next.
Chima had been forced to stop tickling Aisha as her initial targets had drifted away from her down the bench, but all concerned were still laughing giddily and boisterously. The five girls were leading the merriment, but everyone in the small garden had stopped their various conversations and had turned their undivided attention to what was happening on the pallet bench, attracted by the noise. Chima waited for the racket to naturally subside, before looking down devilishly at Aisha, who was still laughing from her newfound predicament. I could see her start to struggle, but there was no way she was getting out of their clutches as Helen leaned on her arms as Melissa held her legs.
“You are not so cocky now, huh? What were you saying, I’m your GRANDMA?!”, Chima mocked in her Pidgin English, aware that she was entertaining the whole crowd.
Aisha started to stammer out insincere and woozy apologies, but Chima batted them off with a hand.
“I have had enough of you – so big-headed all of the time! Jan!! Time to get her feet!!” At this, Aisha’s laughter quickly died and she boomed out a panicked “NOOOOOOOOO! PLEASE!!! NO!!!!!!” She began sputtering protestations of varying alarm, ending one with: “I SAID YESTERDAY HOW SENSITIVE MY FEET ARE!!! I…. I….”
“…Can’t tolerate it!!!” chimed Jan and Melissa in tandem, looking at each other, beaming as they echoed what Aisha had casually revealed yesterday. I wondered now whether that conversation had anything to do with what was happening. Not that it mattered to anybody concerned, least of all Aisha, who was now regretting that admission in the extreme.
My eyes were stuck fast on Jan. A Nuclear bomb could have gone off in the garden behind us, and I wouldn’t have looked away. Chuckling, she slipped her fingers under the straps of Aisha’s sandals, and hooked them off, one at a time, placing them neatly next to each other on the bench at her side. Aisha’s feet – which looked to me to have the sheen of a fresh pedicure – were flapping up and down, but that was the limit of her struggle: Melissa was holding her legs down firmly by the ankle, so any further escape was impossible. Jan continued her genial snickering as she began to scrape her nails up and down Aisha’s helpless soles.
The reaction that followed contained such electricity as to power an entire suburb.
Hyper Ticklish
To my mind, there are three types of ticklish people. Two of them are self-prescribed, the other is my own classification.
Firstly, there are people who typically say they’re “A bit ticklish” (Or something similarly vague), who you can’t usually really get to scream or panic when probing their sensitivity, because they just don’t physically experience the sensations to anything beyond a noticeable degree. Better than not being ticklish at all, but often frustrating to a keen tickler. Tickling is nothing more than a curiosity to them.
Then, there are people who’d generally say they’re “Really ticklish” (or some parallel everyday way of expressing magnitude) who’ll laugh wholeheartedly and even endure an intense tickling for a period of time, as long as it doesn’t go on for too long. These people can be extremely physically ticklish, but enjoy it nonetheless as part of horsing around with friends or family, from time to time, or perhaps flirting with somebody. Tickling is a light-hearted, harmless pursuit to them.
At the top of the scale – or perhaps off it – there are the ‘Hyper ticklish’ (My own unoriginal term, which I’ve sadly never heard self-applied, although a close friend of mine who falls into this class once charmingly described her own feet as off limits due to being “Über ticklish"). These unfortunate people are so unreasonably body-sensitive that the tickling act isn’t fun to them, if it goes on beyond a few seconds or sometimes if it even occurs at all. It becomes a torturous assault, a psychological and physical raid on the senses, the freaked-out reaction to which will often discourage a casual tickler, who doesn’t want to genuinely upset them. Tickling is a true ordeal to them.
Aisha, I now observed, was very much in the Hyper ticklish category.
I could tell this by her initial reaction to Jan’s fingers running all over her soles. You see, rather than merely going “Hahahahaha”, as a “Really ticklish” person might upon feeling the nails on their skin, there was a subtle but noted difference in Aisha’s vocalisation. She went: “AAAAAAAARGH-HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”, the beginning of the laughter an uncontrolled, cacophonous, guttural shout which was the only way she could conceivably express her discomfort with having her feet tickled with such unrestrained abandon. I could see her stomach contract as she screamed, the laughter truly being forced from her, as if she were being exorcised. It seemed she had not been exaggerating when she had claimed her feet were of such sensitivity that she couldn’t tolerate them being touched, let alone tickled.
As I said, sometimes the hyperreaction of a Hyper ticklish ‘lee will sometimes deter the ‘ler, who is naturally taken aback by their distress and doesn’t want to legitimately torture them. I worried that this would be the case for a second, as all four girls recoiled slightly in unison at the sheer volume of Aisha’s hysteria, and had to increase their efforts in holding Aisha’s thrashing body, to stop her from falling to the floor and hurting herself.
To my relief, however, they all began laughing sinisterly, in an “Evil Big Sister” type tone which communicated their collective enjoyment at seeing Aisha in such a state of panic over something as childish as tickling. They clearly saw this as still within the bounds of light fun, and this doomed Aisha to a fate that they couldn’t possibly comprehend (Although I could!). I feel that the level of drunkenness in the group probably influenced this, as they were feeling more wicked than usual and were also too sozzled to notice the difference between the “Really ticklish” reaction and the “Hyper ticklish” reaction that we were being treated to.
