Tokyo_Tickler
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- Joined
- Sep 17, 2005
- Messages
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Another memorable incident with Yoshiko took place a couple of months after our second encounter. She called me out of the blue one evening and we arranged to meet for a drink later that same week.
We met in a deserted bar and ordered wine. Yoshiko was a bit down in the dumps, as her younger daughter was having some health problems. I listened to her relate her various tales of woe, and did my best to cheer her up. Sure enough, after a couple of glasses of wine, she became appreciably more cheerful.
The conversation turned to lighter matters, and we started discussing a major running event that was due to take place the following Sunday.
I would be competing with a team from my sports club, and some of Yoshiko’s friends (from a different gym) would also be taking part. The event is a marathon relay (“ekiden” in Japanese) and consists of teams of 14 runners. Each competitor runs 3 km before passing the team sash on to the next member of the team. Each team thus completes the full marathon distance of just over 42 km. The course runs around a small lake and is extremely well attended, with usually around 100 teams competing. My club alone usually entered four teams. As the token foreigner, I was usually indulged and allowed to run the prestigious anchor leg, although I was far from being the swiftest runner on our team. Essentially, it is a fun event, with some competitors running in fancy dress, and for the final sprint home I would usually don a purple and yellow afro wig (a relic from the Hong Kong Rugby Sevens) which I would conceal beforehand in the bushes lining the approach to the finish.
I asked Yoshiko if she would be coming to watch (she is not much of a runner herself) but she replied that the demands of the Japanese clothing retail industry made it a working day for her. I happened to complain in a light hearted fashion about the need for me to make an early start (teams were supposed to assemble at 8:00 for a 9:00 o’clock start gun), despite the fact that I would probably not have to run my leg until around 11:15. “Not sure if I’ll be able to wake up that early—especially on a Sunday! Think I might just have a lie in’ til 10 or so.” Somewhat disapprovingly, Yoshiko replied that that would be unfair on my teammates—particularly after they had so kindly allowed me to run the final stage. I protested that I found it hard enough getting up early on weekdays, and virtually impossible at weekends, and that my alarm clock had been playing up recently.
“I could come and wake you up.” Offered Yoshiko. I raised my eyebrows and an evil expression spread across her face. “Oh yeah?” I countered. She asked me which room of the house I normally slept in, and I told her that I used the one adjoining the small entrance area. “Do you leave the front door unlocked at night?” Yoshiko probed. I admitted that I did—Japan being an extremely safe country, it is not uncommon for people to leave their front doors unlocked while they are at home, or even when they go out. Yoshiko’s grin took on an altogether more evil aspect. “Well, just make sure there’s no one else with you on Sunday morning, then” (This has been a recurrent bone of contention between us.) I assured her that there would not be.
We left the bar soon after, kissed goodnight, and went our separate ways.
By Saturday night, I was pretty sure that she had simply been teasing me, and that she would not be coming round early the next morning to give me a morning call.
As it was, after packing my running gear ready for the next morning, I showered and retired to my futon, leaving the front door unlocked as I usually did. Clad in my usual sleep wear of t shirt and boxer shorts. I quickly fell asleep.
The description of what follows is based to a large extent on Yoshiko’s avid and triumphal account, as I heard it some days later.
She arrived at my front door shortly before 7:00 a.m. on the Sunday morning, having parked her car in a vacant lot around the corner. The drive from her place to mine had taken only five minutes at such an early hour. She knocked softly on the door a couple of times, but got no response. Slowly easing the sliding doors open, she stepped inside and slid the door closed behind her. In front of her were paper and wood screens, behind which was the room in which I had told her I would be sleeping. Slowly, she eased the paper screen open, and chuckled silently to herself at the sight that met her eyes. I had obviously passed a rather restless night and was lying on my right side on the futon, half in and half out of the duvet. She sat down on the raised floor, eased off her high heeled shoes and slid slowly across the room on her knees, towards my sleeping form, being careful not to make any sound. My upper body was still half wrapped in the duvet, and my head was buried in the pillow, but my bare legs and feet were largely exposed.
Kneeling close to my head, she put a finger to my nose and pressed it gently, as if it were a front door bell. This elicited no reaction, so she put her face up very close to mine, feeling my slow, even breath against her skin. Again, I did not react in any way.
