This is a repost of an old true story from a now long since defunct website
Car Trip
by: Paris
A few years ago, a group of collegues and I had to go to a conference completely on the other side of the city. It was a scorching hot day, and while several of us had cars, only one of the cars had air conditioning. There were six of us, but we decided that it would be more fun, not too mention much cooler, to all go together in the air-conditioned car. Of course, six people do not exactly fit into a normal car without a little creativity, especially since this car's front seats were two bucket seats - there was no "middle seat" up front. I was the only woman, so I quickly got elected to travel on the laps of the three men who were in the backseat. After a bit of finangling and much joking about over who had to take my "bony ass" on their lap, we all piled in and set off. I'm sure you can picture how it was: I was sitting sideways, on the lap of the guy behind the driver, with my legs extended over the three laps and my feet, thus, on the lap of the guy sitting behind the passenger. I had one arm sort of behind guy upon whose lap I was perched and one arm kind of clutching the driver's headreast for balance.
Now, it's summer. I'm wearing a silk t-shirt over a pair of thin soft cotton drawstring pants that tend to ride sort of low on my hips, and strappy summer sandals on my bare feet. We're all feeling sort of silly and goofy, like we're playing hookie, what with going to this conference in the middle of the work day. Of course being six in the car with me on the laps of these men added to the playfulness of the situation as well! It doesn't take long for the man who's holding my feet to inquire, as if merely a detached and uninterested journalist, if my feet happen to be ticklish. Now, the very phrase "Are you ticklish" is generally enough to make me giggle spontaneously, and I am of course somewhat nervously thinking about how I'm wearing easy-access sandals, so I laugh aloud and mumble something about refusing to answer that question without my attorney present, or something like that. Everyone chuckles and "ah-ha's!" knowingly, and Mister-Feet-Holder does indeed give the toes of one foot a few quick soft strokes which of course makes me giggle. However, this is where the plot thickens. The guy on whose lap I'm sitting turns his head towards the window and whispers, oh so quietly, and oh so sexily, "Oh, Paris, you really shouldn't have let me know that you're ticklish..." In the rest of the car the conversation has moved on to some other topic which I am now half-listening to and half trying to figure out exactly what Paul (we'll call him Paul...) meant, when I feel his left hand come excrutiatingly slowly up under my t-shirt, on the door-side of the car, hidden from view of the others, until his fingertips are in contact with the bare skin of my waist. Now, let the record show that I am one giant uninterrupted "10" of ticklishness on a scale of one to ten, from my ears to my toes, but my tummy and sides are extra-particularly sensitive.
The tips of his index and middle fingers are on the skin right above the tops of my pants, just barely touching me without moving at all. My heart is racing and I am unsure whether to panic or be thrilled, so I kind of do both. Because of the way we're all squashed into the car, I can't really look at him, he's pretty much wedged behind and under me and I can't see his face. Meanwhile, he's calmly participating in the conversation that's going on around us, as if nothing else were going on. Somebody directs a question towards me and just as I open my mouth to answer it, Paul strokes his fingers across my skin. My answer sort of hiccups its way out of my mouth in a semi-disguised gasp/laugh. Nobody else seems to react to this strange little noise I made, and I don't say anything about it or about what Paul just did (thereby sealing my own doom, of course, but I didn't know that just then.) Paul strokes me again, so softly, so slowly, but still quite enough to produce an intense and heart-pounding tickling sensation. Again, I surpress the desire to laugh aloud or squirm, and behind me I hear Paul groan almost noiselessly in pleasure at this little game we've now undertaken. The trip to the conference is going to be a good forty minutes long, and I am now thinking that I will never ever make it with his fingers on me like that, and even less so if he steps up even the slightest bit the intensity of his tickling movements -- I would NEVER win a "Don't laugh, don't squirm" contest, I am just way way too ticklish! So again, I'm stewing in a delicious state of half absolute panic, half pure excitement, wondering what the hell I'm going to do, when one of the guys starts telling a long elaborate "Guy walks into a bar" type joke. Now, I'm a "ticklee" by nature, no doubt about it, but I know what *I* would do if I were wielding the fingertips in such a situation, and indeed it is just what Paul does: all during the joke, any time any part of the set-up is even remotely amusing, his soft fingers flit across my taut skin and I have absolutely no option but to laugh aloud. The arrival of the punchline is punctuated by hearty, throaty laughter from me because Paul has aptly chosen that moment to introduce his thumb to the act going on under my shirt: he softly squeezed my sides between his fingers and thumb two or three times just as our collegue pronounced the final sentence of his silly joke. I am delirious with the tickliness that now feels like it's always there even when he's not moving his hand, and I'm just dying from trying to keep still and not laugh too much. He must realize this, because he actually withdraws his fingers from their contact with my skin. I sigh audibly and he again turns his head away from the others to whisper "Uhnn-uhnn, I'm not through with you yet." A few minutes later, as we're all involved in a conversation about stuff going on at the office, I feel his thumb stroke my skin way, way high up on my sides, halfway to my armpit, and right out loud I yelp "No!" - totally apropos of nothing in the rest of the conversation of course. Everybody stops talking and looks at me and I'm actually blushing, which I never do, and babbling something about just remembering something I forgot to do that was urgent or some damned thing like that. Paul is actually laughing out loud at me, and then, heaven help me, he says to Richard, who is the man upon whose lap my feet are resting, "Rich, Paris is obviously stressed and preoccupied by annoying work stuff, while the rest of us are all here having fun. You better give her feet another tickle so she can laugh off her worries, huh?"