I paid attention to Jan’s technique, which was outstanding. I knew Jan fairly well, and knew that she was the matriarch of a large family, and I took this to mean that she had probably tickled a few helpless feet in her time. She certainly performed as though she had. She was intently leaning to her right, so that she could see the soles head-on as she tickled them, observing where her nails went, maximising her effectiveness, a small smile across her face which would widen to a satisfied grin when she would elicit more shrieking from her hapless prey. Her focus was terrific, especially when compared to the half-hearted ticklers who so often disappoint you when witnessing tickling from afar in the public domain.
I had given Jan a ride home on several occasions and saw her as a benign, pleasant presence in the team, and good company outside of work. I had no idea that such a sadistic tickler could have resided within her. To my hidden delight, after a minute or so she kicked off her own flip flops and nonchalantly stretched out her legs, resting her own fleshy feet on the warm concrete.
I noticed that when she did something particularly devastating to Aisha’s soles, her toes would twitch and flex instinctively, and I inferred that she was probably pretty ticklish herself and could only imagine the ravaging effect that her fingers were having on her victim’s unbearably tender feet. Occasionally she would look down the bench to observe Aisha’s hysteria, and seemed intoxicated by the fact that her fingers were what was causing it.
She was absorbed, in full experimentation mode, alternating her approach and seeing what would elicit the wildest laughter and protestations from Aisha. She would tickle both feet simultaneously, with wiggling fingers held upright against the soles, or would focus on one singularly, gripping the big toe of a foot between thumb and finger of one hand, and spider tickling inside the arch with her free hand. She would also pinch Aisha’s ankles together at the bottom with a firm hand, pressing the feet together so that she could skitter her fingers across the receptive soles as they were held in place. She would hold a single foot fast at the heel, and strum the toes, getting in between them and singling them all out individually for a thorough teasing. This all conspired to drive Aisha absolutely bananas, and entertained the enraptured crowd no end.
As Jan happily tortured Aisha’s feet, Chima began to caress Aisha’s forehead theatrically, seemingly feeling some sympathy for her but enjoying seeing her get her comeuppance far too much to intervene. She began to taunt her.
“You are a very cheeky girl, Aisha! You shouldn’t have spoken to your grandmother that way!” This drew widespread laughter from the audience, but Aisha was experiencing too much torment to even hear her properly.
“Now we know what to do with you when you come into work in a bad mood!” Chima was a naturally funny woman, and revelled in this kind of display.
“If you don’t sort out your attitude, we will have to start doing this more often, and take these little piggies to market every day!” More laughs.
Such was Aisha’s hysterical laughter, it was hard to tell whether it was influenced solely by the tickling or by Chima’s performative mock-outrage, which was perfectly wholesome in tone; I began to sense it was only me, as a tickle enthusiast, who knew the extent of the genuine suffering that they were putting Aisha through. But I didn’t care, as I was being treated to my very own revenge tickle by-proxy. I thought of all the stress the bitch had caused me, and sank back in my chair, sipping my beer, wondering how long this marvel would continue.
Then…
“STOP!!!”
It came from the back door of the house.
Everybody’s head turned to where the voice had come from. Jan stopped tickling, and Aisha got her breath back after a few seconds of laboured breathing. The shout had come from Nadia, who had been tidying up inside the house, and now stood at her back door.
“What are you doing to this poor girl?!”
Aisha sensed her opportunity to escape. “Nadia, help me!!! They’re torturing me!!! I can’t stand it!!!” Hearty laughs throughout the crowd; seemingly no one other than me sensing that Aisha wasn’t particularly exaggerating: this was torture for her.
Nadia raised an eyebrow. “You’re making her really loud, guys! Half the street will hear it! Why are you tickling her, is she being grumpy?”
Chima replied: “No, she’s being a cheeky granddaughter!” More crowd-pleasing.
“Please Nadia, get them off me!!!” Aisha begged.
Nadia smiled, and walked over to the bench. “Well, if she’s being cheeky to her grandma, she must deserve it…” – Aisha had started to shout in remonstration already – “… but you’re being very rude, guys! I am the host!” She took a seat next to Jan. “You should let me have a go!”
Aisha then showed the extent of her desperation, by looking to me for support: “Po! You can make them stop!!! Get them off me!!!”
I felt all of the eyes in the garden fall on me, the girls looking over expectantly. “Well, I’m sorry Aisha, but I can only tell them what to do inside of work, not outside, in their free time. It’s the law, actually…” This got a decent laugh from everybody apart from Aisha, who began to panic again as she felt Nadia begin another round on her feet. She yelled: “NO!!!!! NOT AGAIN!!!! NADIA, I-AAAAAAAARGH-HAHAHAHAHAHA!”