She crept to the other end of the futon on her knees, savoring the moment.
It occurred to her that she had never actually tickled my feet before—on previous occasions she had concentrated mainly on my ribs and armpits.
Slowly she drew her index finger lightly up the sole of my right foot, from heal to toes, and then down the sole of my left, from the toes to the heal. At first, there was no reaction. She repeated the process, and my feet twitched violently in response. She waited a few seconds, and then resumed tickling my feet with her fingers. I began to wake up and looked over my shoulder at her in wide eyed surprise.
“Ohayo!” she said brightly (“Good morning” in Japanese).
I drew my knees up to my chest to avoid her tickling fingers, buried my head deeper into the pillow, and tried to go back to sleep.
Not to be ignored, Yoshiko tried a different tack. Moving closer towards me, she knelt beside my somnolent form and began tracing a finger very lightly up and down the backs and insides of my exposed bare thighs.
I was still two thirds asleep, but the maddening sensation was impossible to ignore, and I started grinding my hips into the futon. Yoshiko could not help laughing at the way her teasing fingers were driving me to hump my own futon.
I was now fully awake, but still could not quite believe what was happening to me. I turned over flat onto my back to get a good look at my tormentor. As always, Yoshiko was very smartly attired for work, this time in a full cream colored knee length dress that was sufficiently low cut and snug fitting to accentuate her generous cleavage without appearing too overtly sexy. Yoshiko smiled down at me and temporarily relented, running her hand up and down the insides of my thighs and giving me a beautifully sensual massage. This felt fantastic and had the effect of both relaxing me and arousing me even further.
I lay back and closed my eyes, sighing with pleasure. Perhaps sensing that her ministrations were not having the desired effect (getting me out of bed), Yoshiko decided to vary the tempo again and inserted an index finger up inside the leg of my boxers, very gently probing my balls. This tickled dreadfully, and I squirmed frantically in an effort to evade her teasing touch.
Perhaps sensing that I could not take this for long, she began to use firmer pressure on my balls, using several more fingers to produce a wonderfully erotic sensation. Again, I laid back and relaxed, and allowed her to do as she wished. As she smiled down at me, I rested one hand on her thigh, feeling the soft material of her cream colored dress. Running my hand down to her pretty rounded knee and up under her skirt, I began to caress her nylon clad thigh with my fingers and palm. Inching my hand higher, I eventually reached her stocking top and cool bare thigh. She laughed at my discovery and I groaned at the twin pleasures of feeling her touch and discovering her sexy secret.
Slowly I sat up, being careful not to inadvertently dislodge her hand, and pulled her to me with my other arm. I wanted Yoshiko badly and could hardly wait to make love to her. She did not respond with her usual passionate hungry kiss, however, but simply planted a chaste peck on my lips. This spurred me on even more and I started to pull her down onto the futon so that I could undress her more easily.
To my surprise, however, she resisted and squirmed out of my clutches. She retreated to the entrance, slid open the screen door, and stepped down into her shoes. Turning back towards me, she gave me a rueful grin, saying “Nothing like that before the race—you need to save your energy! Good luck!” I was stunned—I wanted her so badly, but she had just been teasing me all along, with no intention of taking things any further.
She slid the screen door shut, and disappeared from view. Calling out a final cheery “Sayonara!” she exited via the outer door, and I heard her heels clicking over the stones in the front garden as she returned to her car.
I was in utter turmoil—wanting Yoshiko so badly but left high and dry. I glanced at the clock and saw that it was now after 7:15. I would have to get a move on if I was going to be at the lake by 8:00. Tempting as it as to collapse back onto the futon, I gritted my teeth, jumped out of bed and pulled on my running kit.
As I cycled away from the center of town and towards the lake, I was still tingling all over, and could not stop thinking about the tickling and teasing I had just endured. However, my initial annoyance with Yoshiko gradually gave way to wry amusement at the thought of how well she had played me. In any case, it was a beautiful sunny early summer day, and as the morning wore on, I calmed right down and started preparing for the race.
