If you want to get straight to the tickling, jump down a few paragraphs. If you're interested in learning a little about me, or if you just simply like some build-up, read on.
I used to work at this hamburger restaurant, locally owned, where all the customers were regulars between the ages of 65 and 80, and all the waitresses and cooks were between 14-22. You can probably guess a lot of horsing around went on in there every day behind the wall dividing customers and us in that kitchen. This includes tickling.
Unfortunately, I mostly had a passive role in all this: the anti-social element in my personality was even stronger back then, which makes it pretty hard to get to know people.
Well, after two years of working there, one of the fry cooks apparently felt sure enough that I wouldn't cut his throat open for touching me (my co-workers seriously thought I was unstable; at that point in my life there may have been reason) to risk poking me in the side. Now I haven't been tickled since I was little kid; I didn't even know whether I was ticklish, and I certainly wasn't aware of the fact I was an incorrigible ticklephile.
But the response was instantaneous. My whole body spasmed and I emitted a high-pitched noise that I have too much pride to call a squeal.
"Lisa, are you ticklish?" he asked with a terrible grin. I did my best to glare at him, feeling compelled somehow to at least try to frighten him back into our previous relations where I was untouchable. But a barrier had been snapped. Within minutes everyone in the kitchen knew I was ticklish and were giving me mischevious, playful looks, though nobody touched me again that day.
A few nights later I was sitting in back on my break, having a smoke. Suddenly four fry cooks came and sat around the small break table.
"Hey Lisa," one of them said. "How's it going?"
I didn't answer, looking suspiciously at them, trying to decide whether there was any way out of this and whether I wanted a way out.
"We've been talking," another said. "We know now you're ticklish, but we want to know how ticklish."
They were all staring at me intently, and me back at them, still not saying anything. I was extremely, extremely nervous and trying not to show it. Whatever they read in me, it gave them the okay.
"Go ahead and finish that cigarette," one of them said. "Enjoy your break while you have one, cuz when that cigarettes gone, you're gonna get it."
My eyes shot to my smoke to see how much was left. Not much. I quickly assessed the possibility of using the burning end as a weapon. I took one last deep drag…and it was immediately shot back out as the guy nearest me dug his fingers into my lower side. So much for my weapon – I have no idea where it went (it's good we didn't burn the place down). The others quickly started in at the same time, and I quickly found myself on my stomach on the floor one guy on my back holding my arms while a second was sitting on my legs. The two others had two free hands to tickle me anywhere they could reach.
"Stop!" I wheezed. "Oh my god, hahaaahaaaaaaa."
One of them was tickling my armpits, another was getting my ribs, while the third squeezed behind my knees and thighs while the fourth was doing his best to keep my legs pinned. This was difficult for him for the first few minutes (I'm not exactly strong – though I'll deny being puny – but I've got some serious umph that kicks in when called upon). But I was quickly loosing strength, turning into a ticklish mess.
"Hahahahahahahahahaaaaaa! Stop!"
"She's still giving us commands! You're really asking for it."
"Let's tickle her until she begs."
It was pure torture, all of those areas extremely ticklish, but the area causing me most distress, desparation and…arousal… were those fingers on my knees, working their way up my thighs. Thank god there was too much going on for any of them to really assess which areas were extremely ticklish danger zones. Or so I thought, but the guy working my legs more and more began concentrating on my upper—and even creeping into my inner—thighs, and I was going ballistic.
"Hahaaahaaahaaaaahaaaaaaaaaaaaa. Hahaaaaaaaaaahaaaahaaaahaaaahaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, oh god…haahaaaaahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa."
"Come one now, Lisa. Are you ready to ask us nicely to stop?"
"Hey guys," one of them said. "Maybe we should stop."
It was such torture not to be able to thrash around, to get away from those terrible, terrible, and oh so arousing fingers. To be man-handled like this was horrible and wonderful. I was loving it. If any of them knew how turned on I was by this I'm not sure they'd have been comfortable in dragging it out as long as they did. A few minutes later I actaully came. I was a virgin then and I actually orgasmed from the tickling. Spasms from the orgasm and the continued tickling shook my body hard when I wheezed out, "Please stop. Please."
Thed did, immediately, and kindly helped me up from the floor, grinning at each other and me.
"You guys are assholes," I said, trying to hide my face, pure read and sweaty.
"I hate all of you," I announced before slamming myself into the bathroom to take a second break, since my first was most certainly not a break.