Jan dutifully performed the role that Melissa previously had, and was holding Aisha’s ankles down, giving Nadia full access to the restrained feet. I realised the context of the situation: that Nadia had technically left the day before, and very likely this was a Goodbye party. In all likelihood, we wouldn’t see each other again. So she had nothing to lose in terms of Aisha being pissed off with her – she might as well tickle her; prolong her embarrassment. She had been no stranger to Aisha’s workplace moodiness and I speculated inwardly whether or not whether the tickling was mildly cathartic for her.
It was as I debated this that I simultaneously learned that Nadia was just as effective a tickler as Jan was. Her technique didn’t have the same variation, but she took great pride in having long, manicured nails, and she just held them upright underneath Aisha’s soles, peppering them with multiple rapid attacks. It was mere seconds before Aisha was howling again, and the general laughter of the group began anew, freshly captivated by the development of a new cast member.
I noticed – again with unbridled inner delight – that despite starting the evening shoed, Nadia had kicked them off inside at some point, and her dainty, tanned, naked feet now sat beside Jan’s on the floor, soles facing me, driving me internally wild. Her toenails were painted the same sexy dark red as her fingernails, which were edging me in another way altogether as she drove Aisha mad with them. Watching subtly, I noticed her cute toes occasionally flexing in the same way that Jan’s had, perhaps as an involuntary physical expression of ticklish empathy? If it was, it was about to become enhanced even further.
I’m not sure what prompted it, but a look of realisation came upon Melissa’s face. With Jan now having moved from the role of tickler to tickle-enabler, Melissa didn’t need to hold Aisha’s legs anymore. I saw the moment it dawned on her, and she took her hands away experimentally. Aisha’s feet were still being held down adequately by Jan, being tormented by Nadia’s talons.
Melissa looked down curiously, then grabbed for Aisha’s knees, wriggling her fingers in the stretched-out hollows underneath. I hadn’t thought it possible for Aisha to get louder, but she did, looking down the line as if to visually confirm that Melissa was now tickling her knees. Melissa, laughing to herself, nudged Helen with her elbow.
A chain reaction was sparked. Helen leant towards Chima, and said something to her which was inaudible due to the commotion and raucous laughter; Aisha was guffawing at the top of her lungs. I could take a guess as to what Helen had said, as Chima grabbed Aisha’s wrists and began to flex her arms above her head. This freed up Helen, who had previously been designated to holding Aisha’s arms down. The fight had gone out of Aisha, and she just physically couldn’t resist any more. Helen looked down into her eyes with relish, before taking her digits to Aisha’s armpits. The four women had turned into nothing other than a deathly efficient tickling machine.
Aisha shut her eyes, and screeched as loudly as she could into the night air. I could see that she had truly entered tickling hell, and as Helen began to alternate between her armpits and her taut stomach, silent laughter took her, earning fresh mockery from the four tormentors. She was no longer laughing: more convulsing; her very being sapped from her through the incessant tickling meted out to her by her overzealous colleagues. I became glad that I was sitting out of the way of this, and that no attention was directed at me, as I was so unbearably aroused I wasn’t sure I’d be able to control myself much longer.
Thankfully Aisha saved me from a potential embarrassment, as she began to cough. Probably out of panic, as the laughter had left her, she had tried to suck in too much air at once and it had caught in her throat. Chima noticed it first and yelled “STOP!”. The girls quickly took heed, and sat Aisha up, gradually returning her to a semblance of vitality.
She shook in her seat, utterly frazzled, and once her strength had returned, began to whack the arms of both Chima and Helen, who were either side of her. The noise of the party struck back up, and after saying something along the lines of “Well, that was unexpected… So, what were we talking about?” to Nadia’s husband I continued the conversation I had been in with him before it had all kicked off.
Subsequently, the tickling was mentioned at work a couple of times before I myself left the job – however, the regular, domineering Aisha had returned and would not entertain the discussion in that arena, and that was that. The lamentable natural order restored. I was relieved to finally leave, when the time came, and if I never see Aisha again it will be too soon. But I’ll always be grateful to have known her, it will always have been worth it, for the eternal memory of discovering that she was among the hyper ticklish people of the world, and that one day, she got what was coming to her.
January 2022 Update: I’m stuck living apart from my fiancé again (Long, pandemic related story), so have dusted the writing off and thought I might as well share it where it may be read and appreciated. I hope you enjoy it, and would appreciate any feedback – a one word review is more helpful than no review at all!
I have split this into three parts: “Aisha: The Hated Colleague”, “The Barbecue” and “Hyper Ticklish”. The first is to establish the context of the incident, the second and third recount the incident itself. If you’re an impatient reader (or currently have your hand in a Southerly area), you can skip down to “The Barbecue” for the beginning of the tickling action.
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Aisha: The Hated Colleague
Have you ever had a colleague you genuinely despised? Someone who you disliked so intensely – and they you – that even years after you’ve finished working with them, just the mention of their name still makes you feel stressed and aggravated? I hadn’t, until I worked with Aisha. I’m not a particularly hateful person, and I try not to hold grudges as a rule, but I have accepted that this is a woman I will always have nothing but the most bitter feelings towards.