Finally, it was my turn, and I grabbed the sash from our thirteenth runner and set off. I felt unusually strong and light footed as I ran through the trees and along the curving pathways that track the lake shore. As I reached the 1.5 km halfway turning point, I glanced at my watch, to see that my time was just under six minutes—somewhat faster than I had expected. During the second half of the run, I was constantly expecting tiredness to set in and my pace to drop. Surprisingly, however, I just seemed to get stronger and stronger, and to wild cheers from my teammates, I passed three other runners on my sprint to the tape. I collapsed over the finish line and lay down on the grass to recover. Checking my watch, I found that I had run the distance in just over 11 minutes—my fastest time ever by some considerable margin, and second fastest out of all the runners in our team. As a team, too, we had finished ten places higher than the previous year.
The whole event was rounded off with a barbecue by the lake, with the whole team basking in the warm glow brought on by our unprecedented success. One of the female instructors from our club, a girl called Mayumi who is a good friend of mine, came up and congratulated me on my fast time. Always quick to tease me about something (usually my weight or my age), she asked “How come you ran so fast today? You’re usually as slow a cart horse!” a mocking smile on her face. I was momentarily lost for words, but recovered quickly. Without thinking, I said “It’s a secret new training method that I’m trying out.” “Oh really?” She retorted. Up until that point, I had not really tried to analyze the reason for my fast time—I had just been enjoying the sense of satisfaction. However, Mayumi’s flippant question and my unthinking reply had set off a light bulb in my head. Had Yoshiko’s wake up call and my subsequent feelings of frustration sparked my energy levels to such heights that I had turning in the running performance of my life? “Want to let me in on the secret?” Mayumi asked me, nudging the joke forward. “Not sure I could explain it properly in Japanese—I’d have to demonstrate it.” As often happens at this kind of gathering, our conversation was interrupted (as Mayumi was called away by another instructor to supervise the club’s barbecue) and I was unable to elaborate further.
After the prize giving and the barbecue, our party started to wind down and the instructors collected everyone together for a group photo. (With four teams from our club, this involved 60–70 people.) A few runners had brought their own cameras and the instructor taking the pictures ended up with six or seven cameras around his neck. The photo shoot was a very informal affair, with everyone standing, sitting or lounging on the grass, still in their running gear. I was at the extreme right end of the line, sitting down and resting my weight on my arms stretched out behind me. Just as the instructor with all the cameras was about to start shooting, someone dived down onto the grass beside me, crashing into my side. I turned in surprise to see that it was Mayumi, rushing to make it into the shot. We grinned at each other, and I wrapped my right arm around her, gripping her tightly. (There was nothing particularly remarkable about this, as everyone was hamming it up for the camera.)
As the instructor taking the photographs started to shoot pictures, I took advantage of the general hubbub to whisper to Mayumi “I can show you that secret training method now.” With that, I reached across to put my left arm around her as well, to hold her tight, and started digging into her ribs with my right hand, which was already perfectly positioned. As I already knew from a couple of earlier incidents, Mayumi is extremely ticklish, and she shrieked with laughter as she vainly tried to wriggle free from my embrace. In the general hubbub of the unruly photo shoot, however, with laughter and clowning commonplace, no one seemed to even notice her predicament and her violent struggles. Mayumi is quite a strong woman, and very well built, but I was determined not to show her any mercy. Unfortunately for her, the instructor taking the photographs kept forgetting which camera he had already shot with, and which he had still to use. As a result, he must have shot at least a dozen pictures, during which time I clung fast to Mayumi, tickling her ribs whenever a picture was taken.
The resulting photographs—some of which were displayed at the club the following week—were a treat to behold. (As most of the other people in the photographs are also laughing, draping their arms around each other, and generally clowning around, Mayumi and I do not look at all out of place. However, on closer inspection you can see that I have clasped her tight to my side and that she is laughing fit to bust.)
The end of the group photo session signaled the end of the party, and everyone started to pack up and leave. I said good bye to my teammates (and a red faced Mayumi) before cycling off back to my house.
As I cycled home that sunny afternoon, I reflected on how eventful the day had been, and how full of the unexpected turns (Yoshiko’s abrupt departure in the morning, my fast time in the race, and the sudden opportunity to tickle Mayumi). Only one piece of business remained unfinished—I would definitely have to get my own back on Yoshiko for her early morning teasing.
