As a child I love to be tickled. My best friend's little sister, my favorite tickling playmate when I was around five, felt the same way. I am certain that her enjoyment of laying on her bed in her panties and trying to hold perfectly still and not make a sound while I lightly stroked her body laid the foundation of my lust for tickling, as did my own enjoyment of the same treatment.
I still remember the time we broke her bed during one of these sessions. I was tickling her chest and armpits. She was trying to endure it by clinging to the headboard and scrunching her heels up and down over the mattress. I heard a cracking sound, and suddenly the mattress and box spring at the foot of the bed fell to the floor. Did we get a scolding for that!
Even at so young an age I was able to see that tickling her as hard as possible was counter-productive. I could easily make her squeal and pull away by attacking her armpits or the soles of her feet. What I liked instead was to push her to the limit of what she could endure and hold her there as long as possible. I loved to see her pout, desperately trying to hold back her laughter, to watch her limbs twitch as she fought to hold still. I suppose she endured this partly just to meet the challenge, but I am certain that, like me, she loved the exhilaration it produced.
During these formative years I did not, as far as I can remember, spend any time fantasizing about tickling. If I did, I did not dwell on it. We just did it. It was natural part of our play time, no more special than climbing trees, going swimming, or playing a board game.
Sandy Beach