Usually, if there’s ever been a past disagreement or even a dislike of a co-worker, that feeling of animosity towards them will fade over time, or at least it does in my case. I can bring myself to speak to them politely and let bygones be bygones, should the occasion arise where I ever have to deal with them again. Not so with Aisha. She’s unique in her toxicity, and her behaviour towards me was so poisonous that she has inspired in me an undimmed feeling that I will just hate her for the rest of my life. There is only one reason I am glad I ever laid eyes on her: the incident I am about to relay.
I won’t bore the reader with the details of all of the various individual fallings out, shouting matches, sly political underminings and cases of open hostility that Aisha treated me to in the year or so that she worked under me. I’ll summarise it by saying that she was experienced and good at her job, but had been told it too often, which had made her feel indispensable and impervious to even the most delicately-worded constructive criticism or debate over the working practices that were in place before I took over the department.
To boot, she was an uncompassionate, impatient and cold character, absolutely the wrong person to have to step up their own workplace performance because they found themselves working under someone who wasn’t the most confident – and probably competent – in their new role, and after a promotion found himself inadvertently overseeing the work of an all-female team comprising nine headstrong women.
Whatever form of emotional intelligence it would take to show an ounce of sympathy towards someone who perhaps wasn’t, in all honesty, the right fit in their job (but still worked their arse off all the same), Aisha didn’t have it. She held it against me personally from minute one, and that enmity only increased as I became more stressed in the role and continued to make errors typical of someone new to any position.
I’m not doing the sexist thing. Everyone else tried to, when the subject of how difficult I found the role was treaded elsewhere in the building. I loved working with ‘The Girls’ (as they liked to be called); Men are actually at a Premium in my life: I come from a home full of women, and an extended family stuffed with them, and I have never felt uncomfortable if ever outnumbered by them, as many men are. In fact, on balance I probably feel more at ease around a large group of women than I do a large group of men.
So the problem wasn’t my attitude, or should I say: the problem wasn’t in how I acted, but merely the fact that I was a man. The previous department leader had been a woman, and I got the impression that in Aisha’s eyes that my gender had disrupted a previously happy all-female dynamic. I always felt this was slightly unfounded: she had generally cordial relations with the rest of the girls in the department, but wasn’t above blowing up at them either, and perhaps wasn’t as popular with them as she seemed to think she was.
Perhaps what I’m going to describe below would affirm this.
As the year ticked on, I found myself in the strange position of enjoying working with most of the team I oversaw, apart from the most influential member, who was fighting a battle to try and turn them against me. This made work at times a hellish experience and was a pretty unhappy time generally for me, and the morale of the team gradually waned. This was compounded when two of the girls decided their futures lay elsewhere, and got new jobs. They were both popular members of the team and we were all sad to hear it, albeit understanding as to why.
So it was remedial when one of them – a lovely woman named Nadia – decided she was going to invite us all over for a barbecue at her place on the weekend after they had both left. It was to be the first outing we would be attending as colleagues outside of work.
The incident itself took place at the barbecue, but something happened the day before that set my pulse racing, and is important to our story. I was in my usual mode of working at my desk, minding my own business, and Aisha was working at hers, which was next to mine. The girls were in their usual chattery mode, having an innocuous conversation about this and that, as was the norm every day. I tended to zone out when such conversations took place, aside from the odd joke or contribution if it was a conversation I could engage in.
In this case, however, I was snapped out of the zone by realising that they were talking about foot massages. Some were either bemoaning the fact that inattentive spouses never treated them to them, some were the reverse. Pedicures, and foot care were also being discussed in a typically mundane, workplace-chat manner. I kept my eyes on my screen but listened intently, as I have learned to do if a group of women innocently discuss this subject – in my experience, you never know when you’re going to be inadvertently treated to a first-class true tickling story.
The subject continued with a degree of banality until Aisha, as she often did, span around in her chair to face the group and automatically dominate the chat, assuming prominence with her elevated voice. This aggrieved me as it always did, but she came out with an unanticipated knockout: “I won’t go for pedicures, I do my own at home. And I never let my husband touch mine. My feet are far too sensitive…. The amount of times I’ve kicked him in the face! I can take about five seconds of it, but after that I just can’t tolerate it.”
There was no particular reaction from any of the group apart from a couple of noncommittal chuckles, and I obviously kept my instant arousal to myself. After silently recovering from hearing what to me was an extremely erotic admission, I returned to my work, feeling that that was all I would ever hear about Aisha’s apparently desperately ticklish feet.
Happily, this was unfounded, as I would discover the next day…
The Barbecue
Day of the barbecue. A lush, warm summer day. I started drinking early, as I had anticipated that most of the girls would too – often was the time that the Friday afternoon conversation would be prejudiced towards the incoming consumption of alcohol over the weekend. This was partly cultural, and also because the workplace had become a stressful place to be for all concerned, so we needed to blow off some steam.