In the end, though, I had to wait over a month before honor could be satisfied. That is another story, however.
We met in a deserted bar and ordered wine. Yoshiko was a bit down in the dumps, as her younger daughter was having some health problems. I listened to her relate her various tales of woe, and did my best to cheer her up. Sure enough, after a couple of glasses of wine, she became appreciably more cheerful.
The conversation turned to lighter matters, and we started discussing a major running event that was due to take place the following Sunday.
I would be competing with a team from my sports club, and some of Yoshiko’s friends (from a different gym) would also be taking part. The event is a marathon relay (“ekiden” in Japanese) and consists of teams of 14 runners. Each competitor runs 3 km before passing the team sash on to the next member of the team. Each team thus completes the full marathon distance of just over 42 km. The course runs around a small lake and is extremely well attended, with usually around 100 teams competing. My club alone usually entered four teams. As the token foreigner, I was usually indulged and allowed to run the prestigious anchor leg, although I was far from being the swiftest runner on our team. Essentially, it is a fun event, with some competitors running in fancy dress, and for the final sprint home I would usually don a purple and yellow afro wig (a relic from the Hong Kong Rugby Sevens) which I would conceal beforehand in the bushes lining the approach to the finish.
I asked Yoshiko if she would be coming to watch (she is not much of a runner herself) but she replied that the demands of the Japanese clothing retail industry made it a working day for her. I happened to complain in a light hearted fashion about the need for me to make an early start (teams were supposed to assemble at 8:00 for a 9:00 o’clock start gun), despite the fact that I would probably not have to run my leg until around 11:15. “Not sure if I’ll be able to wake up that early—especially on a Sunday! Think I might just have a lie in’ til 10 or so.” Somewhat disapprovingly, Yoshiko replied that that would be unfair on my teammates—particularly after they had so kindly allowed me to run the final stage. I protested that I found it hard enough getting up early on weekdays, and virtually impossible at weekends, and that my alarm clock had been playing up recently.
“I could come and wake you up.” Offered Yoshiko. I raised my eyebrows and an evil expression spread across her face. “Oh yeah?” I countered. She asked me which room of the house I normally slept in, and I told her that I used the one adjoining the small entrance area. “Do you leave the front door unlocked at night?” Yoshiko probed. I admitted that I did—Japan being an extremely safe country, it is not uncommon for people to leave their front doors unlocked while they are at home, or even when they go out. Yoshiko’s grin took on an altogether more evil aspect. “Well, just make sure there’s no one else with you on Sunday morning, then” (This has been a recurrent bone of contention between us.) I assured her that there would not be.
We left the bar soon after, kissed goodnight, and went our separate ways.
By Saturday night, I was pretty sure that she had simply been teasing me, and that she would not be coming round early the next morning to give me a morning call.
As it was, after packing my running gear ready for the next morning, I showered and retired to my futon, leaving the front door unlocked as I usually did. Clad in my usual sleep wear of t shirt and boxer shorts. I quickly fell asleep.
The description of what follows is based to a large extent on Yoshiko’s avid and triumphal account, as I heard it some days later.
She arrived at my front door shortly before 7:00 a.m. on the Sunday morning, having parked her car in a vacant lot around the corner. The drive from her place to mine had taken only five minutes at such an early hour. She knocked softly on the door a couple of times, but got no response. Slowly easing the sliding doors open, she stepped inside and slid the door closed behind her. In front of her were paper and wood screens, behind which was the room in which I had told her I would be sleeping. Slowly, she eased the paper screen open, and chuckled silently to herself at the sight that met her eyes. I had obviously passed a rather restless night and was lying on my right side on the futon, half in and half out of the duvet. She sat down on the raised floor, eased off her high heeled shoes and slid slowly across the room on her knees, towards my sleeping form, being careful not to make any sound. My upper body was still half wrapped in the duvet, and my head was buried in the pillow, but my bare legs and feet were largely exposed.
Kneeling close to my head, she put a finger to my nose and pressed it gently, as if it were a front door bell. This elicited no reaction, so she put her face up very close to mine, feeling my slow, even breath against her skin. Again, I did not react in any way.
She crept to the other end of the futon on her knees, savoring the moment.