Richard makes a disinterested bystander face and dryly remarks "Oh yeah, you think so? Okay, whatever you say" and then all ten of his fingers are dancing over the tops of my two feet and Paul immediately puts his hand back to work under my shirt and when as a result of all this tickling my legs jump and buck, the guy in the middle leans onto them and promptly joins in the fun with a few pinches and pokes around my knees and I am reduced to a giggling, shrieking, quivering blob of flesh, begging for mercy. Much to everyone's amusement of course: there is much hearty macho laughter all around about how easy it is to "tame" the female of the species and how adorable I am when I'm helpless and what a lovely little giggle I have and "Frank, did you try behind her knees?" and off they'd go again. Paul has now brought his hand out from under my shirt to tickle me through the fabric (he's of course pretending he just got in on the game) but this out-in-the-open stuff has enabled him to contribute his *right* hand to the party as well, and with both of his hands stroking and squeezing my tummy and sides, I'm over the edge. There were at least ten minutes left in the trip and the entire way was one giant ticklefest, where these three guys would say "Okay, okay, that's enough, let's stop now." And then someone one would say, out loud, "But do you suppose she'd laugh with just one finger tickling one foot? Could she be THAT ticklish?" as if they were performing a science experiment and I wasn't even there, and they'd all discuss it briefly with falsely serious airs and then "test" the theory.
The funniest part of all, even I had to admit, was when we finally got to the conference, the driver (who seemed kind of peeved by the entire thing - he was super straight-laced and knew, like all of them, that I was married. I'm sure he didn't "approve") had to roll down the window to ask a guard where to park, and my three backseat buddies were all tickling me very gently and softly with their hands hidden from view of the guard, and I was trying not to giggle too loud but failing miserably and the guard kept glancing back at me trying to figure out what was making me laugh and sort of laughing himself, as if he'd been infected by my laughter but didn't quite know why, which just made the whole thing even funnier, until we were all laughing except for the driver. When we pulled into the parking space, Paul made everyone solemnly promise that what had happened would never leave the car and we'd never talk about it, and that was the end of it....
It was just a wonderful experience for me, as you can imagine - how many ticklephiles actually have that kind of situation arise without planning it?! But honestly, while I of course thoroughly loved the "group" tickling at the end, especially since the guys were being so clever at taunting me with their words, there was just something incredibly, intensely, seductively erotic about the "secret" tickling when it was just Paul and his hidden hand: trying to stay quiet and still, hoping that the others wouldn't see, aware of his utter enjoyment of the situation, panicked and yet thrilled wondering what he'd do next ... yummy. I would love to imagine a new ending to the trip, where Paul and I would sneak out of the conference to explore more fully his apparent pleasure for tickling and my obvious pleasure in being tickled..... Needless to say I stepped out of the car that day so incredibly horny and aroused that I could barely see straight. It certainly would have been nice to pursue the game to an interesting conclusion. Sound like a story idea, maybe? Any fiction-writers out there want to take it? I'd love to know how it turned out for me.