When I arrived at Nadia’s, I realised I was right to assume there would be some premature revelry. I was the last to arrive, and most of the girls were already buzzing. The food hadn’t been served up yet and Nadia had an outdoor bar in the corner of her back garden, which was working overtime as we drank and cut loose. I took the last remaining seat, which was opposite a large pallet bench that five of the girls – Jan, Melissa, Helen, Aisha and Chima – were sat on, pretty maids all in a row.
The atmosphere was nice, and even Aisha had apparently decided to temporarily suspend being horrible towards me, and was generally much less uptight than she was usually found to be at work. She had relaxed her usual employer-enforced formal appearance and this seemed to contribute towards it: she had a summer dress on, black leggings, and bare feet inside of back-strapped blue sandals. I hadn’t seen her feet before and I noticed matching blue polish on the toes of her pristine-looking feet, which poked suggestively at the front of the sandals.
It occurs to me that I haven’t described Aisha physically yet, so let me do it now. I always felt that something contributing to her wider arrogance was the fact that Aisha was a physical knockout. In her mid-thirties, she was trim and short, with jet black hair and a beautiful face: high cheekbones and, when she chose to use it, a lovely smile. Her brown eyes would gaze at you intently when she stared you down, and there was an ethereal loveliness to them, even when they were used to intimidating effect. She was a few years older than me, but looked at least five years younger, and kept in shape.
I remember once, in a pit of frustration, blurting out “I feel fucking sorry for her husband, the poor bastard!” to a confidant, expressing my frustration with her after one of our many rows. I certainly stand by that notion even now, as being married to her must have been hard work but her husband, whoever he was, would certainly have considered himself physically gratified by the beauty of his wife, even if probably wedded in a state of eternal conflict (She would reference arguments at home regularly whilst at work).
We proceeded to have a merry afternoon and evening. The food when it came was luscious and we all simultaneously discovered we felt liberated from being outside of workplace inhibitions. Profane, barbed banter soon became the norm, and the light ribbing I usually received from the girls for being “A typical man” took on a sharper nature, whilst remaining pally and very funny. No harm done. I gave as good as I got, banter-wise, and at one point sank back contentedly in my seat and continued working my way through the supply of beer I’d brought along, thinking I was in for a nice, pleasant night. Then, something extraordinary happened which smashed me out of my stupor, almost to the point of sobriety.
I was chatting to Nadia’s husband, who had joined us briefly for a drink along with a few other neighbours and friends of the hosts, who had filled the garden out somewhat. He was sat in the chair next to me, so I was chunnering away with him whilst still able to see the girls sat across from me. I didn’t hear what was being said, but I became vaguely aware of raised voices amongst the girls across from me. It was soon clear that Aisha had said something especially cheeky to Chima, the oldest member of the team, who was sat at the end of the pallet bench, to Aisha’s right.
Chima was the oldest member of the team. She was from Western Africa and was often playfully mocked for her advanced years, despite not even being fifty, and retaining an elegant beauty. People would refer to her as “Mum” or “Auntie”, and base their piss-taking around that. It seemed that Aisha had said something to her concerning this which had crossed the line, albeit teasingly. It also seemed that this was not the first such comment that Aisha had ill-advisedly directed at Chima so far that evening.
I heard Chima say something like “That’s it!!!”, and watched as she moved her hand around Aisha’s back. Aisha was too busy laughing at her own joke to notice this, but I could see where it was going instantly. Chima covertly drew her already-flexing fingers up to Aisha’s side, and pounced. Aisha jumped up in her seat, and yelped loudly at the unexpected ticklish sensation in her side. Chima really went for it, increasing Aisha’s decibel level as she tickled almost aggressively. Naturally, this was noticed by the rest of the group, who laughed at the jocund sight of a grown woman being tickled as a punishment for being too sassy.
Chima joined in the audible communal enjoyment of Aisha’s hyperreaction, and seemed encouraged by it. Inching closer to Aisha, she then took her free hand and began squeezing Aisha’s left knee. This brought further laughter and protestations, of course, but also caused something awesome to happen. As Chima increased the intensity of her attack, Aisha involuntarily fell over to her left, into Chima, leaning against her pathetically and inadvertently kicking her legs up into the air. This was when things got really interesting.
Quick as lightning, Helen (Tall, mid-40s, adorable) – who was sat to Aisha’s left – leant forwards and grabbed hold of Aisha’s legs. She looked at Chima conspiratorially, the two of them sharing a look which communicated almost telepathically what they were about to do. Helen drew Aisha’s kicking legs towards her, and Chima began shifting Aisha into more of a prone position, moving her into her lap. This was apparently easy to do as Aisha had become physically weakened by the tickling, which combined with her slight frame rendered her body easy to manipulate.
Aisha seemed lost in the chaos, still laughing her head off, and didn’t seem to be fighting it. Or perhaps she couldn’t, as the two of them were much bigger than her. In any case, I watched this, laughing along and spectating keenly along with Nadia’s husband, who had joined me in pausing our conversation to watch the unfolding ruckus. I wondered if it was going where I thought it was, and willed it to be so.