It occurred to her that she had never actually tickled my feet before—on previous occasions she had concentrated mainly on my ribs and armpits.
Slowly she drew her index finger lightly up the sole of my right foot, from heal to toes, and then down the sole of my left, from the toes to the heal. At first, there was no reaction. She repeated the process, and my feet twitched violently in response. She waited a few seconds, and then resumed tickling my feet with her fingers. I began to wake up and looked over my shoulder at her in wide eyed surprise.
“Ohayo!” she said brightly (“Good morning” in Japanese).
I drew my knees up to my chest to avoid her tickling fingers, buried my head deeper into the pillow, and tried to go back to sleep.
Not to be ignored, Yoshiko tried a different tack. Moving closer towards me, she knelt beside my somnolent form and began tracing a finger very lightly up and down the backs and insides of my exposed bare thighs.
I was still two thirds asleep, but the maddening sensation was impossible to ignore, and I started grinding my hips into the futon. Yoshiko could not help laughing at the way her teasing fingers were driving me to hump my own futon.
I was now fully awake, but still could not quite believe what was happening to me. I turned over flat onto my back to get a good look at my tormentor. As always, Yoshiko was very smartly attired for work, this time in a full cream colored knee length dress that was sufficiently low cut and snug fitting to accentuate her generous cleavage without appearing too overtly sexy. Yoshiko smiled down at me and temporarily relented, running her hand up and down the insides of my thighs and giving me a beautifully sensual massage. This felt fantastic and had the effect of both relaxing me and arousing me even further.
I lay back and closed my eyes, sighing with pleasure. Perhaps sensing that her ministrations were not having the desired effect (getting me out of bed), Yoshiko decided to vary the tempo again and inserted an index finger up inside the leg of my boxers, very gently probing my balls. This tickled dreadfully, and I squirmed frantically in an effort to evade her teasing touch.
Perhaps sensing that I could not take this for long, she began to use firmer pressure on my balls, using several more fingers to produce a wonderfully erotic sensation. Again, I laid back and relaxed, and allowed her to do as she wished. As she smiled down at me, I rested one hand on her thigh, feeling the soft material of her cream colored dress. Running my hand down to her pretty rounded knee and up under her skirt, I began to caress her nylon clad thigh with my fingers and palm. Inching my hand higher, I eventually reached her stocking top and cool bare thigh. She laughed at my discovery and I groaned at the twin pleasures of feeling her touch and discovering her sexy secret.
Slowly I sat up, being careful not to inadvertently dislodge her hand, and pulled her to me with my other arm. I wanted Yoshiko badly and could hardly wait to make love to her. She did not respond with her usual passionate hungry kiss, however, but simply planted a chaste peck on my lips. This spurred me on even more and I started to pull her down onto the futon so that I could undress her more easily.
To my surprise, however, she resisted and squirmed out of my clutches. She retreated to the entrance, slid open the screen door, and stepped down into her shoes. Turning back towards me, she gave me a rueful grin, saying “Nothing like that before the race—you need to save your energy! Good luck!” I was stunned—I wanted her so badly, but she had just been teasing me all along, with no intention of taking things any further.
She slid the screen door shut, and disappeared from view. Calling out a final cheery “Sayonara!” she exited via the outer door, and I heard her heels clicking over the stones in the front garden as she returned to her car.
I was in utter turmoil—wanting Yoshiko so badly but left high and dry. I glanced at the clock and saw that it was now after 7:15. I would have to get a move on if I was going to be at the lake by 8:00. Tempting as it as to collapse back onto the futon, I gritted my teeth, jumped out of bed and pulled on my running kit.
As I cycled away from the center of town and towards the lake, I was still tingling all over, and could not stop thinking about the tickling and teasing I had just endured. However, my initial annoyance with Yoshiko gradually gave way to wry amusement at the thought of how well she had played me. In any case, it was a beautiful sunny early summer day, and as the morning wore on, I calmed right down and started preparing for the race.