Car Trip
by: Paris
A few years ago, a group of collegues and I had to go to a conference completely on the other side of the city. It was a scorching hot day, and while several of us had cars, only one of the cars had air conditioning. There were six of us, but we decided that it would be more fun, not too mention much cooler, to all go together in the air-conditioned car. Of course, six people do not exactly fit into a normal car without a little creativity, especially since this car's front seats were two bucket seats - there was no "middle seat" up front. I was the only woman, so I quickly got elected to travel on the laps of the three men who were in the backseat. After a bit of finangling and much joking about over who had to take my "bony ass" on their lap, we all piled in and set off. I'm sure you can picture how it was: I was sitting sideways, on the lap of the guy behind the driver, with my legs extended over the three laps and my feet, thus, on the lap of the guy sitting behind the passenger. I had one arm sort of behind guy upon whose lap I was perched and one arm kind of clutching the driver's headreast for balance.
Now, it's summer. I'm wearing a silk t-shirt over a pair of thin soft cotton drawstring pants that tend to ride sort of low on my hips, and strappy summer sandals on my bare feet. We're all feeling sort of silly and goofy, like we're playing hookie, what with going to this conference in the middle of the work day. Of course being six in the car with me on the laps of these men added to the playfulness of the situation as well! It doesn't take long for the man who's holding my feet to inquire, as if merely a detached and uninterested journalist, if my feet happen to be ticklish. Now, the very phrase "Are you ticklish" is generally enough to make me giggle spontaneously, and I am of course somewhat nervously thinking about how I'm wearing easy-access sandals, so I laugh aloud and mumble something about refusing to answer that question without my attorney present, or something like that. Everyone chuckles and "ah-ha's!" knowingly, and Mister-Feet-Holder does indeed give the toes of one foot a few quick soft strokes which of course makes me giggle. However, this is where the plot thickens. The guy on whose lap I'm sitting turns his head towards the window and whispers, oh so quietly, and oh so sexily, "Oh, Paris, you really shouldn't have let me know that you're ticklish..." In the rest of the car the conversation has moved on to some other topic which I am now half-listening to and half trying to figure out exactly what Paul (we'll call him Paul...) meant, when I feel his left hand come excrutiatingly slowly up under my t-shirt, on the door-side of the car, hidden from view of the others, until his fingertips are in contact with the bare skin of my waist. Now, let the record show that I am one giant uninterrupted "10" of ticklishness on a scale of one to ten, from my ears to my toes, but my tummy and sides are extra-particularly sensitive.
The tips of his index and middle fingers are on the skin right above the tops of my pants, just barely touching me without moving at all. My heart is racing and I am unsure whether to panic or be thrilled, so I kind of do both. Because of the way we're all squashed into the car, I can't really look at him, he's pretty much wedged behind and under me and I can't see his face. Meanwhile, he's calmly participating in the conversation that's going on around us, as if nothing else were going on. Somebody directs a question towards me and just as I open my mouth to answer it, Paul strokes his fingers across my skin. My answer sort of hiccups its way out of my mouth in a semi-disguised gasp/laugh. Nobody else seems to react to this strange little noise I made, and I don't say anything about it or about what Paul just did (thereby sealing my own doom, of course, but I didn't know that just then.) Paul strokes me again, so softly, so slowly, but still quite enough to produce an intense and heart-pounding tickling sensation. Again, I surpress the desire to laugh aloud or squirm, and behind me I hear Paul groan almost noiselessly in pleasure at this little game we've now undertaken. The trip to the conference is going to be a good forty minutes long, and I am now thinking that I will never ever make it with his fingers on me like that, and even less so if he steps up even the slightest bit the intensity of his tickling movements -- I would NEVER win a "Don't laugh, don't squirm" contest, I am just way way too ticklish! So again, I'm stewing in a delicious state of half absolute panic, half pure excitement, wondering what the hell I'm going to do, when one of the guys starts telling a long elaborate "Guy walks into a bar" type joke. Now, I'm a "ticklee" by nature, no doubt about it, but I know what *I* would do if I were wielding the fingertips in such a situation, and indeed it is just what Paul does: all during the joke, any time any part of the set-up is even remotely amusing, his soft fingers flit across my taut skin and I have absolutely no option but to laugh aloud. The arrival of the punchline is punctuated by hearty, throaty laughter from me because Paul has aptly chosen that moment to introduce his thumb to the act going on under my shirt: he softly squeezed my sides between his fingers and thumb two or three times just as our collegue pronounced the final sentence of his silly joke. I am delirious with the tickliness that now feels like it's always there even when he's not moving his hand, and I'm just dying from trying to keep still and not laugh too much. He must realize this, because he actually withdraws his fingers from their contact with my skin. I sigh audibly and he again turns his head away from the others to whisper "Uhnn-uhnn, I'm not through with you yet." A few minutes later, as we're all involved in a conversation about stuff going on at the office, I feel his thumb stroke my skin way, way high up on my sides, halfway to my armpit, and right out loud I yelp "No!" - totally apropos of nothing in the rest of the conversation of course. Everybody stops talking and looks at me and I'm actually blushing, which I never do, and babbling something about just remembering something I forgot to do that was urgent or some damned thing like that. Paul is actually laughing out loud at me, and then, heaven help me, he says to Richard, who is the man upon whose lap my feet are resting, "Rich, Paris is obviously stressed and preoccupied by annoying work stuff, while the rest of us are all here having fun. You better give her feet another tickle so she can laugh off her worries, huh?"