Then the other two girls got in on it. My heart rate increased, and I knew then that it was going to be unforgettable, if it transpired as I hoped.
Melissa (curvy, pretty, early twenties) and Jan (cute, plump thirtysomething), who were sat further down the bench, saw what Helen was trying to do and Melissa said something to Helen, which I couldn’t hear. What I did know was that Helen was now passing Aisha’s flailing ankles down the line towards the other two girls, who pulled her towards them. This in turn lifted Aisha up, so that after they were done stretching her out her head was in Chima’s lap, her arms and torso landed in Helen’s, her legs were now being held by Melissa and her ankles were conveniently parked in Jan’s lap. You don’t need to be a genius to fathom what happened next.
Chima had been forced to stop tickling Aisha as her initial targets had drifted away from her down the bench, but all concerned were still laughing giddily and boisterously. The five girls were leading the merriment, but everyone in the small garden had stopped their various conversations and had turned their undivided attention to what was happening on the pallet bench, attracted by the noise. Chima waited for the racket to naturally subside, before looking down devilishly at Aisha, who was still laughing from her newfound predicament. I could see her start to struggle, but there was no way she was getting out of their clutches as Helen leaned on her arms as Melissa held her legs.
“You are not so cocky now, huh? What were you saying, I’m your GRANDMA?!”, Chima mocked in her Pidgin English, aware that she was entertaining the whole crowd.
Aisha started to stammer out insincere and woozy apologies, but Chima batted them off with a hand.
“I have had enough of you – so big-headed all of the time! Jan!! Time to get her feet!!” At this, Aisha’s laughter quickly died and she boomed out a panicked “NOOOOOOOOO! PLEASE!!! NO!!!!!!” She began sputtering protestations of varying alarm, ending one with: “I SAID YESTERDAY HOW SENSITIVE MY FEET ARE!!! I…. I….”
“…Can’t tolerate it!!!” chimed Jan and Melissa in tandem, looking at each other, beaming as they echoed what Aisha had casually revealed yesterday. I wondered now whether that conversation had anything to do with what was happening. Not that it mattered to anybody concerned, least of all Aisha, who was now regretting that admission in the extreme.
My eyes were stuck fast on Jan. A Nuclear bomb could have gone off in the garden behind us, and I wouldn’t have looked away. Chuckling, she slipped her fingers under the straps of Aisha’s sandals, and hooked them off, one at a time, placing them neatly next to each other on the bench at her side. Aisha’s feet – which looked to me to have the sheen of a fresh pedicure – were flapping up and down, but that was the limit of her struggle: Melissa was holding her legs down firmly by the ankle, so any further escape was impossible. Jan continued her genial snickering as she began to scrape her nails up and down Aisha’s helpless soles.
The reaction that followed contained such electricity as to power an entire suburb.
Hyper Ticklish
To my mind, there are three types of ticklish people. Two of them are self-prescribed, the other is my own classification.
Firstly, there are people who typically say they’re “A bit ticklish” (Or something similarly vague), who you can’t usually really get to scream or panic when probing their sensitivity, because they just don’t physically experience the sensations to anything beyond a noticeable degree. Better than not being ticklish at all, but often frustrating to a keen tickler. Tickling is nothing more than a curiosity to them.
Then, there are people who’d generally say they’re “Really ticklish” (or some parallel everyday way of expressing magnitude) who’ll laugh wholeheartedly and even endure an intense tickling for a period of time, as long as it doesn’t go on for too long. These people can be extremely physically ticklish, but enjoy it nonetheless as part of horsing around with friends or family, from time to time, or perhaps flirting with somebody. Tickling is a light-hearted, harmless pursuit to them.
At the top of the scale – or perhaps off it – there are the ‘Hyper ticklish’ (My own unoriginal term, which I’ve sadly never heard self-applied, although a close friend of mine who falls into this class once charmingly described her own feet as off limits due to being “Über ticklish"). These unfortunate people are so unreasonably body-sensitive that the tickling act isn’t fun to them, if it goes on beyond a few seconds or sometimes if it even occurs at all. It becomes a torturous assault, a psychological and physical raid on the senses, the freaked-out reaction to which will often discourage a casual tickler, who doesn’t want to genuinely upset them. Tickling is a true ordeal to them.
Aisha, I now observed, was very much in the Hyper ticklish category.
I could tell this by her initial reaction to Jan’s fingers running all over her soles. You see, rather than merely going “Hahahahaha”, as a “Really ticklish” person might upon feeling the nails on their skin, there was a subtle but noted difference in Aisha’s vocalisation. She went: “AAAAAAAARGH-HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”, the beginning of the laughter an uncontrolled, cacophonous, guttural shout which was the only way she could conceivably express her discomfort with having her feet tickled with such unrestrained abandon. I could see her stomach contract as she screamed, the laughter truly being forced from her, as if she were being exorcised. It seemed she had not been exaggerating when she had claimed her feet were of such sensitivity that she couldn’t tolerate them being touched, let alone tickled.