But they all knew I didn't mean it: we were chums now.
I used to work at this hamburger restaurant, locally owned, where all the customers were regulars between the ages of 65 and 80, and all the waitresses and cooks were between 14-22. You can probably guess a lot of horsing around went on in there every day behind the wall dividing customers and us in that kitchen. This includes tickling.
Unfortunately, I mostly had a passive role in all this: the anti-social element in my personality was even stronger back then, which makes it pretty hard to get to know people.
Well, after two years of working there, one of the fry cooks apparently felt sure enough that I wouldn't cut his throat open for touching me (my co-workers seriously thought I was unstable; at that point in my life there may have been reason) to risk poking me in the side. Now I haven't been tickled since I was little kid; I didn't even know whether I was ticklish, and I certainly wasn't aware of the fact I was an incorrigible ticklephile.
But the response was instantaneous. My whole body spasmed and I emitted a high-pitched noise that I have too much pride to call a squeal.
"Lisa, are you ticklish?" he asked with a terrible grin. I did my best to glare at him, feeling compelled somehow to at least try to frighten him back into our previous relations where I was untouchable. But a barrier had been snapped. Within minutes everyone in the kitchen knew I was ticklish and were giving me mischevious, playful looks, though nobody touched me again that day.
A few nights later I was sitting in back on my break, having a smoke. Suddenly four fry cooks came and sat around the small break table.
"Hey Lisa," one of them said. "How's it going?"
I didn't answer, looking suspiciously at them, trying to decide whether there was any way out of this and whether I wanted a way out.
"We've been talking," another said. "We know now you're ticklish, but we want to know how ticklish."
They were all staring at me intently, and me back at them, still not saying anything. I was extremely, extremely nervous and trying not to show it. Whatever they read in me, it gave them the okay.
"Go ahead and finish that cigarette," one of them said. "Enjoy your break while you have one, cuz when that cigarettes gone, you're gonna get it."
My eyes shot to my smoke to see how much was left. Not much. I quickly assessed the possibility of using the burning end as a weapon. I took one last deep drag…and it was immediately shot back out as the guy nearest me dug his fingers into my lower side. So much for my weapon – I have no idea where it went (it's good we didn't burn the place down). The others quickly started in at the same time, and I quickly found myself on my stomach on the floor one guy on my back holding my arms while a second was sitting on my legs. The two others had two free hands to tickle me anywhere they could reach.
"Stop!" I wheezed. "Oh my god, hahaaahaaaaaaa."
One of them was tickling my armpits, another was getting my ribs, while the third squeezed behind my knees and thighs while the fourth was doing his best to keep my legs pinned. This was difficult for him for the first few minutes (I'm not exactly strong – though I'll deny being puny – but I've got some serious umph that kicks in when called upon). But I was quickly loosing strength, turning into a ticklish mess.
"Hahahahahahahahahaaaaaa! Stop!"
"She's still giving us commands! You're really asking for it."
"Let's tickle her until she begs."
It was pure torture, all of those areas extremely ticklish, but the area causing me most distress, desparation and…arousal… were those fingers on my knees, working their way up my thighs. Thank god there was too much going on for any of them to really assess which areas were extremely ticklish danger zones. Or so I thought, but the guy working my legs more and more began concentrating on my upper—and even creeping into my inner—thighs, and I was going ballistic.
"Hahaaahaaahaaaaahaaaaaaaaaaaaa. Hahaaaaaaaaaahaaaahaaaahaaaahaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, oh god…haahaaaaahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa."
"Come one now, Lisa. Are you ready to ask us nicely to stop?"
"Hey guys," one of them said. "Maybe we should stop."
It was such torture not to be able to thrash around, to get away from those terrible, terrible, and oh so arousing fingers. To be man-handled like this was horrible and wonderful. I was loving it. If any of them knew how turned on I was by this I'm not sure they'd have been comfortable in dragging it out as long as they did. A few minutes later I actaully came. I was a virgin then and I actually orgasmed from the tickling. Spasms from the orgasm and the continued tickling shook my body hard when I wheezed out, "Please stop. Please."
Thed did, immediately, and kindly helped me up from the floor, grinning at each other and me.
"You guys are assholes," I said, trying to hide my face, pure read and sweaty.
"I hate all of you," I announced before slamming myself into the bathroom to take a second break, since my first was most certainly not a break.
But they all knew I didn't mean it: we were chums now.
Thanks for sharing it with us. 