Richard makes a disinterested bystander face and dryly remarks "Oh yeah, you think so? Okay, whatever you say" and then all ten of his fingers are dancing over the tops of my two feet and Paul immediately puts his hand back to work under my shirt and when as a result of all this tickling my legs jump and buck, the guy in the middle leans onto them and promptly joins in the fun with a few pinches and pokes around my knees and I am reduced to a giggling, shrieking, quivering blob of flesh, begging for mercy. Much to everyone's amusement of course: there is much hearty macho laughter all around about how easy it is to "tame" the female of the species and how adorable I am when I'm helpless and what a lovely little giggle I have and "Frank, did you try behind her knees?" and off they'd go again. Paul has now brought his hand out from under my shirt to tickle me through the fabric (he's of course pretending he just got in on the game) but this out-in-the-open stuff has enabled him to contribute his *right* hand to the party as well, and with both of his hands stroking and squeezing my tummy and sides, I'm over the edge. There were at least ten minutes left in the trip and the entire way was one giant ticklefest, where these three guys would say "Okay, okay, that's enough, let's stop now." And then someone one would say, out loud, "But do you suppose she'd laugh with just one finger tickling one foot? Could she be THAT ticklish?" as if they were performing a science experiment and I wasn't even there, and they'd all discuss it briefly with falsely serious airs and then "test" the theory.
The funniest part of all, even I had to admit, was when we finally got to the conference, the driver (who seemed kind of peeved by the entire thing - he was super straight-laced and knew, like all of them, that I was married. I'm sure he didn't "approve") had to roll down the window to ask a guard where to park, and my three backseat buddies were all tickling me very gently and softly with their hands hidden from view of the guard, and I was trying not to giggle too loud but failing miserably and the guard kept glancing back at me trying to figure out what was making me laugh and sort of laughing himself, as if he'd been infected by my laughter but didn't quite know why, which just made the whole thing even funnier, until we were all laughing except for the driver. When we pulled into the parking space, Paul made everyone solemnly promise that what had happened would never leave the car and we'd never talk about it, and that was the end of it....
It was just a wonderful experience for me, as you can imagine - how many ticklephiles actually have that kind of situation arise without planning it?! But honestly, while I of course thoroughly loved the "group" tickling at the end, especially since the guys were being so clever at taunting me with their words, there was just something incredibly, intensely, seductively erotic about the "secret" tickling when it was just Paul and his hidden hand: trying to stay quiet and still, hoping that the others wouldn't see, aware of his utter enjoyment of the situation, panicked and yet thrilled wondering what he'd do next ... yummy. I would love to imagine a new ending to the trip, where Paul and I would sneak out of the conference to explore more fully his apparent pleasure for tickling and my obvious pleasure in being tickled..... Needless to say I stepped out of the car that day so incredibly horny and aroused that I could barely see straight. It certainly would have been nice to pursue the game to an interesting conclusion. Sound like a story idea, maybe? Any fiction-writers out there want to take it? I'd love to know how it turned out for me.
one wishes I was in that car with Paris XD thanks for sharing! and great find dude