As I said, sometimes the hyperreaction of a Hyper ticklish ‘lee will sometimes deter the ‘ler, who is naturally taken aback by their distress and doesn’t want to legitimately torture them. I worried that this would be the case for a second, as all four girls recoiled slightly in unison at the sheer volume of Aisha’s hysteria, and had to increase their efforts in holding Aisha’s thrashing body, to stop her from falling to the floor and hurting herself.
To my relief, however, they all began laughing sinisterly, in an “Evil Big Sister” type tone which communicated their collective enjoyment at seeing Aisha in such a state of panic over something as childish as tickling. They clearly saw this as still within the bounds of light fun, and this doomed Aisha to a fate that they couldn’t possibly comprehend (Although I could!). I feel that the level of drunkenness in the group probably influenced this, as they were feeling more wicked than usual and were also too sozzled to notice the difference between the “Really ticklish” reaction and the “Hyper ticklish” reaction that we were being treated to.
I paid attention to Jan’s technique, which was outstanding. I knew Jan fairly well, and knew that she was the matriarch of a large family, and I took this to mean that she had probably tickled a few helpless feet in her time. She certainly performed as though she had. She was intently leaning to her right, so that she could see the soles head-on as she tickled them, observing where her nails went, maximising her effectiveness, a small smile across her face which would widen to a satisfied grin when she would elicit more shrieking from her hapless prey. Her focus was terrific, especially when compared to the half-hearted ticklers who so often disappoint you when witnessing tickling from afar in the public domain.
I had given Jan a ride home on several occasions and saw her as a benign, pleasant presence in the team, and good company outside of work. I had no idea that such a sadistic tickler could have resided within her. To my hidden delight, after a minute or so she kicked off her own flip flops and nonchalantly stretched out her legs, resting her own fleshy feet on the warm concrete.
I noticed that when she did something particularly devastating to Aisha’s soles, her toes would twitch and flex instinctively, and I inferred that she was probably pretty ticklish herself and could only imagine the ravaging effect that her fingers were having on her victim’s unbearably tender feet. Occasionally she would look down the bench to observe Aisha’s hysteria, and seemed intoxicated by the fact that her fingers were what was causing it.
She was absorbed, in full experimentation mode, alternating her approach and seeing what would elicit the wildest laughter and protestations from Aisha. She would tickle both feet simultaneously, with wiggling fingers held upright against the soles, or would focus on one singularly, gripping the big toe of a foot between thumb and finger of one hand, and spider tickling inside the arch with her free hand. She would also pinch Aisha’s ankles together at the bottom with a firm hand, pressing the feet together so that she could skitter her fingers across the receptive soles as they were held in place. She would hold a single foot fast at the heel, and strum the toes, getting in between them and singling them all out individually for a thorough teasing. This all conspired to drive Aisha absolutely bananas, and entertained the enraptured crowd no end.
As Jan happily tortured Aisha’s feet, Chima began to caress Aisha’s forehead theatrically, seemingly feeling some sympathy for her but enjoying seeing her get her comeuppance far too much to intervene. She began to taunt her.
“You are a very cheeky girl, Aisha! You shouldn’t have spoken to your grandmother that way!” This drew widespread laughter from the audience, but Aisha was experiencing too much torment to even hear her properly.
“Now we know what to do with you when you come into work in a bad mood!” Chima was a naturally funny woman, and revelled in this kind of display.
“If you don’t sort out your attitude, we will have to start doing this more often, and take these little piggies to market every day!” More laughs.
Such was Aisha’s hysterical laughter, it was hard to tell whether it was influenced solely by the tickling or by Chima’s performative mock-outrage, which was perfectly wholesome in tone; I began to sense it was only me, as a tickle enthusiast, who knew the extent of the genuine suffering that they were putting Aisha through. But I didn’t care, as I was being treated to my very own revenge tickle by-proxy. I thought of all the stress the bitch had caused me, and sank back in my chair, sipping my beer, wondering how long this marvel would continue.
Then…
“STOP!!!”
It came from the back door of the house.
Everybody’s head turned to where the voice had come from. Jan stopped tickling, and Aisha got her breath back after a few seconds of laboured breathing. The shout had come from Nadia, who had been tidying up inside the house, and now stood at her back door.
“What are you doing to this poor girl?!”
Aisha sensed her opportunity to escape. “Nadia, help me!!! They’re torturing me!!! I can’t stand it!!!” Hearty laughs throughout the crowd; seemingly no one other than me sensing that Aisha wasn’t particularly exaggerating: this was torture for her.
Nadia raised an eyebrow. “You’re making her really loud, guys! Half the street will hear it! Why are you tickling her, is she being grumpy?”
Chima replied: “No, she’s being a cheeky granddaughter!” More crowd-pleasing.
“Please Nadia, get them off me!!!” Aisha begged.