Finally, it was my turn, and I grabbed the sash from our thirteenth runner and set off. I felt unusually strong and light footed as I ran through the trees and along the curving pathways that track the lake shore. As I reached the 1.5 km halfway turning point, I glanced at my watch, to see that my time was just under six minutes—somewhat faster than I had expected. During the second half of the run, I was constantly expecting tiredness to set in and my pace to drop. Surprisingly, however, I just seemed to get stronger and stronger, and to wild cheers from my teammates, I passed three other runners on my sprint to the tape. I collapsed over the finish line and lay down on the grass to recover. Checking my watch, I found that I had run the distance in just over 11 minutes—my fastest time ever by some considerable margin, and second fastest out of all the runners in our team. As a team, too, we had finished ten places higher than the previous year.
The whole event was rounded off with a barbecue by the lake, with the whole team basking in the warm glow brought on by our unprecedented success. One of the female instructors from our club, a girl called Mayumi who is a good friend of mine, came up and congratulated me on my fast time. Always quick to tease me about something (usually my weight or my age), she asked “How come you ran so fast today? You’re usually as slow a cart horse!” a mocking smile on her face. I was momentarily lost for words, but recovered quickly. Without thinking, I said “It’s a secret new training method that I’m trying out.” “Oh really?” She retorted. Up until that point, I had not really tried to analyze the reason for my fast time—I had just been enjoying the sense of satisfaction. However, Mayumi’s flippant question and my unthinking reply had set off a light bulb in my head. Had Yoshiko’s wake up call and my subsequent feelings of frustration sparked my energy levels to such heights that I had turning in the running performance of my life? “Want to let me in on the secret?” Mayumi asked me, nudging the joke forward. “Not sure I could explain it properly in Japanese—I’d have to demonstrate it.” As often happens at this kind of gathering, our conversation was interrupted (as Mayumi was called away by another instructor to supervise the club’s barbecue) and I was unable to elaborate further.
After the prize giving and the barbecue, our party started to wind down and the instructors collected everyone together for a group photo. (With four teams from our club, this involved 60–70 people.) A few runners had brought their own cameras and the instructor taking the pictures ended up with six or seven cameras around his neck. The photo shoot was a very informal affair, with everyone standing, sitting or lounging on the grass, still in their running gear. I was at the extreme right end of the line, sitting down and resting my weight on my arms stretched out behind me. Just as the instructor with all the cameras was about to start shooting, someone dived down onto the grass beside me, crashing into my side. I turned in surprise to see that it was Mayumi, rushing to make it into the shot. We grinned at each other, and I wrapped my right arm around her, gripping her tightly. (There was nothing particularly remarkable about this, as everyone was hamming it up for the camera.)
As the instructor taking the photographs started to shoot pictures, I took advantage of the general hubbub to whisper to Mayumi “I can show you that secret training method now.” With that, I reached across to put my left arm around her as well, to hold her tight, and started digging into her ribs with my right hand, which was already perfectly positioned. As I already knew from a couple of earlier incidents, Mayumi is extremely ticklish, and she shrieked with laughter as she vainly tried to wriggle free from my embrace. In the general hubbub of the unruly photo shoot, however, with laughter and clowning commonplace, no one seemed to even notice her predicament and her violent struggles. Mayumi is quite a strong woman, and very well built, but I was determined not to show her any mercy. Unfortunately for her, the instructor taking the photographs kept forgetting which camera he had already shot with, and which he had still to use. As a result, he must have shot at least a dozen pictures, during which time I clung fast to Mayumi, tickling her ribs whenever a picture was taken.
The resulting photographs—some of which were displayed at the club the following week—were a treat to behold. (As most of the other people in the photographs are also laughing, draping their arms around each other, and generally clowning around, Mayumi and I do not look at all out of place. However, on closer inspection you can see that I have clasped her tight to my side and that she is laughing fit to bust.)
The end of the group photo session signaled the end of the party, and everyone started to pack up and leave. I said good bye to my teammates (and a red faced Mayumi) before cycling off back to my house.
As I cycled home that sunny afternoon, I reflected on how eventful the day had been, and how full of the unexpected turns (Yoshiko’s abrupt departure in the morning, my fast time in the race, and the sudden opportunity to tickle Mayumi). Only one piece of business remained unfinished—I would definitely have to get my own back on Yoshiko for her early morning teasing.
In the end, though, I had to wait over a month before honor could be satisfied. That is another story, however.