Nadia smiled, and walked over to the bench. “Well, if she’s being cheeky to her grandma, she must deserve it…” – Aisha had started to shout in remonstration already – “… but you’re being very rude, guys! I am the host!” She took a seat next to Jan. “You should let me have a go!”
Aisha then showed the extent of her desperation, by looking to me for support: “Po! You can make them stop!!! Get them off me!!!”
I felt all of the eyes in the garden fall on me, the girls looking over expectantly. “Well, I’m sorry Aisha, but I can only tell them what to do inside of work, not outside, in their free time. It’s the law, actually…” This got a decent laugh from everybody apart from Aisha, who began to panic again as she felt Nadia begin another round on her feet. She yelled: “NO!!!!! NOT AGAIN!!!! NADIA, I-AAAAAAAARGH-HAHAHAHAHAHA!”
Jan dutifully performed the role that Melissa previously had, and was holding Aisha’s ankles down, giving Nadia full access to the restrained feet. I realised the context of the situation: that Nadia had technically left the day before, and very likely this was a Goodbye party. In all likelihood, we wouldn’t see each other again. So she had nothing to lose in terms of Aisha being pissed off with her – she might as well tickle her; prolong her embarrassment. She had been no stranger to Aisha’s workplace moodiness and I speculated inwardly whether or not whether the tickling was mildly cathartic for her.
It was as I debated this that I simultaneously learned that Nadia was just as effective a tickler as Jan was. Her technique didn’t have the same variation, but she took great pride in having long, manicured nails, and she just held them upright underneath Aisha’s soles, peppering them with multiple rapid attacks. It was mere seconds before Aisha was howling again, and the general laughter of the group began anew, freshly captivated by the development of a new cast member.
I noticed – again with unbridled inner delight – that despite starting the evening shoed, Nadia had kicked them off inside at some point, and her dainty, tanned, naked feet now sat beside Jan’s on the floor, soles facing me, driving me internally wild. Her toenails were painted the same sexy dark red as her fingernails, which were edging me in another way altogether as she drove Aisha mad with them. Watching subtly, I noticed her cute toes occasionally flexing in the same way that Jan’s had, perhaps as an involuntary physical expression of ticklish empathy? If it was, it was about to become enhanced even further.
I’m not sure what prompted it, but a look of realisation came upon Melissa’s face. With Jan now having moved from the role of tickler to tickle-enabler, Melissa didn’t need to hold Aisha’s legs anymore. I saw the moment it dawned on her, and she took her hands away experimentally. Aisha’s feet were still being held down adequately by Jan, being tormented by Nadia’s talons.
Melissa looked down curiously, then grabbed for Aisha’s knees, wriggling her fingers in the stretched-out hollows underneath. I hadn’t thought it possible for Aisha to get louder, but she did, looking down the line as if to visually confirm that Melissa was now tickling her knees. Melissa, laughing to herself, nudged Helen with her elbow.
A chain reaction was sparked. Helen leant towards Chima, and said something to her which was inaudible due to the commotion and raucous laughter; Aisha was guffawing at the top of her lungs. I could take a guess as to what Helen had said, as Chima grabbed Aisha’s wrists and began to flex her arms above her head. This freed up Helen, who had previously been designated to holding Aisha’s arms down. The fight had gone out of Aisha, and she just physically couldn’t resist any more. Helen looked down into her eyes with relish, before taking her digits to Aisha’s armpits. The four women had turned into nothing other than a deathly efficient tickling machine.
Aisha shut her eyes, and screeched as loudly as she could into the night air. I could see that she had truly entered tickling hell, and as Helen began to alternate between her armpits and her taut stomach, silent laughter took her, earning fresh mockery from the four tormentors. She was no longer laughing: more convulsing; her very being sapped from her through the incessant tickling meted out to her by her overzealous colleagues. I became glad that I was sitting out of the way of this, and that no attention was directed at me, as I was so unbearably aroused I wasn’t sure I’d be able to control myself much longer.
Thankfully Aisha saved me from a potential embarrassment, as she began to cough. Probably out of panic, as the laughter had left her, she had tried to suck in too much air at once and it had caught in her throat. Chima noticed it first and yelled “STOP!”. The girls quickly took heed, and sat Aisha up, gradually returning her to a semblance of vitality.
She shook in her seat, utterly frazzled, and once her strength had returned, began to whack the arms of both Chima and Helen, who were either side of her. The noise of the party struck back up, and after saying something along the lines of “Well, that was unexpected… So, what were we talking about?” to Nadia’s husband I continued the conversation I had been in with him before it had all kicked off.
Subsequently, the tickling was mentioned at work a couple of times before I myself left the job – however, the regular, domineering Aisha had returned and would not entertain the discussion in that arena, and that was that. The lamentable natural order restored. I was relieved to finally leave, when the time came, and if I never see Aisha again it will be too soon. But I’ll always be grateful to have known her, it will always have been worth it, for the eternal memory of discovering that she was among the hyper ticklish people of the world, and that one day, she got what was coming to her.
